My Loins, The Bitch, and An Overpriced Wardrobe

Sex is scary. The kind of scary that induces stream-of-consciousness in one's pen, or fingers. The last time that happened to me was during an immunology exam when I found that I had 15 minutes to write a 25-mark essay. It turns out that while the theory of sex is all biology (my turf), the practicum tests all your knowledge of biology, physics and chemistry (my turf, hell no, and a friend I hang out with sometimes). The challenge that the practicum presents entails that one strike a balance between the three. But what if the coupling of your textbook-based knowledge of biology, and the few random assortments of statics-dynamics equations that you know, lead to a few sloppy errors in your coupling? A few slips, over-lubrication, the Skinny Jeans Impediment, the sheer ergonomics...easily remedied, but not really desirable. You would think that one can gloss over this with some well-timed chemistry, but what if the test has more questions about physical chemistry than organic chemistry? What if you're diving headfirst into the practicum on the basis of superficial attraction? The Hydrogen-bond type? The kind that water molecules use as they flit from partner to partner? You've studied hard, and you've studied the hard, my friend, but somehow the test didn't get you. So you find yourself half-answering some questions, bull-shitting your way on others, and leaving the frightening blank spaces for yet others. So yes, sex is scary, and the instruction manual is a haphazardly compiled check-list that ensures a decent culmination to the practicum. What most alumni fail to mention is the milieu: the testing centre is as important as the test itself! Don't take the test at a trashy, community college-esque testing centre. Seriously. You'll end up feeling like a whore.

I want to high-five the Man in the Sky (to the strains of indie-music, no less!) for the script that he has written, the script where cliché serves as an anchors to a kind of meta-theatricality that is, quite literally, out of this world, his world. As a sampler:

Cliché #1: Boy meets Commitophobe-in-Disguise.

Cliché #2: Boy loses Commitophobe-in-Disguise.

Cliché #3: Boy fills out Exit Survey, and finds dark, repressed things about self.

Cliché #4: Boy makes bad decisions, and does the whole Fantine bit.

Cliché #5: Boy becomes venomous bitch.

Cliché #6: Boy-turned-Fornicator has to deal with religion. Totally out of the blue.

Cliché #7: Boy, Interrupted: remains freakishly calm, files things away in "I'll Deal With It Tomorrow" box, saves neuroticism for therapist and self.

Cliché #8: Boy nearly becomes one of those people who cry at therapy sessions.

Well written, Man in the Sky, I, for one, laud your theatrical devices. Two thumbs up! The musical score, however, is a little overdone, but I am sure you're trying to make a point. Something on the lines Man-is-as-subtle-as-a-sledgehammer? Maybe.

These past two weeks have wrung me dry: of imagination, of emotion, and of conversation. As I glided from crisis to crisis, from coffee-shop to restaurant to dorm-room, to a gathering, to a truck, I found myself wishing I had someone to hold my hand through all of this. When did this become so important? I used to be fairly self-sufficient. Hamlet and I have rallied around each other through dire times. Namely, the dissolution of both our romances. His altruism kept me sane through mine, and I hope I was of some help at least. Now imagine this, Hamlet and I, sitting at a fairly plush eatery by the name of 'The Drunken Noodle', there is a light drizzle outside, the sky is at a point where it is trying to decide between the rising of the sun and the moon, and steaming plates of Asian cuisine sit before us. We talked about various things: the tear-tempered cup of coffee I had with Mary Wollstonecraft (his ex) as I attempted to thaw the gelid bridge that had formed between us, we talked about fools, we talked about Kings, we talked about the fools of Kings...so you would think that I had someone to go to when drama turned against me. But Hamlet is not the jigsaw piece I am looking for, he fills a different void, an important one, for I may as well be dead were he not around, but this pretty little picture needs something else before it can be called complete. My sagacious friend agrees. Upon my return to my hall of residence, Butters gave me some of the worst news of my life. News that confirmed to me that changes, large changes were at hand. But, I can't deal with this now. This wound is too fresh. I think I shall file this away for now.

The only bright spots include a journey (to Hornbacher's!) with the incisive trio comprising of The Hipster, The Skater and the 4Chaner! That was the best taste of aerial fun I have had in a long time! I also did coffee with the ever-delighting Novel-Duchess, we updated one another on our respective drama, judged people's sartorial choices, and came to realise that we our friendship has the potential of becoming something more permanent. Christine de Pizan gave me conversation, albeit of a more literary bend, but this was also food that I had been starved of for so long that I had even forgotten the taste of it. The interim periods of vituperative bitchiness were uncalled for, but necessary. There is something very satisfying about biting someone's head off, as much as I blush to admit it!

I have come to realise that the Intelligent Metrosexual is really not all that intelligent after all. He mixes his lessons up, like some foppish, pedantic amateur. As far as the love practicum goes, [Strangers-at-Night= Dreamers-at-Night], yet that is not always the case with the Sex Practicum. He is exactly the kind of fool who knows what he has bargained for, but slowly hums "Deux anges qui se décrouvent, n'ont rien à expliquer" because he has seen a portent in the moon that tells him that this may be something else. Being a bitch is not fun, not in the long run. Not to someone who is only trying to make you comfortable, who understands that your nervousness is making you snappish, and especially not after that heady venom has worn off, and the guilt begins to set in. Being a whore unleashes the Absolute Alcohol of Guilt into one's bloodstream. When each passing day bears the promise of 'Tragedy Tomorrow, Comedy Tonight!', perhaps the only constant thing you have is an overpriced wardrobe. Because, really, if you're not pure, at least your shirts are! They're such beautiful shirts! They make me sad!

So much has happened, and so quickly, that, in my own way, when I turn to God-on-high, my Man in the Sky, I beseech him to bring me home. This town is too small, it is too tinged with the iridescent trail of my mistakes. Maybe that is the only saving I need. My Eternal City! Let there be no talk of loins (mine or anyone else's!), the bitch I shall be shall be more satire than sulphur, and the luxury of that overpriced wardrobe shall make the flowers grow.

If and when tomorrow comes,
GossipGuy.