...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.
 
 
   
 
Tuesday, November 19, 2002
 
I've finally found a distraction from my RA crush, but not in a good way. Alisha and I went to L'Express on Saturday to get a few drinks, and ended up talking to the handsome manager, who had just gotten off work and was relaxing at the bar. We flirted with him for quite a while until our other friends showed up, but decided that he was probably just being friendly and wasn't interested. I didn't find out until we left that on a "trip to the bathroom" Alisha had given him her phone number. So... he actually called her, and tonight (last night, technically) they went out. I was already crazy jealous in the worst way because I'm sure that if I had given him MY number he would have called ME, and now Alisha's back from her night on the town with all sorts of information that is making my head hurt. Like... he used to be a rifleman in the Marine Corps (hello! everyone knows I'm a camp follower!) and he takes his dates to jazz clubs while wearing cute sweaters. Actually he's still in the reserves, which means that Alisha, the "I don't think soldiers are hot... or cowboys, or firemen" girl, is dating a bona-fide Marine while I sit at home and chat with chess teachers online. WHYYYY? After this, the cunt will probably start dating a Navy SEAL who is part of a volunteer fire brigade and was raised on a ranch in Wyoming.

 

 
   
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