Welcome to their home.

FOUR FRIENDS STARTED A BLOG recently and it's pretty great. Three of the four contributors live together, which makes for some fun posts about the things you only learn about people when in very close quarters. Given that there are multiple contributors, the blog has a scattershot quality to it, but it's fun because you can get to know each of them.

A few weeks back, one of the guys wrote about a one night stand that turned into a two day affair; it's wonderful, particularly his discussion of the morning after that became the whole next day and night. It has a kind of honesty that gets you, like at the end when he writes:

He gets up and walks across the room and hugs me. This is a not the weak, pacify-your-sadness hug that I've felt before. Nor is it the lame generic sympathy hug. He wraps all of himself around me, and we fold into each other on the modern green angular sofa. This is the hug that seems to say, "I have room for you". It's more connection than intimacy, but feels amazing in a way that I hadn't realized I missed until now.

Check out the post at Fuzzy Mimosa.

And here's the absolutely brilliant Brenda Dickson parody that gave the blog its name. If you haven't seen this, sit down and watch. It's bizarre and perfect.

Brenda Dickson - Welcome to My Home

"As long as I don't bleed or cry I'll do it."

Match.com is the new porn

CAN WE TALK ABOUT the sudden ubiquity of couples who met online? I don't know when it happened, but it's like I woke up a couple of weeks ago and realized that almost all the couples I know met on Match.com. Except, of course, that couple who met on a Craigslist booty call. (Need I mention it was in the m4m section? I thought not.)

All this has made me wonder, What am I missing? (Cue Sarah Jessica Parker saying, "Meanwhile uptown, Samantha was missing something too... her panties").

I have nothing against meeting people online. I don't think it's creepy or just for losers without other options, but it is a little lame, a little deflated. Where's the romance? A friend's parent's met on a train as it chugged through the European countryside; my own parents met randomly on a bench in Central Park, and my dad says he knew from the moment he saw her that she was the one.

As Match would have us believe in their brilliant new ad campaign, it can all begin with a look, but where's the magic when your dad tells you that he thought your mom's professional headshots were cute, and that when he read how she "loves exploring new restaurants, but is just as happy staying home and watching a movie (and cuddling... ;))," he knew he had to write and say, "OMG I love going out and staying in too!!!!"


PART OF THE PROBLEM is that when you meet online, you've already cut out a big chunk of the dating game. There's no sexy eyes, no wondering whether they think you're cute. Ostensibly, you're both there because you want to meet someone, that special someone, so most first dates are probably as romantic as a trip to the Gap to try on jeans. "I don't know Kathy... he's a relaxed fit, and I'm more of an apple bottom girl."

I think that's why no one really talks about it. How many times has a friend gone on and on about the guy they're seeing, only to dry up when you ask how they met.

"Oh, we met online." That's it, because that's all there is to say. "I know, I know, I'm totally not the type to meet people online, but he's so great!"

Don't lie to me, and don't lie to yourself. You may feel a little shame mixed in with that excitement you feel when you log in, but face it: You are the type to meet someone online. We all are. We're all tired of fucking around with love, all tired of waiting, even if the waiting is a byproduct of the romance.

I have to give some serious credit to people who are out there making it happen for themselves. Because you know what doesn't help you find the one? Sitting in your underpants reading the New Yorker on a Friday night. Trust me, as satisfying as Hendrik Hertzberg may be, his witty political banter isn't interested in being your big spoon.

A little less Yenta, a little more chalupa.

I TURNED THE CORNER onto Broadway, headed towards the closest grocers to grab a few things for dinner, and ran into my neighbor's son standing with his little cousin. He's about eleven-years-old and pudgy, and she was bundled up and had her nails polished. A couple months ago, Oscar escaped from my apartment by knocking aside a screen, and wound up walking through the kid's window from outside. Oscar eventually came back, but the kid didn't mind giving me a lecture when he saw me.

"You need to keep a better eye on that cat."

"I know," I said.

"He came right into my room," he said sternly, but then he brightened. "He's so nice though and he let me pet him. I gave him milk."

"It's a wonder he came back," I said.


SINCE THEN, THE KID brings up my cat whenever we see each other, and tonight was no different. Tonight, though, he ventured into new waters.

"Your cat? Is he a girl?" he asked, apparently hedging the issue.

"No," I said. "He's a boy."

"Shoot," he said.

"Why? Did you have a bet?"

"Not yet," he said and looked over at his cousin. They both looked up at me intently.

"Do you play guitar?" he asked.

"No, but I really want to learn," I said.

"You play piano?" she asked.

"Nope."

"Drums?" As I shook my head they grew increasingly incredulous. "Do you sing? Dance?"

"Only in my apartment when I'm alone," I said smiling, but they just looked up at me blankly.

"Shoot!" he said. "What do you do?"

Now it was my turn to look at them blankly. I couldn't very well tell two preteens that I spent what little free time I have drinking beer, talking on the phone, reading the New Yorker, and wandering aimlessly around Facebook.com. "I ... um... go to school." This seemed both an honest and a responsible answer. They seemed confused, but willing to take my word for it.

"You got a girlfriend?" his cousin asked shyly.

"Yeah, you got a girlfriend?" he asked. "A guy like you needs to have a girlfriend. How old are you?"

"25," I said.

"Yeah, you need a girlfriend. A guy your age needs to have a baby." He'd apparently forgotten that I can't even keep an animal to his exacting standards. You know, the standards by which you somehow manage not to lose your pet out a sixth story window.

They were in clear agreement on this baby point, however. His cousin had perked up, and looked at me like she finally understood the mystery standing before her. "My sister is 20 and she is almost done with school. She already has a baby, too!"

The kid's eyes lit up and he stepped forward, grabbing my arm and motioning for me to lean in close. I bent down. "I can hook you up with a girl," he said, and then let go of my arm. He nodded meaningfully with a very serious look on his face.

This goose is cooked.

WE'RE SMACK DAB in the middle of finals right now. Two down, three to go. I've been attacking Economics problem sets like a wounded creature in a last ditch effort for survival, but thanks to two friends in the library, I've powered through a lot longer than I thought I would.

The library is a mixed blessing. On one hand, you look around and see other people studying, which motivates you to keep going. On the other, even with headphones on and a nose to your practice exam, you're fair game for any random conversation your study partners desire.

Tonight's topic of choice: Top Hotties, proving that the nation's future business leaders think with their wangs and snizzes as much as they do with their dope Excel models and cheat sheets. Emails have been exchanged, lists made, conferences held.

The problem with making these definitive judgments during exam period is that people tend to develop Library Hot. That guy you wouldn't look twice at during the semester? You're suddenly thinking he might be doable in the dim, florescent lights of the library stairwells. That girl who hasn't changed her sweatpants in five days, and who you suspect may be sleeping in a pile of crumpled Accounting notes? You're suddenly certain she needs to get a life.

Avoiding the trap of Library Hot is the main reason we all need to take a study break every now and then. Step out of the library and onto the street and remember what normal people look like. People who shower. People who manage to pull a brush through their hair. People who don't look like they've been awakened in the night by a rushing mind thinking, "Assets equals liabilities plus owners equity."

Or maybe to see people who have more important things to worry about than whether they get that job at Goldman they don't really want, but God dammit, they've worked for it and they're going to get what they deserve.

Gui Boratto - "Beautiful Life"

It's okay, Nana. We all drop fruit sometimes.

How To: Dissuade Potential Suitors

TONIGHT THE SCHOOL HOSTED a bunch of prospective gay students who wanted to learn more about the school and gayness thereat.

I was tempted to stand up and say, "Our schoolwork is indiscriminate in its brutality, and everyone, gay and straight alike, is generally miserable. The only difference is that us gays aren't making up for it by finding hot future hedge fund managers at happy hour. Questions?" But I bit my tongue, and put on my best salesman face.

I spent most of the evening talking to a guy who was more interested in discussing his recent break-up than he was in learning about the school. Fine. If you want me to play psychologist, its an open bar and I'm not going anywhere.

"How do you think I can get him back? Should I make him feel really guilty?"

"Um... that may not be the best course of action," I said, feigning thoughtfulness. "I'd say play it cool. Act like you don't want him back and you're okay without him."

"But I do want him back," he said, his well-groomed brows furrowing.

"Right, but you need to even the power out a bit."

"So you don't think I should try to make him miserable?"

"No," I said firmly.

"But I want him back," he reiterated, seeming to suggest I hadn't understood earlier.

"Well, that's sort of his decision, right? Not yours. Maybe you should try dating someone else? Get out there a bit."

"I just joined a whole bunch of websites. Facebook, Connexion, Myspace, and then a bunch of sex ones."

"Well, that's... ah... a start."

"Are you on any?" he asked, looking at me over the top of his drink.

"Personally, I'm more of a Facebook and Friendster kind of guy."

"I like the sex ones."

"Well... heh... I mean, I'm like one cat and a hitch trailer away from being a lesbian," I said, using standby lesbian humor to make myself less uncomfortable. "I mean, that's just me. For you, uh... I'm sure it's really nice?"

"I like that there's no pretense about why you're there."

"That's... uh... true."

"So I'd like to take you out on a date sometime."

It's a wonder anyone dates. Ever.

Shout Out Louds - "Impossible"

WHEN I WAS A KID, the end of summer was always marked by the Saint Leo's Fair. Kids from all over town would come for one last hurrah before school started. The fact that doom was looming so close was highlighted by the fact that Saint Leo's was, through some cruel twist of fate, located on the same block as an elementary and a high school.

All us kids would go crazy trying to ride all the rides, desperate to hold on to the final days of freedom. The fair would last five days and nights, and we would go as many nights as possible; during the first days at school, we would one-up each other about how much time we'd spent at the fair, or how many times we'd ridden the rides that everyone agreed were the most likely to make you barf and were therefore the best.

Even when we got "too old" to ride the rides, going to Saint Leo's was still an end of summer ritual. It was a chance to see (or in my case, actively avoid) people you hadn't seen all summer, to try to sneak a beer from a priest, and to show off your tan to the pretty girls in your class (or something).

There was something manic about Saint Leo's, but it was tempered by the universal acceptance that summer was over. The video for the Shout Out Louds' latest single, "Impossible," off their album Our Ill Wills, uses the Saint Leo's effect wonderfully. The song is about that last night you spend in a relationship you know is ending, a night with someone you still love but can't be with anymore. You get that same frantic feeling, like you need to make it last, but because you can't, or won't, you don't do anything but lie there and hold them in silence.

Shout Out Louds - "Impossible"

"Let's not fall back to sleep like we used to, do you remember?
I don't want to wake up knowing I don't have a future."

Rilo Kiley - "Silver Lining"

A FEW MONTHS BACK, a guy I was sort of dating said he'd met someone else, that they'd slept together, and that we needed to stop seeing each other. I was taken aback by his confession, not because I thought my shit was too hot to give up, but because he didn't owe me that level of explanation. We weren't in a relationship, we'd just been on a few dates, yet now we were going through a whole breakup rigmarole. He could have just said he wasn't feeling it, that it wasn't there for him, and that would have been that.

Instead, I felt like he'd cheated. It was like paying the taxes on a big lotto win without the getting the payout. If I never liked this guy that much to begin with, why did I feel so shitty?

Jenny Lewis, in the latest single off Rilo Kiley's wonderful new album, Under the Blacklight, sings about cheats, and how the cheated can take back some of their lost dignity by calling things off. The song, "Silver Lining," is about a woman who leaves her lover after he sleeps around town, saying, "I was your silver lining, but now I'm gold."

The video is just okay (not as good as the long form docu-video for "The Moneymaker"), but the way Lewis' vocals float up into falsetto during the chorus and the shimmying electric guitar are glorious.

Rilo Kiley - "Silver Lining"

I didn't like you anyway, I was just looking for fun.

Senior skip day of shame

[C’s bedroom, 8:15 AM. Sunlight filters through venetian blinds, casting horizontal stripes of light across the floor. C is asleep in his bed. K stumbles into the room.]

K: Okay, two things.

C: [startled awake] Ugh... Good morning. [props himself up on his elbows]

K: First, I don't think I can go into work today - I made out with a coworker.

C: [bursts out laughing] I was wondering where you were last night! What did you do? Were you drunk?

K: I'm still drunk. I woke up this morning in my bed, nude, and found my clothes scattered all over the living room.

C: Wow, that's a hot make out.

K: Yeah. I don't know how I can face him today.

C: I bet. [He nods. They are silent, contemplating her situation.] So what's the second thing?

K: What?

C: You said there were two things.

K: Oh. Number two, your dildo is in the shower again.

My friends, ladies and gentleman! Initials have been changed to protect the guilty.

Shop Boyz - Party Like a Rock Star
"On a money makin mission/but I party like a rockstar"

How to catch a man... and VD!

LAST NIGHT T AND I went over to J and M's place for fajitas, and J regaled us with stories of her day in the PACU. She'd treated her very first tranny, a female-to-male, and T was curious what they did with the bits and pieces after the whole transformation is complete.

"I don't know!" said J, a little scandalized. "We didn't study that in nursing school."

"No, but, like, what do they do with the ovaries?"

"I don't know, T," said J, pouring Crystal hot sauce on her second fajita.

"But how about the fallopian tubes?" T asked.

There was a pause as J looked up at him.

"What do you think is in the fajitas?"


LATER, AFTER WE'D ALL had a few fajitas and a few glasses of wine, M told us that our friend D, unbeknownst to her, had posted a fake ad on Craigslist's Casual Encounters and had linked it to her email address. She dug up the ad and, because it was sufficiently raunchy, she said she'd received a shocking number of responses over the course of the next week, which is how long the postings stay up.

We obviously decided we had to post another one right away, just to see what we'd get back. Latching onto the most absurd persona we could think of in the moment, we wrote as Splinter, the rat that has taken up residence on J and M's patio. Behold.

Subject: Alley girl seeking kibbles and nibbles

I've been a very dirty girl. Two new roommates just moved in, need to get away. Looking for a nice, warm place to spend a few hours. I'm sick of scavenging the streets, I need to be fed something hot. Got any suggestions? Don't bring any pussy around, I'm a little afraid. You must host. Have cheese plate ready (it's a fetish). Tell me your wildest fantasy, and make me squeal.

After posting the ad, we still felt like we had a little juice (read: wine) left in us, and wrote a second ad, curious to see which one would receive more responses. Our creative mojo was running a little lower this time around though, so M, T and I decided to post the second one as J, who was in the kitchen doing dishes. This meant, of course, that M was being represented in the Great Casual Encounter Competition of 2007 as a slutty, cheese-hungry alley rat, but she took in stride. Here's the second posting.

Subject: Naughty nurse seeks dirty doctor

I've had a long day a long day with ungrateful patients and I'm looking for a man who will appreciate my services. Hours of spongebaths and changing bedsheets has made me feverish. Looking for someone to take my temp, orally or anally, and who can be my prescription for a night of ecstasy. I want a thorough, penetrating examination to get my vital signs rising. Tell me where you got your medical degree and where you'll put it.

In no time, the responses started rolling in. I won't post them all here (nor will I post the genitalia pictures or the really graphic descriptions), but here's a smattering of my favorites.

To Splinter:

24 year old male that is looking for a women to hang out with, I will have all the cheese that you can think of

Did you hear that people? All the cheese you can think of! I thought I was in love until this arrived for Naughty Nurse:

Subject: I am a clean doctor actually...

but willing to get dirty if that is what it takes. My diploma says Harvard on it. And where will I put it? Well....I'm planning on keeping it on the wall where it is. As for where I might put some other things.....hmmmm...how about a tongue where the sun don't shine. Does that interest you?

I mean, he's a doctor. From Harvard. Swoon, right?

I thought so too, until Pierre showed up in the blue shorts, looking for some ratty lovin':

Friends, let's pull up here for a moment. In one night, after posting fake ads as a rat and a cartoon of a nurse, we were propositioned by a hot beach god and a Harvard-educated doctor. What kind of world is this? Why do people even go out at night? When you're out, your chances of meeting someone of that caliber are slim at best. Most nights, its a matter of looking at the guy, looking at the empty glass in your hand, and saying to yourself, "Well, if I have one more drink, maybe I'd lose my better judgment."

And if you're already saying that, you already have.

Catherine Tate - Not Drunk Enough

"I'm just not drunk. Enough."

Gay body less good than actual body

A FEW WEEKENDS AGO I spend the night with a very cute guy (pride!) who, upon removing some not-to-be-disclosed number of my garments, told me that I had a "nice body."

"Thanks!" I said, surprised as usual to be complimented, as my body dymorphia generally leads me to believe that, if knocked over by a mild breeze, I would shatter into a thousand pick-up sticks.

"Yeah," he said. "You have, like, a nice gay body."

"Well, I made it myself. Lets make out more!" Note the self-deprecation and the change of subject. I wasn't sure how to feel about having a "Gay Body," but I decided to go with "Pleased." After all, it wasn’t like he said, "You have a nice 'starved greyhound' body."

I hung out with him a week later, this time at a beach.

"The guys here are in pretty good shape," I said at a pause in our conversation.

He looked down the beach. "Yeah, but they all have gay body."

My ears pricked up. "Gay body?"

"You know, like, they look strong, but their muscles are all for show."

I could have humped him right there.

SNL – Body Fusion

"Or Penthilths!"

I love it when you get handsy with me

TYPICAL BEDROOM TALK FALLS into one of three categories.

1) The Moan, The Groan: Your standard fall back options. Includes your "ooo"s and "oooh"s with an occasional "oh yeah" for good measure.

2) The Declarative Demand: A bit more advanced than The Moan, The Groan, these are suggestions to your partner to keep doing whatever they're doing, but in a slightly modified manner. Includes your "faster"s and "harder"s.

3) The Informative Outburst: More advanced still, these are ways of informing your partner either of what you are doing, or what you'd like to be doing. At its most basic, includes your "I'm going to [blank] your [blank] right now" and your "Oh man, I'm [blank]ing your [blank]."

With each step up the ladder, you are taking a bigger risk, with the potential for greater rewards. The flip side, however, is that your greater risk means a greater chance of utter failure. Take, for instance, this story my friend R told me recently.

"So, my friend and this guy are going at it. I mean, really going at it. They're getting sweaty and all hot," she says.

"Nice," I say.

"Yeah, nice," she says. "The thing is, he's talks in bed, which she's not that into."

I shake my head. "It's a shame."

"It's just that he has a tendency to say the wrong thing. Like, they're both getting pretty close when he looks her in the eye and says, straight faced, 'I'm gonna buy you a red dress! I'm gonna buy you a nice steak!'"

"What'd she say? 'Ooo baby, I like it raw?"

Daft Hands - "Faster, Harder, Better, Stronger"

Work it harder make it better.

In which I discuss this afternoon's activities

FROM THE BEGINNING of any relationship, toothbrush etiquette is important. When is it okay to start bringing your toothbrush? When is it okay to leave it there? When does it become your responsibility to replace the other person’s toothbrush at your place? And most recently, what am I supposed to do with the ex/boyfriend's toothbrush now that he’s moved to New York? In a compromise I considered appropriate for our current "understanding," the toothbrush had recently started shuttling out and in of the medicine cabinet: out of the cabinet before he arrived for one of his many weekend visits, and back in when he left and we were supposedly not together.

The ex/boyfriend and I progressed quickly from the “Hello, nice to meet you” stage to the “I am providing you a toothbrush” stage, in large part because I think it’s only charitable and the mark of a good host to provide even a quasi-significant other with their own toothbrush. And if we’re being honest, (A) I have no interest in kissing your morning mouth, thank you, and (B) under no circumstances are you using my toothbrush. My tongue may slut around with every mouth in town, but my toothbrush will know one mouth and one mouth only.

From there, it was a hop skip and about 8 weeks to, “I am replacing this for you, and for that matter, here’s a replacement for your other one at home because that one is a big ol’ mess too.”

Then, earlier this week, in a moment I was sure was rife with symbolic meaning, I used the ex/boyfriend’s toothbrush to clean the mysteriously orange-colored stuff around my bathroom sink faucet that had suddenly crossed the border between “chill out, no one notices this shit but you” and “mother of god, this must go immediately.” While cleaning, I daydreamed. In one of those reveries in which you try on a scenario to see how it might fit were it to come to pass, I imagined the conversation that might ensue when the ex/boyfriend returned to find his toothbrush had become a cleaning utensil.

“Babe? Where’s my toothbrush?”

“Oh, I used to it to clean the sink,” I would say from the other room, the very embodiment of poise and calm. In fact, I imagined myself sitting on a bed covered in a white comforter, surrounded by plump white pillows. This bed bears no resemblance to my actual bed, mind you.

“You did?” he would ask, coming out of the bathroom, eyes big moons of confusion and the beginnings of hurt.

“Well, we’re not really boyfriends any more, are we? So I felt funny having your toothbrush here.”

And then we would have that discussion we’ve been avoiding, the one about what exactly we’re doing and whether our "understanding" is working for each of us. Maybe we would cry. And maybe I would feel badly for so heartlessly using his toothbrush as a grime removal device, and I would dash out to the 24/7 CVS around the corner and buy him a new one. In the rain. And then we would make out. After he brushed his teeth.


TWO DAYS AGO, I learned that the ex/boyfriend is coming down this coming weekend, and suddenly my using his toothbrush to neaten up and thereby spark a conversation I'm not prepared to have at this juncture became the Wrong Thing to Do. Standing in the bathroom, holding his now gray (and, again, strangely orange-colored) toothbrush, I immediately decided I had to buy him another toothbrush. While I’m at it, I thought, glancing at my own toothbrush, mine could stand to be replaced as well.

When I got to the CVS, I headed directly to the toothbrush section. Or as directly as anyone heads anywhere in CVS. I think it’s actually impossible to find what you’re looking for with any sort of alacrity, as there seems to be neither rhyme nor reason to drug store product placement. Regardless, I eventually found the toothbrushes, and it hit me: there are far too many toothbrush options.

Do I want a compact, regular, or full head? Do I want soft, medium, or firm bristles? Do I want a narrow handle that curves, or a bulbous monstrosity that couldn’t fit through my door, much less the holes in my toothbrush holder? Do I want it in normal red, deep red, bright red, or some shade in between? Do I want to do all the work myself, or do I want Dora the Explorer to do the work for me? Do I want my bristles to be of uniform material, length and direction, or do I want them to be a jumbled mess designed to hit every nook and cranny from every angle, massage my gums, and straighten my bottom teeth?

The problem with having this many choices for something like a toothbrush is that, through trial and error, you eventually figure out the exact type you prefer. The truth is that I’ve developed quite an attachment to a toothbrush that I think acknowledges the advancement in toothbrush technology, while still nodding at classic toothbrush design: the bristles are arranged in a ridged pattern, with a clump of longer bristles at the top to really get at those back teeth, and a patch of those blue bristles that let you know when it’s time to trade it in for a newer model. For a good two years, I’ve been able to find this toothbrush without fail, in my preferred blue no less, which I have considered a testament to my good taste.

(I've even been able to find it in red -- just plain red -- for the ex/boyfriend. Who, it bears mentioning, has the exact same toothbrush preferences as I do.)

That is, I was able to find that toothbrush without fail until today. Today I visited no less than three drugs stores in a fruitless attempt to find my preferred toothbrush, and ultimately wound up settling on these totally bland CVS brand disappointments in his and his navy and light blue.

All of which is to say, I’m stocking up on toothpaste.

It's Complicated

MY EX/BOYFRIEND recently moved to New York City, and, as I mentioned a couple of posts earlier, I live in Washington, DC. When he left, after much hemming and hawing, we decided to leave things on a “when we’re together, we’re together, when we’re not, we’re not” basis. It’s a situation where the rules are fairly clear but the emotions are anything but.

Our relationship is teetering on that borderline between uncertain and all fucked up, but we’re continuing along as if nothing has changed, which only makes things more bizarro. We talk every day about the nothing that only people in a relationship can talk about, and yet are apparently allowed to sleep with other people. I’ve seen him four of the past six weekends, and will see him for three of the next three, and yet we are allowed at some mysterious point on these weekends to go on dates with other people. I convince myself that he’s dead in a gutter when I haven’t heard from him and send him panicked text messages (“How’s yr day? I’m good. R U ALIVE?”), and yet we are supposed to be okay with not saying goodnight every night.

We haven’t broached the subject of what is going on, in large part because (A) he lives his life in a state of “what, me worry?” and (B) because I’m from Connecticut, where no topic is too large to swallow with a nice glass of whatever you have handy. I’m mulling our situation over at all times without raising the issue or drawing any sort of meaningful conclusion and he is, to put it plainly, not.

But that’s one of my favorite things about him. His tendency to over-think almost nothing is a good balance for my tendency to over-think, say, what to eat the night before my GMAT (salmon) or how many different cheeses I can keep in my fridge to maximize variety while minimizing spoiling (five, if you don’t count shredded or sliced cheese and you don’t get anything fancy that goes downhill fast).

I suppose the situation, as half-baked and unsatisfying as it may feel, is working. I have a lot of “hamster on a wheel” thinking to do, and I’m sure he’s just glad I’m not weirding the fuck out.

Or at least, no more so than usual.

But it's a small miracle if you remember in the morning

WHY IS IT that when you are taking someone home from a bar, conversation gets awkward as soon as you walk out onto the street? You could have been chatting the person up for hours, playing the game, saying the cute things you say, testing the waters, stepping in and stepping back, and then the moment the two of you step out onto the sidewalk, this happens:

"So... my place is this way."
"Okay."
Silence. Walking.
"So... what's your last name?"

Which, of course, is probably something you should have known already.