My Disgusting Bad Habit

Alright, I’m going to be dead honest with ya’ll. And when I say you all, I’m obviously talking about all two of ya’ll. Ya’ll are not going to look at me the same way after reading this… so brace yourselves.

I have a disgusting bad habit. If you know me, you’d most likely already know that I’m an absurdly disgusting human being who showers on occasion, and likes to pick his nose and NOT eat the boogers, but instead wrestle with it on my thumb–let’s be real for a split second or two: why are boogers so damn hard to get off of your fingers? Especially when you pick your nose in public, you want to be as secretive as possible. If you’re shaking your thumb, trying to get a booger off, people will know what you’re up to! My tactic is to do one quick flick. One quick flick and pew! the booger shoots right off my fingertip, and into some poor guy’s latter. Sometimes it’s not that easy. Sometimes I’ll pull the stickiest of boogers from my nose, and when I attempt to flick it, the booger just transfers onto a different finger instead. And I’ll try to flick it again. Transfer! Suddenly I’m caught in a vicious circle of booger-flick/finger-transferring, and I just want it to end! After a while I have to resort to scraping it against a wall. You gotta play dirty to win sometimes. The worst alternate ending is when you lose it, because then you’re praying to Jesus Christ that the booger didn’t somehow find its way to your forehead.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Ew Adrian, you’re right, picking your nose is a disgusting bad habit. Well I hate to break it to you, but picking my nose was not the bad habit I wanted to tell ya’ll about in the first place. That was just a little tangent. 

The bad habit I wanted to share with you is this (and I feel like I should first tell you in in the format of an AA meeting): My name is Adrian, and I am a hand huffer. That’s right. I’m a hand huffer. I huff my hands. If you don’t know what a “hand huffer” is, it is something that I made up. I mean, I assume the action of hand huffing has been around for centuries, but the title is what I made up. 

So here’s where I get brutally honest with you all and tell you about the utterly disgusting thing that I do:


I, on occasion, wipe my mouth, and sniff my hand.


There, I said it. It’s addicting. It’s gross, but there’s just something about it that makes me want to do it over and over again. Some people smoke cigarettes. I sniff my hand. 

I know, I know, it could be so much worse, and trust me. I know a lot of guys that do way more disgusting things than that. 

I used to have these friends that I used to play video games with. They’re brothers and they are extremely competitive. Like if you’re ever beating either of them in a video game, they react in a way that resembles how someone would react to watching their family get burned alive. Anyway, each of them do this really disgusting thing where they put one of their hands inside their shorts, pulls it out, and then inhales their fingers. Gross right? They sniff their balls. And they do it RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU. Like I’d be talking to them during the game and I’m watching this dude pillaging his own village, with his thumb and index finger, and then practically shoves those two fingers up his nose. 

I’d much rather be a hand huffer than a ball sniffer any day.


“White People with Coupons”

“If we replaced the vegemite with canned sardines, we might be able to save enough money for those rain guards. Oh dear!”

She spotted a folded piece of paper, just before crossing the threshold of the grocery store. Old Lady hustled toward the piece of paper, picked it up, and then quickly dropped it. 

“I thought I saw a coupon for a dollar off microwavable chicken rolls,” she said to Old Man, “We could’ve really used that for when the Bargo family come over with their alien babies.”

Old Lady and Old Man walked into the store as if they had just entered a hidden temple and were not very impressed by the sight of golden urns and glass swan heads.

“Okay, let’s see here. We need noodles for the Teriyaki Pesto stew. Excuse me, stoner boy.” She looked at the first cashier she saw, “Where’s your cultural cuisines and ethnic foods section?”

“Uhhhh,” Stoner Boy looked at the isles behind him. “It’s in isle… somewhere…” He kept scanning the isles for at least a brief glance of a beans label while Old Lady hung on his every syllable. “It’s like in this general area,” he said, as he motioned his hand toward the aisles.

Old Lady motioned her hand in the same way. “Okay, in this general area?”

“Yes Ma’am”

“Okay, perfect. Thank you!”

Old Lady and Old Man then hurried their way past Stoner Boy’s register towards the isles. 

• • •

Now Stoner Boy wasn’t necessarily a boy. He was 36 years old. He was also working as a clerk in a grocery store. I think we would all kill ourselves if we woke up to find out we have become Stoner Boy. Now Stoner Boy wasn’t necessarily a stoner either. He dropped acid, ate shroomz, and shot up heroin ever now and again, but Stoner Boy sure as hell stayed away from the weed plant stuff. “Pot can ruin your life,” he’d say. 

Stoner Boy has a Siberian Husky back at his house. Well, it’s not really his Husky Dog per-say, rather it’s an animal that was living there before Stoner Boy moved in. Regardless the presence of a possessive word or not, Stoner Boy and Husky Dog are roommates. They get along just fine I guess, in case you were wondering. I mean, they don’t talk much, which makes Stoner Boy a little preoccupied about their level of friendship. Like Stoner Boy would be making some mac & cheese for breakfast and he’d ask Husky Dog if he’d like some, but Husky Dog would turn him down every time. This happens more than once. This makes Stoner Boy feel like Husky Dog doesn’t like him, or like he’s mad at him for some stupid reason. Since day one, Husky Dog has always been against the whole smoking crack thing, and Stoner Boy always knew that. “I’m just more of a pot person. It’s in my blood,” Husky Dog always says to Stoner Boy every time Stoner Boy offers him a sip of his LSD limeade. 

But if there is one thing Stoner Boy and Husky Boy are good at doing is Killin’ & Stillin’. It’s a beautiful cadence they perform, when they kill & still. Husky Dog does all the Killin’, while Stoner Boy does all the Stillin’. These two creatures are responsible for the Killin’ & Stillin’s of over 60, maybe even somewhere in the 80s of people. Wow, that sure is a lot of people, man. 

You have to see this happen because it’s crazy. Husky Dog one time jumped, teeth first, onto this lady so hard, it made her organs explode and blood and guts went all over the place. This other time, Husky Dog opened his mouth so big, as big at a trash can, and jumped off the ledge of an ice cream truck, and put a full grown man’s whole head inside of his mouth. But Husky Dog started choking and Stonery Boy had to save him by jumping onto Husky Dog’s stomach. It was like pretty crazy. But Husky Dog wasn’t giving up the man’s head, so Stoner Boy had to do a little dance on Husky Dog’s stomach. He started off by doing the famous Michael Jackson “Moonwalk,” but that didn’t work. Stoner Boy wanted to do the “Running Man,” but that didn’t work because Stoner Boy didn’t really know how to do it, and he didn’t want to do it because he didn’t want anybody to laugh at him. Stoner Boy kind of knew how to do the “Carlton” dance but not really, but he was able to do it enough to feel sort of confident enough. The second Stoner Boy started to do the “Carlton” dance, after the first time he snapped his fingers on that one part, the man’s head came shooting straight out of Husky Dog’s throat. The head went up so high that you couldn’t even see it anymore, and it even disappeared into the sky, like a rocket ship or some other thing that goes up high and disappears the higher it goes.  

• • •

“How did she know my real name?” Stoner Boy said aloud, hoping someone would’ve heard him and then asked him about it, thus starting a conversation with him and perhaps leading to his very first friendship with a real human that also talks. 

But no one heard him.

“I mean, like how?”

No one heard him again. 


“Shut the fuck up” someone yelled from a distance.

The automatic doors slid all the way open, and guess who’s happy ass come waltzing into the grocery store, acting like he owns the joint? HUSKY DOG. Husky dog walked up to Stoner Boy and told him that he came over to visit him because he was “bored booty.” Stoner Boy was like, “Oh, aight. I wanna Kill & Still that old couple right over there,” and he pointed at the frozen bananas section. Husky Dog was like, “Aight, dawg,” but he didn’t say it aloud that time but Stoner Boy knew that’s what he’d say if Husky Dog felt like saying something out loud that time. 

The Killer & Stillers got into position. You had Stoner Boy on the roof and Husky Dog hiding under the sewer cap. These Kill & Stillers were ready to go. It’s been about 4 days since the man’s head incident and the Kill & Stillers wanted to make up for their blunder. 

Old Lady & Old Man walk out of the grocery store dragging along a rope that was tied to a shopping cart STACKED with boxes of soy sauce, which was also tied to another shopping cart that was STACKED with boxes of teriyaki sauce.

“I’m so happy we decided to make one of those Chinese pools instead,” said Old Lady.

Then, out of nowhere, Husky Dawg bursts out of the sewer, leaving a crater in the ground. Then he looked at the camera and said, “I’ll pay for that,” and everyone laughed after he said that. 

Old Man was so scared by the calm look on Husky Dawg’s face that Old Man jumped down into the crater. It was actually kind of funny because he yelled out “GERONIMO!” as he jumped. Old Lady screamed really loud at Old Man, telling him to watch his head.

All that was left was Old Lady. Stoner Boy jumped down from the roof of the ice cream truck and said “Geronimo!” too, but as a joke because he thought about how funny it was when Old Man did it. Stoner Boy landed at the edge of the crater and almost fell in, but he didn’t. Whew. Good thing he didn’t. We wouldn’t know what happens next if he did. 

Stoner Boy then said to Old Lady, “Well, well, well. Where do you think you’re going with all of that soy sauce, huh?”

“I’m going to make a nice little Chinese pool so I can relax in it and forget about life,” Old Lady replied. 

“Not today!” Then Stoner Boy ran over to the shopping carts, pushing the back one into the front one across the parking lot. Old Lady chased after Stoner Boy, screaming “No! I need my Chinese pool!” Old lady was able to grab onto the bottom of Stoner Boy’s basketball shorts and pulled them all the way off. Now Stoner Boy was running around, pushing two shopping carts, in his underwear like a stupid idiot. Old Lady stood back up to keep chasing Stoner Boy, but Husky Dawg jumped right in her way and grew to the size of 2 walruses, (or walri, or whatever the word is) put together. Old Lady then tried to climb over Husky Walri, but then Husky Walri’s skin began to turn to brownish color and began to turn into a mushy, gooey feeling. 

Old Lady was struggling as she tried to climb over Husky Walri. She clenched her fingertips into the surface of his body, and they began sinking into his back. Old Lady’s hands and feet suddenly became submerged into Husky Walri. Then her chest was being pushed in. The more she struggled, the further in to the molasses she went. Old Lady forced her head up from out of the molasses to grab one final breath, and then entirely fell straight into Husky Walri’s body, like a cinderblock falling into lava. 

Old Lady was gone, and Stoner Boy was still pushing the shopping carts he stilled from Old Lady & Old Man. Husky Walri slid his body to the nearest bus stop.

• • •

Husky Walri came home to find Stoner Boy sitting in the kitchen sink, full of soy sauce. “Hey Husk, wanna come join me in this Chinese pool, man?”

Husky Walri started sliding toward the kitchen doorway, staring into Stoner Boy’s eyes the whole way, and then turned away and headed to his room. 

“This is cool,” Stoner Boy said. “This is really cool.”

Racist Rap

Rap music wakes me up in the morning. I’m telling you, it works better than the darkest coffee. The only problem is that I need to be a little cautious of my surroundings. I sure as hell don’t want to be stopped at an intersection, beside an oddly popular bus stop, blaring “Forgot About Dre,” as I sing along, word for word… N words and all. 


I mean, what would happen in that situation? If a black person heard me casually drop the N word, while rapping to a song, would they be upset to the point where they feel impulsed to walk up to my car and beat up halfway to death? Or would they just have pity for me? *READ THIS WITH AN OLD LADY VOICE*: “This wretched white boy has no respect for how far we have come. This is the country we live in, where it’s legal for degenerates to say the “N word” all they want. It’s just sad. Now where’s my prune juice?” 


I just avoid it all in general. If I’m stopped at a light, next to a black person in a car, or at a bus stop, or on a space shuttle, I just don’t sing. Not because I’m afraid I’ll be unintentionally racist, but because I don’t want to be laughed at.

New Born Baby Deer

Like Bambi, I was a baby deer in middle school; I was young, inexperienced, and severely uncoordinated. In the sixth grade, my biggest concern was finding a holographic Charizard Pokémon card. I had also just entered a whole new environment infested by hundreds of other pubescent hell raisers. Liking girls was a new thing. You mean to tell me they don’t have cooties? I also got into my first fight in sixth grade. It was so stupid. I guess you could say it was probably the unhealthy dosage of hip-hop I was consuming at the time. Oh man, me in sixth grade. For your enjoyment.

The Friends

Jonathan was the leader of our group friends just because he was the oldest. We copied everything this moron did. I thought this kid was so cool. He gelled his hair in a way that parted his hair. He wore extra small Tommy Hilfiger shirts that made his chubby little neck pour out of his collar. He was also hilarious. He would do this thing where he would yell obscenities at strange, and for whatever reason, I laughed my ass off each time he did it. Each morning before school, our group would meet at my house before walking to the bus stop. One particular morning, Jonathan showed up at my door, holding a rolled up sheet of paper. He asked me for a lighter. The rest of the guys from the group eagerly went into my dad’s office, rolled up sheets of paper, and sealed them with pieces of tape. Then we went out into my backyard with our fake little cigarettes in our mouths, and holding them “cigar style” or whatever the hell that means. We by this fire pit made from cinder blocks we used for pig roasting, and lit our fauxgarettes like we were the coolest guys in the whole damn city. Jonathan looked at his watch and mentioned that the bus was going to be here soon. Then this wise guy tossed his lit utensil into a patch of dried underbrush next to the fire pit. And, of course, my other dumbass friends followed suit. Then they all ran into my house and out the front door. I was left there, outside, next to a burning bush that grew bigger and bigger. Black smoke began to emerge from the patch and rapidly fluctuate through the air. Not only were my parents going to kill me over burning the house down, but I was also going to miss school. I ran back into the house and fetched a bowl of water, but as I started for the house, stupid ass Jonathan comes out running with a can of soda, which made me confused as hell, but it all kind of made sense when he poured it on the fire.

The Fight

So there was a group of guys from my neighborhood that I would typically hang out with. Most of those guys in the group were older than me; except for one: Cory Gardener. Cory was tall, skinny, and goofy as hell. He also had braces, which didn’t help his social career. I mean, this kid was destined for loserdom. Being the youngest automatically placed the both of us at the bottom of the group’s rankings. Like me, felt the need to prove our rank amongst our friends, since being the youngest automatically placed us at the bottom. Cory and I would constantly aggravate each other. I called him “Sid,” since he looked like the psycho kid from the first Toy Story movie. Eventually his nickname caught on, and the majority of our grade started calling him Sid. So Cory retaliated by shouting, “Adrian got his dog pregnant!” on the bus, and the dumbass kids believed him. There couldn’t be a more moronic statement proclaimed, even if the government issued a new law enforcing American citizens to rub dog shit on their faces and walking backwards everywhere, while using saltwater as the new currency to pay for their caramel macchiatos. I mean, my dog was indeed pregnant, but it wasn’t because of me. I swear. Just clearing that up. The laughter from the kids fueled my urge to give Sid a little love tap on his upper lip, hoping it severs on impact (knuckles and braces don’t mix, dawg).

We all met in front of my house before school one morning so we could all walk to the bus stop together. The bus stop stood only about 30 yards away, straight ahead from my front door. I see Cory, and he’s got a smug look on his face. I don’t remember what my face was doing, but I know my heart was pounding. My adrenaline was rising. I’m going to fight this kid.

“Let’s fight,” I said

“Okay,” he replied.

Jonathan told us he was going to let us fight for one minute, since the bus would be getting here soon. So on my front lawn, Cory and I went at it like , for an entire 30 seconds. He was tall so it was difficult for me to reach his face. Instead, I just repeatedly punched him in his torso. Cory obviously had an advantage by punching down toward my head, however, when I began landing punches in his stomach, he grabbed my head in an attempt to put me in a headlock. We then hit the ground together, wrestling, for no good reason at all.

When our duel was done, Cory shouted, “I won!”

I shouted back, “You’re kidding right? I won!” I had to stand my ground, man. I’m sure as hell not going to be the bottom feeder of this group. We went at it, back and forth over who the winner was but it just led to more arguing. Cory and I walked toward the bus stop, exhausted, out of breath and feeling a huge headache. We never fought again, but he later admitted to me that I chipped a molar in the back of his mouth. No joke, dawg.

The Girl

The idea of having a girlfriend was nonexistent for me while I was in elementary school. I have a tendency to have a girlfriend vicariously through my friends’ because I was always too afraid to make anything happen for myself. For instance, I would often play the “matchmaker” role. I was, how-do-you-say? a little sissy girl. However, things changed when I hit the sixth grade. The sixth grade was basically a relationship swap meet. Anyone would “date” anyone, all you had to do was ask. Whether it’d be through a piece of paper, or through a friend. Granted, some of the techniques these students used were pretty absurd. I mean, two of my friends each had girlfriends, and randomly decided to “trade” girlfriends. Absurd. But the way that I received my first girlfriend was just that: received. Just bear with me for a minute. I’m not exaggerating about this, but she was apparently the girl that all the guys wanted. She was in my first period Reading class. On this particular morning, we were walking from the portables to the library. As I was walking, she approached me and said, “you’re my boyfriend now,” and I, lost in her piercing hazel eyes, went along with it. Surprisingly, we were boyfriend & girlfriend for almost the whole school year. The both of us went out many times to the movies, or the bowling alley. Actually I think that’s it. We just went out twice. I don’t even know why I said many times. But weekend nights meant talking on the phone for hours on end. My parents would get upset for being on the phone to much. Eventually, my love tide would take a different turn. At the time, the middle school version of me didn’t think there was a life after the sixth grade. So I dumped her. She said that out of all the guys she had dated, I was the first to ever break up with her. That same day she asked another guy to be her boyfriend.

Middle school was weird, man.

Just straight up weird.

Trial & Error

Everyone is in search of that “special someone.” That one person who will listen to every stupid thing you say. That one person you call immediately after something fantastic happens to you. Or something terrible. You know, that one person you can call your companion.

The last time I’ve ever said “I have a girlfriend” was when I was in the sixth grade. Actually, I think I had about four different girlfriends during that school year (if that counts for anything). Don’t get me wrong, I have dated women and been on many dates since then, but I haven’t been a part of a serious relationship. Personally, I date with an intention to eventually get married. I just don’t see the point in frivolous dating. Especially with the pressures of college, this place is considered the time when I’m most likely to meet my future wife. What if I don’t? I’d be screwed if I graduate a single guy. 

However, I’ve been self-diagnosed with high standards. I’m very picky about the women I pursue. I tend to unintentionally look for flaws in the women I’m interested in. Then as soon as that flaw is discovered, *boom,* the switch has been flipped to “off,” and now I feel like a jerk for leading this girl on. Also, the opposite tends to occur. I would assume that things are going well between me and a girl until *boom,* switch flipped. And she’s gone. Like a thief in the night. Did I do something wrong? Am I too short? I knew I lost her the moment I said that “I’m a Heat fan.”

I’ve always expected to see clouds parting and a spotlight of sunshine on the woman that will be my future wife. Flawless and doubt-free. She would also be interesting enough for me to learn something new about her every day. And she would find me just as interesting, and tell me when my jokes aren’t funny, and at least appreciate my obsession with sports. I want my future wife to be a woman I have to fight for; a challenge. One that needs to be rescued in a world infested with dragons. My princess. Oh, and also my princess would also love the Miami Heat as much as I do. 

• • •

We met at a karaoke bar. Well, actually she Friended me on Facebook over a year ago due to our enormous amount of mutual friends. So I guess it’s kind of like we’ve been friends all this time, but not really. Eric, my roommate, and I had been saving a large table for a large group of people he was expecting to arrive. A few minutes later, a group of four girls and one guy entered the bar. She took her seat right next to me. 

“Hi, I’m Bailey,” she said with a smile.

“I’m Adrian. I feel like we know each other,” I replied.

“Yea, we’re definitely Facebook friends.”

Not to sound like a creeper, but I’d already known a good amount of information about her by knowledge of Facebook prior to actually meeting her in person. For instance, I knew that she is a dancer, she’s into indie music, and is from Tennessee. “You were in New York last semester, weren’t you?” We went on and on about things about each other, particularly her where she’s from, because I’m always genuinely interested in the lives of people who are from a different state than me. We had a great conversation among beer and poorly sung karaoke songs. When Eric was finished singing Will Smith’s “Miami,” the group decided to call it a night. 

Before we parted ways, Bailey and I exchanged our goodbyes. “It was great to finally meet you,” she said.

And with an intoxicated reaction, I grabbed her hand with both of my hands and said, “Yes, it was great. We will talk again soon.”

As Eric and I walked back to the car, I turned to him and said, “Man, I’m intrigued.”

• • •

Trial & error is how I looked at it. Go on a date with a girl you’re interested in, and if it doesn’t work out then she’s not the girl for you; Trial & error. So then I decided to ask her out because the worst case scenario was that she would be one more girl that I know I’m not supposed to marry. So I sent her a Facebook message. Classy, I know, but I didn’t have her number. She messaged me back and we had arranged a little afternoon outing for the both of us. Friday afternoon was the date, and I couldn’t wait for it. 

My roommate Jordan and his girlfriend Jessie were in the living room watching TV when I walked in, “Hey, question: if I’m going out to lunch with a girl, do I pay for her or not?”

“It depends on your intentions with her,” Jordan replied, scratching his chin, “Not paying for her says you want to be friends. Paying for her says that you want to be more than friends.”

“Interesting,” I said.

Jessie excitedly partook in the conversation, “You have a date?”

“Yea, I guess you could call it that.”

“Aw that’s so exciting. Just remember: do not look for flaws,” she said. That was probably the best pre-date advice I could ever receive. Thanks Jessie. 

• • •

Friday afternoon finally came around, and my stomach was full of butterflies. I met up with her in front of the dance building and we walked across campus to a nearby Greek food restaurant. As we walked, we talked about her Tennessee lifestyle, how she started dancing, and her college experiences. In my head I was quickly formulating more questions to crank out so there’d never be a dull moment. But this was bad because it prevented me from fully paying attention to her. At the same time I was doing my best to be as 100% as I could possibly be; trying not to slouch, say something stupid, nor accidentally stick one of my fingers up my nose (it’s a bad habit I’m trying to break). Then my mind began to look for flaws. I started to examine her face to find any one little detail that I might find to be a turn-off. And then I heard Jessie’s voice, “Don’t look for flaws.” So I stopped and carried on with our conversation to the best of my ability.

Bailey finished her entire meal that I had paid for, as I left a good quarter of my pita in the basket. Side-note: Is it me, or is it extremely difficult to talk while eating on a date? Like when you’re on a date you’re asking each other questions the entire time, but when the food comes you need to time your question/answer/bite ratio. The last thing you’d want to do is show your date what your food looks like when it’s chewed. 

After Greek food, we walked next door for some coffee. “I’ll have a hot chai latte and a… What do you want?… And a caramel macchiato, please.” We sat at a table that positioned us face to face. I sipped my chai latte. It was shitty. 

“How’s your drink?” she asked.

“It’s pretty good. How’s yours?”

“It’s really good, I love it. Wanna try it?” I reached out my hand for it. I sipped it. It was shitty too.

We continued to talk on our walk back toward campus, but at this point I kind of got that feeling that she was all talked out. “Which way are you going?” I said.

“This way,” she said. Then we hugged and went our separate paths. 

• • •

The next day, I had spent the evening in the company of good friends over some banana-flavored sheesha. Throughout the duration of our hooka session, I was in constant meditation. I’d realized that my date with Bailey had taught me one thing: Bailey is NOT the girl for me. She is a very pretty girl with a lot going for her, but she’s not my type. She didn’t have that sun shining down on her through the parting of the clouds, nor did she appear to me as a challenge. Yet I still find myself thinking about her. It was more like I was going through the motions of it all. My mind was preoccupied with the thought of what was going to happen between Bailey and I, that I didn’t pay attention to the friends around me. We were planning on heading over to midtown to celebrate a friend’s birthday after we would finish our hooka. 

She had performed in a dance show earlier that evening, so I sent her a text message asking how it went. Bailey responded saying that it went well and asked me how my day was. I then responded with an, “It’s been going great,” and asked her if she wanted to go out again this week. She had not yet responded when my good friend Mike asked me “What’s the matter?” 

“It’s this girl man,” I said.

“Who is it?”

“I went on a date with this girl yesterday. You know her. It’s Bailey.” 

“Oh man, she’s awesome. Are you guys gonna go out again?” 

I looked at my phone to see if I’ve received a response from Bailey. Nothing. It’s been about five minutes since I asked her out for a second date. “I don’t know yet. She hasn’t responded to my text yet.”

Mike grabbed his cell phone and his keys in gesture to get up to leave, “Well maybe you can ask her when you see her later because apparently she’s gonna be at where we’re going.”

“Wait, what? She’s gonna be at the Filling Station?”

“Yea, that’s what Eric texted me. A group of them, including Bailey want to go dancing in midtown after her show.”

“Man, I wish you would’ve told me this ten minutes ago before I texted her! And now we’re going to the same place so I’m totally gonna look like I’m creeping on her.” Now my internal frustration was centered around whether or not she would respond to my text message before I see her in person. If she says “yes” then we’re good. But if she says “no” then I will be in awkward city. 

“No man. Don’t believe that,” Mike said. “With that jacket on, you own the world.”

• • •

When we got to the Filling Station I was nervous, so I bought a beer to calm myself. My heart pounded through my chest as my eyes constantly landed at the front entrance, anticipating Bailey’s arrival. Eric walked in, pumping his fist like he was ready to rage. “Let’s go dance!” he said to me.

“I need to drink first,” I said.

“You don’t need that stuff to dance!” 

“I need this stuff to talk to a girl.” Then Eric walked away. 

Behind Eric followed a group of familiar faces, including Bailey. I greeted each of them in the order they arrived in, which made Bailey last. “Hey! I was just about to text you!” she said to me, then walked up to the bar along with every one from the group, trying to get drinks. “I’ll just catch a minute to talk to her later on,” I thought. As soon as everyone had a drink in hand, we all migrated to the dance floor. About five minutes later, Eric looked at me and yelled, “Irish Car Bombs! Let’s go get some Irish Car Bombs!” I really didn’t want to leave this bar and ruin my chances of talking to Bailey, but the thought of more alcohol helping me have that conversation swayed my decision. So Eric and I made our way out of the dance floor and outside, toward the Irish bar next door. 

When we rounded the corner of the bar, I was face to face with something unexpected. I felt like I was watching a shiny unicorn, drinking water from a pond in the middle of a forest. Something so rare that one may never get to see this ever again, especially in Tallahassee. “That’s Justin Blackmon!” I yelled, pointing at a man standing on the other side of a glass window as if he were on display. 

“No way man, that’s not him,” Eric replied. 

Justin Blackmon played football for the Oklahoma State Cowboys and was arguably the best wide receiver in college football for the 2011 season. He was also on my favorite team to play with in the newest college football video game. I would use his team whenever I would play against Eric. “I’m going to throw to Blackmon every single play!” and I would. One day ESPN presented a short documentary based on Justin Blackmon and the charity work he is involved in. In all, these components have formed a personal appreciate for him, so I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw him. His reason for being in Tallahassee was beyond me. I might have even squealed like a little schoolgirl. 

“Bro, that’s him! I swear to God that’s him!” There’s something about seeing a celebrity in person. They have a sort of glimmer that catches your eye. I know Justin Blackmon isn’t quite the household name, but he is a future NFL athlete and bound for a Hall of Fame career. I mean, this guy is going to be a millionaire in a month, so this is a huge deal. Justin Blackmon is the equivalent to Justin Bieber in the eyes of the common sports aficionado. “Eric, come take a picture with me and Justin.”

Eric and I walked back into the bar and traversed our way through the flood of people in hopes of capturing a still image of my moment meeting God’s gift to sports. The bar was thick; full of people slamming Irish Car Bombs, talking at an absurd volume, and (for some odd reason) a group of middle-aged men wearing suit jackets. Needless to say it was chaotic. We approached Justin as he was towering over the suit jacket club that was surrounding him. He was bent over talking to a girl when I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around to face me, preoccupied with everyone around him trying to talk to him at once. “Hey Justin, I’m a huge fan of yours,” I reached out my hand for a handshake and his met mine, “do you mind if I get a picture with you real quick?”

“Hey thanks man, really appreciate it,” he said as he was looking over my head and all around the bar.

I moved over next to him and Eric snapped the picture. Then I told him, “Thanks a lot Justin. Good luck in the NFL,” and walked back to the Filling Station feeling like I own the world.

• • •

Bailey was sitting on the barrier outside when I saw her. Perfect. This was my chance to finally talk to her, one-on-one, and get an answer from her. I approached her and caught her eye, “Hey.”

“Hey! That’s my dance instructor.” She pointed to a hipster who wasn’t even looking at me. 

“Hi, dance instructor,” I said and waved jokingly. 

“And this is my friend Amber. She’s a dancer too.”

“Hi, Amber,” and unwillingly, Amber and I began to have a conversation. As soon as she introduced us, she began to get the attention of Dance Instructor. In my head I’m thinking of how much I did not want to be talking to this girl whom I’d already forgotten her name, and how much I’d rather be talking to Bailey. Then Bailey had gotten up and walked over to Dance Instructor. 

I walked away from Amber not remembering whether or not I rudely ended our conversation and walked over to my group of friends. 

“I think we’re gonna head out,” Eric said. 

“Alright, just give me a minute. I’m gonna try to talk to Bailey before we leave,” I said.

“Okay, just meet us at the car.”

“Will do.”

When I went back to where Bailey was, she was sitting on the same barrier as before, next to Dance Instructor. She didn’t see me as I approached her. She was looking down, almost like her eyes were closed, sleeping. Normally, I wouldn’t approach women if they’re around men, but I had made an exception for this case. As I got closer to her she suddenly placed her head on Dance Instructor’s shoulder. I took it as if she said, “I’m sorry Adrian, but you need to back the Hell off.” It was the sign I needed to move on. The sign that said, “Bailey is not your princess.” And I knew it all along. Next time I just need to man-up and do something about it. 

• • •

The car ride home consisted of a good conversation that led to all of this clarity. “She’s just not the girl for you, man,” Eric said.

“Yea, I know.” I began to wonder if it was something I had done during our date. Was I oblivious to something she said? Was she able to tell that I wasn’t 100% invested in our conversation? Well maybe if she didn’t talk about boring stuff so much I would’ve payed more attention. Or was there something on my face? My nose was pretty runny that day so I probably had a few boogers crusted around the inside ring of my nose, that I picked. Oh God! I picked my nose in the middle of our date, didn’t I? Did I talk too much about the Miami Heat? I knew I should’ve saved the LeBron talk for our second date! Then I said, “Well who cares? I met Justin Blackmon!” So I guess in the end, I did meet a “special someone” after all.

Urine Trouble

       A double shot dirty chai latte really goes through you. I mean, you can basically tilt your head up and pour the drink down your throat, as it immediately exits your urethra (I suggest you do this outside or over a toilet bowl. And let people watch. It’ll be hilarious.) 

       I was at my favorite coffee shop recently and had to use the bathroom. So I went. A rugged looking, middle aged man had just walked out of the single person bathroom; toilet still making that noise after flushing it, and DROPS OF URINE ON THE SEAT. Then I started to think the worst of this guy; like he’s Jeffrey Dahmer, or Stalin. This idiotic, uneducated ingrate had the audacity to leave the toilet seat down and try to shoot his yellow stream through the hoop. Of course this place has only one toilet for all women, men, and children to share, and they’re all going to convict me of this heinous crime. I wish it was socially acceptable to wear a sign that read, “I swear the man before me did it,” or even if I could make an announcement to let all the innocent toilet users know that I’m a good guy, and grew up with three women in my household so I know how important it is to lift the toilet seat.

       Amidst battling my inner dilemma, I’ve already decided that I sure as hell am not going to touch another man’s pee. So I lifted up the contaminated toilet seat and did my thing. I saw the man’s pee run around on the seat, spreading the infection to greater lengths. Then I washed my hands, and nervously awaited my trial at the door. I gulped, took a deep breath, and opened the door to find another guy waiting to use the bathroom. Alright cool. It’s that guy’s fault!