The Other Guy - The guy that is not the main one. An unserious diversion from the real interest. synonym-guy on the side, tool of jealousy, one night stand, mistake, me.
As I think back upon my brief yet scarring romantic history I seem to continue coming to the same conclusion. That other guy was me. Here's a brief chronological synopsis to explain:
5th grade - Crush on Maria in Mexico City seems to be reciprocated until Ariel's bday party where she spends the whole night trying to dance with my best friend Mario.
9th grade- Stephanie from English class entices with seductive eyes and random phone calls to my house, perhaps giving the first glimmer of hope to my worried parents that I'm not gay. With double Cs she inevitably ends up dating the JV football team and stops returning my calls.
11th grade-Ashley from art class always talks about hanging out and even proposes getting together on valentines day. Ditches me at last moment to get back with her ex boyfriend while I spent valentines day playing video games to the bemusement of my parents who I'd already told I had a date.
College-Well if you don't know this one by now you haven't read this blog. Girl dates guy while trying to get back with ex guy or get with new guy... either way I'm the other guy.
After examining this undeniable pattern of mistrust and misperception it's hard to believe I was surprised after another recent event. Booze flowed freely (I didn't have to pay for any of it) from 6pm on. My night began in a relaxed setting at a coworkers home as I drank dangerous combinations of beer and sangria. Treating them interchangeably until 1030 when i departed back to the city. The nap on the ride home energized me and I headed downtown more awake at midnight than I had been in some time. A roaring welcome to the party only served to enhance my mood and I immediately targeted a defenseless bottle of Jim Beam, pouring its contents straight into a plastic cup with ice. After, drunken dialogue with a certain female counterpart showed signs of potential. The drink fell to my thirst and I filled the cup yet again with a massive pour, finishing what had once been a half full bottle of bourbon. Teasing comments were made about my past transgressions while I employed inebriated charm to combat false perceptions. Making further use of my drunk faculties I conceived an overly complimentary letter to said female. This succeeded in unlocking her lips but not unweaving the webs of deception of which I was already ensnared. Being kicked out of a room without warning at 430 in the morning is not a good sign kids. After a make out session to a degree I can't honestly remember I journeyed home. The next day I stayed true to my word as a man interested in more than just a drunk mistake and asked her to hang out in my sober company. After I'm sure hours of avoiding a response she curtly texted back that it wasn't a good idea because she was, of course, "dating someone."
That other guy was me.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Sunday, March 07, 2010
That's Boken....
According to the unquestioned resource of Wikipedia, "St. Patrick's Day is an annual feast that celebrates St. Patrick, the most recognized patron saint of Ireland and is celebrated on March 17th." A national holiday in Ireland, the US has adopted it as a public holiday. After scenes from last Saturday I'd argue that it might be the MOST public holiday we have, at least when celebrated across the Hudson in the fair city of Hoboken.
The definition of St. Paddy's day I suppose is vague enough to be interpreted in many different ways. Yesterday, March 6th a full 11 days before the recognized date of the celebration is a stretch on its own. However, the leniency of interpretation afforded to "feast" is the most questionable as the meaning must be wide enough to encompass an appalling display of unapologetic debauchery to the most deplorable degree. I'd been warned about the intensity of St. Paddy's Day in Hoboken, but after living in NYC for 6 years I quickly dismissed these concerns as naive and confidently hopped onto the Path Train wearing a dark green t-shirt accompanied by the always dependable Dr. Gonzo.
I should've sensed trouble brewing when I saw the demographics of riders crowding into the path train. Two guys next to us mixed a bottle of whiskey with coke. Girls about our every side all conversed with the words "like," "you know," and "fuck," in five word intervals. The train arrived and the doors opened to a teeming underground hang over. Only 4:30pm the entire station smelled of booze and regret.
Hoboken, being so close to New York managed to create the perfect storm of unrepentant depravity. Legions of Investment Banking Bobbies flocked in from Manhattan with hair slicked back and green sports jackets purchased solely for this occasion. This disturbance was met by Bro Brigades travelling from exotic faraway destinations like the Jersey Shore, Long Island, and North Jersey. Finally, completing the disaster stew, swarms of man craving, liqour chugging, drama inciting females flocked to the scene like it was their own personal Mecca, except instead of bowing in prayer they bent over and boked.
Forget http://www.overheardinnewyork.com/, I heard more appalling comments in one block than I've ever read on the popular blog. Dr. Gonzo recognized the region as a highly lucrative market for HGH dealers as tight shirt wearing, neck bulging masses of booze and rage seemed perpetually on their way to, from, or in a fight.
Girls slumped over on the curb, unconcious or dead, were such a normal sight that they stopped meritting even a second look. After finally making it past the bar filled Washington Avenue we reached the destination of our party. Where all hell had already broken loose. The apartment was carpeted in beer, liquor, some girl from Stephen's Institute of Technology and a stunning collection of aluminum. My feet felt sticky as I tried moving through the huddled masses while simulatenously avoiding pissing off any of the guys with the lingering far off stairs just aching for a chance to punch a hole in a wall.
Lemons shot around the walls and I saw a guy I knew judo chop a stranger's vagina. The reception, obviously, was not welcome. However, that was the least of anyone's problems. Some girl with tears repeatedly tried to reason with an angry lover. Another angry man tried to reason with a potential fucker and another guy I knew puked his pants. I wasn't drunk or insane enough to stay long. In my better (younger) years a place like this would've felt natural, almost paradise like, now it felt dirty and wrong...like sex with a married chick.
We survived the walk back pausing only to pick up a stray $40 and watch a bouncer beat the drunken shit out of an unruly patron, made complete when a cop arrived and someone shouted, "First you got fucked up! Now you get locked up!" Forcing ourselves onto a train we had not escaped the date rapiness of Jersey as all around us creepy men were trying to lure drunken women into devious encounters. My stomach hurt; it was a bad but sadly not forgettable place.
The definition of St. Paddy's day I suppose is vague enough to be interpreted in many different ways. Yesterday, March 6th a full 11 days before the recognized date of the celebration is a stretch on its own. However, the leniency of interpretation afforded to "feast" is the most questionable as the meaning must be wide enough to encompass an appalling display of unapologetic debauchery to the most deplorable degree. I'd been warned about the intensity of St. Paddy's Day in Hoboken, but after living in NYC for 6 years I quickly dismissed these concerns as naive and confidently hopped onto the Path Train wearing a dark green t-shirt accompanied by the always dependable Dr. Gonzo.
I should've sensed trouble brewing when I saw the demographics of riders crowding into the path train. Two guys next to us mixed a bottle of whiskey with coke. Girls about our every side all conversed with the words "like," "you know," and "fuck," in five word intervals. The train arrived and the doors opened to a teeming underground hang over. Only 4:30pm the entire station smelled of booze and regret.
Hoboken, being so close to New York managed to create the perfect storm of unrepentant depravity. Legions of Investment Banking Bobbies flocked in from Manhattan with hair slicked back and green sports jackets purchased solely for this occasion. This disturbance was met by Bro Brigades travelling from exotic faraway destinations like the Jersey Shore, Long Island, and North Jersey. Finally, completing the disaster stew, swarms of man craving, liqour chugging, drama inciting females flocked to the scene like it was their own personal Mecca, except instead of bowing in prayer they bent over and boked.
Forget http://www.overheardinnewyork.com/, I heard more appalling comments in one block than I've ever read on the popular blog. Dr. Gonzo recognized the region as a highly lucrative market for HGH dealers as tight shirt wearing, neck bulging masses of booze and rage seemed perpetually on their way to, from, or in a fight.
Girls slumped over on the curb, unconcious or dead, were such a normal sight that they stopped meritting even a second look. After finally making it past the bar filled Washington Avenue we reached the destination of our party. Where all hell had already broken loose. The apartment was carpeted in beer, liquor, some girl from Stephen's Institute of Technology and a stunning collection of aluminum. My feet felt sticky as I tried moving through the huddled masses while simulatenously avoiding pissing off any of the guys with the lingering far off stairs just aching for a chance to punch a hole in a wall.
Lemons shot around the walls and I saw a guy I knew judo chop a stranger's vagina. The reception, obviously, was not welcome. However, that was the least of anyone's problems. Some girl with tears repeatedly tried to reason with an angry lover. Another angry man tried to reason with a potential fucker and another guy I knew puked his pants. I wasn't drunk or insane enough to stay long. In my better (younger) years a place like this would've felt natural, almost paradise like, now it felt dirty and wrong...like sex with a married chick.
We survived the walk back pausing only to pick up a stray $40 and watch a bouncer beat the drunken shit out of an unruly patron, made complete when a cop arrived and someone shouted, "First you got fucked up! Now you get locked up!" Forcing ourselves onto a train we had not escaped the date rapiness of Jersey as all around us creepy men were trying to lure drunken women into devious encounters. My stomach hurt; it was a bad but sadly not forgettable place.
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