The One
"The One, Part II continued . . ."
"You need to back off," I said to Tweedle-Drunker. I walked over and got myself a couple of cookies. Tyler moved his drunken body towards. "What?"

"The Krispy Kremes are over there," he smirked in the midst of his intoxication.

"I fucking know that," I snapped. Before he can say anything else I sneered, "Do you still want the ability to have children? Then I suggest that you back the fuck away from me right now."

"Talk Talk"
"Do you wanna talk?" Tyler asked, sitting down next to me in our room. I sat silently next to him, snapping apart a stale M&M cookie from the gas station. I wiped off some of the crumbs from my peacoat, remaining silent. "It's nothing that I did right?"

"Nope," I replied. "It's just I keep feeling like I am never going to be the one. My whole history is me being the other guy, straight or gay."

"Oh," he sighed, trying to dredge up some sympathy from his drunken stupor.

"The One, Part III"
Spring Break. It was around midnight that Thursday of break when things finally came full circle for me. I had put away my fears of being alone forever when my fear found me, popping up on my screen in the form of an instant message from Zhivago. I had long changed into my pajamas and was busying myself with of a game of Pile Up.

Zhivago IMed me, asking me to look at his webcam. He, against anything resembling good judgment, decided to shave his head. Unfortunately, the shaving was more of a skill than he had banked on. I had to laugh when I saw him on his webcam. The top was shaved, the sides were still long. He desperately needed help. And although he was the loathe of my life, I decided to get dress, get out, and get over myself. So I walked over 20 minutes in the cold, just to help this bastard out.

"Good God," I chuckled as he answered the main doors of the United Nations dorm.

"You don't like it?" he smirked. "I like it. I'm thinking about keeping it this way."

"How lovely," I sighed.

He led me down a long hallway to his room across from the bathroom. He sat down at his computer and handed me the clippers. He put his head down over a trash can, already filled with hair. So I started to cut the last shreds of his hair. And there in the room that I had previously sworn to never return to with the head of the Russian that I had sworn to hate in my hands, I felt the cracking of my brickwall of emotions.

"You know the last time I did anything," he grinned devilishly. "Last week, directing a few people in a fuck scene. Not a porno. A five-way."

And just like that, my wall was rebuilt.

"Was your boyfriend involved?" I asked.

He leaned in and smiled. "My boyfriend lives a couple hundred miles away."

"I don't get it," I remarked. "You can direct an orgy but doing anything with me is horribly wrong to your relationship."

"You want my pity?" he replied.

"A couple hours ago you wanted to fuck," I sighed.

"That was then," he sighed, leaning back in his chair. "You know you would have someone now if you went to the gym, worked out, lost weight, learned how to be funny and not boring."

"I'm going to go," I sighed.

"Why?" he asked, completely oblivious.

"I didn't walk in the cold for 20 minutes just to cut hair and be insulted," I sighed.

"Don't leave," he said. "You should stay."

I looked at him, at the room with its clutter, and myself in the reflection of a mirror over a dresser. Against every good notion, I had ended up here. But agreeing with every good notion, I was now ready to leave.

"There's nothing here for me," I replied.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Abso-fucking-lutely," I smiled, turning around and walking out the door with my peacoat slung over my arm.

A few minutes later, I was walking outside in the cold. It was two in the morning. All the street lights were flashing red. I always used to feel sad leaving Zhivago, like I was parting with a part of myself. And now I'm alone. And I may be alone for a month, six months, or even the rest of my natural life. If that's the way it goes then that's the way it goes. You can either sit around and sulk or you can get on with things fabulously. Believe me, fabulous trumps sulking every time. Abso-fucking-lutely every time.

The One
"The One, Part 1"
Last Friday. Tyler got off from work late that nite and we commenced drinking, as per usual at this college. We were in our loopy glory, me being drunk from drinking/Wild Cherry Pepsi while playing the board Sorry with B. and C. When Tyler got back, he promptly went out to the bars with are neighbors Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Drunker.

With my roomie gone, I drifted aimlessly around the building every so often going outside to feed the beast that is my nicotine addiction. It was during one of these smokes I ran into a very intoxicated young man that I'll simply refer to from here on out as the Fab Fag. We headed up to his room, popping in Sister Act 2. He shuffled about through the chic rubble that was his clothes. Holister, Express, Gap, it was if a designer bomb had exploded.

"Could you hand me my phone?" The Fab Fag sighed. "Oh, could you also get my cell phone? And turn off my lamp?"

He asked all of these things in drunken rapid succession with a tone so bored and matter-of-fact that it was stunning. I should know. It stunned me. (copyright Sex and the City) I did all the things he wanted, with him chirping in the background.

"I might have to kick you soon. Remember to keep your shoes on the mat, not on the tiles."

The alcohol had apparently brought his OCD nazi.

"Do you want me to do your windows too?" I sneered, moving way to the door.

"What's your problem?" he asked, stretching out on his futon.

I stood outside moments later with Marb Light dangling from my lips, a long trail of ashes slowly marching its way up to the filter. And against all of my stoic intentions, I let a tear roll down. I wasn't tearing up for what he said. He hadn't said anything. I was tearing up for myself. I was crying for everything I was, everything I wasn't, and every I never knew existed inside of me. For a moment, the horrible thought passed through my vodka-stained mind. I am never going to be the one.

"The One, Part II"
After crying for an absurdly long period of time, I called a friend simply known as Peach. Being the trooper she is, she braved the freezing cold to join my pity party of one.

"I've determined that I'm never going to be 'the one,'" I sighed. "Zhivago, Fab Fag, I am always the other one. I'm the relationship version of pork."

"You're going to be the one for someone," she smiled.

If I didn't know the Peach was a cynic at heart, I would have pushed her into oncoming traffic for going from a Peach to Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.

We walked into Holiday so I could buy some smokes and a couple of cookies. In life, you always run into ther person or people you least want at the worst possible moments. It's like a karmic kick in the crotch. And at my worst, there was Tyler, Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Drunker at their drunken zenith.