Tuesday, July 01, 2003

I also forgot to mention that I'd sliced open my finger at the Pier Dance trying to cut something with one of those box cutters.

Not a very deep cut. Or particularly painful. But I'd still like some sympathy. And maybe someone to kiss it better.

And on another Pier Dance related note, in the contract we (and all the other groups) signed with HoP, we agreed to break down the area we were working at the end of the evening. If we failed to, we'd lose half of our grant. Well, at the end of the evening, all of the other groups in the volunteer area had bailed and hadn't bothered to break down their areas. Who broke it down? My boys. Why? Because we're good guys who step in when we're needed even if it was supposed to be someone else's responsibility.

One of the many reasons I love the guys on my team.

Speaking of the guys on my team, I'm off to a surprise party for one of them. Should be fun, except that it's in the bar that FratBitch always hangs out in. We hates him, yessssssss, hates him. (This Gollum moment was brought to you by New Line Cinema . . . New Line Cinema, churning out puerile crap for the masses since 1967 . . . like Dumb and Dumberer, in theaters now.)

Since this is the first time I've mentioned FratBitch, let me give you some background. When I was in grad school, I fell big time for an underclassman. Let's call him . . . Snow White. Well, I was crazy for him. And he was . . . well, I imagine he saw me as convenient. We were friends, he wasn't attracted to me, but he didn't ever turn me away when I wanted to spend money on him (when I'm in love, I'm pretty much that person's bitch . . . I'm trying to get over that, not terribly successfully so far). But I always hoped that he'd realize that we should be together (think Duckie from Pretty in Pink).

Well, I was crushed when he started dating FratBitch, this pretentious, closeted, know-it-all, little fratboy (I'm sorry . . . fraternity boy. One of his first lectures to me was about not using the word frat "It's fraternity. You wouldn't call you're country a cunt, would you?" No, but I'd call you one you shit-eating bastard). And worse, because Snow White and I were roommates (I know, I know), I was forced to see them together all the time.

Time passes. I move to New York. Snow White and FratBitch want to come visit (not me, mind you, but the city) and they need a place to stay. Well, I'm still in thrall so I let them. At the end of the visit (during which time I never saw them, nor did they invite me to spend time with them), Snow White confesses that he broke up with FratBitch. O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! Not that I had any illusions about getting together with Snow White (I may have been blinded by love, but even Helen Keller could have seen nothing was ever going to come of this) but because I didn't have to worry about feigning friendship with FratBitch anymore.

He called a couple of times, presumably to see if I'd put him up the times he visited New York, but I didn't bother to call back.

Time continues to pass. The crush on Snow White passes as I choose a new guy to abuse and ignore me.

Then one night I'm out with the rugby boys at this Chelsea bar and I see this little guy looking at me. Now, I have very little memory for faces and names, but as soon as he speaks to me I realized it was FratBitch. Well, he was no longer a closeted frat boy. He had become an Hispanic and slightly (very, very slightly) butcher version of Bobby Trendy.

And every time I go back to that bar, he's there.

Usually, I'm drunk enough to be polite and to feign interest in his life, loves and many faaaaabulous adventures in the City.

Tonight I'm just in the mood to hit someone.

So, I'm going to the party tonight, but if I don't blog tomorrow, it may mean I'm on Rikers.

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