...I Was A Teenage Fag-Hag

The story of a NYU student struggling to survive in a world where the shoes are pricey, the IDs are fake, and straight men don't seem to exist.
Thursday, November 07, 2002
Woe is me. I can't think of a better way to put it.

I finally tracked down Erik, but things did not go as well as one might hope. My plan on how to ask him out went perfectly: I asked if there were any spots left for the Bowling for Columbine dorm outing, and as expected he said no. Conveniently, he asked for my number just in case it turned out I could go, so I gave it to him and then said, "Well, if that doesn't work out, how would you feel about going to a movie with just me sometime?" He got the most adorable expression on his face, part embarrassed, part flattered, like he didn't quite know what to say, and I thought for one joyful moment that he was going to say yes. But it was not to be. He said, "I should tell you that I have a girlfriend," and then added that we could go to a movie sometime just as friends. I smiled my best "no problem" smile and said, "Well, you have my phone number!" Then I escaped as quickly as possible and run up the stairs trying not to cry.

If he had just flat out rejected me, as in "Sorry, I have a girlfriend," I could just be depressed for a day or two and then get over it and move on. But the look on his face, combined with the offer to hang out anyway, makes it difficult for me to just write it off. I don't think it's completely unreasonable to think that he at least partly wanted to, or that he's keeping his options open, or whatever you want to call it. So I'm still sitting here obsessing and praying that he'll call me and say, "Yeah, so I broke up with my girlfriend." Yeah right. But maybe, just maybe... it might turn out that I can go with the group to the movie, meaning I'll have a chance to talk to him and have a real conversation, and do the whole becoming friends bit. Or he might really have meant it about going to a movie with me, and he'll call me. I only have a window of a few months before I go to London, but surely I can seduce him somehow. Not all hope is lost, is it?

I just feel that if I like him this much (which is a LOT), then I should be able to have him. Why not? Why the hell not?

Wednesday, November 06, 2002
So I went and rang Erik's doorbell and he wasn't there, thank God. I say that because the second I pressed the button I realized how horribly, horribly nervous I was, my heart catapulted into my throat and had he answered the only noise I probably would have been able to make was a muffled croak. I failed to consider that I have never in my entire life ever asked a guy out. I have, of course, made the first move and given guys my number at bars, clubs and parties, but this is a very different situation. No wonder guys are always so petrified to ask cute girls out! I mean, Jesus Christ, could it be any less stressful?!
Dammit, dammit, dammit! I had finally screwed up the courage to just knock on Erik's door and ask him out, when on my way back to the dorm I saw him leaving in the opposite direction. :( I even had a cunning plan on how to do it! Very disappointing. I will try in a few hours, but I'm afraid the moment of truth has already passed.

Monday, November 04, 2002
I just finished watching The Count of Monte Cristo and loved it... Jim Caveziel is so intense and dreamy. His spot on my list of people I would like marry just shot up very close to the top. It would be perfect if I could just look up over my coffee and see him every morning. I would keep Van in a box under my bed to be taken out and looked at, Brad Pitt (naked, sans hideous beard) would be part of the bathroom decor, a constantly changing lineup of gorgeous gay men would live in my shoe closet and admire me, Alan Cumming would sit in the couch and talk in his adorable Scottish accent, and I would be happy.
Oh my God... I have a paper due tomorrow which I haven't started yet, and it's almost midnight. How did this happen? I thought that after I aced my midterms (go me!) I had ages and ages to slack off, but the last week has slipped by like Vaseline and I have so much stuff to take care of in the next few days. Aaagh. My friends Cortney and Majel came all the way from Seattle to visit me this weekend, so I exhausted myself dragging them around shopping and trying to make my lifestyle look glamorous and exciting. I think I was pretty successful, especially considering that due to my new PR connections I got us a front-and-center table to Joan Rivers and she bought us a round of drinks. And I got a tattoo! It is a very cute rendition of Max from Where the Wild Things Are in his wolf suit and crown, on my lower back. So it was a good weekend. However, my finances are now in horrible condition. Unless I get the job I applied for at Cosi, I only have $30 to spend for the whole month of November. I think my chances are good, since the manager glanced at my application today and said that I "perfectly fit the profile," but I've been rejected by so many potential employers in this damn city that I don't want to get my hopes up too high.

Tomorrow is going to be scary, because after a night of writing about feminism in the sex industry I'm going to go do the ultimate anti-feminist thing: I have a consultation with a plastic surgeon. I can put that in writing because I'm relatively sure that no one reads my online drivel. So if you're reading this, please email me at asb255@nyu.edu and tell me to shut the fuck up. I'll probably look horrible from getting no sleep, and the doctor will take one look at me and start scribbling a blueprint on my face with a Sharpie, breathing easier for knowing where his kid's college tuition will come from.

Looking forward to my sex date with Brad next weekend. Until I can telepathically convince my RA that he wants to be my boyfriend, I'll have to make due with investment banker booty calls.


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