There's Nothing Like It

I've been thinking about Colorado a lot lately. The cold, the bitter distance, the ambiguity. I didn't necessarily retreat on a whim, but the escape was meaningful and with certain purpose. I had reached my worst here, and relished the chance to reflect within some far away opportunity. Darkened seasons changed as albums of gothic folk poured over symbolic walks down snowy drives and trans-vaginal interstates of spoiled lives.
That sentence means nothing, but so do the majority of our investments, so lighten up, fuckers.
I remember my brief stint at Squirrel's, a drunken lodge of regulars and irregulars that all shared a common mediocrity reflected in the service I was capable of providing them. Our most consistent customer was the town doctor, or a doctor, as you would call him. I called him "Doc", because I was who I was and you were not.
Do we need to take a moment to understand the state in which I'm attempting to regale such a tale?
Doc's favorite drink was an odd duck. That wasn't the name of it, although that's a sweet fucking drink, mostly for Indian hobos and native tramps.
No, the doctor had a propensity for the hazelnut daiquiri.
Yeah, it's stupid. He was stupid. He was a doctor, and he was stupid.
But he loved it. Your standard daiquiri: rum, lime, sweetener, and some hazelnut flavor - he was all over it like a doctor's leech on a haircut.
I mean, not like crazy all over it. He would come in every day, just after 5, have 2-3 hazelnut daiquiris, just enough to take the razor's edge off the day (he didn't believe in razors), and head home to the wife (Mrs. Dr., I presume)
So it was just a normal thing. It sounds weird, but it wasn't. IT WASN'T, YOU JUDGMENTAL MOTHERFUCKERS!
I got used to it after like a day.
So just around the time I'm getting ready to quit (because the restaurant/bar is called Squirrel's, and I swear to god, let's end this rumor once and for all that I don't have any "standards") the regular bartender pulls me aside. She says to me, she says, "Hey, Doc's coming in for his drink, and we're shit out of hazelnut."
This isn't the way I would have said it, but I didn't say it, did I? Did you see the quotation marks? Go back.
So we all fumble around, and I don't really care, but I want my last check, so I eye the room and haphazardly suggest, "What about hickory?"
Now, I understand that hickory and hazelnut are completely different flavors. Ain't no fucking ballpark neither. However, we were 'allegedly' in a "bind", so I did what I could. We combined hickory flavor, some cinnamon, ginger, rum, lime juice, Splenda, and various other ingredients I'll ask you to mind your own god damn business about, in a glass and prepared it for the local doctor. He walked in just after 5, as expected, and took a seat in his regular chair.
I guess it was more of a stool, but come on, let's get going, right?
Obviously I was forced to serve the bastardized cocktail, and I did so with as little trepidation as necessary. The doctor took his usual sip and paused, purposefully, almost menacingly. I suddenly felt the concern of the bar upon my shoulders.
He looked up at me, his old and wisdom-filled eyes sinking into a depression for which I was ill-prepared at 29 years of age. His sigh was wistful and full of a regret I could never know. His lips smacked in a parched preparation before his sullen eyes met mine.
"Son, this is not a hazelnut daiquiri."
My heart sank. I had failed this man, this town, this life. It didn't matter where life took me from here, I carried with me no sense of satisfaction. As my eyes welled, I struggled to meet his steely gaze.
"Yes sir, you got me."
I knew what came next. I had always known, as we've all always known. There was no escaping it now.
"It's a hickory daiquiri, Doc."

He slowly pulled out a gun, and shot me, to death.

SWM, Drunk & Confused...

I can never remember when I’m (perpetually) single if I’m supposed to treat my date or my cock like a Mogwai that could possibly turn into a Gremlin…

That’s the best introduction I could find to the beginning of this conversational journey we’re going to suffer through together. Yes, it’s a bit masturbatory, but so are blogs, and so is dating, as I’m about to explain and then recant before just landing in an ambiguous world of over-thought references and genital allusions, replete with heartfelt judgments and apologies and neurotic attempts at revolutionary optimism through various degrees of relations and this sentence is kind of getting away from me…

This isn’t ‘Nam, there are rules.

-You can’t expose your penis to any bright lights, including flash photography. Apparently it’s some sort of law. Sunlight is by far the worst. That’s right, tanners, you’ve cooked your collective penii to death. If you’re a woman who tans, then I also think of you as having a deep-fried decrepit dangler.

-You can’t expose a date to bright lights because she’ll get distracted. Or maybe it’s a metaphor for keeping her in the dark about who you really are, and the posturing that seems to go along with such activities. I’m more of a night owl anyway (is saying “night owl” redundant? Are there day owls? Is that just an early bird? Look, birds can’t fuck owls, okay? Birds fuck bees, and that’s just the way it is…)

some things will never change…

-You can’t get your penis wet. I know, bros are always saying,

“Man, you just need to get your dick wet!”

But those people are wrong and kind of assholes. That’s not a solution, it’s just something to do. I’ll come back to this.

You just have to be aware of the fact that it leads to multiplication, because moisture is the essence of wetness, and water is the essence of life, and then some other things happen and babies. Then there’ll just be more dicks, because that’s what most of these kids are. They’ve got half-eaten, rotting food in their teeth because they’re unclean, and they want to touch you and lick things, taste things, trying to learn… you don’t need that. Some half animal beast-child putting his hands on you, the cheese dust fingers, with his death breath and apple juice farts…

-You can’t get your date wet, for the same obvious reasons (or serve them apple juice). I know, it seems like it defeats the purpose, but what are you gonna do? Rules are rules, and I’m drunkenly applying the ones from the motion picture Gremlins to this misguided analogy.

This is also a bummer because I always thought that swimming was such a good date activity. You get to see each other close enough to naked, and the man can lift the woman easily, making him feel strong and her feel light. Unfortunately, it’s out.

And I love the ocean.

-Most importantly, you can never feed your penis after midnight. That’s when it becomes some sort of reptilian demon creature that attacks your mother and then you have to stick it in the microwave.

-You certainly can’t feed your date after midnight. Women try not to eat late anyway.

Fine, this one doesn’t really make sense (because the others are iron-clad). I never understood this rule anyway. How are their bodies attuned to their specific time-zone? As far as a date goes, does this include any and all ingestions?

Although I’m sure that many women would love nothing more than to purge on junk food before becoming some kind of monster and going to watch Snow White with her friends. Hell, I know I would.

Don’t buy your junk food at the theater though. The price keeps getting higher, I swear they’re raisinet…

So with the Gremlins rules in effect, you can see how my horizon has been limited. I don’t mean to suggest that the dating scene is this hazardous. Stripe isn’t going to become some sort of metaphor for an evil landing strip afflicted beast of vagina dentata.

You know what, maybe I should end the Gremlins references here…

Howie Mandel is also the voice of my penis.

Obviously I am thoroughly confused by the dating world, as well as the Gremlins world, and the world in general, but let’s just deal with one bit of neurosis at a time, shall we (wait, should we?)

I’m not much for dating.

Jesus, fuck that thought and sentiment and sentence. Who wants to date that guy?

Lots of people, you jerks. Well, not lots. Maybe some, at first, before the harsh truths of reality and practicality sink in. Maybe none. It’s some sort of elephant/rhinoceros hybrid at this point.

To be fair, I’ve never actually been on a proper date, in which I ask a woman with whom I haven’t slept to accompany me and only me to some sort of function(s) with the intention of romantic or sexual pursuit.

That may not be true, but I can’t recall any specific occurrences.

Does that make me the asshole? Usually, but what I’m reaching for is the idea that I just don’t understand serial dating, the search for anyone, playing the odds at that level in the hopes of finding that someone special-enough to grant your entry into the exclusivity of the couples country club (which is exclusive, so don’t tell them that you’re Jewish). I don’t want to belong, I want to believe.

It’s great to have someone, and even better to share your life with as many people and in as many special ways as possible, but there are degrees. There are those incomprehensible interactions that stir your anxieties in the most wonderful way, and knowing that feeling, the awareness of its recurring existence, is enough of an inspiration to keep me in wait. It’s not so much holding out as it is just understanding what’s worth the time and effort.

Let me climb off the high horse of pretension and straddle the motorbike of jealousy for a moment.

I’m sure that the reasoning behind many indulgences in online or even compulsive dating is earnest. There are worse things to spend your time pursuing than love (I’ll never find that picture of Houdini with his keys locked in his car). It’s far too easy to feel loneliness in this friendly, friendly world, and company and community are essential. Whether the caterpillars have hatched within your shit factory or not, it’s worth it to connect. If this is your honest agenda, then I’m actually quite envious of your dedication and progressive endurance to the crusade for a soul-mate or partner. Looking for love, meeting people, enjoying yourself through legitimate interactions… I can’t rightfully shit on those passions like a homeless man behind a gas station.

But is that always the case?

From the most basic glimpses of research I could manage, the majority of online dating site users are women, and the sites with the highest percentage of women members are match-based. These are the sites which require a long and detailed questionnaire, an immediate turn-off for men. Through some sort of mathematical equation, the love nerds formulate a theorem or formula or algorithm (I don’t know, I’m bad at math and science and intimacy) that will prescribe you your ideal mate, rather than allowing you to freely browse the stockyard for the 4H babe you feel that you somehow rightfully deserve.

Again, I really don’t mean to diminish anyone’s attempts, but what I get from this is that the women are at least seeking a potential partner rather than a hook-up.

I don’t understand most people’s agendas, so I’m even more out of my element and sobriety here. But to engage in a system which essentially amounts to scanning your options for acceptable vaginal patronization sounds a bit like a fancier version of masturbation to me (and I don’t just mean autoerotic asphyxiation with a black tie (and a bow tie for your erection (copyrighted))).

If that’s the case, then you’re just paying more money in order to keep dating your penis, which you were already doing, for free. Or maybe you’re dating a fancier version of your hand, or rib I suppose.

This falls into the mindset of just getting your dick wet (this doesn't fall into any mindset). 

I know we like to think that casual sex exists, but it doesn’t. It always means something to someone, and often much more to one than the other, and that’s not fair. You don’t want to be on either end of that ignorance. If you do happen to find yourself there, driven drunkenly against your will by a questionably designated wingman, don’t be the casual one. Heartbreak beats apathy every time.

Don't get me wrong, I'll get more drunk and do things, and everyone may come out the other end just fine. That's another ideal worth remembering. It's arrogant to assume there can't just be casual fun. In fact, I feel that I've often indulged in some enjoyable acts of ribaldry with minimal consequence. I'm just trying to be more mindful of how I really feel, and relate that to the treatment of others, because I've also been on either end of the previously stated ignorance.

But maybe the casual, or preliminary, dating world is all worthwhile. This is how people meet, and I know plenty of amazing couples. The casual can lead to the intimate, it doesn't have to be such a narrow field. It just hasn't revealed its appeal enough to entice me. I want to be knocked out in person, or at least gut punched, and I want the feeling to continue, easily, but that doesn’t mean that I get to judge others for a different approach, one that seems to be proving itself across the globe throughout time.

When I start reading through dating statistics, online or not, I get depressed, for many reasons. Perhaps it’s the basic appliance of science that turns me off…

(Hold on, I suddenly have the urge to simultaneously watch Disney’s Beauty & the Beast and listen to Rage Against the Machine…)

I feel that science can often be an attempt to dilute the magic.

We’ve become spoiled to not only solutions, but immediate ones. Internet dating goes to the next level of dangerously toying with an acceptance of scrolling through people, scanning and computing a mathematical analysis of something that can never lose its awe to our arrogance. I guess we’re all doing that anyway, but I’ll be damned if some computer’s going to best me at recognizing nature’s sorcery.

And I don’t want to hear about being purposefully single in order to stand against over-population or societal pressures. The argument is valid, but also shut up. I don’t want to begrudge anyone’s sincere efforts towards a better world or sense of self and security, but the point isn’t a feeling of superiority. There’s no “winning.” If you’re better than magic, then why do you have diabetes?

Relationships shouldn’t be about figuring out a system by which your satisfactions will be met by the ideal person of your choosing. You have to allow for the wonderful idiosyncrasies of natural attraction, human error, the fuck-ups and fuck-downs and fuck-sideways, if you’ve got the leg strength.

There's no right way. It’s the questions, not the answers; the journey, not the destination.

In which case, I may have to digress and surrender to the concept of honest, frequent, connective human experience as legit. Dating is quite admirable in that sense, through any means.

I don’t mean to offer an answer or judgment or cohesive thought regarding any of this (obviously). This is just food for late-night thought (though not after midnight, somehow). Clearly I’m confused, but maybe that’s what I’m arguing. Knowing shit is overrated. Confusion is incredible. The surrender is often greater than the false power-trip. 

Shit, maybe I'm just a masochist (hence the rules (hence the blog title)). 

You need the sense of wonder for the magic to take hold. It’s truly a question without an answer, like why her or him, what time is it, and are there Gremlin vaginas?

Actually, there may be an answer to some of those, but I don’t want to know them. 

I forget things.

Oh shit, I’m supposed to be on a date right now!

New Job

     Gun Barrel City, Texas is surprisingly limited in its opportunities for gainful employment and understanding of sarcasm. However, I have found a bit of odd work, and I'd now be most pleased to regale you with the story of my first day.

So I answered an ad in the local classifieds about driving a shuttle for a nearby home for the disabled. I say disabled, but what I really mean is special needs, or whichever term gets me in the least amount of trouble, I don't care anymore. We're all in the re-re van together now.
I show up early to inspect my short bus and am pleasantly surprised to discover that it is covered with the characters of Sesame Street: Bert, Ernie, Snuffie, Dopey, Waldo, Atreyu, they're all there, and it's great. This is already the most excited I've ever been about a job. The boss man or Head Orderly (dibs on porn name) takes me through a safety seminar that seems pretty straightforward. It's a small town, so the background check isn't very thorough, which would concern me if I wasn't getting paid. We check the vehicle over and under and go over the route before he takes me in to meet some of the gang.
And what a jolly bunch they were.
First there was Patricia. Patricia is quite large, has gout, and insists upon being called "Pattie", which would make me giggle if I wasn't getting paid (I did anyway). During Patricia's introduction, another large woman approaches, angrily, like a charging rhino in a petting zoo for, well, fat rhinos, apparently. The orderly stops her short, but her explanation must be proclaimed:
"Don't listen to a word she says! I'M PATTY! I'm the only PATTY here! She's a liar!"
I'm a bit put off by all of this, but I need the work, so we move on.
Next up is Ross. Ross is a great kid, funny, self-aware, self-deprecating. He reminds me of a young Dudley from The Royal Tenenbaums, but with more pizazz. He even asks that I refer to him as "special", which is cute and then sad and then uncomfortable because I'm just a mess emotionally.
There's a few other randos who neither frighten nor impress me, so I don't bother with their names or ailments. I'm not one to judge. All I have to do is count and drive. "Everyone on? Good, great, grand, wonderful!"
Not so fast. We forgot about Lester.
Yes, Lester.
The aptly named southerner sits in the back, in a sunbeam reserved for sling-bladers, digging into his toenails with the odd end of a plastic spork. I approach with understandable caution...
"Hey pal, whatcha' got... in there?"
My voice raised on the end, and I could feel the power shift.
He remained quiet.
"So, looks like I may be driving ya. Lester, right?"
"Lester G."
"How's that?"
"There use'ta be 'nother Lester here... use'ta be."
"Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh..."
I stretched that out into like at least a minute, I swear to God.
"So, Lester G."
It was then that I noticed Lester's activity of choice. He was digging into a bunyun on his foot. One of many.

So we're back in the office, and I'm explaining to Head Orderly (no longer sexy) why I just can't take the job.
"Well, what d'ya mean? What's the problem?"
"What's the problem? WHAT'S THE PROBLEM?" I say, incredulously, prepping my mind to attempt a level of political correctness it has never known...

"The problem is... 2 all beef Patties, Special Ross, and Lester G. pickin' bunyuns on a Sesame Street bus."


And then we just kind of looked at each other...

No Shame 15, 16, & 19-22: Catsup

EMBARRASSMENT, LIFE GOALS, HUMOR, VANITY, HYGIENE & GENITALIA

I'm playing catch up. It's fine. We'll make it work.
Am I embarrassed by my failure to achieve the few life goals I've set, deflecting my legitimate desires for progression and/or stability in order to keep things fun, humorous, entertaining in ways that almost cheaply serve my own vanity, not even bothering to symbolically maintain proper hygiene by washing the sad indulgences of misogyny from my genitalia?
That may just be some rambling bullshit, but what if it isn't?
Let's work backwards. It seems that most of the straight men I know are very turned off by the penis. They don't enjoy my nudity, and act as if dealing with another cock would be the worst thing that could ever happen. I think this comes from a stubborn denial of imagination, as if even entertaining the notion of dueling uber-peni would cause some sort of internal meltdown.
But I don't think there's anything wrong with dick. I certainly enjoy all sorts of activities involving my own, and to be honest, I'm a bit curious about sexual activity involving others. After seeing and feeling so many blow jobs, I think it's pretty weird to not wonder what the other end would be like. At the very least it's called empathy, and it's one of the most important qualities in the world.
But here's where the divide comes in. I don't feel any of the complex intricacies of thought and emotion that women do as far as receiving pleasure or power from pleasuring a man. I understand the concept from my proclivities towards cunnilingus, but for now I'm just addressing my feelings regarding boners in my face. What's different for me is that I have neither the curiosity nor the desire to please another man. Maybe it's narcissism, but seeing his face, his o-face, to me, seems so much worse than his peen.
It's a complicated issue.
As far as vaginas, I'm not sure that I'm a bigger fan of anything else in the known universe. They're not all perfect, and by that I simply mean that they're not all perfect for me, which is fine. I prefer a twat with character. None of this vapid vag, stale tail, ho-hum cum bum crap. Save the lackluster sackbusters for somebody else. Your perfectly pruned patches of pubic placidity can play pussy-pet for other people's penasia.
I'm not sure what's happening here.
Luckily, this works out as far as propagating the species.
Because we want to stay involved with each others uglies. There's good stuff there, if you take care of it. Not so much the grooming (ugh, the grooming), but the cleaning. That fusion smoothie in our underpants, for those of us who wear them, is a daily reminder that stink exists. I'm not even much for hygiene, but you have to have at least a hooker's bath a few times a week (that's your face, pits, ass & crotch, the last two being a bit of a combo. Has anyone else called a chode "the ball pit?" Coined and minted.)
Actually, I hate being hygienic. No, that's incorrect. I hate grooming (ugh, the grooming). Hygiene is important, even though people overdo it. This two shower a day shit? That's no good. Maybe two a week.
My vanity is mostly internal. I try to look or smell pleasant enough, but I can't commit much time or especially money to that. Do as much primping as you need fellas, I'll be arrogant with attitude and wit. I certainly spend my time with the mirror, but it's mostly basic maintenance. Nose hair, acne, dandruff, etc. I suppose that could be called vanity, but it could also be called hygienic.
It could also be called fuck you.
Because I'm operating under the assumption that other guys are going for and may achieve quite often the idea of magazine hot, I focus more on jokes. And it is a focus. I spend a lot of time and mental energy on shaping humor. There's research, development, experimentation; I'll compose a tweet for twenty minutes.
I love a good clean joke as much as I love a dirty vagina, and I love a dirty joke as much as a good clean asshole...
I have never found a philosophy that makes as much sense to me as laughter. It's somehow a zen like joy of violent understanding. My biggest goal in life is to make people smile, but the largest facet of that is laughter.
My other life goals all pale in comparison to this one. Do I want to write for a living? Sure. Do I want to travel, everywhere, anywhere? Of course. Do I want to stay within the magic and rapture of true love, share my life with others, age with any sort of extended family that lives in comfort from my actions? Absolutely.
But I'll also drive a truck for $11 an hour in Dallas if we can all keep laughing together. And I'll do it completely free of embarrassment.
Almost completely free.
I maybe shouldn't have talked about the penis stuff so much.

No Shame!

Sex, Love, Romance

     Sex is great. The only bad sex I've ever had is when I'm disappointed in myself during or afterwards for cheating on myself emotionally. Becoming conscious of the fact that you don't want to be with this person, at least in this way, should occur sooner but, hey, I'm selfish and emotionally lazy and a drunk guy. I'm not saying that this happens all the time, or even often. I just mean to relate the fact that this feeling, a feeling I am solely responsible for creating and dealing with, is to me the definition of a bad lay.
Because sex is great. Having great sex correlates to anything else in life, in that you just have to be present and nice. It sounds simple, but a lot of people overthink it or are afraid to let go or have watched too many pornos and just want to jackhammer and snake tongue (oh how I hate the snake tongue. I like to almost treat the vagina as another mouth and just make out with it, the ass or hips like the head that you occasionally caress with your hands, the inner thighs the neck...) I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with those things. It does, however, take both people committing to the moment to elevate it to it's best. Do it together.
I can't speak for other people and the things they've been through that have brought them to whatever reservations or feelings they have regarding sex, and I wouldn't want to be that kind of asshole, though I'm sure that I frequently am.
I certainly can't speak for women. Without running this tangent for too long, I just want to throw out the basic idea that men don't understand the concept of accepting that level of invasion. Having my finger up my ass will never allow me to comprehend a lifelong inundation of "things will be put inside of you, and some you're supposed to enjoy, the most." Men don't have to come to terms with their body & sexuality that way. I can't imagine that prepubescent journey. You throw in a universal sense of male dominance and it's just another reason, maybe the biggest, that I don't really know what shit is like for women. Speaking as a man (straight and white at that), yes, the pleasure of penetration certainly speaks to our greater approach to a world preset for us.
I'm probably overstepping here.
The point is that confidence in yourself, not necessarily your image or even your sexuality, but in your ability to share life with everyone, makes everything better, including sex. What am I talking about here?

Yes, love. Love each other. Another simple truism that shouldn't even have to be said, but probably can't be said often enough. Aside from the basic benefits of the golden rule and improving sex, the ability to empathize will just allow you to live. The more you understand what everyone else is going through the less alone you'll feel, and the less you'll annoy everyone else with your bullshit problems.
"Nobody gets me!"
No, tons of people get you. We all get each other, we've just come up with more interesting ways to try to ignore it. Like me, with that shit about women earlier. What was the subject?
Ah, love. You can't love with the limited worldview of me, myself and I. You have to go bigger, because the world is bigger, and the more you narrow your scope the more you segregate yourself.
Now, in a less all-encompassing 60's sing-along way, love between two people is it's own animal.
There's plenty of science to back up the drive for humans to mate, but don't we like to believe that there's something else? Something special that propels us to earn that next level of understanding and shared experience with this particular person? True love, if you will, and I will.
Nature's sorcery can work in some fucked up and awesome ways that draw you to people who are beautiful just for you. It's a kind of love that you can't extend to everyone, though you'll try with some and fail, wonderfully. True love is a kind of magic that human beings can't create. It's a more difficult love, one in which the pursuit of the previously stated ideas of respect and understanding can be as life-affirming as the payoff.

Romance - I'm talking fairy tales. That's right, motherfucker, what? Romance is a belief, a faith. It's idealism. Sometimes it's disguised within a greater illness, but in it's purest form, romance is just a bubble that never pops. It's a commitment to keeping magic alive. It's true love in action.

Because we all have to work at all of these things in order for them to succeed. Such is life.
Romantic true love sex is the best because it's earned. You've been through the previous gauntlet and know that you're sharing the best parts of the best things with the best person, and as much love as you can have for yourself, your friends, your family and everyone else, the love, romance, and sex that you fully experience with this person makes you live all the other ones better.
And it doesn't have to be true love sex to be great. That's just one kind of magic sex.

Sex, Love & Romance are responsibilities. Take the time to do them right.

No Shame 10 & 11: Friends & Family

FAMILY & FRIENDSHIP

Well, that's really all there is to it, yeah?

No Shame 9: High School

HIGH SCHOOL

I was in the very first class to ever attend Lake Highlands Freshman Center. Yes, they built a separate building and hired a separate staff for exclusively the ninth grade. I have no idea why this happened, but I went and had a pleasant enough time. By that point I was at least getting high every weekend, if not more often. I also think that freshman year marked the end of my church phase.
Random Memories: I wore a sweater vest the first day, got caught looking up cheerleaders skirts in the stairwell, experienced the cliche of a teacher recommending Catcher in the Rye to me, learned that I suck at Geometry, rocked a mohawk for a week, had a Spanish teacher who loved Sarah McLachlan so much that he had posters (plural) of her up in his classroom, started driving all the time

By sophomore year I was getting stoned every morning before school and every afternoon immediately after. Sometimes during lunch. We would hide joints within ball point pen casings. I was more of a fan of the early morning sessions because my first period class was art, unlike my poor bastard friend who had AP chemistry. I had been turned away from honors science in seventh grade and never went back. It was odd how most of the popular jock/prep kids were also in the AP classes, but I only hung out with them at school. In tenth grade, my social circle outside of academia consisted mostly of the drug kids. I had my first substantial crush that year, in that the girl knew who I was and we talked on the phone all the time. It may have been my first experience as the non-threatening kind of gay friend, but holy shit I'm just now remembering that those were the first breasts I saw in person that weren't in public... we didn't hook up or even make out or anything. Close to kissing once, lots of boner hugs and some cuddles. Okay, I guess I was that friend and it's sad, but I recently found out that she had a kid and moved to New Orleans and died last year, so now who's sad?
Random Memories: First time doing acid, first job (video store), first breasts seen & touched (different girls), first teacher I openly flirted with, second suspension for skipping school, favorite class ever: analysis of visual media, brought my video camera to school with me (yes, I was obsessed with American Beauty when it came out), got caught smoking pot and was sent to therapy for fourth (fifth?) time

I spent the next summer working with my dad full time as an electrician and realized I didn't really know him. I found his laid back asshole charm to be winning and worthy of emulation. I worked enough to buy my first car and decided that I would move in with him and his Canadian wife.
No Shame? The girl, the first crush gay friend girl, actually moved during sophomore year about five minutes from my dad's house in southeast Garland. That was a big factor in my decision, as well as my first encounter with what I believed at the time to be serendipity. Alas, the girl moved back to Dallas within a few weeks of my moving there.
So, my best friend had started correspondence school, where you do the lessons on your own and mail them in before proctoring an exam through a trusted adult. It seemed like a good gig that wasn't overly expensive, and it would allow me to keep working, so I went for it. It was boring, but I received dual credit for a few classes and managed to gain some college hours (the only ones I would ever get). The classes were through Texas Tech, so I guess that's kind of my college?
Random Memories: Really started getting fat, had money and was removed from friends, ate all/whatever I wanted, could buy porn & cigarettes at nearby gas station

By the next summer I was burnt out on school and electrical work, so I found a job at the Angelika and took my last few exams and just gave up on furthering my education. I was 17 and within a few months was working 50+ hours a week at $9/hour. I also dropped around 40 lbs and discovered that women liked me and I liked them and alcohol. That's pretty much when it started going downhill.

I received my G.E.D. the next September.