Short(er) Story: Henry, the Nicest Person in the World

I had the pleasure of meeting the nicest person in the world when I was only 14. His name is Henry and, of all the nice people I’ve met over the years, he still holds the title. Henry is the father of a high school friend whom I have seen once in the past six years, but I know without a doubt that Henry would drop anything and everything to help me if I called him right now. Not just me, though. Anyone. Nicest Person in the Entire World.

When we were in high school, Henry organized several trips to Mississippi and Louisiana to rebuild in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Henry worked in sales and he did a lot of work in the Gulf area and just couldn’t stand seeing people in such distress without doing something about it.

Henry’s daughter, Emily, always went on these trips – a surprise to me because, even though she was related to the Nicest Person in the World, she rarely seemed to have any ounce of compassion anywhere in her tiny body. She was set to go on her second trip the summer after our sophomore year of high school with her boyfriend, whose name isn’t important. Three days before the trip, she dumped him. So I took his place. That first trip went by with little to tell about, other than Henry becoming obsessed with the song of the summer, I Kissed a Girl by Katy Perry.

The next summer, Emily and Henry asked me if I wanted to go back to Slidell, Louisiana, to continue with clean-up. At this point it had been three years since the hurricane, but there was still a lot of work to be done. I agreed and set off on the drive to Louisiana with Henry, Emily, Emily’s boyfriend and a mutual longtime friend of ours. I don’t remember much about the work we did on this trip, but I do remember that none of us teenagers were getting along by the last day of the trip. The reasons why are no longer important.

On the last day of the trip, though, we decided as a group to do a short job in the morning before we needed to head out that afternoon.  It was an easy task: we just needed to clean up a mess that an actual repair crew had left in a woman’s front yard.

When we got there, the “mess” was a little larger than we’d expected. In the driveway of this ranch-style house was a pile of shingles nearly as tall as the house itself. Apparently the homeowner needed her roof to be replaced after the storm and, after replacing and re-shingling the entire thing, the repair crew just gathered all of the old torn shingles into a pile and never arranged to have them picked up or addressed at all.

It was a large task, but an easy one for a group of seven or so people. All we had to do was throw all the shingles into the back of a rented truck and someone from the church where we were staying would drive it to whatever the appropriate place is for disposing of shingles.

As soon as we pulled up to the house, we got to work. Like I said, it was a fairly straight-forward task, but we were given one warning: watch out for nails. All of the short roofing nails that are used to fasten shingles to roofs were mixed into the pile and very hard to see. This wasn’t a problem for me because the thick-soled vans that I wore for most of middle school and high school were impenetrable, and I was given a pair of work gloves for the job.

About a half-hour into throwing these shingles into the back of this truck to be carted off to godknowswhere, the owner of the house, I’ll call her Shelley, returned home from walking her five medium-sized dogs, tied them to the tree in the middle of the yard, then came over to where we were working and proceeded to go absolutely nuts.

“What are you doing?!” She was immediately sobbing very real, very insane tears.

We were all completely stunned and a little scared. We were sure that we had the right place and were doing the job we were asked to do.

Before any of us could find any words, Shelley was in the bed of the truck, rifling through the shingles.

Henry finally stepped up at this point, practically begging her to stop and get down because of the danger of the nails. As he approached her, she turned around in a fury, eyes bloodshot and tears streaming down her face, hands cupped together in front of her.

“The nails!” She plowed past Henry and continued to maniacally pick through the shingles. She was picking out the nails and holding them all in her hands.

“Ma’am,” Henry said, all the patience in the world still present in his voice. “It’s OK. We know about the nails, but it’s fine. We can leave them. They’re all going to the same place.”

“You don’t understand!” she screamed, only looking up for a second before hunching back over and diving back into the shingles.

After some expert convincing comparable to a hostage negotiator, Henry got Shelley to stop and take a seat on the side of the truck. She took some breaths, then told us that her one and only mission in life, handed down to her by Jesus Christ, was to collect all the roofing nails from the giant pile of shingles that had been in her driveway for over a year and recycle them. Clearly Shelley had lost a little more than her roof and access to clean water after the hurricane. We finally calmed her down enough to explain to her that it’s not safe to wade through the ocean of shingles just to find these little nails because she would most definitely end up stepping on one. She agreed to supervise the mission and stood in the truck bed pointing out nails for us to pick up until all of them were out of the truck and in her hands. A few of us stayed in the truck to help Shelley, while the rest of us got back to the actual job at hand: the still-giant pile of shingles in the driveway.

We continued without incident or outburst for a while, all of us half-listening to Shelley’s stories about how much of a mess her life had been since the hurricane. She told us several times how we would never understand what it’s like to not have access to water and to have to ask the neighbor to borrow their phone anytime you wanted to make a phone call. Luckily, she was right. I do not know what that’s like. I also don’t know what it’s like to have two adult children who haven’t spoken to me in years, even after my (probably already messy) life was torn to literal pieces after a natural disaster. Shelley and I do not have a lot in common, and I am thankful for that.

Sometime between her telling us about her phone situation for the fifth time and her screaming at her dogs to quit fighting – “Biscuit! Cut that out! Diana!” Then she would turn to us and say “Mama fightin’ daughter, I just don’t get it” – Henry stepped on a nail.

Henry was wearing Sperry’s, which did not offer as much protection as my checkered skater shoes. When Henry sat down on the back of the truck and took his shoe off, all of us stopped what we were doing to watch in awe what was happening. Before he even got his sock off, blood was gushing out of his foot and onto the pavement, not unlike a fountain.

All of us were panicking, trying to find a first aid kit, while Henry explained calmly where to find it and what we needed to do to stop the bleeding.

Shelley had no time for this. The nails! As soon as the attention was not on her and her holy mission to recycle nails, she started crying again.

“No one is helping me!” she wailed a few times. What finally stopped her hysterics was something I still can’t believe I actually witnessed.

“Listen lady,” Henry said in a voice louder than I thought possible. “We have something more important to worry about right now. I’m trying to stop myself from bleeding out here on your driveway and you acting like a crazy bitch just isn’t helping! So I’m gonna need you to shut up for a few minutes.”

The feeling of shock that ran through our group was palpable. I honestly thought I was going to pass out, both from sheer shock and also the sight of all the blood that was still pouring out of Henry’s foot.

Shelley shut up for a few minutes, but as soon as Henry was bandaged and standing, she got right back to pointing out nails for us to pick up.

I can’t remember if we finished cleaning the shingles or separating the nails before we had to leave, but I do know that Henry apologized to Shelley for his outburst and injury before we left.




This Is It: the three times I was sure I was going to die

I live a very simple lifestyle: slow, low risk, lots of TV. I try to be a sedentary as possible, except for my 40-hour work weeks spent on my feet and Friday and Saturday nights spent on dance floors. I don’t play sports, I don’t work out and I don’t do anything remotely dangerous. I chose this lifestyle to avoid two of the things I hate most in life: fear and pain. I know most people don’t like those things, but I also know that a lot of people put themselves at risk in order to live a more “exciting” or “healthy” lifestyle or whatever, but I’m not into it.

So, as a result of this lifestyle, I have very few “risky” stories to tell. But there have been a few specific times when I got into a situation where I was 100 percent sure I was going to die. Three times, to be precise. Here they are, in chronological order:

The first time I was sure I was going to die was when I was 9 years old. Late elementary-early middle school was a very good time in my life socially. Since the time I was about 9 or 10, the number of people that I considered good friends drastically decreased every year. At this time, I had a group of friends made up of about 15-20 boys with whom I played sports and video games or whatever else 9-year-old boys do. —

I’ve already mentioned that I do not play sports as a way to avoid fear and pain. This hasn’t always been the case, though. From the time I was 5 until I was 11, I participated in basketball, soccer and baseball, all because that was expected of me as a normal boy. I was on these teams, but I was still sure to avoid any brush with fear or pain; I went to practices and games, but I never really did much.

— One of these boys, Daniel Brown, had been my best friend since first grade. He was school friend though, you know? We didn’t have sleepovers and we didn’t see each other a lot outside of school. But for those eight hours a day, five days a week, we were best friends.

For his tenth birthday, though, I was invited to his house. He had a normal 10-year-old boy birthday with games and cake and about 10 or 15 boys in attendance. As the party ended, most of the boys were picked up by their parents, but I was invited to spend the night at the Brown house along with another friend, Jeffrey. It seemed Daniel wanted to have a large sleepover party, but his parents weren’t up for hosting 15 boys at their house overnight.

Daniel’s parents were very strict. Or, at least, his mother was. She stood about 5’11”, which seemed especially gargantuan compared to his father, who was probably 5’8”. Even at the age of 9, I could tell something was weird about this couple. Daniel’s father was very quiet and seem to cower beneath the height and strength of his wife. When I try to picture him in my memory, I can only see the face of those abused animals in the ASPCA commercials with Sarah McLachlan. Their house was also full of chicken décor. Chicken wallpaper, chicken clocks, chicken figurines, chicken teapots; but that’s beside the point. Daniel’s mother was always making the decisions and cracking down on her children when they did anything that was outside of the teaching of their Sunday school classes. She also made us go to bed at 8:30pm, halfway through the movie Daniel’s father had picked out for us. After Jeffrey and I sat awkwardly through the family’s bedtime prayers, we all got in bed: Daniel on the top bunk, me on the bottom and Jeffrey on the floor.

I know we were young, but 8:30 was still way too early for me to be going to bed. I lay awake for hours thinking about things I could be doing instead of lying there motionless – mostly, I thought about just getting up and walking out of his bedroom and finding something else to do in his house. I was a shy child, so I knew I would never just wander about aimlessly in someone’s house, but the idea was almost enough to keep me from going insane waiting for sleep to come to me.

Around 11pm, my fantasy of exploring every chicken-adorned corner of the house quickly came to a halt. I heard a sound that made me want to lock Daniel’s bedroom door and barricade us all in. I heard a scream so loud and so painful that I was sure we were all about to be engulfed in flames. I immediately sat straight up and looked at the door, expecting Daniel’s mom to bust in, carrying her husband and her daughter over her shoulders with flames behind her, roaring towards us.

No one came through the door. Neither Daniel nor Jeffrey even stirred in their sleep. So there, I was, sitting up in bed, staring wide-eyed at the bedroom door, holding my breath.

Once I realized the house was not on fire, I thought maybe I imagined the sound of someone screaming as their flesh burned. Maybe I had drifted off to sleep and dreamed it. As I lay back down to try to go to sleep once again, I heard another scream – equally as loud, long and painful. By the time the second scream ended, I was exponentially more terrified than the first time because this time it sounded exactly like Daniel’s dad’s voice.

This is it, I thought. Mr. Brown had gone too far with an innocent joke, offending his wife and her strict religion and she had snapped. She was killing him right there in their bed and she was going to come for us next in her wild rage. I heard another scream shortly after the second, but I just stayed in bed, staring up into space, waiting for our inevitable deaths until my mind eventually shut down and I fell asleep.  Daniel’s parents, complete with all their limbs and no visible wounds, made us breakfast the next morning.


The second time I was sure I was sure I was going to die was in August 2012. I had just moved into my first apartment with my best friends from high school, Lenzie and Krazy, and we were about to begin our junior year at UNC.

I have very fond memories of that apartment, but it has no redeeming qualities of its own. The only positive parts of that place are the memories I have that took place there. The floors were slanted, the doors jammed, the ghost of a woman named Linda who only had legs lived in the living room, the cabinets never stayed closed, the air conditioner only worked in two out of four rooms and, worst of all for all of us, it had a gas stove.  I know that a gas stove isn’t really a bad thing in an apartment so much as the rest of those things are, but none of us had ever used one before. The idea of an open flame larger than a candle inside a home always left me feeling uneasy (stay tuned for a future post about my childhood fears featuring stoves of all kinds).

Lenzie was out of the state for the first few weeks that we lived in that apartment, so Krazy and I had to learn to use the stove safely together. As most of you reading this may already know, it’s not difficult. Neither of us cooked much anyway, so after the first time using it, we were completely comfortable with our situation.

One night, we were about to make popcorn to accompany our Cheetah Girls marathon when the stove wouldn’t light. We tried every burner, but got no flame. We called the apartment manager and she refused to send maintenance out to fix it. It was just the pilot light, she said. Then she emailed us a link to a YouTube video showing how to re-light the pilot light on this particular type of stove. Another simple procedure: lift the top of the stove, use a lighter to light the pilot light. That’s it.

After we watched the video, Krazy looked at me and I looked at her and I could tell she was thinking the same thing I was thinking: if the pilot light just lights when you hold a flame to it, that means it’s basically pouring gas at all times. Since neither of us had attempted to use the stove for probably a week, there was no telling how long the pilot light had been out or how long gas had been leaking

into our home.

We weren’t worried about carbon monoxide or whatever effects a gas leak could have had on us, but more worried about the pilot light lighting process. All of this means that we could be approaching a room full of gas with a lighter.

We took some time to gather some courage to attempt to re-light the light, and I don’t think we ever really summoned all the courage we needed. It had to be done, though. As I lifted the stovetop, Krazy and I said our goodbyes to each other.

This is it, I said to her. The idea that I was going to die doing something with my best friend was slightly comforting, but it didn’t top the fear deep down inside me. Something was telling me that this was really it for us. Krazy was going to put her lighter up to that pipe leaking gas, flick the igniter, and we would go up in flames. I closed my eyes as tightly as possible and just hoped that our death would be quick and painless.

We enjoyed our popcorn a little more than usual that night.


The third and most recent time that I was sure I was going to die was in June 2013. Lenzie, Krazy and I had just arrived in Pahoa, Hawaii, ready for a summer full of sun and fun. We were almost immediately disappointed when we spent our entire first day on the island under a cloud cover and getting drenched in rain showers that came about every 20 minutes like clockwork. The forecast for our area was rain every single day for as long as we could see. That was NOT what we signed up for, so we immediately started to complain. We were skeptical when the other people working with us told us that it would be warm and sunny at in Kalapana, the closest beach town, eight miles east of our farm. We were skeptical, but we had already had enough of the rain.

On our second day on the farm, we decided to take a half-day of work so we could go check out the beach. We got all of our chores done by noon, then packed up our stuff and were ready to go. The only problem was that everyone else was still working and couldn’t drive us to the beach. Even if they had taken a half-day too, they wouldn’t have taken us. They hated us as soon as we stepped off the plane, but that’s another story.

So we were left to explore the island on our own the way the islanders do: hitchhiking. Lenzie and Krazy were nervous about getting in the car with a stranger, but I accepted long ago that I was going to be murdered someday, so why not in Hawaii? I was excited, to be honest.

We spent a few minutes standing at the end of our driveway with our thumbs out and we only saw a few cars, all of which sped by without acknowledging us. Maybe it’s just too inconvenient to slow down, we thought. We were on the side of a highway and, with no obstacles and barely a turn between the town and the coast, there was no reason for anyone driving past us to be going any slower than 70mph.

After about 15 minutes of failed attempts, we came up with a plan: walk west toward Pahoa, the closest village. There was a major intersection there, so we figured people would be more willing to pull over and pick us up just after leaving a red light, before they were going full speed. We continued to hold out our thumbs as we began the 1.5-mile walk toward the intersection and we got lucky before we got all the way there. I don’t remember much about the first person who picked us up, other than the fact that she couldn’t take us all the way to Kalapana; she was going to a different area on the coast. She told us it would be easy to get another ride at the fork in the road where she was going right and we needed to go left. We decided to trust her and hopped in the bed of her truck.

She didn’t kill us. She dropped us off at the fork like she’d promised and went on her way.

It wasn’t long before we got our next ride, this time from a local who was also making his way to Kalapana. His name was Robbie; he was about 5’6” and seemed very nice. After he pulled over, he had to rearrange some of the stuff in the bed of his pickup to make room for us and we had a nice chat. He told us all about the dangers of the island and, as it were, hitchhiking on the island. Being out and about in rural Hawaii was unsafe, he told us, because of the wild boars. But beyond the threat of being gored, there was always a chance of falling into a lava tube.

Lava. Tube.

Robbie described lava tubes as large caverns of unknown depths with no exits Basically, what goes down a lava tube is never seen again. These are wonderful places to throw bodies or cars that you never want found. Apparently Hawaii’s meth-user population also set up camp at their entrances. I forget why, but that made them a little bit scarier.

So we were pretty sure he was going to end up taking us to a lava tube and throwing us in, but we hopped in his truck anyway. There was a chance of death, but also a chance of getting to the beach.

We were desperate after hours of trying to get to this damn beach. The risk was worth it.

Robbie took us to the beach, shared his drinks with us, found us some weed and spent the day with us, telling us all about his island. The beach was situated under a small cliff that cast a shadow over the beach as the afternoon went on. By 4pm or so, a few hours before sunset, the beach was in complete shade and kind of chilly, so Robbie suggested we go somewhere else. He took us a few miles up the coast from the beach to some larger cliffs overlooking the ocean. It was a spot he said not many people knew existed, or at least knew was accessible, as you had to drive off-road to get there.

When the sun started to set, he drove us to a small restaurant that had the best food that I ate the entire summer (which isn’t saying much, we were fed dirt every day for breakfast and lunch) and then wanted to take us back to that same spot from earlier.

It was pitch black by the time we got there, but that didn’t concern Robbie. He drove his little truck off the road and through the trees, then turned off his headlights so we wouldn’t be spotted. I was a little concerned, but he seemed like he knew what he was doing, so I tried not to worry. I was more than a little concerned when he whipped the truck around and drove in reverse into the darkness. I could hear the ocean getting louder, meaning we were getting closer and closer to the edge of the cliffs that we were climbing on before sunset. I was sure that we were close to the edge, but he just kept accelerating. I closed my eyes and accepted our fate. We weren’t going to be thrown into a lava tube; we were going to be thrown off the edge of a cliff in a pickup truck.

By some judgment that I did not question, Robbie finally decided that we were in the right spot. He turned off the truck and hopped out, then joined the three of us in the bed. We sat there for an hour or so talking; I don’t remember much about what we talked about other than an old Hawaiian legend he told us that involved a troop of marching ghost soldiers that periodically terrorized the very area where we were.

That ghost story only added to my fear, but I tried not to show it. We had spent the entire day with Robbie and he didn’t show any sign of malice toward us, so I shouldn’t have been afraid. That’s what I kept telling myself.

Around midnight, we decided it was probably time to go back home. In the few moments we spent that day away from Robbie, the three of us decided that he could probably be an asset to us during our summer on the island. He was nice, he knew the area and he had transportation. We had to lock in his friendship. He seemed to be attracted to Krazy, so we volunteered her to sit in the cab of the truck with him on the way home.

“You have to get his number. Flirt with him, do whatever it takes. We need him.”

Lenzie and I cuddled up in the back and prepared for the frigid open-air ride home. We had only been on the island for two days at this point, but we had a pretty good idea of how long it should take us to get home based on how long the trip to the beach took. We noticed the same fork in the road where Robbie had picked us up coming up, so we knew we were getting close to home.

This is where all my suspicion of Robbie and this whole situation came flooding back after I had talked myself down when he was driving us toward the edge of the cliff in complete darkness: instead of crossing onto the road that had originally taken us from our home to the fork in the road, Robbie veered the opposite way. He was taking us somewhere, but it wasn’t to our farm.

Lenzie and I immediately started to panic. This is it, we cried, holding each other close. He’s taking us to a lava tube.

“Should we jump out? We’re not going that fast,” Lenzie said. I grabbed my stuff and I was ready to jump, but then we remembered Krazy in the front seat. We couldn’t leave her with him, so we sat back down.

Maybe she knows what’s going on, we thought. We tried signaling her without Robbie seeing us – if he knew that we knew what was going on, he might just end us right then and there. She didn’t turn around once. I tried calling her, but her phone was dead, as usual.

Panicked and crying, we waved our hands and gently tapped on the glass behind her head for what seemed like an hour. We were about to give up on her and just jump when the truck began to slow down. We could see lights in the distance: the highway intersection in Pahoa. The truck pulled off the road and we finally knew exactly what was happening: we were home.

The road from the farm to the fork on the way to the beach was one-way; Robbie was never going the wrong way, just a way that we didn’t know existed.


So there they are: the three times I was sure I was going to die. I’m sure there will be many more in my life and I’ll try to write about them as they happen. Except for the final time, of course. I’m sure you’ll be able to catch that story on Nancy Grace.


Dating without Expiating: Jake

Recently, a friend of mine posted on Facebook asking for stories of bad dates. I knew this was my time to shine since storytelling is (obviously) one of my favorite things to do. Especially when those stories are mostly negative and completely humorous. I tried and tried to think about the worst date I had been on and, to my surprise, none of them were that bad. Honestly, I haven’t been on many dates, and the ones I have been on have mostly been mediocre. I settled on a story of what I considered my “worst” date, a date that was bad because I made it that way. But thinking about all the boys that I have been on dates with got me thinking about something new: a date series.
So here it is: I’m going to take all you readers (all three of you) on a journey through my dating life, bad and good, starting in 2012. I have a surprisingly detailed memory when I really set my mind to it, so these stories will likely be a lot more drawn out than they need to be. Hopefully it’s somewhat entertaining.

Dating without Expiating LA: Richard

expiate (v.): to do something as a way to show that you are sorry about doing something bad

All the way through college, I had a huge crush on a boy named Max. Actually, I totally still have a crush on him. It’s been two years since college, but even if you’re reading this in 2098, I can guarantee I still have a crush on him.

Max is cute and sweet and seemingly innocent, with pigeon toed feet in combat boots, a mop of curls on his head and pouty lips that surround the tiniest lisp.

I met Max for the first time in the dark at a house party sophomore year. He was a freshman. I was actually afraid to meet him.

Every Friday, I spent my night flirting with a boy named Alex. He was a junior. The first night I met Alex, I asked a mutual friend if he had a boyfriend. He did. The second night I talked to Alex, he told me all about his boyfriend, Max. But Max was nowhere to be found. Friday after Friday, I looked into the glimmer in Alex’s eyes and listened to his stories about his boyfriend as he stroked my hand or unbuttoned the top button of my shirt.

“Homewrecker,” my friends called me. This wasn’t the first time I reciprocated flirting with a boy who turned out to have a boyfriend.

Other gays and their hags all told me that Max had it out for me because I was flirting with his boyfriend. So I tried to avoid him for as long as possible, even though I had no idea what he looked like.

Then there was that one Friday night. In a dark, crowded kitchen, I was dancing with Alex. A boy in a backwards baseball cap joined us, with Alex in the middle. After a few minutes, the song ended and Alex turned around to me and said something that threw me for a bigger loop than all but one other thing he said in our entire relationship (a different, much longer story): “this is Max.”

I probably stuttered something stupid, but it wasn’t a total catastrophe.

At the beginning of my junior year, Alex and I became very close friends, which cultivated a friendship between Max and myself. When I was told that Alex and Max broke up, I was afraid of losing the friendship I had with Max because I was so close to Alex. More importantly, I was afraid of losing my opportunities to ogle at Max’s perfect little pout. But I set out to do one thing: kiss those lips. Finally he’s not in a relationship and, most importantly, he’s no longer in a relationship with my best friend.

A few Fridays later, Alex wasn’t at the party. But I knew Max would be. As the Aristocrat vodka that my favorite senior had bought me began to take its effect, I began to tell all my friends about my plan.

“I’m going to kiss Max tonight. When he walks in, he’s going to hug me and I’m going to kiss those lips.”

I saw him walk in literally seconds later. I hid behind my group of friends so he wouldn’t see me. As confident as $6 vodka had made me, I still needed to work up some courage for this.

About 10 minutes later, I finally ran into Max. After a genuinely excited “hey!” from him, we hugged. It was now or never. As the hug broke, I stood back, grabbed his perfect face and pulled him in for a kiss.

I looked at him afterward, not knowing what to expect.

“OK…” he didn’t look upset, just confused.

“Now that you’re single, I just had to kiss those lips.”

“Oh. OK!” He smiled and shrugged, like it was something he heard every day. If it was, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Alex and Max got back together shortly after breaking up, but my friendship with Alex went downhill. Then uphill. Then they broke up again. Alex and I never really got back onto good terms, but I stayed friends with Max.



At a Christmas party that year, I was reconnecting with some high school friends when one of them –Aaron – whom I mostly knew from afar, said “Alex, do you know Jake [last name omitted]?”

“No. Why?”

“Oh, well he said he knows you. He goes to UNC.”

I know I was going through guys very quickly at this point in my life, but I was very sure I didn’t know this person. I asked how he knew him and why I came up.

“I was talking to him on Grindr.” With those words, I am sure my eyes opened twice as wide as possible. Everyone had said in high school “Aaron is gay,” but I refuse to believe rumors spread by strangers when the person hasn’t confirmed it himself. But, that night, a few years after escaping our redneck high school, Aaron confirmed.

Anyway, back to Jake. Apparently, they were just chatting and trying to find common ground when Aaron mentioned that he knew me, a fellow Southern Alamance gay who happened to go to UNC.

I wrote it off. I was very popular in my own UNC gay scene at the time (that ended very soon after) and a lot of people knew my name before I knew theirs. This wasn’t new.


Fast forward to senior year, before classes started and after I returned from my internship in Hawaii.

I got a Grindr message from a boy named Jake, asking some very personal questions in an intriguingly entertaining way.

By this time I knew that this was the same Jake that Aaron asked me about six months earlier. And I also knew that both of those Jakes were best friends with my future husband, Max.

A few days after being invaded through Grindr messages by Jake, Max texted me. He invited me to come hang out with him and Jake at Jake’s apartment, which was about 500 yards from mine. I spent a few hours on Jake’s bed with the two of them, so high and nervous that I spent most of the time staring at my phone.  I didn’t think much about Jake because I was so focused on not saying anything embarrassing.

I was also texting a really hot guy that was out of town for the summer who happened to be friends with Jake and formerly friends with Max.  He was smart and quick-witted and I had to focus all of my energy on keeping him interested enough to want to date me and fall in love with me once he got back to Chapel Hill.

At some point I realized I needed to leave before Jake and Max thought I was a complete bore.

About a week later, another mutual friend of mine and Max’s, Mark, had a party at his apartment. Mark was a junior and so were all of his friends, so I assumed I wouldn’t know many people there. But I had a crush on Mark, so I was down to go.

With a group of about 12 gays, including Jake and Max, we left Mark’s apartment around midnight and made our way to a tiny bar that hosted a gay night once a month. I spent the night at the bar individually dancing with every gay in our group, then we ended up at BSkis, a slightly disgusting latenight food spot where you were bound to wait an hour for an order of fries on a Friday night.

Off the dance floor, it hit me again that I didn’t really know any of these younger gays. I wasn’t eating, as per usual in college, so I just sat quietly at the end of the table. Sitting next to Jake, just as I had weeks before, I resorted to looking at my phone to avoid feeling the awkwardness that I was creating.

Once I put down my phone, though, I felt oddly attracted to Jake. I found my hand on his knee, then higher, then in between his legs. He giggled a little, but didn’t show any opposition.

We left BSkis as a group and made our way back to Mark’s apartment. Mark lived in the same apartment complex as I did, just one building over, but when he kicked us out and didn’t ask me to stay and make out, I hopped in the car with Jake and went back to his apartment with a few other people.

I was already pretty drunk when we got there, but whatever form of weed Jake handed me as I walked in the door sent me over the edge. I knew it was time to stop looking at my phone, but I felt very out of place with these young, beautiful gays, so I walked back home.

The next morning, I woke up feeling like I was dying. First things first, I checked Grindr, obviously. Jake messaged me.

“Sorry I couldn’t finish what you started last night; I couldn’t get rid of those guys.”

I invited him to come get in bed with me because I didn’t feel like moving, but his argument trumped mine when he reminded me that he was the one with all the weed.

It was raining that day, so I drove the 500 yards to his apartment. I was exhausted and he was crashing hard from whatever combination of alcohol and drugs he’d done the night before. As soon as I walked in the door, he threw something at me. I caught it and looked down; it was a saran-wrapped blueberry muffin. I ate it and we headed upstairs.

Just making the short trip to his apartment and up the stairs was enough to make me need to crawl back into bed, and that’s exactly what I did. As soon as I hit his pillow, I knew that I would never want to leave. It was the most comfortable bed I had ever been in.

He lay down beside me and, after a few minutes of being half asleep and smoking a bowl, he kissed me. We ended up naked, then in the shower.

Once we got out of the shower, I got back into bed and we started talking. The combination of the hangover, the muffin and the smoking sent me straight to sleep before he could even get a minute into the story he was telling me about his childhood.

A few hours later, I had to force myself to get out of that bed. I had tickets to see Lil Wayne and 2 Chainz that night and my roommate was forcing me to go with her even though it was raining. I would’ve been perfectly fine with wasting the $40 I had spent on the lawn seats if it meant staying out of the rain and in Jake’s bed.

I’ve lost track of the exact timeline, but over the next few days, I saw a lot of Jake. I’d go to his apartment after work, he’d throw a muffin at me, I’d get in his bed, we’d hook up and I would go to sleep. There was talking involved, of course, but usually with a lighter in hand or in the shower.

One night about a week into this affair, I was walking up to his door when I saw someone inside through the window. A girl. I hesitated to knock on the door, but I wanted to see him. I knocked and his friend, Sydney, whom I knew from sophomore year French class, answered the door. She let me in and Jake kissed me and, of course, handed me a muffin. He was moving to a new apartment soon and he had asked Sydney to help him pack. The three of us hung out until long after midnight, then she left and I spent the night.

He moved into his new apartment the next day, and I spent the night there too. Max came over in the morning to see his new place and Jake encouraged me to stay in bed. I thought for a second that it was to hide me from Max, so he wouldn’t know about us, but it wasn’t. He just wanted me to be comfortable and didn’t care that Max would see me when he eventually came up to see his room. There was an odd level of comfort between us for two people who were just hooking up for fun.  The three of us parted ways at the same time that morning; Jake kissed me in front of Max.

We had only been seeing each other for a few weeks, and basically only overnight. It was confusing to me that he was so comfortable kissing me in front of his friends. Logically, it was a little too comfortable after such a short time together, but I didn’t let it get to me. I convinced myself I was going to be less clingy that summer (probably as a way to manage trying to date 4 boys who were all friends) and I was actually succeeding. I was just having fun with Jake. I wasn’t thinking any further into the future than the next night.

Jake spent the weekends out of town that summer at a ski camp, but every night that he was in town for about three weeks, we were together. He hadn’t slept alone in his brand new apartment since he’d moved in. On days when I didn’t have to work, we’d spend the day together until one of us had somewhere to be. We talked and laughed and he gave me hickies to try to embarrass me at work the next day.

It was sweet and kind of romantic. But, for the first and probably last time, I wasn’t reading into anything. I was just having fun.

My 21st birthday was on a Tuesday, the same day Jake was coming back into town from camp that weekend. I didn’t expect to celebrate with him, but I wanted to see him the next day. For the first time, he didn’t want to hang out. He made some excuse about wanting to spend time with his friends because he hadn’t seen them in a while. I couldn’t blame him since I had been taking up all of his free time for almost a month.

I texted him a few times that week to try to cash in on the rain check, but excuses turned to silence. This was the first in a seemingly never-ending stream of boys ghosting on me after a normal few weeks together. He texted me about a week later to apologize. “I just felt like things were getting too serious too fast,” he said. He said he was afraid of commitment, which I understand. But I had never mentioned commitment. For once, I wasn’t being crazy and planning our future. Maybe he was, and that’s what scared him.


A few weeks later, I was invited to a party at the house of the guy that I was texting that night that I was hanging out with Jake and Max. I had ruined any potential of a relationship with this guy when I started hooking up with Jake because they were such good friends and, come to find out, roommates.

The two of them shared a bathroom in the apartment Jake moved into shortly into our fling.

The last thing I wanted to do was go to this party at Jake’s house, but I had to show up to show him that he hadn’t hurt my feelings as much as he did. I convinced a friend to go with me and, not ten minutes after we showed up, the party was broken up by the police. We stuck around and went back in the house after most of the others left. As I got a little bit drunk, I ended up talking and laughing with Jake and the four of us (me, Jake, the roommate that I used to text and the friend that I brought with me) ended up in Jake’s bed. Jake and I wanted to prove to the others that it was the most comfortable bed in existence. I left the party and didn’t feel bad about being dumped by Jake a few weeks prior.

The next time I saw him, it was only from afar. I was walking through campus talking to my mom on the phone and she was telling me that my dog died. I paused at a crosswalk and when I looked up, tears in my eyes, I saw Jake. He didn’t see me.

I periodically checked his Facebook and Instagram, then eventually forgot about him. By the end of my senior year when I remembered him, he had either blocked me or deleted all of his social media accounts. I still look for them sometimes, mostly just for a small sliver of hope that I could reconnect with him. Not so much because I miss him, but because I miss that bed.

Cockroaches, part 2: Bugpocalypse

My ten months in that apartment were filled with way too many cockroach encounters to count; let’s just say that I probably did irreparable damage to my lungs by spraying Raid around my bed every night just to try to keep them away.

The Raid worked most of the time; it didn’t always kill the roaches, but it at the very least flipped them over on their back, which made it easier to sweep them out the door.

One night in particular, though, the Raid failed me.

It was August 27, 2015, and I was doing what I had done basically every night since Maggie and I had moved in about two months earlier: sitting in my bed, back against the wall, computer on my lap, scrolling through Facebook or Twitter or Buzzfeed and/or whatever else. My bed in this apartment was just a mattress on the floor, so when I sat upright, the windowsill lined up basically with the back of my neck. Somewhere between midnight and 1am, I felt something tickle the back of my neck. With a plethora of cockroach sightings and killings already under my belt in that apartment, my mind immediately thought the worst. I hesitated to reach back, but when I did, I felt nothing but the cord hanging from the blinds.

I breathed a sigh of relief and carried on with internet scrolling. Less than five minute later, I felt it again. I jumped a little, but basically ignored the tickle of the cord. Mistake. This time what I thought was the cord from the blinds crawled around from the back of my neck, across my shoulder and down onto my chest. As usual, I was wearing a low-cut tank top, so this was flesh-to-insect contact. Yes, a cockroach was crawling across my body. ACROSS MY BODY. Not on my floor, not on my counter. ON MY BODY.

A calm person would have probably stood, let the bug fall, and then killed it. I am not a calm person. Upon realizing what was touching me, I immediately swatted it, sending it flying across the room into the dense ground covering of clothes that I keep year-round on my floor.

I panicked for about thirty seconds and then considered my options: I could no longer see the cockroach that just invaded my personal space, so I could just go on about my life like nothing happened; I could set out on a search for the offender that would probably require a search party and at least half the cast of Criminal Minds; or I could leave my life and all my things behind and never return.

I opted for the second option, but when Shemar Moore didn’t answer my text, I realized I was on my own. It was pretty late and Maggie had been asleep in her room for a few hours at this point, so I had to be quiet. I crept out of my room and into the kitchen to arm myself with the longest broom I could find. But first, I needed at least two cans of Raid.

I rounded the corner into our miniature kitchen (we only had half of a stove) to grab the Raid out of the cabinet underneath the sink, when my heart sank again. There, sitting in front of the refrigerator, posted up like he was ready to tear down a city, was a camel cricket the size of a newborn baby.

If you’ve never seen a camel cricket, please don’t Google it. I’ve been telling this story for years and, since no one had ever heard the term “camel cricket” before, I was beginning to think I made up the term and this creature was really something else completely. I wanted to make sure that all future reenactments and tellings of this epic are accurate, so I sucked it up and googled “camel cricket.” The second the image page loaded, I exited out and proceeded to gag. I was right. This beast in my kitchen was in fact a camel cricket. If you really want to see what a camel cricket looks like but are prone to retching at the sight of any bug, just watch the 2014 version of Godzilla. In this version of the monster movie, our favorite giant lizard is battling some distance relative, a gigantic winged creature referred to as “Massive Unidentified Terrestrial Organism,” or MUTO. I was disgusted by them when I saw the movie, but watching them on TV was nothing compared to knowing that I had been sharing a home with one for God knows who long.

camel cricket
This is EXACTLY what was living in my kitchen

Upon seeing the MUTO, my priorities immediately changed. I slowly backed away from the creature, never breaking eye contact. I made my way into the pantry, grabbed the broom and inched close enough to attempt an offensive attack. After one or two hits and maybe three or four screams, MUTO was dead. I managed to stay as far away from the carcass as possible as I inched it out the doorway with the broom. There was no way I was going to bend down and pick that thing up to dispose of it.

So, MUTO conquered. Back to Priority One: Bedroom Cockroach.

I went into my bedroom, feeling a little strong coming off of the victory in the kitchen, but still very scared of what was hiding in my room. For some reason, the idea of picking up a pile of clothes – my most prized possessions – and finding a cockroach stowed away was almost as appalling to me as having a cockroach crawl across my body. Almost.

But I had to do it. I went into my room, armed with a broom (I never found the Raid) and started hesitantly pushing clothes around. A few times, Bedroom Cockroach made an appearance, only to scurry to another pile of clothes.

Yes, I keep several, separate, piles of clothes on my bedroom floor at all times. There’s the dirty clothes pile, which is just an overflow from the laundry basket, then there’s the jackets and jeans that I’ve worn but aren’t dirty enough to be put in the dirty clothes pile, and then of course the pile full of other things that I try on and ultimately decide against, but am too lazy to hang back up. On the rare occasion what I completely clean my room, there’s usually still a pile left on the ground: the pile of things that just won’t fit in my closet because I ran out of hangers or because I don’t want to put too much weight on the hanging bar and make it fall to the ground (for a fourth time).

As Bedroom Cockroach made his way from the dirty clothes pile to the not-good-enough-to-wear-that-week pile, I was sure I was outsmarting him. This chase wasn’t going to last much longer.  I was right behind him when he ran under the edge of the clothes, and he went running again when I pushed them to the side. But the strange thing was that he wasn’t running away from me like he had been all night. He ran toward me; obviously, I was standing off of the ground, so he ran under me and under the bed. As I stepped down to corner him under the mattress, I glanced back at where he was running from. I’m not sure cockroaches have brains, but I’m pretty sure they all share the instinct to run away from the broom that is trying to crush them. So him running toward me seemed very strange.

As I looked back at the clothes, his actions made more sense. I was no longer the only threat in the room. There stood, looming over the room, was a camel cricket at least twice the size as the first, and much bigger than Bedroom Cockroach. Here I was again, in a stare-down with yet another Massive Unidentified Terrestrial Organism, not sure I could come out on top.

The way MUTO2 was positioned, it was very close to the clothes on the floor, but also very close to the bookshelf where I kept my clothes before they make it to the ground. I didn’t want to smash him into my clothes, but if I struck too far away from the clothes, I ran the risk of hitting the shelf and missing MUTO2 completely. As all these things are running through my head, I fixated on the idea that I could possibly miss if I swung my broom less than accurately. I pictured monster barely dodging my broom, letting out a roar that would shake the windows, then launching toward my face, wings sprawled, claws out. I wasn’t actually sure how high these things could jump, but anything that looks like it came from a sci-fi movie should never be underestimated.

I raised the broom over my head a few feeble times, not quite ready to attack. After what seemed like half an hour of staring down Godzilla’s nemesis, I realized that the longer I waited, the longer it had to act. This was it. I had to do it.

“Al,” I said to myself. “This is it. You’ve only got one shot, do not miss your chance to blow, this opportunity comes once in a lifetime…”

I swung the broom so hard that I was sure I put a crack in the earth; it happened so fast that I could barely see any connection between the broom and MUTO2, and at some point I started screaming.

The good news was that I didn’t yet have a camel cricket latched onto my face. The bad news was that MUTO2 was nowhere to be seen.

Some combination of the sound of the broom hitting the floor and me screaming managed to finally wake Maggie.

“Al?” She said feebly from behind her closed door. “What’s going on?”

I begged her to come out and help me. Not only was MUTO2 missing in action, but Bedroom Cockroach was still on the loose. I was losing this battle and they were probably calling in reinforcements.
“No. I’m naked,” she said.

“I don’t care! Please help!” Eventually I convinced her that I wasn’t going to shut up until she came out to help me. I broke down for her the events of the night so far. The most pressing issue was clearly the camel cricket: was it alive and hiding? Plotting its next attack? Or dead and smashed into a million pieces?

I was NOT about to get up close and personal with its hiding place to investigate, but from far away, I saw something that gave me a little hope.

“Is that a cricket leg or a string?” After a few minutes of coaxing Maggie to go up and check, we determined that it was almost positively a camel cricket appendage lost in the strike. I pretended I was following her to the place where the cricket was last seen, but I never planned on going any further than the doorway until it was confirmed that the monster was dead and removed.

Maggie poked around with the broom to try to find the carcass; each time she pushed a piece of clothing and another shifted or fell, she screamed, then I screamed. I’m starting to wonder why none of our neighbors came to the door to make sure we were OK.

After a few minutes of searching and screaming, Maggie found the body and I ran straight into the bathroom and closed the door while she disposed of it.

Feeling successful, Maggie was set to go back to bed. But that wasn’t the end. Bedroom Cockroach was still on the run and, by this time, had plenty of time to plan an escape route and/or attack plan. Although it was at least 2am at this point, I managed to get her to stay awake and help.

We cautiously pushed around the clothes on the floor, but Bedroom Cockroach was nowhere to be found.

“It’s gone,” Maggie kept saying. “I’m going to bed.”

“It is NOT gone!” I insisted.

Every time we found Bedroom Cockroach and lost him again in the dense forest of clothes, Maggie tried to convince me to give up. I suppose it wouldn’t have been such a bad idea to just go to bed, but there were a few things on my mind that I just couldn’t shake:

  1. How am I to be expected to sleep in a room where a predator, who had recently invaded my personal space, still lurks? Clearly he had no problem coming into my bed when I was awake, so what’s stopping him from crawling all over my body while I sleep?
  2. OK, say he doesn’t crawl all over my body while I’m asleep. Say I manage to fall asleep despite my constant feelings of fear and dread. Say I wake up in the morning, totally rested, not having been woken up by terrible nightmares featuring Bedroom Cockroach himself. Fine. BUT what about that morning when I woke up to get ready for work? What about my daily routine of tearing through piles of clothes looking for a flannel and jeans to wear that day? Would he be hiding under there waiting for me? Would he be inside of my favorite red and black buffalo plaid shirt and crawl out onto my hand while I was driving and cause me to wreck my car, injuring myself and possibly others?

I couldn’t take that chance.

“I’m not sleeping until this thing is dead,” I told Maggie. “And you’re not either.”

Because she’s such a great friend, she stayed up with me. We chased Bedroom Cockroach from pile to pile of clothes, Maggie swinging the broom and me acting like I was going to help from 10 feet away with a single shoe in my hand. Finally, around 3am, Bedroom Cockroach made the mistake of running through an open space on the floor (one of very few). We launched into action, both managing to land a hit on him. We mostly hit each other, though, so neither of us ended up fully hitting the pest.

We lost him again and, again, Maggie tried “OK now he’s really gone. That’s it.”

I still wasn’t giving up. After only a few more minutes of pushing socks and underwear around, he emerged. He crawled, wounded and desperate, from the pile of clothes toward the bed, where all this began. He had probably been living there for days before he made and appearance on my chest, so I can only assume he was making his way there to take his last breaths.

But we weren’t going to give him that pleasure.

With one soft hit with Maggie’s broom, he was dead. Crushed, lifeless, on the floor. I took absolutely no time to celebrate, because I knew what was coming next: the cleanup. As Maggie left the room to get something to wrap the carcass in, I followed her out then ran to the bathroom and locked myself in until she assured me that the house was cockroach-free (at least, as far as we knew).


Even with Bedroom Cockroach vanquished, I wasn’t comfortable sleeping in that room. Maggie was feeling a little burst of energy from all the excitement, so we went into the living room and turned on Broad City. I ended up going back to bed close to 5am, after picking up a drunk friend from a frat party just because I happened to still be awake. After all of this, he should be thankful for Bedroom Cockroach or else he would have been walking through campus barefoot all night.

I wish I could say that this was my last encounter with cockroaches in that apartment, but it was just the beginning. We won the battle, but the next ten months were riddled with a bloody war with casualties on both sides.

The few places I’ve lived since leaving that apartment in early 2016 have been surprisingly cockroach-free. But the memory of Bugpocolypse 2015 lives on; every time a piece of lint flutters onto the ground, every time a slight breeze moves something that catches my attention out of the corner of my eye, I go into panic mode for a second.

Cockroaches, part 1

I’ve lived in a few different places so far in my life. Not a lot of places, but a few. My first venture out of the house where I grew up was into a newly renovated college dorm. It had shiny new floors, sturdy beds, central air conditioning and a semi-private bathroom. I didn’t spend much time thinking about the future at that point in my life, but I definitely had no idea that the future of my housing situation would forever pale in comparison.

My sophomore year of college wasn’t much worse. I moved to a different dorm with larger rooms but older facilities.  There was no elevator, window-unit ACs and radiators that I never fully figured out how to use, and paint that chipped off the walls and fell into my bed, revealing the asbestos-filled underlying structure. But it was fine.

As the end of my second year in a dorm approached, I was counting down the days until I had my own apartment: more importantly, my own bedroom and bathroom. Sure, my friends and I signed a lease in the apartment complex that had the worst reputation in Chapel Hill since at least the 1980s, but I wasn’t worried. It had a shorter walk to campus than any other apartment complex, and, with four people sharing a 3-bedroom, our rent was basically nothing.

The floors in Townhouse 6H were warped and slanted toward the center of every room; there was rarely hot water; the internet never worked; each room had a ten degree temperature difference from the one beside it; and we were pretty sure we had a ghost living there who constantly opened all the cabinets in the kitchen, but it was our home. Those two years in Townhouse were two of the best years of my life so far and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

There was one thing, though, that made me contemplate leaving Townhouse and never going back.

Every time I got into my ridiculously small shower (after waiting 20 minutes for the water to get hot), I was joined by not one, not two, but an entire family of cockroaches: very clearly a mother, father, two and a half children and what I can only assume is a live-in mother-in-law.

I’m not sure why me being in the shower coaxed them to come out every time – maybe it was their idea of some sort of tropical vacation into a steamy rainforest or something – but it never failed.

Now, let’s get one thing straight while we’re still in the beginning of this story: I do not fuck with bugs. Of any kind. I think they’re rude for thinking they can hang out anywhere humans hang out without being invited and they have got some damn nerve to exist and travel in such large numbers.

Typically, I make someone around me kill any bug that comes near me. And there lay the problem with my shower visitors: I was the only one around. Unfortunately, I almost always shower alone. Even if I hadn’t been painfully single, there was only room for one person in that shower, so I was always going to be on my own to face Mr. and Mrs. Roach. Most of the time, I was quick enough to smash one or two of them with my shampoo bottle before the others ran back into the small crack in the grout where they came from.

Killing a bug is never the end of the terror for me, because there’s still a carcass to be disposed of. Usually I gag the entre time as I find a way to simultaneously be as far away from the deceased bug as possible while also moving it to a trash can or incinerator or whatever receptacle is closest. This is the one and only positive thing about my daily shower battles with the cockroaches: all it took was a swift sweep of the murder weapon to push the departed down the drain. On one occasion, the drunk uncle that they brought on vacation with them was too large to fit through the openings in the drain cover, but I managed to take care of that too (after a few minutes of screaming for my roommate to come help, to no avail).

One night during the summer before senior year, my roommate (I’ll leave her name out, but let’s call her Krazy) and I were getting ready to go out just like we did every other Tuesday night. She was in her room changing into her fourth outfit possibility while I was going into the kitchen, T Pain blaring from the speaker on my phone, to take the first of many shots of Aristocrat vodka to be taken that night.

As I was standing there dancing alone, shot glass in hand, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Just a quick movement on the corner of the counter where our dishes rested in the drying rack. I was hesitant to turn and look, fearing the worst. When I finally turned my gaze, there he was: a cockroach the size of a small dog. He and I made eye contact as he waltzed slowly out onto the open counter on two feet and posted up on the corner and lit a cigarette. If there’s something I hate more than seeing cockroaches, it’s seeing cockroaches walk leisurely around MY HOME like they pay rent.

Of course, I had to document the entire debacle.

I hope for your sakes that those of you reading this have never experienced a cockroach up close; and for those of you who have been so unfortunate, I really hope you’ve only seen them running full speed. A relaxed cockroach is an image you can never burn from your memory.

I was alone with this giant, so I had no idea what to do. He was still a few feet away from me, but there was nothing within my reach to crush him with or to just throw at him. Plus, there were dishes all around, so any stray swing could cause severe damage. I made the coward’s decision and immediately ran to Krazy’s room.

“Krazy!” I screamed. “You have GOT to come in here! Help!”

I’m sure she knew what was coming, but she still asked. I knew if I told her that a bug the size of a party-size bag of Doritos was setting up camp in our kitchen, she wouldn’t come to help. After a few minutes of insisting that she “just COME,” I told her. We ultimately agreed that two of us against the cockroach was a better idea than just one, then crept up to the kitchen doorway. We peered into the room and saw no sign of the freeloader, so we stepped in cautiously.

Presumably smelling our fear, the previously chill cockroach made an aggressive appearance, sending us screaming and running out of the room. The screaming continued down the hallway and back into Krazy’s room, where we closed the door and agreed to stay in there and pretend nothing happened.

Only about a minute later, I got a call from our friend Aly, who was at our front door ready to go out. I ran past the kitchen to the door to let her in and she asked, eyes half-closed “were y’all just screaming? I could hear it when I was walking over.”

After I told her what happened, she didn’t skip a beat; she took off her sandal, sauntered into the kitchen, found and killed the cockroach in less than thirty seconds.  She came back into Krazy’s room where we were still hiding and we just looked at her, mouths open with surprise and disgust.

“Whatever, dude,” she said in her typical surfer-girl affect. We went on with the night and eventually our lives like nothing had happened, but I still feel like I owe a large debt to Aly.


Shortly after the kitchen cockroach debacle, maintenance at Townhouse finally did something about all the complaints. I’m sure they were coming from everyone in the complex, but I doubt anyone complained as much as we did. That is what we do best and most, after all: complain.

Senior year started out pretty bug-free; the only interaction worth noting wasn’t even at my apartment. I was at a friend’s house getting ready to go out (if you’re sensing a common theme here, you’re not wrong), listening to Katy Perry’s newest song, when I saw what I thought was a small bug crawling out of the bathroom toward us. As it came into clearer view, I realized that it was not a small bug, but a medium-sized cockroach, which is still too big. It was making a beeline for us, so I had to act fast. Without speaking a word or making a sound, I planted my hands on Maggie’s shoulders and pushed her while I jumped back in the opposite direction. She stumbled back, caught her balance, and just stared at me in confusion. I immediately realized that simply telling her that a giant bug was running towards us probably would have been just as effective, or even more effective since she could’ve jumped into action and done something about it. Instead, there we were, standing five feet apart, staring at each other, and the cockroach had already found another hiding place.

Maggie forgave me for assaulting her when I told her that it was basically a matter of life and death, and then we got back to Katy Perry and forgot about the cockroach. Out of sight, out of mind.

Not too long later, it made an appearance again and, true to form, I threw Maggie into action and then immediately jumped into a chair. This fight was a slightly longer and louder one than the one between Aly and Kitchen-Cockroach back home, but ultimately Maggie came out the victor. All I did to help was video her screaming and post it on Instagram.

After Townhouse, I moved to an apartment in Key West that was filled with cigarettes and other unknown drugs that our deadbeat roommates cycled through the doors, but there weren’t many bugs. I think Key West is too hot for even Satan’s messengers.

When I moved back to North Carolina, I moved into house with a college friend and her roommates. I didn’t see a single bug in that house in the six months that I lived there. My room was consistently 42 degrees even into the summer, the doors were difficult to open and a squirrel once died in our chimney, but at least there were no bugs.

After that house, I moved into another apartment in Chapel Hill that rivals Townhouse in terms of quality. Glen Lennox had also been a Chapel Hill staple since long before I was born, had warped floors and plumbing problems. The main difference is that instead of college students, we were surrounded by families with children and pets. The main similarity, though, lie within the walls…

Moped Misery


One thing you’re bound to notice when you visit Key West – or move there blindly a week after graduating college – is that the town is filled with scooters. They’re zipping down every road and every corner has designated scooter parking. The scooters in Key West are a lot like the people: a lot of them are barely holding on to their parts and can usually be found lying on the side of the road; there are some that are decent-looking and somewhat reliable; a select few are shiny and new, but they don’t stay that way for very long.

Since I moved to Key West with very little money, it seemed like having a scooter of my own was completely out of the question. I paid $200 for a bike (twice) and already that was too expensive for me. But I basically won the transportation jackpot during my second week there when Lenzie acquired a brand new pink scooter. Sure, it wasn’t mine and Lenzie and I rarely spent time together because of our work schedules, but at least we had a scooter in the family. It felt like we were moving up in the world and moving up fast.



There was a catch, though. Lenzie was borrowing this scooter five days a week from a friend of a friend in exchange for cleaning this woman’s house once a week (a job which basically consisted of lint rolling an inch-thick layer of dog hair off of every surface in the place). She lucked into this arrangement one night when she was out at dinner with a group of people and mentioned in passing that she was biking four miles from our apartment to her job every day. This lady only used her scooter on weekends, so she was happy to share with Lenzie.

The only thing equally as terrifying as riding in a car with Lenzie driving is riding on the back of a scooter that Lenzie is driving. There is one thing and one thing only more terrifying than both of these things, and that is riding on the back of a jet ski that Lenzie is driving. But that’s a story for another day.

Lenzie has never driven a vehicle without attempting to make it go its top speed at all times and, even though the top speed of this scooter was only 40mph, the wind in my face and Lenzie’s hair in my mouth made it feel more like 100mph. Lenzie’s lack of patience also led to a lot of fear that my elbow or knee would be caught on a passing car as she made her own lane in between moving traffic whenever she saw fit.

One more thing that frightened me about Lenzie’s scooter driving was her tendency to make very tight 3-point turns. When she was backing out of a parking spot, instead of backing completely into the lane where she would be driving and simply pulling away in a straight line, she would only turn slightly and have to take a half-moon turn as her first forward motion to avoid hitting whatever she was parked beside.

This last thing didn’t scare me too much, though, because it usually didn’t affect me. Balancing a person on the back of a scooter while you’re driving is already difficult, but when you’re not using the gas and pushing the whole thing on your toes (that’s how you “reverse” on a scooter), it’s nearly impossible. So when I was riding anywhere with Lenzie, I would let her back out and get into position before I would get on behind her.

About a week into Lenzie’s scooter timeshare, she and I were at a bar with a 50-year-old man who was obsessed with me and his 30-year-old friend that he was trying to set up with Lenzie when our friends called and invited us to dinner later that night. After happy hour was over, we said our goodbyes to these strange men and made our way around the corner where Lenzie’s scooter was parked. Surprisingly enough, we left this happy hour – where someone else had been buying us drinks – pretty sober (at least relative to how I’ve walked out of every single other happy hour since then). But something was clouding our judgement just enough for us to forget about our scooter-mounting routine.

We approached her hot pink scooter, the cutest one by far in the row of 10 scooters it was parked in, and hopped right on. Lenzie pushed us back on her toes, barely turning, then cranked the engine and hit the ignition. Almost in slow motion, we lurched forward and she commenced her signature half-moon turn maneuver, this time tighter than ever. I saw it coming, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt; she had been doing this every day and, as far as I know, hadn’t hit anything yet. I should have jumped off when my fear kicked in.

The next thing I remember after feeling the front of our scooter T-bone the scooter next to ours was spitting a wad of Lenzie’s hair out of my mouth as we lay face-first on top of our scooter and the neighboring three on the ground.

As I was pushing myself off of Lenzie’s back, I fully realized what happened. Still in slow motion, I spun my head around as far as possible to both sides to see if anyone else saw what happened. There was a man standing outside of the restaurant where we’d parked, but he didn’t seem to care. I knew though that the owners of the scooters we toppled over like dominos were sitting inside that very restaurant, probably sitting by the open window where they could definitely hear the commotion of a multi-scooter, multi-human pile up.

I braced myself for a rush of people coming to yell at us, and I looked down at Lenzie, ready to blame her in a heartbeat. In the 30 seconds that I took to look around, Lenzie had managed to come back from the fear-induced blackout that her body forces upon her as a defense mechanism and was also taking in the situation.

She planted her hands on the pavement and attempted to push herself up, but she didn’t get far. Her summery tank top with its deep V neck was tangled into a mess around the handle bars, basically tying her to the ground. As if this situation wasn’t already embarrassing enough, her typical strapless bikini top that she consistently wears as a bra now that she lives in the Caribbean was also caught on the handle bar, and it stayed there when she pushed her body up and away from the scooter. We may have ruined our day, but Lenzie’s boobs definitely made the days of the five hobos that were hanging out at the nearby marina that day.

Once we got her shirt off of the scooter and her boobs back in her shirt, Lenzie immediately started scheming.

“Al, this is a secret,” she said as I picked up all the other scooters off the ground, blood running down my legs.

The scooter wouldn’t start and one of the mirrors was completely broken off, so I didn’t see how we could keep the fact that we just wrecked a scooter that we didn’t own a secret, especially since the person who actually did own it was expecting us to meet her for dinner within the next half hour.

As we walked to meet our friends just a few blocks away, Lenzie pushing the scooter, we came up with our cover story. We were afraid to tell them that both of us were on the scooter because that already made it sound like we were being reckless, so here’s the entire story as our friends heard it:

I was standing a few feet away from the scooter parking with my back turned to Lenzie, watching the hobos try to get their three-legged dog to chase the chickens that were passing through the patio of the nearby restaurant. As previously practiced, I was going to get on the back of the scooter once she was clear of any obstacles. As she backed out of the parking spot, the car that was parked in the spot directly beside the scooter parking also pulled out of its spot, the careless driver failing to take in his surroundings. Since he was just leaving a parking spot, he wasn’t going very fast, but fast enough to send Lenzie over the handlebars and her boobs out of her shirt. By the time I turned around to see if Lenzie was ready for me yet, she was already on the ground and the driver of the car was checking to make sure she was OK. She was, so we just all agreed to move on with our days.

I don’t know if y’all are familiar with the shape of a scooter, but the bulk of its weight is in the back, where a passenger would sit if he were riding along. Since I was not on the scooter in this story that Lenzie concocted, there was no explanation for my limp and bloody shins that were caused by the entire scooter falling on top of me. I had to wipe up the blood before we saw our friends and just pretend like I wasn’t hurt at all. I knew that keeping our reputation and keeping the scooter was more important than my minor injuries, so I decided not to be bitter about Lenzie getting all the sympathy for being hurt.

Lenzie was relieved to find out that the mirror was an easy replacement and that the scooter would start again after a little time. Our friends continued to believe that Lenzie was hit by a car and occasionally asked why we didn’t report the accident or at least hold the car driver responsible, but one the scooter was fixed, this whole debacle was basically behind us.

In the next few months, Lenzie bought that scooter for herself, then it proceeded to get towed, stolen, dumped in the salt pond and rebuilt, only to sit in the parking lot outside Lenzie’s new apartment for years after I moved away. I’ll leave those stories for her to tell.

I spent the next few months occasionally riding on the back of Lenzie’s scooter, but mostly riding my bike and in very expensive taxis. When I got off work at the hotel around the corner from our apartment on a Friday night at 8pm, I would debate whether the 4-mile bike ride and inevitable layer of sweat was worth it just to get some drinks basically by myself. I was still young and hopeful back then, so usually I decided that it was worth it. I always regretted that choice around midnight when I had to stop drinking in order to sober up enough to bike home a few hours later. Being tipsy and riding a bike isn’t necessarily the most dangerous thing, but I was not about to lose another bike to a vodka-cranberry-induced blackout. On rare occasions, I couldn’t pass up free drinks being handed to me by older men who were trying to impress me (or by Lenzie, who was my bartender of choice for obvious reasons), so I kept drinking into the night and had to pay $25 plus tip for a cab to take me and my bike back home.

Right as I was beginning to master the bike ride from my apartment to my favorite bars – which routes were the shortest, had the most shade, the best breezes – I was over it. Biking downtown wasn’t as difficult as it had been a few months before, but the time commitment was wearing on my nerves. But there was no end in sight. I had moved to Key West months before with no money, so all the money I had been earning at work was going straight to credit card bills and to Lenzie, who paid our first month’s rent and security deposit. Once I got a little caught up on my credit cards and paid Lenzie back, it still seemed like the possibility of upgrading from a bike to a scooter was just out of reach. I was going to be stuck at my boring job forever just because it was the only place I could ride my bike to every day.

But after a lot of soul searching and Craigslist searching, I made a decision. I was going to get a scooter for myself. I didn’t care if it was cute or even reliable. I found an ad asking for $400 for a scooter that only kick-started and I was determined. I emptied out my bank account, met up with a little gay man who only had three teeth and 4 dogs, and purchased a scooter.

I didn’t really know how to drive it and the headlights didn’t work, but I was probably happier that day than I had ever been before. I drove it straight home and started looking for new jobs online. Since I was significantly more mobile now, I could tear myself away from the hotel front desk and the awful uniform that they made me wear and take myself downtown every day for a job that I would actually enjoy. Or, if I couldn’t find a job that I would enjoy, at least I could find one that was closer to bars.

Sometime after I found a new job and had given notice to the hotel, I scooted myself downtown for a night out. In the few weeks that I had been travelling on scooter, I used the same method for getting home as I had with my bike: sober up for an hour or two before leaving the bar. Something happened this particular night that made me forget my own rule and, around 3am I hopped on my scooter outside of the gay bar. As soon as I hit the throttle, my body was on the ground and my scooter was several yards away. I looked around to make sure no one had seen what just happened, then got back on the scooter to try again. This time I made it all the way to the corner, but as soon as I started to turn, the scooter flew out from under me. This time I didn’t have time to pick myself up off the ground; before I knew it, I was being hoisted up by the back of my shirt and thrown into a cab. I caught a quick glimpse of my savior before the cab door closed: Mah Jong, a drag queen who was well over 70 years old.

The next time I went back to that bar, I thanked Mah Jong for not letting me get back on my scooter; she acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about, then gave me a wink before walking away. In the hundreds of times I’ve been back to see drag shows at that bar in the years since that incident, I always made sure to avoid eye contact with Mah Jong. Mostly because I’m still embarrassed, but also because her act always sucks and I didn’t want to have to tip her.

The transportation tables slightly turned in September of that year when Lenzie’s scooter was stolen and later found in a pond. After a ridiculous day of driving up and down Highway 1 in a U-Haul, Lenzie’s scooter spent a while in the shop, so now it was my turn to drive her around like she had done for me for so long before.

One afternoon after a morning of rain, I scooted Lenzie down to the shop to check on the progress of her scooter. We had a date with our best friends for dinner later that night, but, as usual, Lenzie wanted a mid-afternoon meal beforehand. On our way home to get ready, she leaned in close to me from her spot on the back of my scooter and asked if I would stop at Wendy’s to get a baked potato, our favorite snack. I was happy to oblige and, right as we set eye on the Wendy’s, Lenzie leaned up to my ear again.

“You know who has really good baked potatoes? OUTBACK.” Key West’s Outback Steakhouse was in the same shopping center as the Wendy’s, so it wouldn’t have been out of our way to just go there instead, but I thought that was ridiculous.

“NO,” I said. “I am not going to Outback an hour before we go to dinner! We’re going to Wendy’s.”

“But Outback’s potatoes…”

That was all Lenzie could get out before my brain went into panic mode. As I began to turn into the parking lot of the Wendy’s-Outback-Rainbow-Publix-Sears shopping center, I felt the back tire of my scooter slip sideways on a patch of oil left behind by the perpetual construction on that particular strip of highway. Suddenly, Lenzie’s rambling about potato toppings faded out of my mind and all I could do was focus on steadying us. We straightened up in an instant and I was relieved as I left panic-mode, snapped out of slow motion and back into real life.

“…they have this butter…”

Barely a second later, Lenzie’s voice was gone again as I felt us fishtail a second time. I was sure I could catch myself again, but this time it wasn’t as easy. As the world around me moved in slow motion again, I felt the scooter slipping out from under us. This is it, I thought. Our last words are going to be about baked potatoes. After this thought, I was at peace with our evident death.

Sometime later, I opened my eyes to sharp pain all over the right side of my body. I looked around and saw a car with its hazard lights on in front of me, my scooter on the ground beside me and Lenzie on the ground behind me. I wasn’t in too much pain, so I started to laugh, thinking Lenzie would join in. As my eyes made their way up from the scooter to Lenzie’s face, I stopped laughing. There she was, my best friend, lying motionless on the ground, mouth open, tongue out. I had really killed Lenzie.

Before I could process any further, I heard a voice over top of me and, instead of God coming to collect us, it was a pregnant woman asking if we were OK. Something about this woman’s voice shook Lenzie back to life. I was almost in a sitting position by the time her eyes opened, and when we made eye contact, she seemed to understand immediately what happened. All she said was “uuuhhhhh…”

I pulled her up off the ground, shooed the pregnant lady away and put us back onto the scooter, which was miraculously still running. The discussion wasn’t long, but we ultimately agreed that potatoes could wait. We weren’t sure, but we assumed that we didn’t have any bandages or anything to clean our wounds with at home, so we went into Publix. We limped slowly through the aisles, covered in blood and moaning in pain and found some first aid supplies. We made it all the way through the store, through check-out and out the door looking exactly like zombies and didn’t get a single “are you OK?” from any of the staring people surrounding us.

The next few days at work were exactly the opposite: every person walking past me asked what happened when they saw my bloody arm and legs. When I told them I crashed my scooter, their first question was never “are you OK?” but almost always “How drunk were you?” And I had to answer that question with a phrase that I’m considering getting tattooed on my body because of how often I have to say it:

“I’m not drunk all the time, y’all.”

Dating without Expiating, LA: Richard

Recently, a friend of mine posted on Facebook asking for stories of bad dates. I knew this was my time to shine since storytelling is (obviously) one of my favorite things to do. Especially when those stories are mostly negative and completely humorous. I tried and tried to think about the worst date I had been on and, to my surprise, none of them were that bad. Honestly, I haven’t been on many dates, and the ones I have been on have mostly been mediocre. I settled on a story of what I considered my “worst” date, a date that was bad because I made it that way. But thinking about all the boys that I have been on dates with got me thinking about something new: a date series.
So here it is: I’m going to take all you readers (all three of you) on a journey through my dating life, bad and good, starting in 2012. I have a surprisingly detailed memory when I really set my mind to it, so these stories will likely be a lot more drawn out than they need to be. Hopefully it’s somewhat entertaining.

Dating without Expiating LA: Richard

expiate (v.): to do something as a way to show that you are sorry about doing something bad

The same night that I matched with Cale, I began a conversation with another boy, Richard.

This conversation was much different. I started off by telling him that I sometimes attempt to be a writer, but I was feeling unmotivated lately.

“Well soon you’ll be able to write about our perfect first date that leads to a whirlwind romance and ultimately culminates in me breaking your heart. So that’ll be fun,” he said.

Immediately I knew I had found someone special, or at least interesting, which is most important. We went on to discuss how we would make our first date terrible and who would ultimately be the one to ruin it. I kind of got the sense at some points that he wasn’t kidding, which made me even more interested in him. Either he was smooth enough to carry on a completely ridiculous conversation without missing a beat, or he was a sadist. I liked both options.

Richard grew up “in” LA (more like LA-adjacent) and was going to some design school learning to design cars. The fact that he was a “womb-to-tomb Angeleno” (his words) could definitely be used to my advantage. I had been in LA less than a week and my roommate was mostly working so I didn’t really have anyone to show me around. I was determined to not mess this one up in the hopes of at least getting a tour out of it.

As the Tinder conversation continued, he kept bringing up the date that we were eventually going to go on and subsequently ruin somehow. He was thrown when I told him I don’t drink coffee or eat sushi – respectfully so, since those are LA’s two favorite things, especially for a first date. The date conversation continued, seemingly as a joke. At this point I didn’t know if he actually wanted to go on a date with me or if we were going to continue this joke forever. We eventually made our way into picking a day and time for our “disaster date.”

I ended the conversation on Tinder as I normally do: a detailed description of a ritual sacrifice and my phone number. The date was set for Thursday of that week.


On Wednesday, if you recall, I spent the night with Cale. I liked Cale so much that I considered canceling with Richard for later that night. But then I remembered that if something seems too good to be true, it is, so I might as well keep my options open. I also really liked the possibility of the date with Richard going well and eventually dating two guys at once. Delusions like these are why I should wear an ID bracelet that says “don’t get your hopes up, Jack.”

After pestering me to pick a place for our date and getting nothing from me because I had literally lived in LA for 4 days, Richard planned for us to go to a rooftop bar in Downtown LA.  I had him pick me up from my apartment because I was scared to drive and park downtown and also because I like feeling like a princess.

As my pickup time approached, I managed my time poorly, as usual. After I took a long shower while listening to Taylor Swift and dried and styled my hair, I had about ten minutes to pick out an outfit. I have a knack for just throwing outfits together, but it only works when the “I’m too cool to give a fuck if I’m underdressed” vibe is appropriate. Usually I think it is, mostly because I’m too cool to give a fuck, but this time it wasn’t. This was a first date and the place we were going sounded pretty fancy.

This was in early October, so the temperature in Southern California was a consistent 95 degrees; I texted Richard to ask if I could wear cut-off shorts and a tank-top, my go-to summer look. He basically said “um, maybe you should try to step it up a bit. Maybe we’ll go to a trailer park on our second date.”

So I found some shorts that were still inappropriately short (I wasn’t going to go off-brand just for some boy who’s taking me to a fancy rooftop bar), but not shredded or frayed and threw a button-up over my tank-top. I had just slid on a pair of white sneakers with a watercolor flow print when he texted saying he was outside my building.

Side note: why do boys not come to the door anymore? I live with a 25 year old struggling stand-up comedian, not my large bulking father with a collection of shotguns. Is picking your date up at the door really a part of the “chivalry” that everyone says is dead? Or do they not teach young boys to do that outside of the South? Maybe it’s an LA thing because finding a place to park for two minutes while you go ring the doorbell would add another 15 minutes to your travel time.

I took one last glance in the mirror before I headed out and really felt that something was off. I was wearing three different shades of blue and two clashing prints overtop of one another, but I really felt those were working for me. I figured it out as Richard sat outside waiting in his car: the addition of the collared button-up shirt made the whole look a little too preppy for me. And by “a little too preppy,” I mean only a little preppy, which is too much for me. It was too late to change the whole look and I almost cried when I realized I didn’t really have any other option. I only own tank-tops and he’d already shot that down, so my only option was the button-up.

Then it hit me: the shoes. I was and still am absolutely in love with the shoes, but they’ve never been very “me.” I ditched them and threw on my combat boots and I finally felt like myself again. I ran out the door hoping that I didn’t look too weird, but knew that it was better this way. He should know now.

I got into his tiny car and was sort of surprised when I got a look at him. It wasn’t that he didn’t look like his Tinder pictures, it was just that I had forgotten what his Tinder pictures looked like. I had been so obsessed with Cale for the past 18 hours that I couldn’t remember what any other boy looked like. Ultimately it was OK because he was cute.

Instead of making small talk in the car, he demanded that I tell him a secret. I’ve made it a policy to keep all my friends’ secrets but never hold any of my own, so that wasn’t going to be an easy task. Plus, who tells a secret on a first date? Me. I told him my one and only secret that no one – outside of the full bar of people who witnessed it happen – will ever know. When I become famous and he ultimately talks to tabloids about me, he better not tell them.

We got downtown and found a parking space and when he stepped out of the car, I was relieved to see that he was also wearing shorts and combat boots. His were Doc Martens and I got mine half-off at Rack Room and the laces have several knots in them where they’ve broken and I’ve tied them together, but basically we were on the same page.

When we made it to the roof of the Ace Hotel, he paid for our first round of drinks and we found some seats outside by the pool. (Yeah.)

I had to take a moment to look at the view of Downtown and the rest of LA, which I thought was a very normal thing to do for someone who just arrived. He didn’t quite get what I was doing, so I had to cut my viewing time short and refrain from walking to all the other sides of the building to take in all the views.

I did a lot of talking on this date, as I normally do, mostly about my best friend and all the things I adore about her. I got so used to her going on dates with me in college that I think I formed a subconscious need for her to be somewhat present on every date.

I also made a lot of jokes about how much I hate life and how I wished every day that a plane engine would crash into my house, killing me on impact. Over the past few years, I’ve managed to remove most of the emotion from my voice and face, so the more I joked, the more I probably seemed serious. I could tell with every passing minute that what I was doing was wrong and he was probably going to end the date early and just pass me off to a police officer on the street to either take me home or to a mental hospital.

I managed to make it until about midnight before he needed to leave. When we got back to his car, it really hit me again how awful I was and I overcompensated by asking every small-talk question I could think of on the ride home. He hugged me when I got out of the car at my apartment; there was no attempt at a kiss or mention of a second date.

Knowing that I had ruined that date didn’t bother me too much. At this point I had no idea Cale was going to ghost on me so soon, especially after we’d made semi-concrete plans to see each other again, so I had my obsession with him on the backburner to get me through the pain of a ruined date.

Also, Richard and I had promised each other a disastrous date, so basically I delivered.

The next night I got drunk and went out with my roommate and, of course, texted Cale. At some point early in the night he told me he was going to bed, but I needed attention so I texted Richard. I found a funny picture that said “I avoca-don’t want to be alive” online while I was in line for the bathroom, so I sent it to him hoping that it would break the ice. Or at least confirm that I had been joking when I talked about dying for four hours straight.



To my surprise, he responded. It was something normal and not along the lines of “please never contact me again,” so I was feeling good.  Before I blacked out, he made a comment about how attractive he thought I was and I was baffled because I genuinely thought he wasn’t interested. I was too drunk to play it cool, so I told him I was baffled. Another good move.

The next day, I realized that I had texted him one more time post-blackout, something that made absolutely no sense. I texted him to apologize and it led to a nice conversation. Maybe I will get to juggle two boys at once, I thought. I should never listen to myself. Don’t get your hopes up, Jack.

This was a drunken attempt to apologize for something else I said; I’ve always been too afraid to scroll up and see what that was.

The next day, Cale stopped responding to my texts. For a while I kind of hoped that he was hospitalized for being attacked by a Hillary Clinton supporter and was going to text me in a week once he’d been discharged. That didn’t happen, so I wasn’t juggling two guys. But on the plus side, I did get to juggle Richard (he’s a handful).

School kept Richard pretty busy, so I didn’t see him much. We texted every day, though, which is good enough for me. I didn’t realize I could simultaneously get attention and be alone in my bedroom, but there was a way and this was it.

The second time I saw him was about two weeks later, on Halloween. I met up with him and a few of his friends on Santa Monica and we had a grand time. I don’t know when I managed to get as drunk as I was, since I hadn’t had time to drink all that much, but my memory of being with his friends is only about 20% there. Once my roommate finally made it out, I arranged for him to come meet me and Richard wherever it was that we were standing. Richard’s friends decided to leave, but he stayed with me, which is a lot sweeter than I realized in that moment.

In the few minutes between his friends leaving and my roommate arriving, I did something that I’m almost too embarrassed to write. Something I’ve never done and never plan to do again. We had been inching closer and closer to each other in the few hours that we were together, but the moment never really came, so I decided to make the moment while I had a chance.

“Hey…” I interrupted him. “Can I kiss you?”

Luckily he did not laugh in my face; he just nodded and puckered up for the shortest kiss of my life. I felt like an idiot. He told me the next day that he thought it was cute and that he immediately texted his friend about it when I wasn’t paying attention. That still doesn’t make me feel much better about it.

Richard and I made our way to a bar with my roommate and his boyfriend du jour and ended up making out and dancing all night with what I thought was a group of strangers*. Over the course of the night, my roommate nearly got into a fight with one of these strangers and I tried to convince Richard to steal something from them. I found out about a week later that they were not strangers, but actually good friends of Richards, which is why he wouldn’t steal from them.

*We only danced with the strangers, not made out with them.

After being at the bar for about half an hour, we stopped dancing for a minute and were approached by a lesbian couple. “Are you two dating?” one of them asked.

It’s very rare that I’m speechless, but I honestly had no idea what to say in that moment. The sane answer was “no, not exactly” or something vague like that. I looked at Richard to see if he was as confused as I was, but he wasn’t.


Apparently we were dating.

Once we left the bar, I walked hand-in-hand with Richard for about 4 miles until we reached his car elsewhere in West Hollywood and he drove me home.

Over the next week or so, we continued to text, but the mood changed. He was snarky more often than he was flirty and sometimes it seemed inconvenient for me to be talking to him. Almost everything I said to him was made into a joke, or he would just find a way to poke fun at me. I convinced myself for a while that it was just his sense of humor and that he really was flirting, but it got old fast.

I never really analyzed my feelings for him to see if putting up with his bratty-ness was worth it, and I just continued to go along with it. I had someone paying me some attention, after all, even if it was forced and occasionally just mean.

About a week after Halloween, we found a time to hang out and he took me to In N Out Burger, which I pretended to like because it seems like life in LA depends on it. I mean, it was fine, but clearly no one from LA has ever been to the East Coast, home of Cook Out. But Richard swore In N Out was then end-all-be-all of fast food, mostly because it was LA-based. Actually, he was absolutely obsessed with LA in all aspects. On our first date and in the weeks after, I talked about all the places I wanted to see and live in the future and he scoffed at every one of them. “It’s just not LA,” he would say.

That date was awkward – a lot of forced conversation that was almost entirely prompted by me. He apologized, saying that he was just tired from a long week at school and I believed him. I told myself that if he really didn’t want to be doing this anymore, he wouldn’t have agreed to see me again.

So that thought held me over for the next week or so of snarky texts from him. Turns out I was right for once, because once he decided he didn’t want to be doing it anymore, I didn’t see him again.

It was a Friday and we were in the middle of a completely normal text conversation; actually it was slightly abnormal because it was relatively light-hearted compared to the conversations we’d shared in the weeks prior. I asked him if he wanted to hang out that Sunday because I had the day off. No response. I’m guessing I just wasn’t LA enough.


To me, there’s nothing more despicable when it comes to dating than just ignoring a person instead of actually ending things. But I’ve learned over the past few years that it’s easiest to just let people go when they want to be let go. Almost every fiber of my being wanted to text him and tell him what a bratty jerk he was, but I knew that wouldn’t solve anything. It would probably even make him feel a little better about himself.

So I was doing pretty well pretending I was over him and unaffected by his general assholery, but then I came across an opportunity that I couldn’t pass up. I had been reading Anna Kendrick’s memoir, “Scrappy Little Nobody,” which focuses a lot on how difficult it is to live and date in LA. She provided me with the perfect “final” thing to say to Richard, so my last text to him is this:


I felt it was the least crazy thing to pull out of my basket of crazy things that I keep on hand for boys who reject me. As expected, he never responded.