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About Those Hot Chicks…

For reasons I don’t even understand, the majority of my friends are women. What’s more, the majority of these women are attractive. I’m not talking about my standards (I thought of making a Stan-related pun, but nah); honest-to-God, normal, non-desperate men find these women incredibly attractive. And this is not nearly as much fun as you might think it is.

For example, when one of my friends approaches me with boyfriend troubles (and yes, they’re hot, of course they all have boyfriends), it’s very difficult for me to give them objective advice; instead, I want to urge them to dump their boyfriends and pick me up on the rebound. Sure, it won’t last, but I’ll understand that she was going through a period of confusion and we’ll end up friends. But noooooo; they have to work it out.

Women. Go figure.

Plus, it’s hard to have a civilized conversation with your close friends, people whose lives you know very disturbing, depressing, funny, poignant, crazy things about, when you’re picturing them naked. So I’ve got the current conversation, all the past things I’ve ever learned about them, their nudity, and my guilt about thinking about their nudity, to juggle in my brain.

Sometimes it’s just hard being Stan. In more ways than one.

And that leads me to yet another in a string of awkward conversations I’ve had with my former* co-worker, Eric. He’s a film student, so I end up seeing him constantly. Although it’s far enough in the semester that I’ve figured out when and where I’m most likely to see him, and I try to avoid it. Especially this week, since on Tuesday I ended up running into him, and he told me I had a check in the office to pick up, and if I didn’t, they’d mail it. I told him I’d go and pick it up, but I didn’t bother, so I thought it best to try and avoid him until after they mailed it.

So, after class, my friends and I went to this pizza place up on 8th and State. It’s sorta the best of both worlds: they have pizza by the slice for me and salads for them. I tried to convince them to stay and shoot the shit for awhile at the pizza place, but it started to get crowded (damn lunch rush!), so we went back to the film building and shot the shit in relative quiet, although I had a growing fear that I’d run into Eric, as I always do on Thursdays between my two classes, when I’m hanging out with my friends.

I feel awkward about Eric because of the way I quit. Basically, it went like this: Jenna started treating me like I was completely retarded, which started to get on my nerves. Then, she had me do this trained-ape job while everybody else worked on the U-Pass, so I decided to quit. Instead of formally tenuring my resignation and giving two weeks’ notice, I handled it the way I’d handle any other shitty work-study job: I stopped showing up, which was followed immediately by nobody caring.

Actually, that’s not true. I’ve run into Eric a lot, and he seems really bummed that I don’t work there anymore (to the extent that it seems like he’s almost seeking me out, so I run into him even when I’m trying to avoid him; he also kept demanding to read the screenplay I wrote last semester, despite my accurate protestations that it sucks balls, and when I finally gave it to him, he gave it back to me the next day and said he read it in one sitting and loved it—wow!). I also ran into Gregory once, and he told me I should just call Jenna and straighten things out, and she’d almost certainly give me my job back. I don’t have the heart to tell either of them that I don’t want the job, although I guess they figured it out at this point.

At any rate, he approached me yet again on Thursday, when I was talking with one of my friends (arguably the most attractive; the rest of my friends had dispersed to either do homework, go to work, or sleep), to tell me that Jenna had, in fact, mailed my check. I was happy about this, since it was actually a pretty sizable check and I’m running out of savings. (I’m not getting another campus job, and I’ve (honestly) been too lazy to go out looking for a job, despite the fact that it seems every retail place in town is hiring.) We were sort of playing a game of chicken—would I come in to pick it up, or would she just mail the fucking thing?—and it appears that I’ve won.

Eric left after a couple of minutes, but I saw him again in the foyer as I was walking with my friend out the door. We parted ways—she to her class, me to a coffee refill—and when I got back, Eric was standing on the sidewalk outside, staring right at me. It was like he was waiting for me to get back. He wasn’t even smoking a cigarette, like he usually does. He was just…standing.

I figured this was it. He was gonna finally confront me about why I quit and how I quit, tell me I should’ve handled things better, tell me it’s okay to swallow my pride and call Jenna and air my grievances and hope she’ll be more understanding in the future. It was not a conversation I wanted to have; avoiding that conversation is why I’ve waited for eight weeks instead of calling and telling them to mail my last check.

I approached Eric, who was waving his arm to flag me down (like I was gonna ignore him and walk on by; believe me, I thought about it). I opened my coffee and took a sip. Eric licked his lips, shuffled his feet.

Finally, he said, “So…how do you get all those really hot girls to hang out with you?”

I giggled uncomfortably. I wanted to laugh hysterically at how wrong my thinking had been. He’d probably been saving that question up the first time he saw me walking around with Attractive Blonde Friend or Super-Hot Pot-Head, but I’d either been tethered to one of my hot friends or in too much of a hurry to stop and chat. And now that I was alone and had fifteen minutes to spare before class, he could finally ask that itching question.

“I dunno,” I said. I didn’t at that time; I had no idea how my friends all mysteriously happen to be attractive women. I would have attributed it to my sense of humor, which seems to be my only redeeming quality, but that starts to wear on people after they’ve hung out with me for a couple of weeks (or days, or minutes).

What really seems to happen, now that I’ve thought about it, is that I see these women, I’m instantly attracted to them because they’re, for lack of a better word, hot, so I go and talk to them. I’m gutsy enough to approach them, but not gutsy enough to ask them out immediately or even at the end of the first conversation. And then it turns out they’re really cool. And they have a boyfriend. And they want to hang one day. Do I want to hang with her? Yes. Do I want to hang with her and her boyfriend? Not really, but beggars can’t be choosers.

But seriously, folks, usually their boyfriends turn out to be pretty decent guys, as well. Surprisingly, all of my women friends are far more well-adjusted than, say, Lucy, so they aren’t, for example, nuts and they don’t date men who make her seem normal.

Ironically, it often turns out that when I end up dating somebody, it’s not one of these attractive women to whom I randomly say stupid things on a whim. They’re really not my type, except in the sense that they’re cool to hang out with and I want to have sex with them. No, the women I usually go out with tend to be more on the Lucy end of the crazy train, which makes me wonder if I’m just as crazy as any number of Lucy’s boyfriends.

So I suppose I can look forward to a lifetime of befriending unattainable women while having breakable objects hurled at me for any number of reasons by the attainable women.

As they say on the streets: a winner is me!

* Yes, at the beginning of this semester I unceremoniously quit my job and got a social life (despite me blogging on a Friday night instead of par-tay-ing down), which is why I never have any time to blog (social life + doing homework at home instead of at work = no blogging).

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