Thursdays

You guys are clearly getting too out of control on Thursday nights. Is it Spring Fever? Was there a full moon last night? Did somebody slip Percocet in the water supply? Because I woke up to find series of borderline-insane messages sent to me in the middle of the night, and I thought I was out late last night.

Here's a sampling of the text messages I received last night (this morning?) while sleeping:

"we got stoned and forgot how time zones work. What time is it in America?"

"HOWL AT ME."

"I just passed a girl on the street I don't know her but I'm in love with her but I don't know how to find her back to tell her that I love her."

"HOWL AT ME FUCKER."

"Fuck fuck fuck cant take it anymore. Might need to crash on ur couch for a few days. Call me."

"SERIOUSLY WHY AREN'T YOU HOWLING BACK TO US?"

And a very eloquently worded "Can I fuck you?"

If this is what goes down on Thursdays I don't know if I can even handle the upcoming weekend. Y'all are nuts.

Alejandro

"Your ex-boyfriend is named Alejandro?” Here we go again.

“Yeah,” I answer.

“Like the Lady Gaga song?”

“Yeah… like the Lady Gaga song.”

Guys, something’s been bothering me lately. It’s about this “Alejandro” song. I’m not going to rant about how Lady Gaga’s The Fame Monster was the same generic mish-mash of pop that she’s already released, or how she’s built an amazing character but hasn’t backed it up as a musician, or that the “Telephone” video really just wasn’t that great and went for shock value instead of quality. I won't even dive into the repetition and pandering lyrics of "Born This Way." Damn it, this always happens, trying to talk about something else but the topic turning over to Lady Gaga.

Anyway, this song, “Alejandro,” it comes on at a bar, at a party, wherever, and like what happens with most Lady Gaga songs, people flip their shit. Girls are on tables, in circles, pretending to sing along but stopping as soon as they have to actually, you know, remember the words (all FIVE of them, I know sweetheart, it’s hard).

You guys, I’m sick of this song.

Because when you have your ex-boyfriend’s name blaring at you at over one hundred decibels, it’s kind of hard not to think about him. It's hard to avoid memories of hungover mornings, the passion that overtook him when he talked about politics, the way he mixed your drinks just right but did so many other things so wrong.

And that’s just the start, you go down the list, it isn’t just Alejandro the bartender you think about. Suddenly your thoughts turn to Inez the dominatrix and Louie the doctor. There’s Jessica and Kacy and Robin, there’s soldiers and cheerleaders and artists. There might have been a date with a weatherman at some point. The past few years have been sort of weird for you, and you don’t remember much from that summer of Vicodin and Paxil abuse, other than that it was equal parts sky high and train wreck.

If your name is Judas, do yourself a favor and stay away. This is the crazy train you don't want to board.

Every crush, every date, every relationship spills into your mind, even that first sloppy make-out session with a girl in the back of your Bonneville joins the party, invading your thoughts and making you question every social decision you’ve ever made. The alcohol pumping through the channels of your brain sloshes the memories around, mixing and matching them, stirring up rage and confusion and affection, breaking past the dams you have in place that protect your psyche from your own insecurities. You question your education, your job, your life. You’re confident that you’ve made the right choices and that you’re working towards what you want, but you still consider the different versions of you that would exist now if you’d done things a little differently. Those existential questions are lurking in the shadows of your mind. Those questions aren’t bad, they’re normal and healthy and part of being human, and even though they make you feel crazy you know they’re keeping you sane.

But you see… they’re also completely uncalled for at one in the morning when you’re out for a night on the town. Damn it, now you’re thinking about how that slut Leah didn’t tell you she had a boyfriend. What a whore. And Jason, the beautiful, brown bastard, brilliant with physics but wasting all his time on that guitar. What a jack ass.

By the time your mind digs into a foggy memory of making out with a thirty-six year woman on a school bus full of drunks, you start to wonder: Are you making the choices that you want to make, or the choices that make for the best story, and, for you, are those two options starting to become the same thing?

So it really isn’t about Alejandro, it isn’t about Robin or Louie or Kacy, it’s just the joy ride your mind likes to take when you combine an ex’s name with alcohol. And unlike that summer of Percocet and Zoloft abuse, your mind goes straight to train wreck, every single time. And then you’re that guy. You’re that guy scrolling through his phone debating whether to call one of the exes, trying to determine that if you do call them, whether you’ll proposition them for sex or insult their flaws (or what usually happens, both).

Your laugh is annoying. Let's fuck.

You’re that guy who’s so deep in his own brooding that he doesn’t even notice the set of eyes on the other side of the bar looking him up and down. You're that guy who's so focused on questioning himself that he's completely unaware of the arm wrapping around his waist or the shoulder pressing against his back or the whisper in his ear. You’re that guy at the bar at one in the morning who should be drunk and having fun with the gang but is drunk and having an existential crisis instead. That guy is so fucking lame.

Can’t we all just listen to “Poker Face” instead? It has a subtle oral sex reference. That shit’s hilarious.

Face Metal and Ink

Sometimes I use this phrase to describe things.

Face metal and ink.

I’ll say a face metal and ink kind of crowd, I’ll say a song just had a real face metal and ink feel to it, I’ll say it’s a face metal and ink type of bar.

This is the part where my friends give me that “What the fuck are you talking about? Please speak English” glare.

And I go “You know… like guitars and shit.”

I’m so descriptive.

Face metal and ink is putting on the kinds of clothes you would never wear in front of your normal friends, it’s having your dominatrix ex-girlfriend style your hair in a wild way you would never wear in front of your normal friends. She snaps clip-on earrings over your ears, wraps a tight bracelet around your wrist, slides a pill onto your tongue.

Face metal and ink is not asking what that pill is.

It’s going to the bar that people in expensive suits shake their head at as they walk past. It’s entering the bar with one hand intertwined with the fingers of a bald, muscle-bound man while the other hand pulls along the dominatrix ex-girlfriend. It’s feeling the floor shake from the stomping of feet, the thrashing of guitars, the beating of drums, and, for a moment, feeling a trace of fear. It’s embracing that fear, and can in hand, diving into the crowd.

Face metal and ink is a combination of sexual energy and pure aggression that is hard to explain without sounding like a totally fucked-up freak. It's taking a few hours to shed the awkward mannerisms and traits of your normal self to become a totally fucked-up freak.

It’s surfing through a crowd of people that are sexy in the most androgynous of ways. It’s passing a beautiful arm, a handsome face, a flat-stomached torso, and simply appreciating them without taking the time to assign them a gender. It’s pushing and shoving. It’s the scent of sweat and the taste of alcohol. It's flesh pierced with metal and artwork stretched across skin.

Face metal and ink is that common cliché of feeling at peace in the carnal chaos.

It’s waking up the next morning, trying to figure out if the bruises came from the violence of the crowd or sex with your boyfriend. It's realizing you've lost your dominatrix ex-girlfriend's earrings and bracelet. It’s going to brunch with your normal friends, and when asked what you did the night before, simply answering, “Just went to a bar and then bed, nothing exciting.”

Face metal and ink was a hidden secret in my life for almost three years that only a select few were privy to, a secret affair traced only by fumbling lies and lingering scents. But all romances come to an end, and after developing a preference for quiet and balance, I separated myself from the head-rattling madness of it all.

I’ve moved on without face metal and ink, but sometimes I listen to one of those vicious, sensual songs and wonder what could have been. Sometimes I feel guilty for leaving it when it did nothing wrong, but if face metal and ink has taught me anything, it’s that cuts and bruises heal.

Face metal and ink understands.

Touch

One of the third graders in the youth program has a touching problem.

He seems incapable of interacting without it. When he talks to the teachers, he leans too closely, drapes his arm over ours, rests his head on our shoulders. When with the other children, he almost always has to throw his arm over their shoulder as they talk.

We’ve tried to explain to him that he needs to give others more personal space sometimes. But the behavior comes to him so naturally it’s practically involuntary.

To him, touch is a language that others aren’t able to translate.

His mother passed away, so he’s currently raised by his older brother. His older brother works a normal job now, but has a history of excellence and national fame (which I won’t go into here, to keep everyone’s privacy safe and sound).

Watching the third grader surf this torrent of emotions while living in the shadow of the brother he admires so much, I can understand why touch has become so important to him. I relate to him.

As a child I quickly learned that words were, for the most part, a useless way to communicate. People used them to generate lies nearly nonstop, so why even bother? But people didn’t lie with their shifting eyes or the way they scratched their neck. Even if faked, the true intents could be felt in a handshake or a hug.

I was the friend who leaned too close. I’m the lover who touches too much.

My coworkers and I recently discovered the third grader has been telling his friends what he knows about sex. He’s also been claiming that when he hugs female staff members, he feels their breasts (or as he refers to them, boobies).

I was shocked by his behavior, and more surprised by how much his behavior distraught me. He’s always been prone to talking out-of-line and minor misbehavior, but we enjoy his company and more importantly, we trusted him.

We went through the talks about disrespect, about boundaries, about sex. There were discussions with his family and disciplinary actions taken. For a week he was separated from the others, forced to sit alone while they played. It was heartbreaking to watch, to see him divided from the touch he craves.

During our time in the gym, he understood that he wasn’t allowed to play with the others, but asked if he could participate in the laps and stretches before they play. We allowed it.

He found solace in books.

He read a few chapters out loud to me. He reads especially fast for his age.

His week has passed and his punishment is lifted, and he’s working hard to rebuild our trust in him.

I know behind our backs he’ll drop the occasional reference to private parts or say something inappropriate about someone. As an adolescent he'll probably approach females too aggressively and be too much of a smart ass towards his teachers.

But I think he’s going to be okay.

The Hoodie

I felt a kiss on my forehead and heard my bedroom door open and close. I knew Louie was leaving for work, but was too comfortable to get up and lead him to the door. It had been cold the night before, so I was wrapped up in my hooded sweatshirt and a blanket. The morning light was starting to come through my blinds and warm me up, so I peeled the blanket off.

It was autumn in 2009, and Louie had recently started his surgery residency. When it came to his residency he was nervous, but confident, the same way he was with me. At the time I'd been seeing Louie for a few months. I was comfortable with him. He was intelligent and interesting and made me laugh. He was short and red-headed and muscular and an all-around adorable guy.

My mom was so pissed when we broke up several months later. "You don't just run into a surgeon every day..." she reminded me.

Uh, I work in a medical library, so yeah, I do.

Around eleven in the morning I finally decided to pull myself out of bed. I ate a cup of applesauce and drank a glass of water, which is usually my first meal during a hangover.

I saw it draped over my orange desk chair as I walked over to my computer. It was a hooded sweatshirt, a green one with a zipper. It didn't belong to me.

It belonged to Louie.

This item was not mine. It was foreign and strange. This green, hooded sweatshirt with a zipper, it did not belong to me. I repeat: it did not belong to me.

I did what anybody would do in the situation: panicked and called my lesbian ex-girlfriend (if you don't have a lesbian ex-girlfriend, I'd strongly recommend getting one, available at your local Home Depot).

She groggily answered and I explained my predicament, confident that my tone would make her see that calling at the ungodly hour of noon was justified.

She was unimpressed.

She told me it wasn't a big deal and that he'd come get it later. When was later?

"But what if he leaves more stuff, like leftover pizza or something? What if he leaves a toothbrush? I'm so fucked if he leaves a toothbrush."

"I've seen your medicine cabinet. There are at least a dozen toothbrushes in there. What's one more?"

She told me to just tell him I was uncomfortable with him leaving stuff at my place.

You'd think that after sleeping with me so many times she would have understood that I was never going to say that. But she probably didn't use sex as communication the way I did.

I was all, No, because this shouldn't bother me, and if I tell him it bothers me he'll figure out I'm crazy and leave me for some slutty nurse or a handsome burn victim, somebody better looking and more mature and who never wears boxers. What if he thinks I have, like, commitment issues or something? Isn't that what always happens to those sluts that are always buying shoes on that show?

Or something like that. It's been a few years.

"Don't even act like you don't know the title of 'Sex and the City.' It's not cute." She always called me out on those things.

"Sex and the what?" But I was too stupid to admit it.

And then she hung up on me, as I was in the middle of this reasonably important and unmanageable crisis. What an awful friend. We'll see how many shots I would buy her on her next birthday. When she wakes up the next morning in her own bed without a circle of vomit around her, she'll remember what she did to me. That would show her.

In retribution I sent a text message that probably used the word "cunt."

She didn't respond. I took it as a victory. She knew she did me wrong, the cunt.

I took the hoodie and hung it from a hook on my bedroom door. I thought moving it would help. It didn't. It hung there for two days, taunting me and invading my space. Thankfully, I had two jobs, so I wasn't home that often, but even at work I could feel its presence. I imagined the hoodie becoming animate and wandering around my room, sorting through my clothes and mocking my tastes, looking under my bed for secrets, judging the amount of dust behind my desk. That hoodie was a jerk.

Later in the week I saw Louie again. He stopped by my house for lunch after his work out while I was between shifts at my two jobs. I was able to remain rational, and was planning on politely (and sanely) letting him know that he left his hoodie in my room before he departed to the hospital for an evening of slicing open skin and moving organs around.

"Oh," he said between bites of his sandwich, "I forgot my hoodie here the other night."

While I wanted to sprint to my room, tear the hoodie off my door, and throw it at him in a fit of excitement, I simply said, "Yeah, it's in my room."

We finished our sandwiches, talking about the hospital that employed us or books we had read or whatever it was we talked about. I retrieved his hoodie from my door and returned it to him with a peck on the cheek. Finally, my sanctuary was back to normal. That rude, invasive hoodie was leaving. Louie smiled and planted a kiss on my forehead, which left him making an almost cartoon-like movement because he nearly had to jump to do it.

"Hey," he said, "Do you mind if I leave my gym bag here? I don't want to carry it all the way to the hospital."

 "Of course," I answered, feeling my irrational fears inside me screaming in protest. Past the knot in my throat I was able to release the words, "No problem."

And surprisingly, it wasn't. The gym bag politely sat in the corner of my room until the weekend. I barely noticed it was there.

I'd like to think that it was a turning point for me, that I was on the road to becoming less crazy, that maybe I had grown to a point in my life where I no longer personified inanimate objects to manage my social fears and relationship insecurities.

Or maybe that hoodie was just an asshole.