Its tough to pretend to be insane and get a girlfriend. Then again, how do I know if I’m pretending or not? Maybe that’s what crazy people do, they just act weird as a practical joke on the rest of us; or is that, "the rest of you?" Maybe seemingly normal people just pretend to be sane, and really, they’re the ones that are crazy. Just as maladjusted and discontent as the rest of the world, but they can’t have fun like everyone else. Maybe they’ve got exactly the wrong idea.
Oh, how many girls have slinked off on me after I randomly started dancing in public to music only I could hear… or after I had an entire conversation with a potted plant about how I arrange my shoes upside down to hide embarassing foot odors in front of them, ignoring them all the while… or after I cover one eye with my hand and start sneaking around the room, discreetly chasing after my eternally rolling missing eyeball while mumbling like a drunken Popeye… Its not easy being me.
This is me, in my head.
However, there is hope for myself and Mini-Me. For every ten times that I do something weird while off on a date, WHICH I HAVE NO CONTROL OVER, MOTHER, one time there will be a crazy girl who will start helping me chase my eyeball. My favorite moment on a date, so far, has been when a girl and I erupted into a 1920s jazz dance number in the middle of downtown Bakersfield, California, to a very loud, very long radio jingle for a local bail bondsman/state certified unitarian minister who was running for board of county commissions. We had no audience, we had an empty street – it was 3 AM on the white side of town, and except for a local teenage band that was desperately trying to become KoRN, there was not a bright spot to the city except for us. It was twelve minutes of intense cardio that included and was not limited to the Batusi, the Macarena, a high speed hand jive, and then a race between the Rodger Rabbit versus the Moonwalk from one end of the block to the other. That’s right, I may yet contribute to the gene pool. Watch your future end.
Dramatic recreation of that night.
Another great memory was on a beautiful Halloween night, wherein I was dressed as a mime. I love face paint, I carry some around with me where ever I go. Its makes your face a canvus and the crayons and hairspray into a mobile mask. I fell in love with a beautiful kitty-clown at a party that night. She was wearing a hideous orange and green smock that went down just a little bit lower than her hips, Cheshire cat underwear, and one of those a poofy purple ruffle thing around her neck. Cute little black cat ears, and whiskers and nose painted on. She mimed pouring her drink down my pants while I was busy trying to get my hand away from the invisible monster who lived between a pair of couch cushions, and things just went on from there. And we told eachother corny jokes and did prat falls and set my bowler hat on fire and threw it at some kids and it was an amazing evening and I never saw her again after that night but I left streaks of white make up on her cheeks, neck and breasts.
Dream girl
Another one. She’s a scared little mouse, raised to be aware of her shame constantly and to stay quiet and be angry at the world. She looked to my friend down the hall in my dorm as a councilor, and he was so certain that she had a crush on him even though he was engaged. It was funny, but she had a crush on me. She’d come over to my room while I was drunk from the night before and lying around in my underwear, hair poofed into a manfro, demanding an escort to Blockbuster or something equally mundane. Each time she’d tell me about crushes she had on cartoon characters like Inuyasha, or Beast Boy from the Teen Titans. I’d laugh and laugh, and she’d wait until my guard was down to ask me questions about why I seem so reclusive, why I’m always telling jokes, asking what my real name was, where I was really from, where I’ve been, and, the things that I’ve seen, the people I’ve met, what my aspirations are. It was weird, because I try to turn that stuff around in basic conversation, always thinking that, unless I’m blogging, I shouldn’t talk about myself.
It’s rude.
I didn’t have a lot of answers for her, anyway. So one night, she had a nightmare and came looking for her councilor. He’s busy screwing his girlfriend, so she comes to see me and I ask her to go for a walk with me. She’s never danced before. You don’t dance? No, just, in my room, by myself… Well, come on, beautiful, I know exactly where we should go. Wait, should I change? No, you look fine. Where are we going? Doesn’t matter, we don’t know anybody there.
We hang a right when we get outside and end up at a fraternity party. AW, SKEET SKEET SKEET, MOTHERFUCKER! You know that song? That’s our song. We danced together amid every cultural heritage America has to offer, I even got her to grind on me. I picked her up and slammed her in my lap, turned her upside down, threw her over my shoulder and buzzed right on her belly button. She was in love. I invited her out the next night to go see a movie – Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. She’s wearing a bluejean jacket and cute stretchy pants, I’m wearing a Star Trek original series security uniform. Yeah, I was so skeptical about how the night would end, I wore the red shirt. There are some slow parts in the movie, so I reach under her shirt and tickle side. I go directly back to eating popcorn while she stifles tortured giggles in a very sensitive crowd dedicated to hanging on to every word of this, the final Star Wars movie ever. She returns fire, and I did not expect it. My five dollar cup of Sprite goes flying at the screen, and I think Jar Jar was doing something at the time, so my actions were forgiven. Bam, right in the armpit. This girl plays dirty, so I decided to play as well. I put my nose right in her armpit and breathed in hard, she freaks out and starts squealing. We proceed to have a tickle fight right up to the point that Padme croaks. She sniffs and lets out a single tear, and I’m the big strong arm she needs to sniffle into.
She’s still in California. I may have a wait to get back into the gene pool yet. Goddamn wild oats.