"Friedrich Nietzsche is dead." -- God
"Blogging is dead." -- Wood Dog
"Wood Dog is right." -- Twitter
Scene: Interior, the darkened headquarters of It's OKTO Blog. The sounds of keys rattling and the click of a deadbolt sliding open are heard. The door opens, and a sliver of light pierces the blackness.
[OSCAR DE LA JOLLA enters. He clears the cobwebs off of a light switch and flips the switch. Overhead, fluorescent lights flicker to life.]"Hello?"
[OSCAR's voice echoes faintly. The only response is the steady hum of the fluorescent lights.]
"Looks like no one's been here in weeks. Months, maybe. By posting it seems I've lost our little game of blog chicken, but waiting for the Wood Dog to blog first was like getting into a staring contest with a fish. Or maybe the Legion of Doom finally won?"
Look, I realize that blogging is such a 2007 thing to do, but let's shoot a couple more entries out into cyberspace before we wrap this puppy up for good. I'd really like to make it to the blog's one-year anniversary, seeing as how it might be the only one-year anniversary I'm a part of in my lifetime. Besides, we have to keep blogging, at least until we get a Facebook page or a Twitter feed. Is it OKTO Twitter? Speaking of Twitter, you can follow the Wood Dog here. But it will do you no good, since he Tweets as often as I have threesomes. Which, as you'll learn below, is "not yet."
Woke up in my own bed (for a change, and at a reasonable hour to boot -- meaning "as well" in this context and not that I woke up at a good time for puking) two Sundays ago. It being Mother's Day, I threw a goodbye/mercy screw to Wood Dog's Mom before she left, then called my Mom to wish her a Happy Mother's Day. As I prepared to begin my day, however, I couldn't figure for the life of me why my left arm was aching.
I went to check it out and sure enough, I had a pretty nasty welt on my upper arm. First I reviewed the Captain's Log from the night before... nope, no falling was done. Looking for clues, I hunted around for my phone, and located it safely stowed in my front jeans pocket. I have a theory about this - the amount you had to drink the night before is directly correlated to the amount of stuff you find in your pants the next morning. Keys and wallet on the dresser, phone plugged into the charger? Sober. Keys on the dresser but phone and wallet in your pants? Buzzed. Keys, wallet and phone in your pants? Drunk. Keys, wallet and phone in your pants and you're still wearing the pants when you wake up? Very Drunk. Keys, wallet, phone, poop, and the phone number and e-mail address of some handsome sailor you sorta remember meeting all in your pants and you're still wearing the pants? Smashed, and maybe it's time to seek some professional help. And if you wake up with that handsome sailor in your pants? Smashed and Very Gay.
Checked the phone. Found a nasty 2:45AM text message from a "booty text" of mine. I didn't keep it, but it said something to the effect of "I can't believe u did that. Ur SUCH an ASSHOEL!1!" Aha! A clue! Hamster starts running, wheel starts turning, brain starts working. Yes. The night did end badly. Yes, it definitely did. Why? Because I tried to fly too close to the sun.
You see, I have spent a few nights over at Ms. Booty Text's place. Now, MBT lives with two roommates. Two cute roommates. Two cute, female roommates. I've met them on several occasions, including one time when I was on my way to use the bathroom and I hadn't bothered to get fully dressed before venturing out. Between my time at the gym and my time at the waxing salon, I dare say that shirtless in boxers is not a bad look for me at the moment. Apparently the roommates agreed, as MBT let it be known once that the roommates had commented to her that I was attractive. Once I playfully suggested inviting them into the bedroom, and was told by MBT that they probably wouldn't mind but that she would really mind.
Armed with this information, I met MBT and her roommate, the one who happens to be a yoga instructor, out for late-night drinks. I was trying to set the Yogi up with a friend of mine, but she was going on about some guy she met a few bars earlier in the night and clearly was having esteem issues ("Do you think I should call him? Maybe I should text him. He hasn't texted me yet and he's had my number for two hours now. I think I should text him."). So I figured I'd put some time in, build this girl up a little, and get her to live in the present and chat up my buddy (who was being a champion and throwing alcohol in our direction the whole time).
Unfortunately (but intentionally) my building-up of this girl came across as flirting. This had a two-pronged effect. Yogi was flattered by the flirting but unsure what if anything to about it, seeing as how MBT was sitting two barstools down. MBT, on the other hand, began to get a bit jealous. As much as MBT claimed to understand that ours was a NSA relationship, one of her other friends confided in me that she in fact had far greater aspirations than that. Me? Not so much. I had in fact I been looking to shut down the relationship, as these things can't go on for too long without someone developing feelings and I knew it wasn't me doing the developing. I'm simply incapable of developing feelings, romantic or otherwise. Even if I get choked up when I watch the end of the Scrubs episode where Brendan Fraser dies. Oops. Spoiler Alert from 2004.So the bar eventually closes, and the conversation devolves into MBT accusing me of flirting with her roommate. Which I was. Blatantly, and right in front of her. So, being the uncompromising sort, I admit to doing just that. Of course I had to flirt with her, I explained, because how else were we going to have a threesome? When MBT realizes that I'm serious (hell, I'm acting like I'm entitled to it at this point) she goes ballistic. "Who do you think you are? What, am I not enough for you? Not in a million years, Buster Brown!" Etc. So then it all comes out. "Why don't you want to date me?" MBT wants to know. Filled with the sodium pentathol that is sweet, sweet alcohol, I proceed to tell her that it is mainly because she is "unstable" and "insane." She oddly seemed to take offense at these statements. In fact, when I used the word "insane" MBT actually went insane and took a swing at me. Due to her poor aim or my superior defensive skill (green belt, bitches!) she ended up hitting me in the left arm, right where the bruise now resides. Which, if nothing else, proved my point regarding her insanity.
Satisfied it was the right thing to do, as I don't really like the taste of boiled bunny, I deleted all her contact information. She did send me one e-mail after that, to which I responded as a concession to the female need for closure. However, I'm sure that's the last time I'll ever see her, although I do think of her every day. I can't help it - every time I see this sickly yellow-brown contusion on my arm I am reminded of her. Nice punch, MBT. Respect.
