02.Dec.2002
Yeah, well, Christian Slater was at least hot
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violence in movies, and sex on tv
Those good old-fashioned values didn't follow me home this past weekend. Friday night was a flop as I was subjected to the brutal universe of Couples(tm).
Couples tend to have their own clandestine domain that is impenetrable. No one else is allowed into it. This domain consists of "cootchie-cootchie!" noises, ear-blowing, secret whispers, candle-light, lots of insane fleshy touching, and the ability to block out any third party's voice while gazing longingly into each other's eyes.
Saturday night, Dustin of all people called and wanted to do something. For some odd reason, we have never done anything together, besides something sexual, ever, so I thought it would be an adventure. I coordinated a small get-together that, upsettingly, consisted of Couples(tm).
Throughout the evening, while subjected to drunken females grabbing at my shirt, Dustin's evasive eyes, Giz's flaming hair, his girlfriend's promiscuity, somewhere in there I decided to drink heavily, an act in which I haven't partaken (partook?) in quite a long. fucking. time.
A few shots (8) of Crown later, I was sitting on Nikki's bedroom floor, describing in lurid detail my ideal boyfriend while Dustin clumsily strummed a bass. The night wore on.
My ideal boyfriend consists of a brown-eyed, musically inclined, overly intelligent short-haired six-foot-three male who not only is oddly beautiful, but mentally and emotionally beautiful, as well, and I'd even go so far as to say it's a requisite he's twice the size of me.
At 3:20 in the morning, Dustin and I decided to leave. At 5:20 in the morning, I walked into my house, sober, bruised, exhausted, and, much to the chagrin of everyone who knows me, sad.
I would like to someday encounter a universe where all the guys I know never - ever - utter this fucking sentence to me ever again:
"That's just me, my type's just thin."
And the shock of all of this, the absolute shock, is that it came from someone I never in a million years would suspect to hold physical appearance against me. Ever. This was no shock to Ben, who proclaimed, "Why should you care what Jay version 2.0 has to say to you?"
Because Jay version 2.0 was an upgrade, which meant he was bigger, faster, hotter, smarter and nicer, or so I thought. The defining moment of the evening came when Jay version 2.0 muttered, "And here in July, I thought I blew it, I thought I totally blew the excellent rapport we had with one another."
Well, no, you didn't really blow it until you finally mentioned to me what that tension was all about, and now that I'm aware, it really doesn't matter to me, but thanks for the 2-hour conversation which sobered my cusp-of-beauty-ass right up before heading upstairs to my bedroom.
From the events of this past weekend, I am forced to write this letter, which has only been sent to the likes of Dave Gahan and Christian Slater:
Dear Dustin,
You. Are. Such. An. Idiot.
Love,
Ravie.
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time & machine