Class Follows Me

Per the request of many fans of failures, I’m back. Not back in the means of saying I have decided to make my life a complete shit show because people have specifically requested, more of back to actually sharing my disastrous life with folks because my reckless behavior never stopped.

As a quick update to all things Jane, my dream of moving to DC was shattered (at least for the time being) in late April when I made a whirlwind decision that the best idea that I ever had was to take a 13K pay cut and move to Philadelphia. Being offered a job that I was in love with (I mean who doesn’t want to go from a job where you get over paid for doing nothing to getting paid basically in change to do actual work), I thought about it for maybe an hour before I decided that I would definitely take the job. At the time, it seemed like the best idea. I had basically no friends in the area but who needs friends when you are going to the City of Brotherly Love, right? Wrong. Let me put it this way, I have made maybe 2 actual friends up here, and I honestly think that they find me to be 100% out of my mind. I think I am more of a circus act that they get to see for free. So here I am, above the Mason Dixon line, with no friends, very little income, an increasingly large amount of bills, and a car that I am fairly sure is going to stop working at any moment.

Now that you are at least briefly brought up on how fabulous my life is, err, something like that, let me share the story of Fred…
I’m not sure how guys in Philly ever go on to reproduce. They aren’t exactly good at talking to girls, so how do they get in their pants is beyond me, more or less form an actual sober relationship that results in marriage and the formation of families. Two weekends ago I began to really ponder how the Philly boy swag works. My friend Emma came to visit and in the typical fashion of two girls that refuse to admit that college is over and that reality has set in, we immediately headed to the bar for a night to remember… or is that to not remember? As soon as we went to order drinks, the gentleman next to us proceeded to make a comment about if we were buying him a beer, and did not do so very smoothly either, might I say. Confused if he was hitting on us, or just weird, we ignored him and went on with our business. Only a short time later, the guy strikes up conversation again, and buys us a round of drinks. He had found our weak spots (alcohol and gifts) so we ended up chatting the night away with he and his very drunk friend until last call came about. To make a long story short, we had a glass of cheap, very gross wine at his place before we headed back to my apartment and decided to bring him along as a souvenir.
I think souvenir is a good word to describe the guy, because he was quite unique. First, he made absolutely no moves towards getting some action. Now, I like to keep it classy and all, but seriously, I was drunk and I am used frat boys – this was not a situation that I understood in the least bit. Cuddle fest 2010 (yes cuddling which I hated was involved but my lack of human contact suddenly makes this an activity to be desired) began and we fell asleep. When I wake up at 6am to go to work, I look at the guy next me and think to myself, “wow, he not only is a gentleman, he is actually cute without the beer goggles… if only I knew his name.” Later I would find out that his name is Fred. Not Fredrico. Not Frederick. Just Fred. Like Drop Dead Fred. And even though he has a great middle name, he chooses to go by just Fred. I don’t understand but I also don’t ask questions.

Our weekend rendezvous continues through the next night and we even have a sober hang out during the next week. It is on Thursday night (which I am currently in an argument over if Thursday is a weekend night or not – I say it is), that he gets belligerently drunk and texts me in a fashion that I have used many times myself. The technique is really effective. It is called text the same thing over and over until someone answers. And that he did. And eventually it worked. I answered. Basically the conversation turned into “I’m sleeping” then “I’m coming over” followed by never responding again while I wonder if he is really coming over. I thought he might have died, as I had no responses from him for the next 36 hours. Only later, I would find out that he had managed to break his phone in his drunken stupor. A classy guy after my own heart.

The real failure of the situation was the final night of our long term relationship. Saturday I decided that day drinking was in order and that it should begin around 3pm. By 8:30, my texts were becoming illegible (except the ones that I was sending my dad because I was being sure to proofread them). By 11:30, I wasn’t functioning very well. Somehow, I managed to get a text to Fred that read something along the lines of lets hang out. Soon after, and by soon after I mean 5 minute later, I fell asleep, not to answer his texts that came only moments later. Waking up still a hot mess at 1:30 in the morning, I made every effort I could to get in touch with him. I mean I’m a blast and a half when I can’t form words. Sadly, my efforts were fruitless and I fell back into a slumber. A slumber that lasted until 5am, when I woke up and puked my brains out like I was a sixteen year old consuming my first adult beverage followed by a pack of cigs. About five minutes after that, I decided to rinse and repeat a couple more times before going back to bed and praying that I didn’t aspirate in my sleep.

I think that God was trying to tell me something that night. I’m still not sure what. Maybe it was that Fred and I weren’t right for each other and that is why he never responded? Maybe it was that I am entirely too old to drink that much and that is why I vommed like I had never vommed before? Or maybe it was that everything happens for a reason and Fred didn’t come over because I would have yakked on him? Whatever he was trying to say, I was still too drunk to understand at the time and I guess I will never know.