4 Feb

It strikes my funny bone to read people’s Facebook profiles and come across the “Looking For” section, particularly when it says “Looking For: Friendship.” To me, it makes you sound like a friendless outcast who is desperately searching for companionship with someone; anyone. I chuckle on the inside. Boy do I.

I’ve crossed a lot of boundaries in the past couple of weeks that I can’t say I’m not ashamed of. For starters, I have not had one drop of alcohol since my trip to Ames, Iowa over two weeks ago. That’s approximately 16 days; 384 hours; 23,040 minutes; one million, three-hundred and eighty-two thousand, four hundred seconds of complete sobriety. I could not be more ashamed of myself. And I call myself an Irishman.

On that same note, it has been equally as long since I have worn a speck of makeup of any kind. Not that it affects me; my natural and radiant beauty is envied by models and sex icons worldwide. However, the downfall is that it is probable that I have forgotten how to even put it on. Then again, learning can be fun.

At least that’s what those queers in elementary tried to make us believe.

I spoke with my biological mother on the telephone this morning. Of course when I say “morning” I mean at 1:30 p.m. when I lumbered out of bed (which by the way was followed by a four hour period of laying motionless in Kehly’s bed and sitting on the living room floor doing absolutely nothing. See ‘go-getter.’). She informed me that it had been snowing and there were over three inches of accumulation in CB. I expressed my jealousy that she was in a winter wonderland, as my love for snow is one that cannot be measured. Hours later (see above parenthetical reference to my daily goings-on) when I finally left the cave of my apartment, I realized that Iowa City, too, had gotten about 3 inches of snow. Imagine my surprise.

Now, a lot of people might say that I am anti-relationship in every way imaginable. I fear commitment, have no feelings, and do not possess the ability to express emotions. But, it’s time to come clean. I have a serious, lustful, provocative affair with blueberry yogurt.

It’s so good. I want to submerge myself in a kiddie pool filled to the brim with this dairy-like treat and swim about in its goopiness like a fish in the sea. Patch Adams made it happen for the old bird. I’m just saying there’s a chance.

Me: “I really need to shower. I don’t want to do it.”
Kehly: “Do it!”
Me: “Why?”
Kehly: “Well, it’ll increase your sex appeal.”


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