“You Must Be Somebody’s Baby”

I’m so confused. So hurt. So sad. So broken.

I haven’t felt this awfully sentimental since last summer, and that situation absolutely paled in comparison. Tear ducts? They’re working overtime, baby! Facial muscles? They have the next week off, as I haven’t managed to form a smile in a solid 24 hours. Think I’m teasing you? Try me.

My heart is in a thousand pieces scattered in and around Manhattan, Queens, the George Washington Bridge, and Route 17.

Friends, lovers, loyal readers, fans, cult followers: M.Hal’s <3 is fractured beyond orthopedic repair (sorry Callie O’Malley) and will never be(at) the same. I know I reek of senseless sentimental cliché; you’re thinking “OMG, another gooey entry?! I thought Proud of Commitment would be the last of that shiznat!” Yes, Jenna B. I’m sappy and cliché; all 4 billion peeps WORLDWIDE have uttered the phrase “my heart is, like, broken” at least once every 10 minutes. So what makes my experience any different? Well, I’m special, in case you haven’t figured that out already…

…and it’s my blog, bitch.

Onto the story / comedy that is my life; ever had one person/event/city single-handedly light a fuse that all-too-quickly travels to the wooden, dynamite-saturated barrel containing the words “My Glamorous Life” painted in tantalizing turquoise? All of a sudden, the barrier we have to protect our soft underbellies is quickly and unmercifully wrestled from our hot little hands (sort of like Jamie Lynn’s fame, but faster).

“My und-uh-bell-ay? That’s such an “eh” word! Me? Vulnerable? Bitch, please – I am NOT vulnerable!” (quoted from Your- Average- New- Yorker- Who- Has- an- IQ- of- 72)

Mr.(&Mrs.) IQ-of-72, you ARE vulnerable. You might live in a concrete jungle where people are devoid of feelings, compassion, and trust – but seriously, get over yo’selves. Your underbelly is no different than someone from Friendship, NY.

I don’t know why I was in New York City this past weekend. There was little to no incentive for such a fruitless trip when I have 9,827 pages of MCAT prep to read (still on the agenda). Let’s analyze.

Clubbing? No fake I.D. and the only ones worth the outrageous cover (Marquee, Bungalow 8, Pink Elephant) are 21+.

Cornell friends? Love them to pieces, but I speak to those who matter at least weekly, if not more. (SHOUT OUTS TO Jules (my everything), Aviva (l-o-v-e), Danielle (in awe of her and her fam), Rachel (you are my life, MiniMe), Sarah (you hate my family, but I ADORE you), Alex (you iz mah #1!), JBart ($$$$$ is a powerful incentive to like you), half of TKE (I needed a place to sleep like whoa)).

Shopping? SoHo is SoHoverpriced.

Pride Weekend? Every day is Pride Day in NYC, so allocating an entire weekend for middle-aged queens to come out (ha) wearing tight clothes they shouldn’t and actively perpetuating the stereotypical nature of homosexuality is as tasteless as it is disgusting. I don’t want 50-year-old well past his prime staring at my ass. He licks his lips while I vomit Bocce. What’s worse is gay teens/tweens. I don’t want to see or hear wanna-be M.Hals complaining about their weight (spare tire! OMG!), their skin (pimple … pop that shit!), their nails (mani/pedi, yes?), or their sex life (manhunt, tehehe).

NOTE TO GAYS WHO EXCESSIVELY CARE ABOUT THEIR APPEARANCE: Pierre-Fitch-style physical attractiveness is only appealing to muscular tops who, ironically, won’t even be looking AT you during the *discreet fun* (giggle giggle). They’ll be busy thrusting and checking out their pecks in the mirror. Therefore – bottoms, go ahead and order the side of fries @ Katz’s. You’ll still get ass. Don’t be discouraged tops – go ahead and order the chocolate chip cookies @ Max Brenner. The gay community is HEAVILY bottom-dominated. You’re in demand, so you’ll still get ass.

Gawd. I can’t stand gay men…

…but maybe that’s for the best. No guy’s worth the time and effort.

M.Hal is now asexual. I’ll be straight by tomorrow.

Back to the point: The brawny beef behind the boisterous trip was, pre-dick-tably and pre-asexual, about a boy. A boy that I kinda-sorta knew way back in ’06 when I was friend-less, closeted, awkward, and enjoyed popcorn with extra butter (I saved THE worst for last!).

He was cute, but I never actively pursued it and was 95% sure that I wouldn’t pursue anything now (me not pursuing something? I know…). Anyways, I messaged him this past Spring, 1.5 years later, with the intention of setting him up with a past-mistake. Why the sudden generosity? No idea. They both went to the same college and maybe sparks would fly and the cu…I mean conversation would be flowing? Little did I know I was about to embark on a 4-month text-message love affair with someone that could not only understand my humor, but match it with some of his own.

I’ve never laughed harder in my life from pixels on a cell-phone screen. He was fast (5 minute return time), reliable (always got a response), and damn good. Kay? Kay!

You know the rest… M.Hal did what the 95% of his intuition noted he shouldn’t. Boy messed up. M.Hal messed up bigger. M.Hal got his heart broken AGAIN. Why is this new? It isn’t, but this is:

M.Hal’s ranking of la boy’s tastes and preferences (Naughty Line #50):

Just-turned-18 twinky twink the boy met on MySpace >>> fugz fag who snaps his fingers to get a cab in NYC >> M.Hal

I don’t get jealous … ever. But seriously? Seriously?!

I devised this innovative ranking system and why he pushed meeting the two Twinkies to come clubbing with such haste and fake excitement. I mean, I was in the city for two days, and these bitches were in the city for the summer; was it that I wasn’t hot enough and/or wasn’t funny enough and/or I simply didn’t rub him the right way? (Naughty Line #523). Did he want to show off prospective guys to raise the marginal benefit of pursuing him? Leaving Microeconomics out of it, could he really NOT give up one Saturday night for lil ol moi? There was a party @ NYU I was dying to have a date for…

Boy and I parted ways last night after exchanging words in mid-town (I was pro-NYU party, he was pro-trashy-club-gang-bang). It didn’t take long for me to realize that I said harsh (though facebook worthy) lines, so I crossed from 7^th to 6^th Avenue via a dark corner street in hopes of finding the boy and apologizing for being a complete asshole. A homeless man came out of NOWHERE and eerily walked next to me for a few seconds, emulating my stride. I could feel the hairs on my body suddenly begin to rise. I was on an empty, dim-lit street, and alone save for a man in a ripped trenchcoat that was slightly taller than me. I turned to him, and he pulled out an object that resembled a knife (maybe? I didn’t ask questions) and demanded $20, then $30, then $50.

I lived. He didn’t say anything else; instead, he just ran off with $50 and not my life.

Unbelievable. The whole scene was surreal. My life flashed before my eyes.

I left without saying goodbye to boy – completely fitting for a cheesy Hollywood flick. He would still have to grovel and apologize and we’d reconcile in a public place (Naughty Line #51).

Was he a good fit? Everyone seemed to think it and I started to believe it. Who knows? Am I a good fit for anyone?! People can be disheartening. He was dead-set on going to a club, even after I was mugged by Mr. $50-None-the-Richer. What bothered me is that the boy didn’t care enough to try and talk to me after the fact. All that seemed to matter to him was tapping one or both of the Twinkies “ranked” higher than me on the most FABULOUS weekend of all (P-R-I-D-E OMGZ LIKE NO WAY!). Clearly, his priorities rested outside of the realm of friendship and, clearly, he hasn’t realized (quite yet) that he did anything wrong.

On the subway this morning to Penn Station (6 to 42^nd then 7 to Times Square then 2 (or 1 or 3) to 34^th; I remembered that trick), I ‘chatted it up’ (Naughty Line #52) with this tall professional-looking guy, donning a pleated button-down and a fresh pair of khakis (obviously not a native New Yorker). Indeed. He hailed from SoFla, graduated from Wharton in May (undergraduate) and moved to NYC last week to work for Goldman Sachs. He wrote his number on my hand, which must mean that (a) we’re both in grade school and (b) I’m some-what appealing (M.Hal still has it goin’ on). When he noticed that I didn’t seem too enthused, he not-so-nonchalantly mentioned that he knew I “must be somebody’s baby.”

I heard that song (“Somebody’s Baby” by Jackson Browne) on the GW and the tears started flowing and haven’t ceased since – Mr. Wharton, we WILL meet again. Today is the day to let all the emotions hang out and dry. Tomorrow can be about MCAT and picking up the thousands of heart-pieces that were so violently displaced over the course of 24 hours. For the next thirty minutes that I’m awake, however, I get to bask in the greatness that is…sadness.

…So I Let the Funky Music Do the Talking.

Current status: </3, :’-(

I’ve been inactive as of late (in OH so many ways). Not to worry: the most gutsy entry of my life will be coming very shortly. Viva la Vida, cierto? I want to finish the writing tonight, because tomorrow morning the ideas might seem silly (ever get overly emotional at night only to wake up and discover that you were just being crazy crazy? To all my aspiring blogging wonders: those thoughts should never go to waste! They fuel some of my best work. Yeah, I’m like that). Check back soon.

(I wrote an entry to tell you about a future entry. YAY free blogs!)

In the meantime, enjoy the lyrics of a song that’s played during one of the best cinematic sequences seen in the history of M.Hal. (Hint: 1999). You speak to my soul, Miss Sydney Forest.

the room is empty
the lights are dim
and my heart wonders
if i’ll ever see you again

my tears are hungry
for an open door
when your arms held me
i never felt that way before

i’ll be waiting
i’ll be watching
under a blue moon
the taste of heaven
only happens
once in a blue moon

once in a blue moon

do you remember
when the wind blew free
and we fit together
so naturally

if the wind closes a door
it will open another

The Things I Do for the Hamptons

JBartJD**: I’ve been reading your blog

Marc: oh, fuck

Marc: i’m not ready for whatever you have to say, jayjay

JBartJD**: This “Mr. Right” shit you so eloquently described

Marc: did you hear me when i told you i wasn’t ready?

JBartJD**: I did, I merely chose not to listen

Marc: …i can feel a stubborn, pig-headed & blunt Jeremy diagnosis coming…

JBartJD**: I think Mr. Right’s right in front of you and either you don’t realize it or you’re not doing anything about it

Marc: wait, what?

JBartJD**: Don’t make me spell it out for you, bitch

Marc: i have no idea what you’re talking about

JBartJD**: You have every idea what I’m talking about

JBartJD**: I’m not letting you come to the Hamptons until you can finally open your eyes

Marc: seriously. i think you’re crazy…

JBartJD**: Please don’t play coy with me, you’re awful at it

Marc: pulling out the big words today, hon. daddy would be proud

JBartJD**: You know my policy with ‘hon,’ and fine. No Hamptons

Marc: okay Jeremy, you want to talk? let’s talk

[…one hour later…]

JBartJD**: Wow. Glad to get that all out?

Marc: more than you know

JBartJD**: You should tell him, you know

Marc: no, i shouldn’t

Marc: i SHOULD tell you not try to pry into my life

JBartJD**: As your adopted big brother, you know that’s my job

JBartJD**: I can’t wait to see you!

Marc: i wish i never knew you!

Kiss Me (with Tongue)

This will be my last summer in Ithaca.

Seriously. I’m going crazy & need the city, any city, A CITY.

With my fake I.D. residing somewhere in the California sewage system – R.I.P. baby, you did me good – the list of *things-to-do* in this hick-town went from little to littler-than-***A* **A** (if you really want to know, loyal readers, then we can totally play hangman). Dinos? Dunbars?! The Palms?!? Level B?!?! Not a chance. I’ve been shunned southward to Common Ground and all the freakish, hippie, hungry-for-arse townies that come with it. I bet half of them don’t shave (any part of their body) and 99% of them haven’t worked out since Freddie Prinze, Jr. movies were considered “in.”

Do you know what I did last night? Karaoke-d the shizzle out of NKOTB’s “Summertime” with a few tri-Delts while dancing soberly on bar tables and pretending I was worthy of being a Coyote. I wasn’t crying vodka; I was crying lysozymes.

Go ahead, take away my man-card. You want it.

Do you know what I did tonight? I neglected a raucous few hours of sake-bombing @ Miyake with Domonique and a handful of gorgeous Kappa Alpha Thetas because I didn’t know how to chug and I most certainly didn’t want to embarrassingly get carded in front of froshies who all have managed to keep their fakes intact. TEARS. So instead, I decided kick back with my chill, straight, Florida-frat-boy of an MCAT instructor and have a whiskey sour at the SAE annex (I have to celebrate my 31T somehow, right?).

Bless the Greek system – free whiskey sours; guys in ripped jeans, popped collars, choker necklaces, and reversed baseball caps (love SAE). The best part is that I don’t have to clean up after myself, and the girly drinks keep on a-comin’. Amaretto sour? Thank you, Skyler. …and do make me that frozen watermelon drink and throw on a few pink umbrellas. Gimme, gimme more.

Okay, you don’t have to take away my man-card. I’ll give it to you.

While it seems like the days melt away and the nights are cold and dry, I’m still managing to keep way busy. I do dinner with a different girl every night – as an aside: seriously straight boys, at least pretend to be gay. You’ll actually go places with girls who have BOOBS that vary in sizes but all come fairly close to George W’s GPA @ Yale (in letters, obviously). I promise. Don’t believe me?

Maria – Wednesday night.

Christine – Sunday night.

Sophia – Monday night.

Erica – tonight

Shawna – Wednesday night

Julia & Aviva & Danielle – Thursday night (in NYC)

Have you EVER met a guy with more ga(y)me? Straight guys are jealous of *it*. Girls want *it*. Fellow gays wonder how I *do it*.

Lovelies, you can teach a-this ::triple point snap & lip smack::

My apartment-mates are sexy. I live with three girls and one lonely and unfortunate straight boy who will never come out (of his room, that is). There’s Kelly and Laura, two vivacious blonde vixens who both have boyfriends and sporadically make deformed yet ridiculously delicious chocolate chip cookies. Erica, the forth and final roommate, is your typical Long Island Alpha Chi Omega, not to mention my new nutritionist AND my for- now- girly- shit- savant. I’ve never seen anyone so bothered with the fact that I only eat 2 meals a day, 1 of which always consists of froyo (yes, Brett, F-R-O-Y-O) from Jason’s Deli. According to Dr. Phil (& Erica), I’m going to die early because I don’t drink 3 glasses of milk a day. Babies, that’s, like, over 300 calories! Totes not acceptable! In addition, we read Seventeen and talk about boys, families, and estrogen tablets.

Research is consuming such a large part of my life, but it’s a good consumption. I love the applicability, the reality, the aesthetically pleasing laboratory, the formerly female grad student (don’t worry sweetie, I love you and respect you and, let’s face it, you are more of a man than I am), the other flaming grad students, and the power I have as a lowly undergraduate. The more I’m exposed to the delicious, muscular, tempting work/interviewees, the more I realize how perfect Dr. SW’s projects are for me. What are his “projects,” you might wonder? Definitely not your stereotypical cookie-cutter “hand me a test tube and let’s mix some (bodily) enzymes … and … fluids!”

[I was pure before Cornell. I swear.]

FIRST: studies that involve the psychology of casual sex. Why do people have casual sex? Is there such a thing as casual sex? How do people who have casual sex influence society and human development? Where can the 90% of Cornellians who need sex sign up for casual sex? (dial 917-……, no I’m not that cruel). I found that there’s a secret society for those “addicted to casual sex.” It’s similar in format to AA. Fabulous!

SECOND: studies that involve how gay teenagers use the internet to portray who they are as individuals and how they use the www to cope with their identity. I don’t mean a guy with a hot pink MySpace page that’s pimped out with dancing Hello Kitty icons (maybe that was just me in high school); I’m talking about sites like ManHunt, LiveJournal, and WordPress. The former scares me; I went on ManHunt for the first time yesterday to finish a follow-up report on an 18-year-old interviewee. That’s asking for rape. Way to live up to stereotypes, Mr. “Top/Vers, Average, Green Eyes, Right Here & Now!” I’m ashamed of my fellow gay men. I need to wax.

THIRD (my research): How adolescent males develop into their identities; mapping sexual development in teenagers – including a two year follow-up study with graduating high school seniors in Ithaca, Oswego, and New York City. I’m completely devising a new scale to quantify homosexuality that’s more thorough than those today (don’t worry Dr. Kinsey, you’re still my homeboy).

Yes, mother. Little M.Hal is all grown-up.

Method to my madness? Interviews. TONS and TONS of interviews with helpless college boys who are lured into MVR by a promise of $20 if they can make it through an hour with me. The process is quite therapeutic. Comfy couches, a cold soda or two (“pop” is no longer in my vocabulary), and my smiling face – all-in-all a much better combination than being bent over a laboratory desk checking PCRs 6 hours a day like last summer (as if I’m not in that position enough as it is…). Anyways, following the grilling comes the follow-up 3-5 page synopsis (per interview, AH), comparing what they bubbled in about themselves versus what they told me, and endless filing, margin-noting, and thank-you e-mails.

THE BEST PART: The professor has discovered, through these pages-long interview analyses, that I can actually write. Thus, if I’m still here in a year (which I will be unless I decide to seriously pursue go-go dancing in Tijuana), I will have my own chapter in his next book. MY OWN CHAPTER IN A (POSSIBLE) NEW YORK TIMES BEST-SELLER. OMG!

M.Hal will be famous. I’m amazing. I need a boy to kiss and share the love.

To complete this novel, I need to delve into a new discovery. That of…

*How to Successfully End a College Romance*

[AIM conversation circa May 2008]

Superman: So

Marc: So

Superman: This is it?

Superman: Where to now?

Marc: I don’t know

Superman: Are we going to hang out this summer or just consider this it and move on with our lives?

Marc: I’d be fine with either, to be perfectly honest

Marc: Our relationship has left me satisfied

Superman: Glad to hear it

Superman: So let’s just say that this is it for now and if either of us is overly bored this summer and/or I crave your wit, I’ll give you a call

Marc: That’s all I was to you… a last-resort source of entertainment?

Superman: I never said that

Marc: Whatever it was, I know you didn’t have a problem with it

Superman: Is that anything new?

Marc: I feel like us not having problems IS something new

Superman: For what it’s worth, you’ve never been a last resort

Marc: I’m melting

Dearest Superman,

You are the cat, and I am the mouse. I surrender.

Love,

M.Hal, K-Salz, and ALL of Judaism

I’ve accepted the fact that I’ll never see him again. I’m surprised that conversation actually took place. We were at that point where we both knew that the other was online, sans idle status, sans away message, but we still wouldn’t IM each other. That’s as awkward as standing in a tiny elevator with the other person standing up against you and all-the-while you’re trying not to look him in the face. Why didn’t he IM me for a month? Whatever. I was semi-crushed, but he’s not the first – well, the first that actually showed significant promise in the field of actually understanding me. My fifteen do. Kyle does. Maybe Brett does too?

Mr. Superman’s out-of-sight, out-of-mind, and I’m living in the moment.

I sound like an American Eagle commercial.

Live your life. Be a tool.

<3 M.Hal

Love is in the Air, Girl on the Roof

This will be a quickie. Well, two quickies (aren’t you just the lucky reader today).

Quickie #1. …No, move that leg right there, oh-oookay… but seriously. Does anyone find it odd that my best- straight- guy- friend’s girlfriend is jealous of the *connection* that we share? Not only that, but she’s “worried about our friendship.” Whatever, bia! Keep yo’ distance! He plays one of the lead roles in my life and I’d like to think that goes both ways? Oh the puns. I know, we’re unhealthy. We’re so close that I can’t consciously date a guy without his approval. In short, I love him. With our schedules, we only get to do lunch twice a week, and now she wants to join us? Honey, he’s MY BF. <- that’s best friend, NOT boyfriend, NOT buttf*ck, and NOT Bible Foundation.

Quickie #2. …Go slow, yeah… but seriously. Does anyone else find it odd that I’m listening to a song entitled “Girl on the Roof”?

Two questions to which I desperately need answers.

Back to research. Wasn’t that a nice break from your work-day?

P.S. I love my hubby <3

this is funny

marc and I have funny conversations. here’s the most recent:

[we're talking about people using craiglist to meet up for sex, and how it, along with phone sex, is "ew"]

M (11:00): people actually do that? that IS kind of ew

B (11:01): yes people do that.

M (11:01): i’ve never heard of craigslist. maybe i’m not nearly the gay guy i thought i was

B (11:01): WHAT! you’ve never heard of craigslist? It’s not a gay site, you buy shit.

B (11:01): www.craigslist.com

M (11:01): what is this??

M (11:01): honey, i dont shop online

B (11:01): it’s EVERYTHING

M (11:02): this is interesting.

M (11:02): oooh jewelry

its funny. really.

stalk stories

This is a funny conversation that I was privy to vicariously. It happened via text message. X= them. M = guess who:

X: hi. im in ithaca. let’s meet.

M: hi. im in ithaca. let’s not!

X: but this is your every desire

M: honey. my every desire includes Tom Brady, a football helmet, and those cute knee-high socks. if you match the description, then fine. otherwise, bitch please <–that took 2 texts

X: like i’d tap you anyways. you’re an ugly fat troll

M: awww. i mean. sure. i might be fat and ugly and trollish, but it seems to work for me. xoxo

X: you look like you’re cold. want my jacket?

Choose your own ending. It’ll be more fun that way.

kbye.

Oh Yes He Did

Hello children.

My name is Lusc, and I’m Lube’s conscience. I’ll periodically drop in to L’s hyper-hyphenated self-reflective virtual diarrhea-of-the-mouth , aka this blog, posting whatever my little heart desires. You see, L and I, we’re like peanut butter and jelly. Chocolate and vanilla. New York and LA. We go together, but we’re sort of opposites. So our back-and-forth’s should be highly entertaining. Despite our varying levels of morality and life experience, I’m sure everything will work out just peachy. It always does.

Hopefully he doesn’t kill me with cocaine or abrogate my posting privileges. It would be a disadvantage to the entire Internet/Universe and all of our friends.

Until next time, <3

Proud of Commitment

My millionaire-heiress-mini-Paris-Hilton-of-a-cousin got married in California this weekend

Black-tie ceremony + first class everything = amazing. Don’t you think?

No.

A few years ago, she was the black sheep of the family – one obnoxious coked-out slut who whored herself out to 5% of San Francisco (the approximate percentage of straight-males in this wonderful city). Sucking her family funds (including selling her precious Porsche Boxster) in true Anna Nicole Smith / M.Hal style, and finally getting caught sniffing off a BART rail, her parents sent her to rehab. ::Sound that all-too-trashy Amy Winehouse monstrosity of a song:: There she found her final victim (at least for now): she met Mr. Right.

Meeting Mr. Right in rehab, you might ask? He’s a gem. Like, adorably cute, clean-cut, shaven, not- Jewish- but- circumcised- and- converting, a cooking savant (delish!), and no longer a threat to society. Perfect. Maybe I should try coke.

Time to reflect. I don’t understand. Is there something I’m doing wrong? I fail at the relationship shin-dig (and the MCAT). I found myself crying during the ceremony, and it wasn’t because I was hung-over, in a tux, and lamenting my stolen fake I.D. @ Suite 181. [To clarify, the crying was not a completely bawling type; it was more of a subtle, one tear here, one tear there deal]. I realized I’d given up on love, the one emotion/thought process/illusion that so many people turn to in times of joy, grief, and horniness. Will I ever get married and join the ranks of those men and women whose lives consist of PTSA, Volvo sedans, and chocolate labs? I’m almost 20, and I haven’t the faintest idea. I know I want flowers. I want a rehearsal dinner on the family yacht. I want a bachelor party at a top-of-the-line club. I want a huge, eccentric ceremony. I want to honeymoon in the Mediterranean…

…First, I need a boy who’s worthy.

I’ve always shamelessly made fun of couples, especially the ultra-gooey, “I love you” / “No I love you” / “No I love you more” gag-me-with-a-dick types of relationships. In my times of weakness, however, I’ll painfully admit that I want that. I want the cheesiness. I want the cutesy kisses on the forehead. I want the nuzzling, the “oh no you decide” / “no really you decide” back-and-forth senseless dialogue. I want sarcasm. I want wit. I want humor. Damn it, I want Mr. Right – minus the whole rehab part. I’m plucked, I’m tight (oh, the meanings…), I’m in-shape, I’m fast (thinking), and I’m smart (the square root of my GPA is 2.02. You do the math). I hail from an ultra-competitive Ivy League school, so you’d assume I could find someone to settle down with in this crazy town. I’m hot, and my resume is good. I deserve a Mr. Right, right?

Tears continued to trickle down my cheek. After a few glasses of crystal and shiraz, and it was time to call my fabulous fifteen, AKA my back-bones, my support-systems and my ever-faithful-s; these lovely ladies are, collectively, my “fag hags.”

Since this matter crossed into the “Red Zone: OMG M.HAL IS TURNING INTO MARTHA STEWART” category, it required me calling almost all fifteen.

Alpha fag hag got back to me and said “oh M.Hal, you’ll find an amazing and talented guy who matches you in every way. You’ll compliment each other so well. Mr. Right’s out there! Please don’t give up. He would live a very lonely and wretched life if you did.” [This is why she’s my alpha. Always optimistic. Note how she mentioned I was amazing and talented, but not directly. That’s love.]

Beta fag hag got back to me and said “oh M.Hal, who cares about relationships? Just go out and live life. Why be bogged down?” [This is why she’s NOT my alpha. I don’t understand people who crave the single life. After two weeks, they always bitch about the fact that they’re not in a relationship…]

Gamma fag hag got back to me and said “oh M.Hal, the key to a successful relationship is not putting out the first three months. Adopt and implement a three-month rule. Any guy will love you because you’re holding back.” [This is why Gamma is single and a virgin. HAHA. What is this, 1953?]

One doesn’t need a degree from college to realize that the responses decrease in quality and depth. Kappa fag hag exclaimed “Live, Drink, Laugh, and Love – in that order.”

In summation, I’m ready – for a relationship, for love, for Volvos and chocolate labs. While it took a cross-country marriage to figure this all out, I’m fairly sure I permanently transitioned from my slut phase to my commitment phase. In the past, I’ve out-bitched every guy who even spoke of a relationship. Jason, Drew, Jared, Johnny, and *Superman* (don’t ask). My record is 7 months, three of which we were “off” (does that even count?)

It might seem like I only want the glamorous wedding, but my fickle, transient self wants the whole package. Would you ever buy a BMW that wasn’t fully loaded? The answer, sweetheart, is “Hell-a NO!” I’ve reached the point in my life where little excites me anymore – both sexually and intellectually. Thus, a REAL-wood interior, big…moonroof, heated seats, etc, laced in legitimate-ness (and an unlimited warranty or I can get my money back) turns me on moreso than any TWINK who thinks his poopy don’t stink.

My flight to New York is boarding in a few minutes, so I better get ready (8 AM flight, yeah). You might be asking yourself “WTF? Who writes this shit?” So. A little about me, then? I’m a rising junior @ Cornell University majoring in the Biological Sciences (I seriously must hate myself) and pursuing a minor in Communications (why? Comm’s actually applicable…and easy). I’m an RA (Resident Adviser), TA (Teaching Assistant), SA (Biology Student Adviser), honors/secret society member, and an ex-officer in my former fraternity – basically, I don’t sleep. On top of that, I do research related to sex, sexuality, and gender identity, and I’m loving every minute of it. My professor has written multiple New York Times: Best-Seller books and the next one might have my name on it. In an ideal world, I’d like to pass my MCAT, go to med school in NYC (my hometown), become a physician in a private practice, and combine my people skills and medical skills into a delectable, unforeseen package. How many doctors out there are actually social AND know what they’re doing? That’s what I thought…

…But I love writing. I’m not sure where I’d be without a blank Word document, my Mac, and an open mind. I’m a columnist for the Cornell Daily Sun, where I contribute to an anonymous parody column every other week. Nothing’s too inappropriate for me, and I’m open to discussing, in-person or blogging, virtually any topic, whether it be sex, homosexuality, heterosexuality, kama sutra, or girly shit. I submitted 5 applications (all including various writing samples) for internships at renowned/trashy/teeny magazines in NYC this summer, and got all 5 of them (read: Cosmo, Vogue, Seventeen, People). I turned them down, though. Why? Research and Kaplan MCAT prep in Ithaca. Yes, I’m THAT pre-med who makes his life 10x worse than life truly needs to be. Sometimes I wonder if medicine’s the right path – the whole profession is sinking and doctors generally hate themselves and the work they do – but who knows?

Hence, my life = so much uncertainty. I could be the next Toni Morrison. I could be the next Preston Burke. I could be the next Pierre Fitch.

Regardless. Welcome to the beginning of something amazing!