Happy 30th Fucknuts

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.

The time showed 6:02 am when the knock came on my door. But it was actually more like 5:40, since I set my clock ahead. I thought it was an ex-girlfriend, drunk current friend or some Bin Laden shit a reactionary neighbor was poised to warn me about. It was none of the above.

Standing wearily sassy outside my door was a 20ish girl. She offered no explanation of her presence, but simply handed me an envelope. Too hot to be a courier, too mannered to be a FedEx chick. Her caste was unmistabable. Standing before me was a young, semi-hot, smarter-than-her-present-task-justified, production assistant.

She looked at my confused face and offered a smile as I examined the manilla envelope. In large writing across the top, with the authority of a sharpie, read: Happy 30th Fucknuts.

With eyes that were trained to be apologetic, she explained her instructions to write those exact words. I'm sure if she stays in the entertainment business, this will not be the most degrading task she's ever asked to perform. Even with my morning wood flapping about uncontrollably.

"Do I open it?"

"Yes, please," she said.

"Well, come on in," I offered, and led her to the couch.

"Nice TV," she said, looking for a conversation point.

I opened the envelope, not knowing if she was being rhetorical. I was in my underwear with no shirt. I probably should have put something on, but I was way too tired. Her eyes scanned the room, looking everywhere but at me. Finally, I excused myself to grab a piss and throw on a pair of pajama bottoms. I don't like to see people uncomfortable.

I opened the envelope, and pulled out the contents.

"They are tickets to Park City, well actually Salt Lake." she said.

"But they're for today, at 3."

"Yes, and I will be back to pick you up around 1:55."

I looked at the rest of the contents, in it was a name, Frank Alan Gomez. I had no idea what it meant.

"Frank Alan Gomez?" I asked.

"Look for that sign when you arrive in Salt Lake. It'll be your driver. It's about another 45 minutes to an hour to Park City."

"But why, Frank-" Oh, I got it, mid-thought. FAG are the initials. This is going to be one sophmoric weekend. Or week, I didn't see a return flight on the ticket.

"Ok, then, thanks," I said, sidestepping the fag thing, but I could tell she got it, probably even before me.

She walked towards the door, in too much of a hurry for 5:45. Is her day always this hectic?

"Uh, there's no other name inside, but I assume these are courtesy of Alex."

"Yes, she said," and others. "I'll fill you in on the ride to the airport. It would be easy if you can just look for me outside at about 1:55. I have a new black Civic."

But then it dawned on me, why did she have to deliver these so early? I had to ask.

"I need to go to Costa Mesa, and then back here, I wanted to get it to you first thing," she answered.

"Ok, I said, great. 1:55"

"1:55," she said, finally cracking a legitimate smile.

"Nice friends, by the way, and happy birthday."

"Thanks," I answered back, not wanting to explain that actually my birthday was in July, and I spent it with two hookers instead of with two friends. My judgement is spot on, even in the pre-dawn hours.

I didn't even get her name, but knew her car and the time. I wrote it down before I thought it was a dream. I hunkered back to bed and in my best "sick voice" I made the call to work. Rob was not coming in today. He was going snowboarding.

Anyway, hope everyone has a safe and fun weekend. And the real estate chick, well, that will have to wait.