When I'm about to go crazy 'cause I'm still living here I just get my friends together and we dance dance dance. The best Mad Libs ever, courtesy of my, Zap and Netsirk. This is what happens to our brains while we pack.

"Science Lab"
Once a week, we have a science laboratory class, and we get to do nutty experiments with hoops and Republicans. Our teacher, Ms. Frida, shows us how to dissect lollipops. First, we take out the internal cans and emery boards and draw pictures of them in our notebooks. We have to work saucily or else we'll make a mess. We also learn to use chemicals to make squeamish things like inexpensive household Attila the Hun and deodorizers that make a Caligula smell like a hairspray. Last week, we had a velcro-y accident in the lab. Nicole Kidman mixed some chloroform with enchilada and added some bile and the mixture exploded and blew two tiles through the roof. So now our teacher makes us wear safety pantaloons during science class.

I'm a lucky man with fire in my hands. As of two hours ago, I have officially accomplished everything I wanted to accomplish academically in college. It took me four years to do it, and I did. I have never been so proud of myself, and it has put everything in perspective. The future is always uncertain, and if I have to wait four or more years to get to the next step, then so be it. I am ready.

So now you come back. The seventh grader inside of me is way too fucking excited about this:

Star Wars Horoscope for Sagittarius

You are superbly wise and have been known to spread your wisdom widely. You are impatient and pushy when people take your teachings too lightly. And your philosophical side always peeks through. Star wars character you are most like: Yoda

What is Your Star Wars Horoscope?

Where would I be without my friends. It seems I make an impression:

the dazzling wellesley redhead - w4w - 21

you and i were getting tea at the same time in the kosher/veggie dining place. i lingered, hoping you'd want to talk. you did, but i was so caught up listening to your voice i didn't hear what you were saying.

you--tall, curvy, caffeinated
me--wearing that blue jacket and smiling back at you

email me so we can talk about you having my babies.

this is in or around the bubble

You give me something. Here's some food for thought, courtesy of the imitable Dan Savage:

Researchers have been hard at work on two vaccines for HPV, vaccines that could save thousands of women's lives. In clinical trials, the vaccines have prevented 90 percent of new HPV infections. Good news, huh? Not for the religious right. Bridget Maher of the Family Research Council told New Scientist magazine that "giving the HPV vaccine to young women could be potentially harmful, because they may see it as a license to engage in premarital sex."

While the religious right's war on gay people gets all the headlines, their war on straight rights gains ground daily. They've destroyed sex education in this country, undermined abortion rights, and successfully prevented emergency contraception from being made available over the counter. Now they're going to block the HPV vaccine. Why? Because the American Taliban would rather see sexually active women dead than vaccinated.

Hello, straight people? If you don't want to live in a world where you need a license from the likes of Bridget Maher to have sex, premarital or otherwise, you had better start speaking up. Most of you seem content to merely rubberneck while gay people have the shit kicked out of us, and while that's maddening, I suppose it's understandable. It's not your fight. But what explains your passivity when your own rights are being attacked?

What the crap is up with the Religious right? What the fuck is wrong with people who'd rather have women die than be protected? This is religion? This is magnanimity? Fuck no. This is cruel, plain and simple.

How many times must you be told. While I was running earlier, I was listening to the first CD I ever bought: the Foxfire soundtrack. I doubt you remember the film, but it was a 1990s grrrrl power film based on a Joyce Carol Oats book which featured a pre-Gia Angelina Jolie and that chick from that horrible NBC sitcom, "Boston Common." One of the songs on the soundtrack is by L7 about Shirley Muldowny, the first woman drag racer. Awesome. Best line in the song:

-"What's a beautiful girl like you doing racing in a place like this?"
-"Winning."

Snap! That was so awesome. Plus there's a great Luscious Jackson song on it which is particularly appropriate, all things considered.

Alternately, if that soundtrack was what I was listening to while I was just barely adolescent...holy crap! It's so depressing. Some of the songs are about how everyone is unhappy, life sucks, men suck, and people do drugs to fill the hole in their lives. Dear Lord, it continues to be mystery to me how I ever made it out of high school without a serious eating disorder. Also, how did I survive adolescence without Sleater-Kinney?

I remember you were incredible. I have really strange conversations with people when I'm tired. Or during finals. Or just in general.

Erin: I was in StoneD the other day, and they had a French fry bar, and they had those smiley face potatoes we usually have at Midnight Breakfast. I was horrified!
E: What?! That's sacraligious. That's like eating the Host on a Wednesday!

BonBon: Well I think you are very loveable
E: I think I will like put that on my business cards. "Very lovable" -BonBon. Like the reviews on the back of books.

Dani B: I'm going to wing it
E: You go girl. You're smarter than most people's left pinkie. I doubt you'll have a problem
DB: aww thanks
E: It's kind of a strange compliment. I'm not even sure I know what I meant
DB: haha, well, I send it right back at ya. We're a couple of smart, sexy bitches!
E: Can I get a hell yeah!

Veggie: You are so hot
E: I know!
Veggie: You know it; I know it
E: Why doesn't THE WORLD know it?

Some things will never change. Loo is forever making my day:

L(V): I love you, E. You and your tiger fist thumping antics.

Rock.

Work, and work. One of my favorite first years sent this to me, and it was so cute I knew I had to share it.

Finals are like boys:
1. they're hard to understand
2. you might get the urge to cheat on them
3. some are harder than others
4. they put pressure on you to perform well
5. they were created to make our lives hell
6. you can work for hours and still get no satisfaction
7. some take longer to finish than others
8. you always have 3 or 4 at a time
9. some aren't as big as you had expected
10. they're much easier to do when you're drunk because you just don't care

Goodbye to everything that I knew. It's weird how many things are ending with our class. We will be the last class to experience Foodfest, the Hoop, Molly's Pub, Schneider, decentralized mail, bells, Dyke Ball and Tower Court...how strange. I know you're supposed to leave a place better than when you found it, but maybe it isn't up to us. Maybe it's just time to graduate.

Embrace-moi lentement. As I previously mentioned, I'm writing my art history paper about the Hôtel de Beauharnais, which was owned by the Empress Josephine's son, Eugene. I was doing a little bit of background research on Eugene last night just so I could get a fuller picture of him, and OH MY GOD I am in love with this man. I mean, I already thought he was gorgeous (our entire class swooned when his slide came up on the screen on the first day of class), but it seems he was also the most gentlemanly man in the history of men. Plus, had a "resounding, baratone" voice. Add to that the aforementioned hôtel in Faubourg Saint-Germaine, several palaces in Italy where he served as Viceroy, and membership in the Legion d'Honneur, and oh my goodness, did I mention the swooning?

Don't believe me? Fine.




And on to my...I mean, the hôtel, which is now the German embassy.

Notice the famous Egyptian portico.

Le Salon des quatres saisons

La Chambre de la reine Hortense (Don't get me started on the horribly misplaced chairs!)

Why did all the good men die before 1824? Why?! WHY?!?!?!?!

I'm so tired. Oh holy crap, I am so motherfucking tired. Last night was Paint it Green! night. For those of you who haven't been following the saga, every year the graduating class decorates the entire campus in their class color. What started as a prank has blossomed into a tradition, and I was in charge of it. That's right. Me and my co-chair spent $2,005 dollars and countless hours of prep time to dec the campus in green.

How was it?

I went to bed at 6:45 this morning. I walked around this campus so many times that my feet are swollen, and my fingers are still dyed vaguely green. I am at that point of tiredness when I am no longer in control of my emotions (always a fun condition) and I might just burst into tears. Why? Because it's over! I've been planning this thing all damn semester, and it's over. Classes are over, college is almost over, I have a 30 page art history paper due in four days, and I am exhausted. So, dear friends, I am going to bed. I'll poster pictures tomorrow if I can move my hands.

If anyone finds my egg, please let me know!

Can I graduate? Between me and my shiny new diploma:

-Arthurian Legends paper on the manipulation of the Pelleas and Ettard story through the 13th c. French Vulgate to Malory to Tennyson (Don't I sound all intelligent).
Due May 9
-Paint it Green! all fucking night May 10
-French paper on the role of the king in Racine's theater. Due May 11
-30 page (!!!) Art History paper on the renovation of the Hôtel de Beauharnais. Due May 16
-French final exam. May 19
-Arthurian Legends final exam. Whenever the heck I get around to it

Yes! I can totally fucking do this! Eye of the motherfucking tiger! *pumps fist in air*

Another head aches, another heart breaks. Most of the time the Lippy Imp annoys the crap out of me with his whining and rambling. But his words this time feel rather poignant:

"When my girlfriend’s cell phone rang at around 11:00 p.m., I answered it. Normally, with her asleep, I would have let it go to voice mail, but I knew who it was and why he was calling.

'Eight pounds, seven ounces,' announced the proud but weary voice on the other end. It was my girlfriend’s ex-husband, Tony. His girlfriend had just given birth to their first child, his second. I congratulated him, asked about the baby and her mother, congratulated him again, and let him get on with making the rest of his phone calls. Tony and I get along well enough, and he and my girlfriend have an amicable relationship, or at least as amicable as can be between two people who regularly refer to each other as 'Bitch' and 'Cockbag.'

I walked back into the bedroom where my girlfriend, now awake, lay staring at the wall. I gave her the baby’s stats as I scooted under the covers, but she said nothing. I knew that she was exhausted after a long day at work, so the mere fact that her eyes were still open told me something was wrong. After a couple of minutes of silence, I finally asked, 'What’s wrong?' She paused before saying flatly, 'It should have been us.'

This statement needed no explanation. She and I have often bemoaned the fact that we can’t have children of our own. Not that we need them. She has a daughter courtesy of Tony, and I have three children, the product of my own failed marriage. It’s not so much that we want more children; we just want something that is our own. The problem is twofold: One, five kids are too many, and two, my vasectomy makes conceiving a child impossible. Even if we could have children biologically, I have a staggering amount of debt I inherited through my divorce, no college degree, and no practical job skills. I have nothing to offer her accept the kindness of my heart which, last I checked, is one of the few things that doesn’t qualify one for a bank loan. On paper, I’m a bad risk. At times this supersedes any of the intangibles I bring to the table, like my sense of humor or golden retriever–like devotion and affection. In the darkest part inside her, she resents me for all of my various anchors, and she hates herself for feeling that way. As a result, we’re the couple with matching hair shirts.

A few minutes after the phone call, her body conceded to slumber, while I lay awake, miserable. I had only a few hours before I needed to go to the first of my two jobs, so I desperately needed to get to sleep fast. But my mind was spinning, churning out the kind of masochistic thoughts that would leave me wide-eyed until the alarm clock went off. There was only one thing to do.

In the face of insomnia, it has long been my habit to masturbate. One of the advantages of being male is the inherent ability to separate sexual activity from emotional liability, so jacking off doesn’t require being “in the mood.” All I have to do is cue up my mental porno tape, throw in a palm full of lube, and I’m on my way.

Not wanting to wake my girlfriend, I excused myself to the living room sofa where I proceeded to coerce my penis into an erection. The movie in my head began, and I fast-forwarded to a scene that suited me. Once there, I began to masturbate in earnest, with an air of practicality. After all, I was doing this because I was unable to sleep, not because I was aroused or frustrated. Even as I fantasized about my girlfriend in the role of the insatiable cheerleader/prison escapee, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was, to her, a disappointment, that I was holding her back from her dreams. Maybe with some other guy she could have financial stability, another child of their own making, and a lack of feeling shackled to a past that was beyond her control. I thought about leaving, putting my belongings into storage and consuming the generosity of friends who’d tolerate my sleeping and masturbating on their couches for a few days. I thought that maybe just being a good and decent person wasn’t enough to hang dreams on, that I needed a sparkling portfolio of opportunity and potential as well. Then again, wasn’t love enough? She and I were in this position because we honestly feel that we were made for each other, but met 10 years too late to take full advantage of it. We’re crazy about each other, so what sense did it make to throw away the kind of love documented in fairy tales and made-for-TV movies? Were we really on the verge of breaking up, or were we more likely grief stricken, mourning the loss of the 10 years we spent trying to realize our dreams with the wrong people?

These were my thoughts as I reached orgasm, semen pooling on my stomach. Almost immediately, my body began to relax, my eyelids growing heavier by the second. As I reached for a towel, I considered the puddle of come on my belly. Once potent and vital, it now lay lifeless and insignificant, the consequence of bad choices. No longer containing the power to create life, it was now nothing more than a mess. Maybe this was exactly what regret looked like."

We don't have crystal balls or time machines that will tell us the future. We don't have mirrors into the souls of our partner so that we know exactly what to do to make whatever hurricane is churning subside. When we love, we want it to last, and we can't imagine ever feeling any differently about that person.

I don't know how to love and protect myself at the same time. I don't know how to leave and not hurt afterwards. All I can do is continue to believe in myself, believe in my own beautiful humanity--my capacity to love, to feel, to care, to cherish. I never want to shut myself off from that part of myself which loves or hurts because it's real, raw...and, most importantly, it's mine.