I hesitated to write about this for a long time, mainly because I couldn't seem to put a humorous spin on it no matter how hard I tried. It's hard to see the humor in a bad romantic situation, but time has a way of numbing old wounds and revealing the comedy inherent in almost all things romantic. So, without further delay, I give you:
The Long Distance Lesbian
I met Martha (name changed because it's neat to change names) completely by accident. She became a fan of my weekly newspaper column, and she finally worked up the nerve to e-mail me the same week she was about to move about 3.5 hours away.
I'm always happy to hear from fans who like my column, although it happens about once every nine months. I like keeping in touch with people who enjoy my columns, because it means there are people out there who are warped enough to laugh at my sense of humor.
Martha was different, though. She wanted to meet me for drinks. This had never happened before, and I felt a bit awkward, and so did she. In the end, she lost her nerve, and I was actually a little bit relieved myself. I didn't feel comfortable becoming too familiar with someone who contacted me just because she liked my column. There was something a bit "not right" about that.
Still, Martha kept e-mailing me even after she moved away, and we corresponded back and forth for about three months. And I became entranced by her witty and intelligent writing. I started wondering what she looked like. I knew she was my age, and we shared a lot of the same interests, so it was natural that I become curious.
Finally, I asked for her phone number, which she gave me, and I called her two days later, an acceptable interval of time that I believed showed that I was interested without being overeager. It was a bad phone call, one of those stilted conversations where I wanted to crawl under my bed and wish I had never dialed. But, we muddled through, and I forced myself through to the conclusion. She sounded nice, although there was a hint in her voice of "better than everything." I shrugged it off as my own imagination.
Another month of e-mails followed, with both of us firing out little literary tests to see if the other could wrestle their way out of the traps we set. My tests ran the gamut of likes and dislikes, while hers were obscure tests, like seeing if I knew where the term "penguin dust" originated (from the Gregory Corso poem Marriage). I became aware that Martha was more intent on expounding on her interests than asking about mine, as if naming off her favorite books and music somehow made her an authority on everything.
Of course, I mistook her arrogance as a "strong opinion" and I like women with strong opinions, because they make for lively conversationalists and fun arguments. Martha, however, was not interested in conversations or arguments, as I was to learn. For Martha, Ani DiFranco is a lyrical genius, and she didn't want anyone telling her that maybe, just maybe, Ani's lyrics are a tad on the male-hating, penis-chopping, angry-at-the-world side of things.
"Oh well," I thought. "So she's a little intractable. I can probably work with that."
There were other warning signs. Martha was a major drug user during her college years, dabbling in every controlled substance I knew of and I few I'd never heard of. She engaged in a threesome with two guys once, and she related all the sex she had with all her former male roommates in college as casually as if she were relating her favorite foods. In short, she had more issues than an election year; more baggage than Northwest airlines over the holidays; more difficult problems than a college calculus textbook. But, did I see any of this? No, because romance is just stupid like that.
Finally, Martha asked me if I wanted to meet her, and of course I did. I was so blinded to her suspect personality at that point, even Ray Charles would have slapped me across the face and said, "Can't you see what she is, boy?! Can't you see?!"
So, I hopped in my car early one Saturday morning and drove 3.5 hours. I greeted Martha at her apartment door and was pleasantly surprised to discover that she was quite attractive, in a weird sort of way. Shoulder length brown hair curled slightly at the ends, as if embracing her small face, a face with no remarkable features save for her Ashleigh Banfield-like glasses. She had a stellar body, with strong runner's legs and a conspicuous lack of any discernible breasts. She insisted on calling attention to her seemingly breastless torso as if it actually mattered to me. So she had small breasts. So what?
That first weekend went very well, with the two of us actually able to communicate without relying on the medium of e-mail. We couldn't craft a flawless message, and then spell-check, and then go back and clean it up further. It was actual human conversational interaction, and I learned some valuable information. Namely, Martha was even more, er, "opinionated" than she let on in her e-mail.
She proudly displayed her vast bookshelf, going into detail about each book she read, and giving an audible aloof sniff any time I had to admit I hadn't read one of her books. When I saw "Catch-22," my favorite book of all time, she tersely said she hadn't read it yet, snatched it from my hand, and went on to her favorite book "The Gastronomical Me," a book I had never heard of. Determined to find some common ground, I offered to read the obscure book so we could discuss it later. She approved heartily of this idea. Then I suggested that she should read "Catch-22," and she gave me a disapproving look, as if I had defecated on her floor.
"Well, I'll think about it," she said, not meaning it, and I took it to mean she would think about it.
Aside from Martha's condescending attitude when it came to literature, and the Scrabble game we played later that I didn't particularly care for but she treated like the landing at Normandy, we had a fun night. We cooked lasagna, went to see a jazz band, and then went dancing at a local club. When she forgot about how much she thought she was better than everyone else, Martha was actually pretty fun.
That night, as I prepared a bed on her futon in the living room, she had a request for me.
"I'd like you to sleep with me tonight," she announced. "But, no sex or anything like that. Just sleeping. I just want you to hold me."
This was a first for me, having the terms of the evening spelled out for me so bluntly. In the end, I agreed, as any man in my position would, because there was more of a chance I would get lucky while holding her than by sleeping on a futon in another room.
Lo and behold, Martha meant exactly what she said. I held her throughout the night, while she actively rubbed her thigh over my penis, making it stand at attention for eight straight hours. Navy Seals aren't subject to such cruel and unusual punishment. No kiss. No sexual touching. Just sleeping and holding.
"What the fuck is this all about?" asked my penis, and I had no answers.
"Just go to sleep and it will all be over in the morning," I thought, and I battled through the night with a massive stiffy.
The next morning, we went for a hike at a local state park, and I departed at about 3 p.m. She hugged me and thanked me for a great weekend. I then drove 3.5 hours home. Thus ended our first encounter, setting the stage for encounter #2 two weeks later, an experiment in romantic hell that I will not soon forget.
Normally, I wouldn't subject myself to additional torture in a relationship that had about as much traction as a sprinter on an ice rink. It wasn't going anywhere, and I knew that, but then I got an e-mail from Martha.
"I'll bet you're wondering why we never kissed," read the e-mail, as if sensing my thoughts. " I want you to know that I've been hurt before, by the love of my life, and I want to go really slow about everything if anything. It means a lot to me that you didn't try taking advantage of the situation that night when you held me. I appreciate that kind of respect. I hope we can get together again sometime."
"Well, there it was!" I thought. "That explains everything! She was hurt before! By the love of her life, no less! Oh, cruel, cruel world."
So began two weeks of additional e-mails leading up to yet another 3.5 hour sojourn to go see Martha. I just couldn't stop myself. I knew she was nothing but bad news. She was the Enquirer or The Globe of female bad news. Metaphorically speaking, I was driving headlong into a red light, about to hit a big old gas tanker in the intersection, and I was clinging to the belief that I would somehow emerge unscathed.
I arrived late that Friday evening, armed with a bottle of wine and messed up head of thoughts. I knocked at her door, officially starting a two day nightmare.
Martha was dressed in a tight black top with thin shoulder straps. The top was tight enough to reveal, once again, that she had very small breasts.
Her pierced navel peered seductively from the bottom of her shirt and her voluptuous hips descended into a pair of dark blue jeans. I have to admit, she was stunning, and I say this because my penis twitched its approval. Then there was me.
My thin frame felt almost skeletal in my jeans and T-shirt, and I kept my hat on because I was secretly afraid that she viewed my shaved head as unappealing. Normally, I parade my shaved cranium around proudly. It makes me look somewhat intimidating, or so I like to think. I had been shaving my head for five years, never thinking twice about it. Never before, in any relationship, had I elevated someone so high above myself that I felt small by comparison. It really was sick.
We drank some wine, and she played selections from her vast music archive. She reveled in music, citing her favorite lyrics in a steady stream that would have been considered annoying from anyone else. She did the same thing with movie lines. I just nodded and smiled as I tried to fit these idiosyncrasies into the mangled world that was Martha's mind. Just as with her books, her taste in music, and the movie lines she recited, were small tests.
Martha wanted someone who could fire back responses that coincided with her likes and dislikes, which is a horrifying expectation, especially given the wondrous diversity of thoughts, desires, likes and dislikes of every human being. She wanted a pre-packaged male version of Martha, which was impossible. After all, there can only be one Martha, and for that I've been thanking my holy stars every single fucking day.
Eventually, we went to bed, just as we had two weeks before, with me holding her close. Finally, we kissed. I held her left cheek in my right hand, and I marveled at how small her face was just as our lips met.
amazingly, it was a bad kiss. Honestly, I would have been better off kissing a ceiling fan set on high. Not that I was totally surprised by this. Everything leading up to that moment had been cold eggs on a countertop. There was no anticipation, only a forced connection of lips that actually felt cold.
"Well, that's it," I thought. "No chemistry here, obviously. The kiss is never wrong. I'll just pack up tomorrow and be on my way."
We went back to our embrace. Just as I was drifting into slumber, however, Martha started kissing me again, and I responded willingly, eager to explore the possibility that the previous attempt was only a fluke, an aberration. It wasn't. There was no passion, no increased heart rate, none of the wondrous transformations that occurred with other women.
Martha eventually pushed me back, smiled, and rolled away from me.
"Thank God," I whispered under my breath. The only way sex between us could be made more uncomfortable would have been if my mother were somehow involved. I welcomed the opportunity to dismount. However, there was still a part of me that hoped we could salvage a friendship and, if so, perhaps let it evolve into something it most definitely wasn't.
So, the next day, we went shopping, and my head hurt, but I would say nothing. It seemed that everything Martha said made my head hurt worse, and she simply wouldn't shut up, so my head hurt to an unusual extent.
Our shopping excursion lasted only about half an hour, and it would be the last time we shared a good laugh, at least willingly. She drove back to her apartment and called her friend, Tasha, who was one of a group of her female friends who she referred to as "The Bad Girls." The girls were having a barbecue and a party for Tasha's boyfriend's birthday. It sounded harmless, and fun, but I knew there was more to it, and I was wary. Still, I rummaged through my new clothes and selected a nice pair of pants and an equally nice tee-shirt. For her part, Martha underwent the bathroom transformation process typical to most women. When she was getting dressed and made up, Martha was decidedly quiet, which was a major departure from the stream-of-consciousness conversation she engaged in at all other times. This was a good thing, because it gave my screaming head a respite from her inane blather.
"Do you think I talk too much," she asked with a smile.
"Not at all," I quickly answered, but in my mind raced a multitude of things I wanted to say: "Yes, you self-absorbed nightmare! I could be stranded on a desert for four years and be rescued and STILL not have as much to say as you do!"
Martha put together ingredients for making brownies at Tasha's house, including two eggs, and we then went to the liquor store where we purchased a twelve pack of beer. That should have been plenty I thought. But, I hadn't yet met the bad girls and their friends. It wouldn't be enough.
Tasha lived in an older, rougher neighborhood, with large trees that shaded white houses secretly rotting beneath dirty siding. On the porch of one of the many almost-white houses sat two women. Tasha waved to us. She was only slightly heavy, with a positively adorable set of breasts which Martha, of course, commented on often. Tasha's round face was pleasant, with long brunette hair and a metal bead protruding from her chin. Her tongue, too, was pierced. She conversed freely, although she centered on topics that I only had passing interest in. Martha, on the other hand, seemed transfixed by the conversation. The other girl, Tina, was a large red-headed girl who laughed easily but did not stay long.
Gradually, I was introduced to the other bad girls. There was Pam, a playful redhead who was Tasha's roommate and a noticeably close friend of Martha; and there was Nicole, a ravishing beauty with native American blood running through her veins and a noticeable scar on her chin, the result of a car crash years before. She brought her five month old son, Brandon, who was the most wonderfully content child I had ever seen.
I tried to make myself useful. I helped prepare and light the grill, and I cleaned up as the girls prepared a heroic amount of food. And my new pants got dirty, which I considered a minor nuisance.
Then, the friends arrived. I was sitting on the porch sipping a beer when they piled out of a large SUV. Tasha's boyfriend, Frye, the birthday boy, was black and dressed in bright loose clothing. He wore a wispy, spotty beard and he also had a metal bead in his chin. He looked every bit the gang-banger he said he had been in Arkansas. But, he was amiable, in an immature way.
"Let's all get drunk!" he whooped, which was probably the best idea I had heard all day, and he handed me a large bottle of some awful alcohol which I obligingly sipped off. He then gave me a high five and asked my name. I told him.
In short order, I met T-dog, a hyperactive man with huge hair, baggy clothes, and a wild flare in his eyes. I distrusted him immediately, and I made sure I knew where he was at all times. There were two white guys in the group, both with more tattoos than free skin and a nasty habit of referring to all women as "bitches," "sluts," "cunts," and "whores." Occasionally, they would mix things up and say a girl was "a slutty cunt whore bitch." Finally, there was a smaller black man nicknamed Fortune, who I liked and felt at ease talking to. Despite his heavy ebonic dialog, he was curious, and he was considerably less wild than the others at the party. His eyes were kind, and they flashed with a gentleness and a hint of sadness. He was very skilled at grilling, and he was quite proud as the burgers and bratwurst cooked under his adept hand.
They all drank a lot, especially Frye, who was determined to consume two large bottles of the vile brew he had me sip off when we met. I was asked to go buy another case of beer. I eagerly took the task. I needed to get away for awhile and just be alone. I even stopped for awhile and walked before completing my assigned task. I was feeling frazzled, but I was determined to see the crappy weekend through to its crappy conclusion. Things were sure to get worse before they got better, and I used my solitary time to brace for the inevitable.
I returned, and the house was in a massive state of disarray. T-dog and Fortune were wrestling in the yard in a drunken attempt to spank Frye 25 times in honor of his birthday. I carried the beer inside and found the only task that made me feel even remotely normal: I washed the dishes. None of the bad girls were drunk, mostly because they knew they had to remain somewhat in control given the state everyone else was in. Martha approached me and asked if I was having a good time.
"I'm having an interesting time," I answered, and I left it at that.
She smiled and told me that Frye and Tasha had engaged in a threesome the night before with some "chica" they met at a bar. She then shrugged and went into the living room to talk with Tasha.
Finally, the food was ready, and everybody shuffled through the kitchen to fill their plates and then ambled out front to eat. The picnic table was full by the time I emerged, so I sat on the porch well away from everybody else. I ate ravenously. The day's events had unknowingly taken their toll on me and I wolfed down two burgers and a mound of potatoes and beans. Tasha stood up from the picnic table and invited me to sit next to Martha, but I instinctively refused.
Mercifully, the drunken revelry started to wear on Martha, and she suggested going back to her apartment to take a nap. There was no hesitation on my part this time. I was fucking tired.
Feeling drained, I opted to take a shower, shave my head, and dress myself in another new ensemble. I then curled up on a chair in the waning daylight and read a poem entitled "The Wild Party," a messed up piece of literature with complementary art that can only be described as disturbing.
Eventually, Martha awoke and started sifting through her music archive.
"Oh, you have to hear this song," she announced unexpectedly and held up a CD. "When I was in college, I had just dropped acid, and I was on an insane amount of pot, and this song started playing. I can't believe I'm telling you this, but it was so good I just sat there and had an orgasm for the entire song, without touching myself or anything. That's how wonderful drugs can be."
Seriously, how do you respond to an admission like that? That's like a girl saying she has herpes after having sex with you four times.
Martha then inserted the CD, balled herself up on a futon, and told me to close my eyes and listen. It was a wild song, with vocals by Lou Reed, entitled "Heroine." It had intermittent series of slow and fast moving music and was capped off in a cacophony of confusing noise masquerading as music.
"Isn't that awesome?" she asked.
"It was all right," I answered, but the truth was that it made me nauseous. The music didn't make me nauseous. The music was, in fact, exciting and different. What made me nauseous was the thought that there was a point in Martha's life when her small body was so totally polluted with drugs that her poor mind couldn't discern between sexual activity and a song. At that moment, I really wanted to know who she would have been if she hadn't spent year after year in a drug induced existence. I'm betting she would have been an amazing creature. But, we'll both never know. Drugs killed that amazing creature years ago. As it was, she believed she was amazing, but she wasn't. It was sad, and I was briefly mad at the world for the way that she was.
Martha then started getting ready to go back to the party, and she emerged 20 minutes later looking gorgeous, seductive, and alluring. And none of those adjectives were meant to attract me. She wore tight black velvety pants, a tight black top, and a red leather jacket. Her ensemble was capped off with a metal chain she dangled around her waist. Sure, she looked almost like a prostitute, but I wasn't going to say anything, because I didn't honestly care any more.
I should have simply opted to stay in the security of the apartment, but I wanted to see this nightmare through to its conclusion. It was nightfall, and we went back to the party.
It was then that I met Mildred. She was sitting on the porch when we returned, and she gave Martha an approving whoop and holler, and she shot daggers through me for having the audacity to show up with her. Mildred had a pretty but tough face, with too much make-up, particularly around the eyes. She had short blonde hair with too much hairspray. We didn't have much to say, and I cut my pleasantries short once Martha and Mildred cozied up to each other. I walked to the refrigerator where I knew a beer awaited me. On the way, I met Tasha and asked where the guys were. She said they went to play basketball. Briefly, the thought of those drunken messes attempting basketball seemed genuinely amusing to me. No sooner had I enjoyed my only amusing thought of the night when the SUV again pulled up outside and the wasted men practically fell from the doors. It was ugly.
Chaos ensued for half an hour at that point. A large marijuana joint was passed around, of which Mildred, Martha and myself declined. Frye, having completed his drinking goal, fought with Tasha over the stereo volume. T-dog, dangerously high on alcohol and THC, searched everyone's eyes looking for an excuse to start some sort of fight, any kind of fight. Fortune was lamenting the fact that his "teetee" (his aunt?) was angry at him for drinking so soon after ulcer surgery. Martha and Mildred heightened their flirtation (yes, flirtation), even as Frye made overt drunken attempts to attract Martha. Eventually, a large group that included Frye, Martha, and Mildred disappeared into the bathroom to do only God knows what. It was only 9 p.m.
It was eventually decided that we would go to a local bar where a live band was playing. I was recruited to carry Frye to the back seat of a car because he could no longer walk. Drunken bodies are among the most unwieldy things in the world. As I played the part of the sober do-gooder for the hundredth time that day, I kept thinking about how much I wanted to be the drunk guy being carried around. At least I would have had some fun.
Martha drove Mildred and me to the bar, with me sitting obediently in the back seat as the two girls talked closely, virtually oblivious to my presence. My self-esteem slipped to a level somewhere below human, and I started to feel uncomfortable with myself.
The bar was crowded, and the band was great. I made a mental note of where my crowd of acquaintances was gathered and I went to sit at the bar. I needed more than anything to get away, if even for a minute. I ordered a Crown Royal and Coke, and I asked the bartender to go heavy on the Crown Royal.
The same drama that played out at the house carried over to the bar. Frye stumbled from table to table introducing himself to people who didn't want to meet him. He then stood up on a table until bouncers ordered him down. I did everything to focus on how good the band was.
I eventually re-joined the group of acquaintances. The band finished playing too early, and we made the decision to go to a dance club. The dance club was a raucous mix of every background, and I had a pretty good time. However, our stop didn't last long because Tasha discovered that she had lost $80 at some point during the night and she was going to backtrack in a hopeless attempt to find it. T-dog and Frye were passed out in the back seat. Fortune was nowhere to be seen. Martha and Mildred decided to visit one last bar, and I simply HAD to see what those two vixens had planned for the night. Mildred continued to hate me simply for being alive, and I returned the favor.
We arrived at a small dance club, and I was vaguely aware of what kind of establishment I was about to enter. It was a gay bar, and at 11 p.m. it had transformed into an incredibly gay bar. I had been in such bars before, but I had been with friends I knew and could depend on. Once again, I was hopelessly out of my element. Martha and Mildred wasted no time going to the dance floor where they gyrated together in a display that would have intrigued me if I didn't have guys trying to dance with me every four minutes. I sought refuge at the bar, where the bartender said I could have whatever I wanted, on the house. I'm apparently a BIG hit in gay community.
I ordered a Bud Light and was about to pay for it anyway when I was approached by my next male hit of the night.
"You shouldn't be drinking alone," he said.
"Sometimes that's all I want to do," I explained.
"Would you mind if I drank with you?" he asked.
"Go ahead," I said, wishing for all the world that I had some friends with me. "But you should know ahead of time that I'm totally straight."
"Do you realize where you are?" he asked somewhat amazed. "You're probably the only straight man here."
This was not comforting information, but he dropped the matter at that and walked away. I sipped the beer and watched Martha and Mildred dance together with a growing number of like-minded women. I also was hit on by three other men in quick succession. I've turned down male advances before and, for some reason, I always feel like I'm doing something mean. So, I felt pretty much like a jackass by that point. Still, I'm straight, and there's no subtle way to state that fact at a gay bar, at least none that I know of.
Finally, Martha approached me and asked me if I was having a good time. She didn't mean it, and she didn't care, but it was probably the only question she could entertain at the time.
"I was just thinking," I said.
"About what?" she asked disinterestedly.
"About whether there was any real reason for me to come down this weekend," I finally admitted.
"No," said Martha as casually as someone after a large meal rejecting dessert, "Probably not."
Of course, I already knew that, but I was curious as to what she would say. Not surprisingly, it was a typically emotionless and distant response. I smiled, shook my head, and sipped my beer.
Mildred approached, scowled at me and offered her hand to Martha. Martha took it mindlessly and they went to the dance floor to resume their taunting gyrations. Mildred grabbed Martha's hips, and Martha caressed Mildred's hands. Men were kissing three feet to my left, and a man without a shirt was grabbing another man's crotch to my right. All of this was occurring in the flashing and rotating lights of the dance floor. It was like a gay version of "Who Wants to be A Millionaire."
"Do you want to go out and dance," asked a voice to my right. I managed to slowly turn my head. An inebriated and overweight man stood looking at me.
"I'm straight," I said so fast I wasn't sure if I said it at all.
"No shit?" he said in disbelief. "Then what are you doing here?"
"I thought I was here with a friend," I stated without inflection.
"Well, you're damned hot," he offered. "Are you sure you don't want to dance?"
At that point, I figured, "why the hell not?" So, I went out and danced with the fat gay man named Steve. I should stress here that it was NOT a slow dance. Rather, it was a fast disco-like tune that didn't require male/male touching of any kind. However, It wasn't long before I was surrounded by men, eager to ply their best pick-up lines on me. My shaved head was apparently a bug light for gay come-ons. I quickly realized that my decision to dance was not particularly one of my better ideas.
A few men made brief hand contact with my ass as I shuffled hurriedly to get myself off that meat market floor, wrestling myself free just as the last song of the evening concluded.
Martha approached me and asked me if I was okay to drive. I snatched the keys from her hand and moved quickly to the door. However, I had to wait for the girls to go to the bathroom. Of course, they went together, and my mind entertained all of the things they may have been doing during the 17 minutes they were in there together.
Martha asked Mildred to come back to her apartment with us, but she refused, much to my amazement. I dropped Mildred off at the party house from earlier in the day. She shook my hand and said it was nice to meet me, and she didn't mean it.
We finally arrived back at Martha's apartment and I prepared to sleep on her futon.
"Aren't you going to sleep with me?" she queried sounding hurt. Despite the screaming noise ringing in my ears telling me not to, I slipped under Martha's bed covers.
"Mildred said she might come by later tonight, so I'm not going to put pajamas on," she announced, and she peeled off all her clothes, revealing her body to me as some sort of cruel taunt. "We won't do anything unless she comes over. You don't mind do you?"
Mind? Why should I mind? The fact that she didn't want to have sex with me unless another woman was involved? How could that possibly bother me?
She crawled into bed and wrapped her naked body around me like some sort of diabolical serpent. It wasn't a sexual embrace. It was more of a utilitarian hug that gave her a male shoulder to rest her demented head upon.
To me, she was a carcass of the woman I had fallen for via e-mail all those months before. That false girl was dead, and the twisted mess of past drug use and uncertain sexual exploration was all that remained, and I held her without emotion.
"I'm sorry that we didn't work out," I said, and my voice seemed unnatural to me. She murmured her assent and crowded closer to me. "And I think you're a pretty messed up woman."
"I don't think so," she said sleepily defiant.
With that, I detached myself from her embrace and rolled away, sleeping fitfully for several hours, my dreams hounded by countless images of every surreal event of the preceding days.
I awoke at 9:30 a.m., and I silently showered and packed. I should have left without a word, but I went in to wake Martha and say good-bye.
"Why are you leaving so early?" she asked.
"I want to get home," I stated plainly. "I hurt a little, and I want to feel better, and I can't do that near you."
She didn't hear me, I don't think, but she reached up her arms and pulled me into her in a surprisingly strong hug she didn't want to relinquish, and I felt for her, but I couldn't stay. I pulled free, and she kissed my neck.
The sun was shining as I walked outside. The early summer air was hot and heavy with indifference.
Romance is fickle, and everyone at some point has to decide whether they want to pursue something they know to be unhealthy. I did not. I put on a pair of sunglasses and started my car.
It was early, and the drive was long.Posted by Ryan at November 24, 2002 07:17 PM