Better Recognize

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.

I turned down three offers for Coachella this weekend, including a place to stay that accompanied two of them. But I needed some personal Rob Lowe space, and I'm generally aware enough to know when to say when. I've been acting like a college kid lately, being dirty and scandalous into the wee hours with the wrong people. But unlike most college kids, I don't have sex. Regardless, before this whole lifestyle took its toll on me, I put the kebosh on it.

So instead of hanging with friends en masse in the high desert, I spent Saturday entirely in my underwear. I did nothing but listen to My Morning Jacket over and over and drink a day-old Jamba. It actually was a much better time than I'm making it out to be. On those days, there is no better friend to me than me. Seriously, maybe its a narcissistic thing, but I had a good time with myself. And "we" didn't even have sex.

Bad joke.

Saturday night, I watched Mean Girls, and loved it on so many different levels, including the increased level that was poking through my thread-bare boxers. Regardless of what you think of Linds as a paparazzi person, she does bring it in the adolescent looks arena. Lacey Chabert had the exact opposite effect on my boner. I hate to see cute kids grow up to be fug adults. I prefer my grown-up child stars to be absolutely fuckable.

Like Jessica.

I have to be honest about the whole Lucky Strike thing I've been traipsing out for months (which I am purposely not linking to from here, if you are in the know, you are in the know). I've been a bit afraid to blog about it. I think I just now recognized that fear was central to my avoidance. I've had my fair share of blogging-about-people-who-didn't-want-to-be-written-about moments, and I've handled them fairly well under the circumstances. But none of those people were dating some buff dude from the Fantastic Four. I've been advised to play it close to the chest, and after much internal review, decided that I don't give a shit and will write about it. I will change her name though, I'm going to call her Lisa. Or Lori.

By the way, one of the mind births of the past few weeks of drinking was a new mission brought up by Jim and Alex. They think under their astute guidance they can help me stick an often-maligned Mean Girl actress. And all they want me to do is hold off sex until I can get it from her. Fuck, my part's easy: have no sex. I've been doing that all my life.

They've got the mission to accomplish.

And guess what? If there is a red-haired pity fuck in my future due to some strange polarity, roadie mentality or substance-induced indifference, it will definately not be blogged about. Their rule, not mine. I'm not sure if I would even be proud of it. Ok, yea, I would. But hey, guys are pigs. And this weekend, I remembered what it is to be a guy. A guy in Saturday underwear. A guy with time to think.

I'm going to eat an orange now and hope for the best.