Dating without Expiating, Entry 1: "Jason"

Recently, a friend of mine posted on Facebook asking for stories of bad dates. I knew this was my time to shine since storytelling is (obviously) one of my favorite things to do. Especially when those stories are mostly negative and completely humorous. I tried and tried to think about the worst date I had been on and, to my surprise, none of them were that bad. Honestly, I haven't been on many dates, and the ones I have been on have mostly been mediocre. I settled on a story of what I considered my "worst" date, a date that was bad because I made it that way. But thinking about all the boys that I have been on dates with got me thinking about something new: a date series.
I had the idea to start going on as many dates as possible and writing about them as a sort of memoir of living in Alamance County, but then I realized that I would actually have to be asked on not only one date, but multiple to make that work. And that doesn't look like it's going to happen, so I had to come up with a new plan.
So here it is: I'm going to take all you readers (all three of you) on a journey through my dating life, bad and good, starting in 2012. I have a surprisingly detailed memory when I really set my mind to it, so these stories will likely be a lot more drawn out than they need to be. Hopefully it's somewhat entertaining.

Dating without Expiating, Entry 1: "Jason"

expiate (v.): to do something as a way to show that you are sorry about doing something bad

I guess the first date I ever went on was with the boy who later became my first boyfriend, Jason. First, let me back up to when I first met him.  It was Labor Day weekend 2012, I had just turned 20 and I was looking better than I ever had and, unfortunately, ever will again. Some random Facebook friend who I may have met once in my life invited me to an event near campus: a jungle-themed party at a club benefiting some cheesy college group that I didn’t care about. But what I did care about was a theme party. I was very into theme parties in college (this was probably the only one I actually went to). Anyway, Lenzie and I set out to find cute outfits that afternoon and, after several hours at Walmart, we went home with a whole lot of nothing. I found some camouflage pajama pants and Lenzie found a cheetah-print skirt at the dollar store. But there’s nothing that combat boots, some scissors and a lot of hair spray can’t fix.

I still have this entire outfit

So I get to the club, lookin’ like a drowned, harassed rat and am greeted not by Ms Rose at the door, but our friend Johnny 5-0. Yes, honey, the NYPD shut down the party…

OK that didn’t happen, that was Let’s Have a Kiki.

We got in the ridiculously long line with our other friends and were prepared to wait for a while. Or I was, at least. Lenzie promptly left to go to the front of the line. We assumed she’d be back within thirty seconds after being told to go to the back of the line by the bouncer, but I guess she disappeared. I didn’t really notice; I was drunk and with two boys that I was already in love with (that story to come later. Maybe). We looked up maybe five minutes later and she was strolling into the door, waving back at us peasants.

Once we finally got in, we found Lenzie on the dance floor. She told us she found some people in the front of line that were talking about our hometown, so she made friends with them to get in faster. It was a group consisting of maybe two or three girls and one guy. She pointed at the guy after she told me the story and said “he’s really nice, you should talk to him!” And I responded with “him?! He’s definitely NOT gay.” And that was that. I ended up dancing with a different guy for a little while who was sort of cute. And when I say I was dancing with him, I mean his entire body was somehow off the floor and on top of mine. Have you ever been dancing with someone and just hoping for the end of the song so there’s a natural break for you to politely walk away? That was the case this time, except the songs seemed to never end and I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t say “I’m going to go get a drink!” because I had big black X’s on my hands; and I couldn’t use losing my friends as an excuse because my only friends were dancing right next to us.

That one eventually led to something beneficial: Lenzie found a way to say, loud enough so I could hear her over the music, but not so loud that the other person occupying my body space could hear, that I should go talk to her friend from outside. He was sitting at a bar on the edge of the dance floor. I probably said something nondescript like “hey, I’ll be right back!” and then disappeared.

When I sat down beside this guy, I had little recollection of Lenzie mentioning him earlier, but I stand by what I’m told I said. He didn’t look gay, at least not in the way that me and my friends did (all of us were wearing tiny shorts and makeup; one of us in a fur vest). He was wearing a button-up shirt that I’m guessing was from Tommy Hilfiger, khaki shorts and boat shoes. But he was cute. I introduced myself. His name was Jason.

I don’t remember what Jason and I talked about, but I know I was smiling a lot. And I know my hand was on his knee and partway up his shorts. Looking back, I can’t believe I actually met someone that I immediately liked, but that probably happened a lot more often for me back then. This was the first and only time I ever went out without my phone – the pajama pants cut into 3-inch shorts didn’t exactly have a lot of space for the giant Android phone I was sporting at the time. Plus, we weren’t far from our apartment so if I lost Lenzie, I could be home in a few minutes.

When his friends started urging him to leave, I had to give him my phone number and hope that he was as into me as I was into him. So he left, and I was alone again. I probably left shortly after and ended up alone in my bed by 2am. Somewhere between 2 and 5am, the boy from the dance floor ended up in my bed. Then by 11am, I couldn’t get him out of my bed.

Sometime later after he called a friend to pick him up, I found myself making my way to a football game. Remember, it was Labor Day in North Carolina, so it was hot. And it was football. We got there after kickoff and left before the first quarter was over to go the pool. By the time I laid out my beach towel, I had a text from Jason. We made plans for a date a few days later at a frozen yogurt shop on Franklin St relatively early in the conversation, but continued to text all weekend.

When it was finally the night of the date, I wasn’t as much of a wreck as I would be now. I think one takeaway from all this is that I’m a lot less cool than I was four years ago.

I got home from work at 8:30, then had to meet him at 9:00. I put on my favorite light wash skinny jeans, a yellow v-neck tee shirt and motorcycle boots that I had just bought and was absolutely obsessed with. My roommate approved my outfit and I was on my way.

I got there a little early, but wasn’t concerned because I had a way to occupy myself while I was waiting. Here’s perhaps the strangest part about our first date: my best friend was there with us. I didn’t exactly invite her, but she had to be there. She worked at the frozen yogurt shop. Jason didn’t know this when he asked to meet there and I didn’t know she’d be working that night, but I wasn’t too worried. If it went badly, I’d have her there to distract me. Luckily I didn’t need her to distract me, but she still tried. She doesn’t like when all my attention isn’t on her.

The date, aside from Lenzie bopping around our table every few minutes, was relatively normal. We talked about normal things, plus he told me about coming out to his parents and how they reacted and how it changed their relationship… a little heavy for a first date, but it was relevant and not at all weird. Getting up to leave was the first time in the night when I felt nervous. I had no idea how to end a date: Do we hug? Should I expect him to walk me to my car? Do we kiss? Do we talk about another date? Predictably, I still don’t know the answer to these questions, as you’ll come to learn as this series progresses.

As we walked out the door, we ran into a friend of mine from class who is the most outgoing and overbearing person I’d ever met. I felt so bad talking to her while he just waited, but I didn’t know if I should introduce him. I think she got the hint because she kept the conversation short for the first and only time in our relationship.

I think Jason and I hugged and went our separate ways. It was a really good night and the start of a really good relationship. Maybe the fact that I was distracted by other people was a bad sign, because he ended up dumping me three months later because I was too distracted by other people. Or it wasn’t a sign and I was just a shitty person. 

#thebachelor #gay #gaybachelor

I recently read an article from a credible online news source (Buzzfeed) about a new dating show that is allegedly in production with an all gay cast. I am excited about this for a number of reasons:

1. An entirely gay cast means more representation, of course. Finally gay men are welcomed into the ‘Bachelor’ craze. Even though the show is in no way associated with The Bachelor/The Bachelorette and it’s on Logo and not a large network, it’s still happening. Baby steps. If the show manages to gain popularity outside of gay men watching Logo, straight people will hopefully get to see us as people with feelings and hopes and dreams and with something to say that isn’t a direct quote from RuPaul’s Drag Race (even though most straight people I know don’t know a good Drag Race quote when they hear one in the first place).

2. An entirely gay cast ALSO means several (probably hot) gay men on my TV screen for me to watch and dream about for 12 weeks at a time. Sure, there is no shortage of hot men on TV right now or ever. But the only problem is that they’re never my type. “My type,” meaning gay. I am an Equal Opportunity Ogler and always will be – taking in the sight of any sculpted torso that I can get my eyes on – but I’m significantly less interested in almost all men who are not also attracted to men. And after some of the horror stories I’ve heard from other gays about falling for straight guys, I am very thankful for this trait.

3. OK, I am kind of hoping for at least 4 or 5 RuPaul references per episode. What better way to end a dating show than with “If you can’t love yourself, then how the hell you gonna love somebody else?” And if there’s as much drama as this show as there is (or so I’m told) on the Bachelor, I think we can expect a few “I feel very attacked!” moments.  

4. This. Is. My. Shot. I’m pretty upset that I didn’t know about this ahead of time, but I’m already hopeful for a second season. I have seen maybe two entire episodes of The Bachelor in my life (and none of The Bachelorette – tbh I didn’t realize that was a real thing), but I got a pretty good grasp on what it takes to be a contestant. Here’s what I gathered (hope you were ready for another list):

A. To be a Bachelor contestant, you have to be one of those needy, hopeless girls who falls in love easily. And who does that sound like to you? I fell in love with a boy whose face I didn’t even see at the mall last week because he was wearing short shorts. OK, that love lasted until he walked out the door, but it was serious and it was real and I was heartbroken. But honestly I have fallen in love with two of my best friends just because they agreed to hang out with me more than once. Truth is, I’ll probably fall in love with every other contestant as well as whatever hot Latino businessman Logo finds for us.

B. The episodes of The Bachelor that I have seen were mid-season, so they may have gotten rid of all the ugly girls before then, but I’m pretty sure there weren’t any to begin with. All the girls on the show were pretty, tan and blonde. I’m about 30% blonde right now and all I need is 3 hours and some purple shampoo to complete that transformation. And I look pretty in pictures, so I bet that will translate well onto TV cameras. I am tan as hell now, but if I have to audition in a year or so, I will damn well move back to Florida to keep this tan if I have to. And you all know how much I hate Florida if that lets you know how serious I am about this.

C. Probably just as important as being pretty on The Bachelor is being petty on The Bachelor. The entire first episode I watched was about one girl pulling the guy aside and saying “I just wanted to let you know that someone in this house isn’t being completely real with you.” I’m pretty sure that, in real life, that doesn’t actually mean anything. But it was all anyone could talk about for the entire two hours (commercial free) that I sat through listening to them talk. One girl called her sister to tell her that someone else said that about another someone else. I can do all that. I’m not naturally a petty person, but I think it’s something I could quickly learn. I’m definitely vindictive and I can hold a grudge for years, so I think I’m almost there.  

D. I think a little bit of intelligence also helps. I thoroughly believe that gays, as a whole, are smarter than heterosexuals, but I think that I can still stand out. There are definitely some dumb gays out there and I bet they will be the ones largely attracted to being on this show. So all I have to do is mix all the knowledge I have about pop culture and fashion with the little bit of knowledge I have about politics and history (mostly learned from countless hours of listening to the Hamilton soundtrack) and I will be top three for sure.

E.  To me, the most entertaining part of The Bachelor was the descriptions of the girls when it cut to their confessionals. Like, it would say “Heather,” and then in italics underneath her name it would say Real Estate Technician. I’m not completely sure if you get to make up your own profession/subtitle, if the producers come up with them, or if they’re handed out on the first episodes like nicknames on Flavor of Love. All I know is that one girl’s on the episode I watched was Twin. She was the girl who called her sister to tell her about the drama. She 100% did not win (see previous list item). If I get to pick my own, it will be something cool like Provocative Shorts Lobbyist, or maybe just the hyperlink to this blog. If the producers get to pick it and they make me use my “real” profession, it will probably just say Hobo or Drifter. Or maybe they’ll help me out a little bit and go with Gypsy or #1 Pussycat Dolls Fan.

F.  Most importantly, to be a Bachelor contestant, you definitely have to be a character that audiences want to see. “Good TV,” if you will. This is the one I am most confident about. Television dreams of me. We’re perfect for each other. How many gifs will gay viewers make of me rolling my eyes in the confessional or glancing at the camera in disbelief every time any Mark, Rick or Steve doesn’t get my Steel Magnolias reference? Also, what are the chances I won’t be drunk the entire time? Obviously there won’t be any food in the house, so hopefully the production team will spend that budget on wine. I will be everyone’s fav as soon as I walk into the group date with a glass of Franzia filled up to the rim. If that’s not good TV, I don’t know what is.  And if you know me well enough, you can also predict what will happen with me and alcohol in a room full of gays. *smiling devil emoji*

That pretty much sums up what I know about being on The Bachelor/a Bachelor-like show. Again, I’ve only watched two episodes of The Bachelor (which were 2 hours each, btw), so I don’t know what it takes to actually win. But it’s about time that I make it on TV and I have no doubt that I can make a man fall in love with me if he’s contractually obligated to not bail on me for several dates in a row.

Can I get an amen up in here?

(here's the article)

#nofriends2016

I’ve never done New Year’s resolutions because I can never dedicate myself to a single productive thing for more than a few days at a time. The longest-lasting change I’ve ever made in my lifestyle was deciding to drink more water in June of last year. And that’s only lasting because, well, my body discovered it needs water to survive.

This year was no different. I was actually more opposed to resolutions this year than I ever have been. The “new year” is such a contrived concept: it’s literally one day after the year before. Why is one stroke of midnight supposed to inspire such change? Why not February 1, or the first Tuesday of next month? Change happens when you decide to make it happen. January is nothing special.

All that said, I discovered a few things I figured I need to change about myself in the near future. That doesn’t mean I want to change or that I will change, but just that maybe I should. Maybe these changes will happen early in the year; maybe they’ll happen late in the year; maybe (probably) they won’t happen at all. But I am dedicated to exerting as much energy as it takes (as long as it’s not a lot of energy) to making these changes happen. After all, we can all stand to improve, right? (Some of us less than others)

Here is my entire list of 2016 resolutions (so far):

1. Act less annoyed

I first started thinking about resolutions when I was in a situation that I have frequently found myself in over the last few months: me, trying to pay attention to my phone and others in the room trying to speak to me. I am a solitary person. I prefer to be alone. But I know that life cannot be lived that way, so occasionally I tolerate others in the vicinity. More often than not, I am extremely annoyed by their presence. It’s not a person’s presence in general that annoys me; it’s just that a lot of things that a lot of people do are just intolerable to me.

For example: yelling. People yell. A lot. For different reasons. The worst is yelling at sporting events. Second worse is yelling because you’re upset. Third worst is yelling because you’re happy. Yelling is just never necessary.

All of those yelling examples show exactly what I’ve realized that I hate about being around other people: excitement. Why do people get so excited about everything? Do they not know it’s 2016? Being overly excited about things went out of style a long time ago. If you need me, I’ll be over here in my little black dress, stilettos and stone-face a la Victoria Beckham.

Second example: couples. Every conversation couples have. Mostly when they’ve given up on trying to impress each other and settle for a mediocre romance where they can be “real” with each other and eventually fall into a void of boredom. But what really gets me more than that is the pet names. I find these are most prevalent immediately after a relationship starts, then again when it’s become stagnant. The first time, they’re cute. After a while, they’re condescending. “Aw, babe, that was so sweet!” becomes “well, BABE, if you would have been paying attention when my aunt said that she was sending her dog to visit this month, you wouldn’t feel like it’s such a surprise that I asked you to stop drinking whiskey for three days!”

My point in all this was to introduce my first 2016 resolution: act less annoyed than I am. I’ve found that the majority of people my age share some sort of excitement over something in their lives at some point. I’m tired of not fitting in, so, instead of rolling my eyes and planning a succession of annoyed tweets/a blog post, I hope to be able to internalize their over-the-top happiness and reflect it back at them. That’s all people really want to hear anyway, that their feelings are valid. Who would it hurt to give that to them?

2. Lie More

That leads me to my next resolution. So much of contemporary small-talk involves stretching the truth that little white lies are beginning to feel routine. Every day at work, I tell people how much I love the hideous multi-color vertical striped chemise they’re buying and I don’t think twice about it. This is the norm in superficial conversations. But I need more. I resolve that, in 2016, I will lie more. Less passing comments like “I love these colors,” and more “this purple reminds me of the sunset in the painting that I painted for my ex-lover as a gift before he got lost backpacking across Cambodia.” You know, harmless stories that serve no purpose other than to entertain me. That is what I’m here for, after all: to entertain myself.

3. Be skinny

4. Be less messy

I had a friend in high school who always said “my life is always in order when my room is clean.” So, after struggling through the first few weeks of 2016, I decided to clean my room. Take my word for it when I say this is no simple task. I am not a dirty person, just a messy one. It took three hours to just pick up all the clean clothes off of my floor. I had not cleaned my room since November, so this was a long time coming, and it was a really good feeling to see my floor again. After a day and a half of a clear floor, I was enjoying a morning of sleeping in when I heard the loudest, most terrifying crack and bang I had ever heard in my life. Disoriented, I looked around for aliens coming through the ceiling, for my future self traveling back from the future, and for my roommate busting into my room asking me to go to brunch. Once I realized my vision would only clear after I put on my glasses, I realized the embarrassing reality: my clothes were on the floor again. The hanging rod in my closet had been warped for some time now; I convinced myself it was like that before we moved in, but that probably wasn’t true. I never worried about it that much because I mostly chose to keep my clothes on the floor and, even when I picked them up, they were almost never all clean all at once. In fact, the last time I tried to pick all my clothes up off the floor, I ran out of hangers and had to create a new “non-mess, just hanger-less” pile. This time I made some adjustments and got everything that had to be hung on hangers and everything else folded on a shelf.  

But this compromise wasn’t enough for my clothes. Clearly, they wanted to be on the floor, as they broke through the support holding the hanging rod up in the closet, causing them to crash to the floor.

Hopefully the first result of this resolution isn’t an indication of how the rest will go.

5. More spinach

6. More chip variety

7. Still lots of Salt & Vinegar tho

8. Vodka cleanse

I just think I could really benefit from a 7-day span of consuming nothing but vodka. No fat, low carbs. It will be difficult, but I have faith in myself.

9. Reunite with myself

I lost myself this year. I used to be an artist, a writer, a free spirit. Now I work 40+ hours a week and spend my time off in front of a TV with no future plans. This is a cheesy resolution but I will not support myself having this life any longer.

10. Refine myself

I used to have a very specific way of presenting myself. A “brand,” if you will. As addressed in the previous resolution, I have lost that. For the past year, I didn’t know where my life was going. I now have at least one piece of a direction:

Someone who is in a similar situation to mine (a few years out of college, living in/near college town, working full-time) recently posted this: “The only reason you’ll ever regret losing someone as a friend is if they become famous someday (but they won’t).” And I have never been more inspired. You will regret losing me. I am worth a fight. That’s what I’m setting out to achieve this year: a presence so enviable, so unattainable that everyone who has ever written me off is filled with regret. It may take the whole year, but by the end of 2016, I will be on top of the world again.  I am famous. Bow down, bitches.

11. Tramp Stamp

Stay Wild

Every day I get texts and pictures from my best friends who are living the life I chose to leave 4 months ago. A life I thought I hated (my last post), but am now missing more and more every day. No, I don't miss settling for low-paying jobs to pay my ridiculously high rent, losing my bike, fighting with my landlord or praying I don't die just trying to get from work to home.

But maybe I do. Those really are the only things I had to worry about. My daily decisions typically consisted of whether to nap by the pool or on the beach; where to watch the most amazing sunset on earth; and where to get cheap drinks and dance until I couldn't stand anymore. I've been thinking a lot about my time there, but I've gotten past the bad and can only focus on the good, because it was perfect. So here's the post I promised myself I'd write shortly after my last post (in October): here's the good part of Key West, and the reasons I may not come home when I go back in a few weeks.

Getting to Key West was a whirlwind of rash decisions, quick plans and lots of tears. When we got there, it was raining and, if you've ever been around me when it's raining or even threatening to rain, you know that I consider rain the ultimate bad omen (mostly because I hate it). When we checked into the hostel we'd reserved for the first night, I felt nothing but dread. I had no cell service (an annoyance I do not miss), couldn't connect to wifi, and no plans or ideas for jobs or places to live. But then Talullah* took me on a tour of the island. We started off in a gathering of strip malls surrounded by parking lots full of potholes and trailer parks, but then somehow we were on the water. I was never able to decide what my favorite view in Key West was, but the first look out over the calm, crystal clear water dotted with sail boats and backed by a perfect Carolina blue sky (post-rain), was the one that absolutely took my breath away, then replaced it with warm sea air and a sigh of relief. This was going to be my home. And it was more than amazing.

After a bike ride through a town that looked so strange, so different than the town I now know, we stopped at one of Key West's million tourist destinations, and perhaps my favorite (in theory): the Southernmost Point. By this time, the sun had set, it was still about 97 degrees, and the wind was whipping around the corner of the island. Even in the dark, I knew that, staring out towards Cuba, I was seeing something amazing.

The next few days went by in a blur - I woke up, put on clothes that wouldn't suffocate me in the heat as I rode my bike, but were presentable enough to go into every store on Duval street and ask for an application. Perhaps my favorite of these first few days was my second on the job hunt. Talullah had an interview of her own, so after she led me from our hostel to Duval, I grabbed some applications, then pondered a place to sit down and fill them out. I certainly wasn't going to go home and I most definitely was not going to sit out in the heat. Then I remembered seeing rainbow flags early in my journey, so I stuffed the application into my backpack (which also contained a snorkel, a bathing suit and flipflops, which became standard during my time there) and hopped onto my bike and set off to gayer pastures. Apparently Key West used to be a gay haven, but nowadays the gay is focused in one area, which was much further away than I had originally thought. But I found the bar - open-air, as they all are - took a seat and ordered a vodcran. It was no later than 11:30am, but, hey, when in Rome. As I began to drink and fill out my application to work in the retail store at Margaritaville, I realized where I was: a gay bar full of strangers. So I perked myself up, opened my shirt a little and tried to look open to approaches (and free drinks). Unfortunately no one approached, but I did get myself a free drink. "no I think I'm oka... okay, sure," I said when the bartender offered me a second drink. As he set it down and I reached for my wallet, he informed me that it was free - happy hour all day: buy one, get one free. And so began my love/hate relationship with Key West (I loved it, it hated me).

I was a little buzzed when I hopped back on my bike and got back to Margaritaville to turn in my application. I wasn't going to get the job anyway, so, looking back on it, who cares if I smelled like vodka. By some stroke of luck, Talullah's job "interview" was taking place at a close-by bar, Fat Tuesdays (more stories to come). I walked in to find her and we both greeted each other the same way: "I'm drunk." It was probably after noon at this point. So then the guy that she was interviewing with bought me a drink, and so began my love affair with Fat Tuesdays (still think about 44 Magnums every day).  I don't really remember what happened the rest of that day.

Probably the next positive thing that happened was meeting our first Key West best friend. When we first met her, we had no idea she'd become such a light in our lives, but that's probably because she was Talullah's boss. In her we found a friend that was actually close to our age, had a car, knew everything about the island and, by some stroke of luck, was willing to hang out with us more than once. Every day, really. ---

---Folivia* was basically our only friend for awhile. She always told us we were her only friends too, but I think she just said that to make us feel better about ourselves. The best thing about Folivia was that she went out with us most nights, even though she doesn't drink. I couldn't count on both hands the number of times during the middle of the day I was drunk in the backseat of her SUV, telling her I love her every five minutes. That wasn't just the alcohol talking; I really do love her that much.

As you read this, I'm sure you're picking up on a common theme: day drinking. It was my favorite thing about Key West. Sure, I put drinking at the top of my list of favorite things in any place and at any time of day, but nothing compares to day drinking on an island in the Caribbean.

After I started my first job downtown (before I had any friends other than Folivia), I left work every day, went to Fat Tuesday, then to Mallory Square to watch the sun set by myself (pause and google "Mallory Square Sunset" right now. I'll wait). After the sunset, I'd go back to Fat's (or any other bar, really) and begin night drinking, my second-favorite thing about Key West.

That leads me to our second and third Key West best friends. Sunflower* and Princess* were the only people our own age I have ever seen that were bigger messes than us. Neither of them can stand to be alone, so they were always together. And if they weren't together, they were calling me. I woke up every afternoon to a missed call and a text from Princess that said "what are you doing today?" It was after I met these two that I really started hating Key West a lot less.  I should be able to spend days telling stories about my time with Sunflower and Princess, but most memories get a little blurry after the first few hours. My favorite memory with them was one of our first days together. We spent the day on a boat with a bunch of men who were trying to fish/catch lobster; it was probably bad enough that Talullah and I had invited ourselves, but these guys probably knew they weren't going to really get anything done when we showed up with two other blonde girls carrying a case of beer. I drank two Four Lokos on that boat before they just decided to pull up to a small island. Princess and I got to know each other while I watched her put her cigarette directly into the water five seconds after lighting it. A couple times. I don't remember much about that day after that, aside from doing handstands against the boat and doing splits in the sand. At some point that weekend Princess and I were also covered head-to-toe in someone else's blood, but that's a different story for a different day.

And because that story devolved into a love letter to Princess, here is all you need to know about my friendship with Sunflower:

No doubt, the best thing about living in Key West was moving out of Key West. Going back to visit, though, is a different story. I spent six days back on the island a few months after I moved away and I didn't want to leave. Mostly because I couldn't get off the couch the entire last day of my visit.

Those six days are a big blurry whirlwind, so here's a run-down: I spent $100 on one dinner (twice), cracked my phone screen, ran off by myself to a bar I'm pretty sure I was banned from when I lived there, lost my phone, found my phone, offended all the locals at Hogfish, dropped all of Sunflower's leftovers on the ground, danced by myself all night and threw up all day, among several other things. All while wearing overall shorts and a black felt sunhat with devil horns on top. Stay tuned for that entire story in the distant future when I'm finally brave enough to listen to my friends tell me all the rest of the things I did.

*Real names omitted to allow deniability

Wastin' Away Again

During my time in Key West I haven't been writing because I was under the impression that nothing was happening worth telling about. But when I sat down to write a short summary, I realized I couldn't have been more wrong. Here's an account, to the best of my recollection, of my time here so far...


I suppose the four years you spend in college are supposed to slowly prepare you for real/adult life. Keeping true to my typical style, I basically used those four years to do the exact opposite. Starting sophomore year, I began to quickly and violently withdraw from adult expectations and any notion of responsibilities, developing an attitude completely centered around the phrases “I don’t give a fuck” and “I need more wine.”  So during senior year as graduation and responsibilities began to run full speed toward me, I didn’t charge back, I didn’t run away, I just kind of side-stepped. There was a vague hint at a career opportunity for me that required little to no effort to grow into, so I just adopted it as my future. But then when college was finally becoming the past and I was entering the future, that sure-thing became unavailable. For a long time I blamed other people for it, saying that “my job” was given away, but in reality, I was just too comfortable in my “I don’t give a fuck” attitude and didn’t work hard enough to get what I wanted. So when I got the news, I was left completely futureless. I hadn’t set up any back-up plan, put no effort into internships or even job applications, so I was left to work a part-time, near-minimum wage job and do however little that income would let me. 

But then, as usual, my four-year state of mind took over and found another way out of living a real life. With a week and a half left until graduation, I handed in a resignation letter at the job I had grown to love in the past three years and bought a plane ticket to a place where I thought I would not only get by, but flourish, using only my attitude and good looks.

So less than two weeks after making this decision – two days after graduation – my life was packed up into boxes to be stored away and a shockingly small two suitcases that would be boarding the flight to my future: Key West, Florida.

When I got here I was interrogated by every person that I met about why I chose Key West. And the truth is, I didn’t actually choose it. If you read my Spring Break post, you’ll remember that basically any decisions that have to do with travel in my life are made by my best friend, and this was no different. She had been planning for a long time to retire to Key West after a hard 21 years at a job that left her listless and unmotivated: her life.  So, as I am almost always inclined to do, I followed her.

So here we were, graduates of one of the best universities in the country with degrees in acclaimed programs, with no money, no jobs and no home in the beginning of the slow season on an island that is closer to Cuba than it is to any major American city and any Walmart. This was already – and promising to continue to be –  a shenanigan unlike any other.

In the week-and-a-half that we had to plan before coming to Key West, we had researched housing and jobs and contacted at least 30 people advertising each, to basically no avail. So we immediately checked into a private room in a hostel and went to buy bikes, a seemingly perfect way to get around this tiny island. In the next few days, we applied for jobs and kept calling people about apartments. I interviewed twice at Ron Jon and once at Banana Republic and my friend immediately got a job at a dive shop, which is, in keeping to her own personal style, exactly what she had wanted. After the third night of relative luxury in a private room, it seemed like we were never going to find a place to live and we were quickly running out of money. On our fourth morning, we checked out of the hostel, stored our luggage/lives in a friend’s truck and set out on a job search again, expecting to have to come back to the dorm-style lodging of the hostel for the rest of our lives. We checked out a possibility that seemed to be our best bet, at least for the 15 days that we had until lease-beginning season started: a room no larger than a queen-sized bed in the back of a trailer owned by a couple who, between them, weighed 115 pounds and had three teeth. With basically no other options, we were willing to commit

Then we finally caught a break: a very nice apartment had a room open that we could probably afford. Yes, one room. One bed. We’re close friends.  It was this day that I decided that biking was NOT for me. After a four-mile bike ride to the opposite end of the island, we, drenched in sweat, signed a lease and were able to move in to the apartment that, at this point, seemed like heaven.

I got the job at Banana Republic, which was a perfect start. It was retail and part time, which would allow time for me to have another job, preferably as a cabana boy at a gay resort. Here’s where the problems started: I was hired to work stock, which was a shift that began at 7:30 am. Remember, I now lived four miles away from downtown and only had a bike. Oh, and it was almost June, meaning that temperatures were in the mid-90s, even at 6:45am when I had to leave my apartment in order to get to work on time.

After about a week and a half there, I was contacted by a Hyatt timeshare property who needed front desk agents. It was a full-time position and it was less than half a mile from my apartment. I really wanted that job.  After three separate interviews during which my dedication, people skills and personal style were questioned and challenged, I was offered the job and asked to start immediately.  I had never felt more proud of myself.  Before my first day, the front desk manager told me to wear khaki pants and a short-sleeved white button-up shirt.  After silently gagging, I explained that I do not in fact own a shirt like that, I convinced him to let me wear a long-sleeved one. My first day was full of information and paper signing. I never thought I would get the hang of it, but I slowly did. After about a week in, I was dressed in the Hyatt uniform (awful. Just awful.) and was trusted to work on my own.  The opening shift was rough because I had to be there at 6:45 and there always seemed to be something I forgot to do, but I was constantly praised by my supervisors on how quickly I learned and how skilled I became at the job.  But here’s the thing about a hotel job: there are two exciting times of the day: check-out in the morning and check-in in the afternoon.  Check-out usually goes smoothly except for the people who just never show up and you have to call their room and tell them that they were supposed to be out an hour ago. “Hi, this is Alex from the front desk. We have in our system that you were supposed to check out today at 10am. Would you like to make another reservation to stay longer?” “Ten? Check-out is at 11.” “No, it’s at 10.” “We’ll be there in 10 minutes.”  Check-in was rarely completely smooth, mostly because people always showed up at 1pm and demanded their room that is most definitely not going to be ready until 4. But luckily that was never my fault, so I just brushed it off and let them sulk and be angry.  But in between those times, I was left to stand for the whole eight hours in front of a computer that couldn’t access Facebook or Twitter. Oh, and answer the phone. So many needy people. One night at 10:45 pm (we close at 11), someone called and asked if we had dice. We did. They asked me to bring the dice to their room.  I drew the line and basically said “come get it yourself” and hung up.
After about a month at the Hyatt, I put myself in the market for a scooter. I found a cheap one that was ugly and almost definitely on its way to its demise, but I bought it. And with the freedom of a vehicle that I did not have to pedal, I began the search for a job that was more exciting and in a more exciting location.

I told my manager that I was searching for a part-time job (just in case that’s all I ended up with) and, after accepting a full-time position and writing a resignation letter, she asked me how the search was going. All I said was “I have to talk to you about that,” and she said “You took something full time. I thought you would.” They were very kind and I was thrilled to only have two more weeks of suffering before I started my new job at Artisans, a jewelry/houseware boutique in the middle of downtown.

My first few days at Artisans were long and full of information. I knew nothing about jewelry before getting there and, after my first few days of training, knew a lot of facts that I couldn’t quite connect to brand names. I just knew that I would never get the hang of it, so I had to let that job go before I hit the two-week mark.  When I told the assistant manager I was leaving (after formally meeting with the manager), she, like my last boss, said “I knew you were going to do that.” OK, so this WAS the third job I had quit in three months, but do I really seem that flakey?

I put in some applications around town, but wasn’t too stressed about getting another job too fast because I knew I still had my last Hyatt paycheck coming as well as my first and last from the jewelry store. Plus, one of my best friends was coming to visit and I figured being unemployed would be an easier way to spend time with her than to ask off from a job that I would have just been starting.

So my friend got here (with my car, thank god – my scooter was unreliable at best and could only hold so many groceries) and we had a blast. We paddle boarded, ate, drank, drank and drank. That’s pretty much all I remember from that weekend.

While my friend was here visiting, I got a phone call offering me a job that I had only turned in an application for and hadn’t interviewed for. When I called to take it, the manager was gone for the weekend, so I just showed up on the day that she asked me to and started from there. So that’s where I’m left. In the corner of a popular Key West bar/restaurant called Conch Republic. My first day there was one of the worst of my life, as I had been going out every single night and drinking probably a little more than I should have. I got there at 9am and by 9:15 I thought I was going to pass out. But I made it through the day and finished training. So several nights a week, I sit at a counter and tell 1,000 drunk people where the bathroom is, give change to servers and occasionally sell a tshirt or some hot sauce.

All this time while I was jumping jobs, we were in a constant fight with our landlord and the administration of our apartment complex. We had to pay $25 to park our bikes. Then $25 more to park scooters – they towed my roommate’s once while she had a temporary parking pass while she was waiting to get it registered. Both of us were followed by security on multiple occasions, one incident ending in the security guard following us all the way to our door, then banging on it and screaming that we don’t live here. The administration didn’t believe us. When it happened again we called the police and our landlord. The police didn’t care much and our landlord not only didn’t believe us, but also threatened to kick us out because we were “causing trouble.” Then the security had my scooter towed because they put a warning on it that it was “leaking oil” and that was just unacceptable. There was no oil where it was parked the first time I had the notice, so I ignored it. Then it was gone. There was no oil where it was parked before. Getting the scooter out of impound would cost not only more than what I paid for the scooter but also more than I’ve had in my bank account the entire time I’ve lived here, so I just said goodbye to it in my mind and left it there. I never told my landlord because I knew he’d just tell me I’m causing trouble. I’m happy to say that we’re getting out of the lease with him early. But not without a fight.

Also simultaneously, I was struggling to accept that the social scene that actually exists in Key West is much, much different than the one I had expected. I thought Key West would be full of young, beautiful, tan gay men, but instead it's full of washed-up drug addicts, 20-somethings who don't want to have a direction in life, bachelor/ette parties, frat guys, and, at one end of the main street, two bars full of old gay men who are either vacationing or have moved down here with their partners of at least eight years. Not much for me. But I'm trying to make the best of it, and I'm facing Key West's biggest event, Fantasy Fest, coming up in the next week. Here's hoping I get the motivation to go out and fight the crowds and see what all the stories are actually about.

And that brings me to tonight. Last night I gave notice to my current manager that I’d be leaving (also met with “I knew it.” Wtf?) because in a week and a half, my best friend from college is coming to visit and after she leaves I will be packing my car up and driving back to North Carolina. So here it is, friends, my official announcement that by November 6, I will be back in action in the Tar Heel State. This is my fifth and final resignation letter in my time here; this time it's Key West that I'm quitting. Thank you, and good riddance. 

This post is about shoes

I have this dream that one day there will be clothing stores that aren’t divided into “women’s” and “men’s” sections; that there will be a shoe, a shirt, an ensemble, that can be worn without question by any gender. I don’t mean “androgynous” or “unisex;” I’m thinking something more gender-fluid. Like “I, as a designer, had a specific person in mind when I designed this, but wear it if you like it.” I guess it has to do more with the marketing and merchandising than the designing. When you label something “womenswear,” you isolate the product and the company to only a specific part of the market. But what if you entered a store with sections only assigned the labels of “tops,” “bottoms,” (insert crass gay joke here) “shoes,” etc? 

For the past year, I’ve been searching for the perfect pair of shoes. “Searching,” as in, looking for a place to buy them, not aimlessly looking for something to catch my eye, the way I usually shop. This time I have something very specific in mind. I need a new pair of boots. I wore all of mine to death - to the point that every piece is separating from the others. I’m desperately holding on to the combat boots I got from Forever 21 Men almost two years ago, but at this point taking them off y feet involves ripping the soles from the body of the shoe, which is both physically and emotionally painful for both me and the boot. While I would definitely jump at the chance to buy an exact replica of my beloved boots (when they were in their prime), I’ve set my sites on a goal much higher: a pair of boots that seems to only exist in my mind.

You see, I’m looking for a combat boot with a real fashion twist, not unlike my poor suffering leather and suede pair. But I’ve found myself feeling much more confident, much more attractive, much more myself, when I’m wearing something with a lift. If you’ve met me, you know that my confidence boost that comes with the height boost doesn’t come from height insecurities. I am 6’1”, afterall. But something about a hard wooden heel, even of 1.5 inches, makes me stand straighter, more powerful. 

So there it is: the perfect shoe. A brown combat-inspired boot, a touch of suede and a heel of at least 1.5 inches. It’s beautiful in my mind, but impossible to find. For me, at least. 

Whether it was before or after my fantasy developed is unclear, but these perfect boots walked into my life a few months ago. On the feet of my best friend, who happens to be a woman. With my hopes high, I looked into the maker of these boots, only to be not only let down, but heart-broken at the fact that they were only made up to a women’s size 10. I wear a 12. In men’s.

At least I had a start. The shoes exist. Surely some investigative shopping would lead me to a site that caters to larger sizes, even at a higher cost. But so, I’ve been searching for months to no avail. 

So now I’m doomed to continually find Uggs, strappy kitten heels and pleather thigh-highs when I search for extended sizes in the categories of “women’s shoes,” in hope that someday I’ll find, or maybe develop, a line of “shoes” where I can find what I’m looking for. 

Livin' la Vida Loca: Spring Break in Puerto Poor-o

The countdown to this trip began approximately three years ago. "Let's do something big for our senior Spring Break," my best friend said sophomore year.  Oh, little did she know how "big" things would tend to be by this point in our lives.
Let me first start off by giving a rundown of previous spring break experiences in college. Contrary to the hype promoted by teen dramedies - both in the film and television drama - Spring Break in college is not all topless women on beaches. At least not as far as I'm concerned.  I don't remember anything about my spring break my freshman year. This is a quality that I would hope would come from every spring break, but instead of a lack of memory due to cheap alcohol consumption, I simply don't remember it because absolutely nothing happened. If I had to guess, I'd assume that I spent the entire week on the couch in my parents' house watching ABC Family and left to entertain myself. Sophomore year I had a job waiting for me back in Alamance County over spring break but, being the slacker that I have always been, I chose to spend this one, again, on the couch at my parents' house.  I went on to make up for my lame spring break a few weeks later by spending an entire extended weekend high off my ass at a friend's beach house, which led to some of the most memorable experiences and the worst farmer's tan of my life.  This leads me into junior year...
The success of the previous year's post-spring break trip on my mind, I agreed to spend my next spring break at the same beach house, hopefully doing (and not remembering) all of the same things. I spent the entire week before spring break counting down the hours until I would step out of the car and into the salty NC-beach air. I had nothing but high hopes for the trip.  That is, until about 30 minutes into the car ride.  The clock struck 4:19pm and, without hesitating, the lighter came out.  Spring Break, hell yeah! I thought. But after my second hit, I was considering jumping out the window of the car to avoid ending up at this beach house with 19 strangers. It's just the weed, I told myself.  Well, that and the fact that I had replaced my anxiety medication with Adderall for the past week in order to cram for midterms. I'll just stop smoking now and take some medicine when we get there. This will be over soon. Turns out I was more wrong than words can describe. I spent the next few days in the bed in the frigid basement of this beach house (a private room with a private bathroom I was kindly assigned by my friend whose family owned the house) terrified to go up the 9 flights of stairs to face these people that were awaiting my appearance. I showed my face for about 30 minutes every day and spent the rest of my hours sleeping and watching SpongeBob until I couldn't take it anymore and, like the spoiled pussy I tend to be, had my dad drive all the way to the Outer Banks to pick me up. I confided in my friend that I wasn't comfortable being there, but asked him to tell his friends that I was feeling sick - something that, if they had known me, wouldn't be too hard to believe. But that's another story. So I left that spring break feeling embarrassed and delirious - things that college students probably look for in their spring breaks. But my feelings were for all the wrong reasons.
So, as you can tell, my senior year spring break had a lot to live up to. Even with spring break months away at the beginning of the year, I assumed I'd be spending my break either back at my parents' place or alternately working and sleeping.  But promptly my best friend, adventure enthusiast and extensive planner reminded me that we had been planning our senior spring break for years.
We out-ruled Cancun a long time ago. Sure, it sounded like so much fun, but just flying there would have cost twice the amount of money that I had in my bank account. So we researched other destinations where we could balance fun and adventure.  We ultimately decided on Jamaica - and by "we," I mean my friend. I'm always down for whatever shenanigan she can plan, as long as I don't have to think too much about it.  After a lot of excitement, a little research and a lot of let-down, we decided Jamaica wouldn't be the safest place for a pretty girl and her blonde girlfriend to vacation.  You see, we're against resorts. Not because we're all about seeing the "real" Jamaica or anything, but just because we cannot and will not ever be able to afford them.  And if you've ever read a travel website, you'd know that any tourism outside of resorts in Jamaica is frowned upon and explored at your own risk.  So it was then that we (again: my friend) looked into other options.  We finally decided on Puerto Rico. It had a big city where we could party, but was also beachy and tropical and totally worth exploring. My only concern: we don't speak Spanish. I had taken five years of French. Shenzie has studied Spanish in the past, but came out of her five years with a knowledge of about three vocabulary words. But all the travel websites assured us that "everyone" would speak English in Puerto Rico - it is their national language, after all!
It didn't take much for me to talk myself into being excited for this trip. North Carolina was experiencing a ground- breaking "Polar Vortex" and I couldn't see the sun in the foreseeable future. The idea of Puerto Rico brought back memories of tropical bliss in Hawaii the past summer. As the Spring semester started, my longing became an obsession. All I could think about was Puerto Rico, the beach, the boys and the rum. Then, finally, after a few midterms and papers that I blew through, it was the weekend before we were to depart. I had been bundled up in pea-coats for so long that I was completely ecstatic to pull out my crop-tops and cutoff jean shorts and start packing. I packed early, as usual, and then found myself with nothing to do but wait the night before. So after a few hours of watching my current Netflix obsession and a huge fallout with my Black Panther roommate, I decided to take a "nap" at about midnight so that I'd have a few hours of sleep before boarding the taxi at 4am and eventually the plane that would take me away from this frozen hell of which I was convinced I could never become accustomed.
Getting there went surprisingly smoothly. We jumped off the plane, got our checked bag immediately and then got in a taxi to pick up our rental car that we would eventually put 1000 miles on. After a few confusing missed turns and one fender-bender, we ended up at our first hostel. We couldn't check in immediately so, I donned the first crop-top and bathing suit I could find in my luggage and we headed to the beach, After a few hours of exploring and standing outside a government official's house and begin watched by his security (we thought it was Ricky Martin's house), we were able to check in to our room, which was private but barely larger than a single-sized bed.
The best news about the first leg of our trip was that we had a group of friends also vacationing in the area. Shenzie and I headed to Old San Juan for dinner and exploring and eventually met our friends at a popular spring-breaker spot: Senor Frog's. Our first night in Puerto Rico was relatively tame (from our side). I spent approximately $73 at the bar on three drinks and made out with a girl I had just met, but, hey, it was spring break.
The next day, Shenzie and I took our time waking up, then got ready and headed for the beach. After settling down on the beautiful white-capped beach and downing two Four Lokos and a few shots of vodka, we set out to meet our friends again. I bought a bottle of rum at the nearest Walgreens (because I'm obsessed with both alcohol and any casual drug store where you can buy it) and we headed for our friends' hotel, which was swankier than I could have ever imagined.
The last thing I legitimately remember about that night was pulling one of my friends out of her hotel bed and then drinking rum straight out of the bottle.
I woke up the next morning in the passenger seat of our rental car on the corner of a strange street with one shoe and no iPhone. I stumbled out of the car, attempted to say hello to the Puerto Rican woman selling hotdogs right beside our car and wandered the streets until I found something familiar. I lucked into the main door of our hostel being unlocked, then immediately got in the shower. I was hungover, greasy, sweaty and covered in regret for something I didn't even remember.
Let me break down for you the events of the night, as I have pieced together from halfway listening to stories that my friends told me.
We got to our friends' hotel, where I proceeded to drink half of a small bottle of rum. It was suggested several times that I stop or at least take a break, but, being the professional drinker that I think I am, I refused. We eventually left for bars, where I got in without an ID (I had misplaced it the night before when I wasn't even drunk... wtf?!), but then bragged to the entire bar about how I had sneaked in a bottle of rum in the waistband of my tiny shorts. Turns out holding a bottle of liquor above your head is grounds to be kicked out of a bar. For some reason my friends allowed me to continue bar hopping, only to have me kicked out of the next bar, where I ended up threatening the bouncers.  I'm pretty damn lucky no one takes me seriously because we all know I couldn't even win in a fight with a 6-year-old. Then my friends stuffed me into our rental car, where I passed out, and woke up several times, jumped out, lost a shoe, and then fell asleep for good once we made it back to our hostel.
I'd say this is tied for the drunkest I've ever been, along with about 4 other nights.
Like I said, I woke was iPhoneless.  I know that I'm pretty dependent on my iPhone, but I could have survived without it for a week until we got back to the States where my Applecare would've kicked in. But here was the problem: my phone was literally our only contact with the outside world, not to mention the source of the GPS that would take us on all the rest of our planned adventures. So I needed a replacement ASAP.
My sober friend was smart and kind enough to find a place where I could get a new phone.  Little did we know there wasn't an Apple store in the whole country of Puerto Rico, just an imitation store that sold iPods and iPads. So after a lot of pondering, I bought a brand new, no contract iPhone from RadioShack. That's $700 that I hadn't planned on spending on this trip.
But afterwards, cute gold iPhone in hand, equipped with Google Maps and Grindr, we were able to set off for our next adventure destination.
After two hours of driving, yelling and singing (Puerto Rican drivers are INSANE. I won't get into that now because it deserves its own post), we arrived at our destination, a hostel in a small surf town on the west coast of Puerto Rico. The funny thing was, the GPS had taken us to a residential neighborhood where the windows were covered in wrought iron and urban youths were playing basketball outside a youth center. Seeing as there are apparently no street addressed in Puerto Rico, we were a little confused as to where we were - especially because there was no sign of a beach anywhere close. After about 17 minutes on the phone with our hostel, we discovered that our GPS had taken us to a completely random place in Central Puerto Rico... a fact that I attribute not to our error or our GPS, but to the fact that the Puerto Rican street address system is completely insane. So that led us to another two hours of driving. But finally we pulled into our hostel parking lot, which looked a lot like a bar... because it was behind a bar. Which is the last place you want to be when you're hungover and roadtrip-lagged and looking to fall asleep immediately. Upside? HUGE room with our own bathroom. So we settled in and went to sleep with our minds filled with dreams of adventures yet to come.
The next morning, we met a shirtless, tan, shoulder-length-blond-hair boy with three surfboards on his head on the beach, where he proceeded to teach us to surf. And by "teach," I mean "remind us of our past lives as surfer-extraordinaires," because we were fucking awesome. I know that I was born with some inherent talent to surf, both because I captured the skill so fast and also because I didn't pay a second of attention to what the instructor was saying on the beach before we got in the water because I was too busy looking at his abs and the area where his swim trunks stuck out a little bit from his torso so I could see a little glimpse of his pubes. After our successful lesson, our dreamy guide recommended we try fresh watermelon margaritas from a beach-side shack a few miles away. As if this boy couldn't get any more perfect, he knew EXACTLY what I needed. These margaritas were refreshing heaven in a plastic cup. After two at the bar, we got another to-go and found a little spot on the beach where I caught up on some reading, took a nap, met some friends and bought some weed. It was during this last part of the adventure that my life changed for the best: "I think I just saw a spout," this random drug dealer said. Then I looked out into the ocean where the sun was beginning to set and saw a humpback whale leap out of the water. Three times. I'm not Hilary Duff, but that was what dreams are made of.
Later that night, I rolled a joint on the David Sedaris book that I had checked out from our university library and we passed out, full of bliss from a perfect day.
The next day, we headed to another part of the island where we were set to snorkel some beautiful Puerto Rican reef. On our way, we stopped at a little place called Cabo Rojo, aka heaven. It was a beautiful white-sand-beached bay surrounded by cliffs. After hiking, sunbathing and swimming, we set out to our snorkeling destination. After spending the past two days in paradise, we were destined for a let-down, which came with the snorkeling company. They had a half-assed version of our reservation and offered us a "sunset dive" which would require us to wait around for hours, eat shitty food that they provided us and then go on a short, shallow dive at 6:30pm. Nope.
So we ended up at a disgusting public beach riddled with locals, trash, dogs and, most importantly, Pina Coladas. After accidentally and befriending a feral dog, we left and went back to our hotel (upgraded free of charge from the hostel) and took a break.
The next morning, we departed at 6:30am (FYI, that exists! Who knew?) on our way to the northern part of the island to go caving. We met with a group of people with some serious attitude problems, then followed them up a mountain to a farm that eerily resembled Alamance County, NC, complete with cows and barbed wire.  After a safety briefing, we set off down the mountain and into a river and eventually pitch-black and dead-silent caves, where I may have been expected to get in touch with my inner thoughts or some sort of spiritual world. Instead, I hit myself in the face trying to see if I could see my hand in "complete" darkness. I came out of that trip wet, cold, muddy and happier than I've ever been in my entire life. We met a wonderful couple on the journey that consisted of a beautiful woman and and even more beautiful man who was either her son or her boyfriend. I was hoping he was her son because that would increase the chance that he was single and that I could make a move on his shivering sculpted body.
Later that day, we drove to our next hostel, which we had picked because of its vicinity to the rain forest and to the exotic island where we would end our trip. When we got there we realized we had almost an entire eighth of weed left, so I rolled a joint and we ventured up onto the roof.  It was there that we were approached by a large group of seemingly college-aged people who wanted to be our friends. It didn't take long before I started accidentally insulting them and therefore pushing them away. First, I doubted the legitimacy of their beloved hometown, then, when I found out they were 26+, called them old.
"When I was 24 I didn't think I was old. But then 25 was a big deal," one of these bitches said.
"Yeah 25 sounds REALLY old. Like, WAY older than 24," I agreed.
"I'm 27..."
And I wonder why I don't have any friends.
Perhaps the best part about our stay on this part of the island was when we were completely lost. I had looked on Trip Adviser for good restaurants in the area and found one that looked appealing. But, again, our GPS led us to a random urban residential area. We asked a man if he could point us in the right direction and he not only knew the place we were talking about, but got in his car and told us to follow him. The name of the restaurant was "Blue Iguana" and, seeing that he spoke little to no English, I was assuming that he was either leading us to our imminent death or to see some real iguanas - neither of which I could get excited about. He pointed us toward a large resort and pulled away, leaving me relieved that I was getting away from him without a large hunting knife in my chest. We thought he was surely mad and was just trying to send us toward other Americans. "That crazy man he just sent us to some random hotel." Then after asking a few residents of the hotel, we found that the restaurant that we were looking for, that we had asked this non-English-speaking man about, was actually located in the hotel, exactly like our local friend had implied.
This was the first act of kindness we experienced for a Puerto Rican local.
The next few days passed by relatively the same. We met another local who we thought misunderstood our combination of English and broken Spanish, but then led us to a private beach where wild horses tended to graze. We spent that day on the beach, rolled a joint and left the evidence on this sweet man's farm property, then got drunk at the bar that accompanied our hostel.
The next morning, we caught the 6:30am ferry that took us back to where we needed to be. On this ferry were complaining families, loud snorers, a frigid air conditioner and a psychopath playing loud rap music the entire 1.5 hour ride. We got off the ferry, drove back to San Juan and spent the little bit of extra time we had relishing the view of the Caribbean beach and sea. A short 6 hours later, I was sitting in the DC airport looking out the window where snow lined the runway. And so quickly ended paradise.
All I can do now is relish my positive memories and my tan skin and hope that they both last until the summer.