I’m sure there’s some deep, psychologically scarring reason for this, but I completely bro out whenever I talk to Straight Guys. And I’m not talking straight guys. I’m talking “Loves Golf, Will Date A Blonde But Marry A Brunette, Lunches At The Club and Knows What A 401(k) Is” capital Straight Guys.
Side bar: I had to look up how to write 401(k). Apparently it is not 401K. Who knew?
Case in point, whenever I see the Straight Guys on my floor, I immediately bark, “Sup, bro?” and my internal monologue is just, What am I doing? Why am I fist-bumping him right now? What’s happening? And it just spirals from there.
Last night, I went out to the local university’s bar because I thought there was going to be a cute boy there but there wasn’t, and instead it was just me and people and Jenny and Jenny’s new friend who is the cooler, gayer version of me, right now to the fact that we wear the same model and brand of glasses. Anyway, we were all dancing and 2.0—the Cooler Gay Guy—was doing that dance where it’s like a sexy librarian, all smooth hips but classy and restrained.
And I tried to copy him a little because I actually can’t dance, so I just imitate whoever I’m dancing near, but my moves are generally so malformed that the two dances don’t even resemble each other.
The Sexy Librarian isn’t working so I switch to an Ole Faithful.
“Watch me do the Sad Stripper!” I scream at Jenny and 2.0, and begin to dance provocatively, all while screwing my face into a baby bawl. As my face violently sobs, my booty drops it low and picks it back up again. And again. And again.
Keeping my legs in a triangle, an Eiffel Tower if you will—
Side bar: Not the sex act.
—I bend into an acute angle, my face roughly level with my ankles, and all of a sudden I slip in a puddle of beer and my right foot rockets away from the rest of my body. My legs go so far apart that they’re not even separated, they’re divorced, and I topple forwards, landing hard on the ground.
“Was that part of the dance?” Jenny asks.
“Um, no, that wasn’t,” I confirm.
My toe rapidly swelling inside my Vans, I decide that this night has been long enough and I decide to trek back home.
As I reflect over the night, while limping slightly and powerwalking to Kanye West’s “POWER,” I think that I maybe should’ve been nicer to 2.0. I wasn’t outright rude, I was just a little frosty, and asserted my dominance like a dog peeing on a lawn. In this case, Jenny is the lawn, and I am peeing on her. I’m sticking with this metaphor.
He’s just a little too similar to me, but in the worst ways. Like, I bet he never falls down the stairs while Tweeting. Or has back sweat that could solve California’s drought. Or pulls clothes out of the hamper and gives them a whore’s bath—spritz them with cologne—and wear them out to Da Club. It’s like what I imagine having an older brother to be like. I only have sisters, and I’m the favorite out of the three of us.
I’m sure that if I actually knew him, I would like him, but I’m immature and he’s a poopyface so I think I’ll pass. Also I look better in the glasses. I’m kidding. Actually I’m not sure.
I really don’t know how to interact with other people in social settings. It’s weird, because sometimes I completely nail it like a carpenter or a nail technician and everyone loves me and other times it’s like the Hindenburg had a social media account and no social cues.
See, that was offensive. To blimps. I’m not winning anything today.
P.S. I’ve been reading a lot of “fashion” blogs recently and they’re very ~professional~ and don’t curse nearly as much as I do and that’s very ~unprofessional~ of me so can I do anything right? Or will I be forever destined to be the Sad Stripper at dances?