My millionaire-heiress-mini-Paris-Hilton-of-a-cousin got married in California this weekend
Black-tie ceremony + first class everything = amazing. Don’t you think?
No.
A few years ago, she was the black sheep of the family – one obnoxious coked-out slut who whored herself out to 5% of San Francisco (the approximate percentage of straight-males in this wonderful city). Sucking her family funds (including selling her precious Porsche Boxster) in true Anna Nicole Smith / M.Hal style, and finally getting caught sniffing off a BART rail, her parents sent her to rehab. ::Sound that all-too-trashy Amy Winehouse monstrosity of a song:: There she found her final victim (at least for now): she met Mr. Right.
Meeting Mr. Right in rehab, you might ask? He’s a gem. Like, adorably cute, clean-cut, shaven, not- Jewish- but- circumcised- and- converting, a cooking savant (delish!), and no longer a threat to society. Perfect. Maybe I should try coke.
Time to reflect. I don’t understand. Is there something I’m doing wrong? I fail at the relationship shin-dig (and the MCAT). I found myself crying during the ceremony, and it wasn’t because I was hung-over, in a tux, and lamenting my stolen fake I.D. @ Suite 181. [To clarify, the crying was not a completely bawling type; it was more of a subtle, one tear here, one tear there deal]. I realized I’d given up on love, the one emotion/thought process/illusion that so many people turn to in times of joy, grief, and horniness. Will I ever get married and join the ranks of those men and women whose lives consist of PTSA, Volvo sedans, and chocolate labs? I’m almost 20, and I haven’t the faintest idea. I know I want flowers. I want a rehearsal dinner on the family yacht. I want a bachelor party at a top-of-the-line club. I want a huge, eccentric ceremony. I want to honeymoon in the Mediterranean…
…First, I need a boy who’s worthy.
I’ve always shamelessly made fun of couples, especially the ultra-gooey, “I love you” / “No I love you” / “No I love you more” gag-me-with-a-dick types of relationships. In my times of weakness, however, I’ll painfully admit that I want that. I want the cheesiness. I want the cutesy kisses on the forehead. I want the nuzzling, the “oh no you decide” / “no really you decide” back-and-forth senseless dialogue. I want sarcasm. I want wit. I want humor. Damn it, I want Mr. Right – minus the whole rehab part. I’m plucked, I’m tight (oh, the meanings…), I’m in-shape, I’m fast (thinking), and I’m smart (the square root of my GPA is 2.02. You do the math). I hail from an ultra-competitive Ivy League school, so you’d assume I could find someone to settle down with in this crazy town. I’m hot, and my resume is good. I deserve a Mr. Right, right?
Tears continued to trickle down my cheek. After a few glasses of crystal and shiraz, and it was time to call my fabulous fifteen, AKA my back-bones, my support-systems and my ever-faithful-s; these lovely ladies are, collectively, my “fag hags.”
Since this matter crossed into the “Red Zone: OMG M.HAL IS TURNING INTO MARTHA STEWART” category, it required me calling almost all fifteen.
Alpha fag hag got back to me and said “oh M.Hal, you’ll find an amazing and talented guy who matches you in every way. You’ll compliment each other so well. Mr. Right’s out there! Please don’t give up. He would live a very lonely and wretched life if you did.” [This is why she’s my alpha. Always optimistic. Note how she mentioned I was amazing and talented, but not directly. That’s love.]
Beta fag hag got back to me and said “oh M.Hal, who cares about relationships? Just go out and live life. Why be bogged down?” [This is why she’s NOT my alpha. I don’t understand people who crave the single life. After two weeks, they always bitch about the fact that they’re not in a relationship…]
Gamma fag hag got back to me and said “oh M.Hal, the key to a successful relationship is not putting out the first three months. Adopt and implement a three-month rule. Any guy will love you because you’re holding back.” [This is why Gamma is single and a virgin. HAHA. What is this, 1953?]
One doesn’t need a degree from college to realize that the responses decrease in quality and depth. Kappa fag hag exclaimed “Live, Drink, Laugh, and Love – in that order.”
In summation, I’m ready – for a relationship, for love, for Volvos and chocolate labs. While it took a cross-country marriage to figure this all out, I’m fairly sure I permanently transitioned from my slut phase to my commitment phase. In the past, I’ve out-bitched every guy who even spoke of a relationship. Jason, Drew, Jared, Johnny, and *Superman* (don’t ask). My record is 7 months, three of which we were “off” (does that even count?)
It might seem like I only want the glamorous wedding, but my fickle, transient self wants the whole package. Would you ever buy a BMW that wasn’t fully loaded? The answer, sweetheart, is “Hell-a NO!” I’ve reached the point in my life where little excites me anymore – both sexually and intellectually. Thus, a REAL-wood interior, big…moonroof, heated seats, etc, laced in legitimate-ness (and an unlimited warranty or I can get my money back) turns me on moreso than any TWINK who thinks his poopy don’t stink.
My flight to New York is boarding in a few minutes, so I better get ready (8 AM flight, yeah). You might be asking yourself “WTF? Who writes this shit?” So. A little about me, then? I’m a rising junior @ Cornell University majoring in the Biological Sciences (I seriously must hate myself) and pursuing a minor in Communications (why? Comm’s actually applicable…and easy). I’m an RA (Resident Adviser), TA (Teaching Assistant), SA (Biology Student Adviser), honors/secret society member, and an ex-officer in my former fraternity – basically, I don’t sleep. On top of that, I do research related to sex, sexuality, and gender identity, and I’m loving every minute of it. My professor has written multiple New York Times: Best-Seller books and the next one might have my name on it. In an ideal world, I’d like to pass my MCAT, go to med school in NYC (my hometown), become a physician in a private practice, and combine my people skills and medical skills into a delectable, unforeseen package. How many doctors out there are actually social AND know what they’re doing? That’s what I thought…
…But I love writing. I’m not sure where I’d be without a blank Word document, my Mac, and an open mind. I’m a columnist for the Cornell Daily Sun, where I contribute to an anonymous parody column every other week. Nothing’s too inappropriate for me, and I’m open to discussing, in-person or blogging, virtually any topic, whether it be sex, homosexuality, heterosexuality, kama sutra, or girly shit. I submitted 5 applications (all including various writing samples) for internships at renowned/trashy/teeny magazines in NYC this summer, and got all 5 of them (read: Cosmo, Vogue, Seventeen, People). I turned them down, though. Why? Research and Kaplan MCAT prep in Ithaca. Yes, I’m THAT pre-med who makes his life 10x worse than life truly needs to be. Sometimes I wonder if medicine’s the right path – the whole profession is sinking and doctors generally hate themselves and the work they do – but who knows?
Hence, my life = so much uncertainty. I could be the next Toni Morrison. I could be the next Preston Burke. I could be the next Pierre Fitch.
Regardless. Welcome to the beginning of something amazing!
