The "Do"s and "Don't"s of Dealing with a Girl You Don't Want to Date. Alternate Title: Sorry Oak

That title is something I made up back when I lived in NYC. Pretty cool, right? Yeah? Totally awesome, I say.
I used to think I was pretttttty radical. Still kind of do. I fancied myself the ADA of my own personal episode of Law and Order. Not the dykey red-haired one that's always trying to fist Olivia, but the tall, brunette that gave Jack McCoy the only stiff-arm of his long ADA-bedding career. (Or so I imagine. She very well could have had one too many Sloe Gin Fizzes and let him play "just the tip". I hope not though. These people are real to me. They're all I have.) I thought I was so cool, so cool that I could pick and choose what feelings I had, and avoid any sort of emotion that made me look less than totally ADA-y. In hindsight I was and still am, sweetly retarded. (Thanks Jen). Samantha Jones I am not. She's fictional. I don't think a lot of people understand that. Hot. Cool. Totally fictional. I'm not saying I've had my heart broken or anything. I've always been too chickenshit to fully get my heart broken, but I've been really fucking pissed off a couple of times and also one time I wasn't allowed to get pissed off. (I did anyway, but because I couldn't get mad at the dude I channeled it into an awesome diet which I have yet to be able to replicate. If I could bottle that shit I'd be a gazillionaire.)
I'm going to go over three real-life case studies of examples of guys that I wanted to date but that didn't want to date me and how things played out. (Note: I hate ALL of the nomenclature for the male gender in the English language. I hate "man", "guy", "boy". I also hate all words for female underpants. Actually, I kind of like the word "underpants". If I ever get a dog I might name him Underpants. DON'T STEAL THAT!!!!) This post is for all the homies out there who want to be able to bag chicks but still look like the good guy. Or less cynically, how to stay friend with girls you've hooked up with and want to be your GF. I'm going to teach you all you want to know. Why? Because I want you to think I'm the cool girl that has all of this figured out, thus fooling you into thinking that I'm too cool to become a clinger when in fact I'm the worst clinger of them all but you don't realize that until AT LEAST week 3 when you notice that my ability to climb tree and look in your window is neither cool nor cute. What do we think, Jen? Bored yet? Well it's only going to get worse so pour yourself some wine. Oh can't get the cork out? Sad face.

Case Study #1. Subject: Richard Dreyfuss. (names may or may not be real or spelled correctly.)
Richard was my roommate and we worked together. (I KNOW. Please hold all questions, comments, exclamations, under the breath mutters, rebukes, cat calls, racial slurs and facial tics until AFTER the lecture.) We hit it off immediately. We were both well into our respective alcoholism at this point but one time we even bailed on the bar to sit at home and hang out with our pet spider, Max. (Granted he drank 12 beers and I a bottle and a half of wine, but it doesn't count because we weren't at the bar.) Those were the happy times. A couple of weeks later I came to find Richard had a girlfriend who lived in Vermont. I think he may have told me straightaway, but I was either too drunk or too deluded to realize it. This was hard for me because I was totally clinger status at this point and we lived and worked together and he was wicked fun AND I was always drunk. But I managed stop anything really serious from happening further. Actually he may have stopped it, but history is written by the person with the blog so fuck you. Things were okay for awhile, and Richard and I still hung pretty tight. That is until he started fucking another girl with whom we worked. Nuclear. Psycho. Rage. Spiral. K-Hole. Crazy. I was inconsolable. Completely taken by surprise that this guy who cheated on his girlfriend with me would bang another girl IN FRONT OF MY FACE. The humanity!! The summer took a sharp turn for the worst at this point, and things ended with me smoking a enormous amount of pot, writing him a long hate letter and leaving it in a drawer in the house for him to find. Or to not find. "Dude, I'll just like, leave this here and if he's meant to find it, he like totally will and if he's not meant to find it, he like, won't. Totally, man. Pssshhh."

Case Study #2. Subject: Morgan Freeman
Morgan Freeman and I worked together. (Yup. I know.) Morgan was really nice. I was just coming out on the other side of Case Study #3 when MF and I started hanging out. I was sad, and he was nice. It was pretty innocent at first. Movies and shit. We made out once and then nothing for months. Then one night I went out to sushi dinner, got drunk, called him and shit got real. I was surprised by the whole thing and I think he was too. Especially considering I was supposed to be moving to another country in a month, so no matter what happened we had a hard date when it would all be over. I suppose that's what made it easier for me to commit. I didn't actually have to. So I totally threw myself into it, and from what I understood he did as well. We spent almost every day and night together in the two weeks up to my departure. Then I left. We hugged. It was sad. Get on plane. Arrive in foreign country. Said country didn't like the taste of me, and spit me right back to the U.S. like so much rancid Unagi. So I was back. And I called him. And he didn't call back. And then I saw him. And he wasn't happy to see me. So I got drunk, and I called. And I called. And I called. Then I moved to another city (in America) and cried. For a million different reason (probably least among them, Morgan) I cried for about a week. Then I emailed him, and he was very nice and tried to explain the best he could but I still don't get it and probably never will. What happened in the 22 hours I was on an airplane? If it was anything less than at least 3 phenomenal blow jobs with full ball cuppage this kid is fucking hit.
Case Study #3. Subject: Anjelica Houston
WE FUCKING WORKED TOGETHER. WHAT?? I could have gotten fired for this shit. I don't even know how the whole thing stared, but I know there was booze. I think the moment I hit clinger stage with him was watching him take shots of vodka and chase with water. SWOON!!!! Anjelica was very honest with me. He told me daily that he was a total asshole. That he was going to hook up with other girls, that he didn't want a girlfriend. That totally sucked to hear. But you know what sucked more? The night we were out at a bar and he tells me that he's going home to hook up with another girl. He looked me in the eye and told me this. I think he even said "sorry". Well, fuck. What's a girl to do? No self-righteous rage? No lies? He has not lied to me at any point. How am I going to deal with this? And he knew I was fucking pissed, at least I hope I told him as much. I'm not sure that I actually did. In my experience with Richard and Morgan (And TV shows.) this is when dudes check out. Peace. It's been nice knowing you. You're about to go crazy and kill my bunny. I'm cutting all ties. Anjelica didn't check out. He stayed around, but not in a mean, taunting kind of way. He didn't go out to the bar when I was there and let me throw myself at him like the sad, battered drag queen I turn into when I have too much Boone's Farm. He still talked to me and treated me as he always had, but he wasn't around as much as he used to be. I was incensed. How can he not let me hate him? How can he be treating me like he still cares about me but just as a friend so I'm not totally confused? How could he be helping he deal with this in the healthiest way possible? I don't even know if he was doing it on purpose, which is even worse! Is this dude so good to his core that he just naturally treats all people as he would wish to be treated himself? WHAT A FUCKING COCK SUCKER!! The real shitty part about the situation with Anjelica was that we had to be in the same office and the other chick he hooked up with was there too. Otherwise I've moved on from that pretty nicely and I count this chap among my best friends.
So what? Who fucking cares? No really. Who cares. I'm not going to try and answer those questions. I wrote this post because it's my blog and I wanted to get it all out. I think deep down I hope Richard, Morgan and Anjelica read this because I never had the balls to be as honest with them as I'm now asking them to be with me. If they do read this I want them to know one thing: THEY'RE FUCKING REAL!!! ALSO, that I know all of you (well maybe not Richard) were doing the best you could. We're all just fucking chumps walking around trying to not die and in the process protecting ourselves the best we can. I guess the one thing that stands out with Anjelica is the honesty, which is the hardest fucking thing in the world. Why did he have the balls to just be honest with me when nobody else did? I don't know why. I wish Morgan had known that he wasn't into me before I'd left and told me as much. The worst part about that situation was feeling like a total idiot. I wish Richard had...well I wish I'd never met Richard. (Richard: Call me. Seriously.) Clearly I made mistakes too......Ha. Just kidding. I totally didn't.

So dudes, here's moral #1: Never hook up with me. Moral #2: if you absolutely HAVE to hook up with me NEVER tell me you like me. Moral #3: If you have to hook up with me and you have to tell me you like me and you actually don't like me JUST TELL ME THE TRUTH. And then duck. You're a fucking deadman.

Preppies. Wow.

I live in Martha's Vineyard. I won't get into why I haven't posted in more than a year. Nobody noticed. Except Jen. I love you Jen.
SOOO I live in (or on) Martha's Vineyard. I came here for a job, which is interesting considering I grew up on Cape Cod and never came here before two weeks ago. (For those of you that don't know, MV is an island off the coast of Cape Cod. Oh wait, Jen is the only one reading this. Jen, MV is and island off of Cape Cod.) The locals here call me a "recent transplant". I keep telling everyone they're real. Then we all get uncomfortable and I go home and cry into my pillow.
There are a lot of preppies here. I thought I knew what a preppy was. I went to boarding school. All those guys wore khakis and "bucks" and called each other by their last named and fantasized about sodomizing each other. I figured they were the true preppies. I had head rumors of the denizens of Martha's Vineyard. I have a ribbon belt with bass on it. I've stolen a flippy wallet from J. Crew. I figured with that wealth of knowledge and experience I knew exactly what was up with the people on this island. To say that I had any idea of preppiness from my days at boarding school is like saying that I am a marine biologist because I once looked into the toilet after I peed. (I always do. It's a sign if health when...whatever. Judge me if you will.)
This place is out of effing hand. You go to a game park in Kenya to taunt wild lions by hanging your younger siblings out of the door of the jeep until they cry so hard they poop their pants. You come to Martha's Vineyard to see preppies in their natural habitat. I realize now that the buck wearing sodomites in high school were either total preppy posers or they were scared to practice their true, undiluted preppy religion lest they be persecuted for their beliefs. I know how THAT is. I DO look at my pee, and it's intolerant jerks like YOU people that make me ashamed to talk about it.
I've never really thought about the meaning behind the term "preppy". If you have you're a huge douche bag. Wikipedia says "Preppy also spelled "preppie", is a chiefly North American adjective or noun traditionally used in relation to northeastern private university-preparatory schools, as well as those who attend some of America's prestigious private colleges and universities." I say poppycock. (Ha. I just said cock.) I think "Preppy" is short for "Prepared" because these people are fucking PREPARED! For what you might ask? Well I'll tell you in a roundabout, super confusing manner.
I'm sure the people of Martha's Vineyard don't go out onto their yachts every day. They're just humans, right? They lead normal lives. They have families and cars and other shit that makes someone appear normal. But what if they had to go out on a yacht at a moments notice? What if they were whisked up in a yachting plan with no forewarning whatsoever? Well, they would not be caught with their oddly colored pants down. Oh no. They would be ready. Armed to the teeth with all of the accoutrement required for an emergency day of yachting. Let's start from the bottom up, shall we? (Everybody now: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!!)
Deck shoes. Those yacht decks are slippery! We should all wear shoes that are made of leather and don't really have a good tread on them, but someone once told us this was the appropriate footwear for yachting, they say! Wait! Make sure the laces aren't too long! Mother Buffy warned us with tales of little prepsters pitching over the side of our 100-footer after tripping on an errant lace. Just go ahead and tuck those suckers right inside. Who cares? It's not like you're wearing socks!
Shorts! Pale red, or even better PATCHWORK MADRAS! We like pale red because when the sun beats down on regular red this is the color it fades to so we're just preempting the harsh effects of mother nature. I submit the madras fabric came the famous marine disaster tale of the "Buffy III" out of Edgartown, MA. Old salts tell of the 2 harrowing hours that Jock Hippenpoof Von Waterdale IV spent with a Pepsi stain on his favorite pair of Nantucket Reds, and how he heroically saved his reputation and his snazzy ensemble by crafting a pair of shorts out of small square pieces of dinner napkins he got from his yacht maid. And thus a hectic style was born.
Next, and arguably the most iconic image of preppy style; the polo shirt. The polo shirt spans many style movements and can be seen anywhere from the front-butts of fat, old, tourist ladies to the fake-tanned biceps of the Gotti set of Strong Island, NY. However, what earmarks the preppy polo is the "popping" of the collar. Popping means to ignore the manufacturers pre-fabricated fold of the collar, and instead flip the collar up and away from the body. This, of course, serves the function of protecting the neck from the harmful UV rays of the sun. Thank goodness all the traders on Wall Street have that protection on casual Friday or we might see some serious irregularly edged moles on the St. Paul's class of 2003!! An additional element of sun protection is of course the hat, which is not complete without some embroidery announcing the wearer as a crew member of one the America's Cup boats. Gosh, where do they hold the America's Cup? Is the starting line the entire coast of Australia? It would sort of have to be because if all of these hats are to be believed there are a KAGILLION ex-crew members of the America's Cup.
These "prep"ared people have really got all of their proverbial bases covered. Footwear, thighwear, neck and head protection. What could they possibly be missing? Oh GOD! The retinas!! They must be protected as well! That's what sunglasses are for. But we're not just strolling around on land! We're yachting! Shit gets pretty messy on a yacht. What if the sunglasses are suddenly flung from the wearers face into the briny! Really? Do you REALLY think the preppy set would be unprepared for this eventuality? Hell NO they would NOT! Those sunglasses are held onto their ever-so-tan faces with FROGGIES!! Neon pieces of squishy fabric that not only clash with the baker's dozen of hues they are already wearing but make sure that no Ray Bans will be lost to Davey Jones' Locker this day! (Note: I might have made the name "Froggy" up. I can't find any evidence to back up my claim that this is what they are actually called. But neither could Copernicus.)
I can not pretend to be making a scholarly report on the full life cycle of the preppy. I know nothing of their behavior in the fall or winter. I know nothing of their mating habits (But who knows, I'm here all summer! Know what I'm saying? Huh? Right? No? Okay.) I only know what I have observed of the early summer preppy in their natural habitat, and from what I can see these folk are READY!! So in conclusion, preppies: I salute you. If the world is ever under alien attack, and our only means of escape is via yacht, the lives of every man, woman and child will depend on your preparedness to man aforementioned yacht. The rest of us will be slipping around on the desk, with faded red shorts, sunburned necks and we will be blind because our goddam sunglasses fell into the frigging ocean! I think we can all breathe a sigh of relief knowing that you preppies are more then prepared to save the world.