“You Must Be Somebody’s Baby”

I’m so confused. So hurt. So sad. So broken.

I haven’t felt this awfully sentimental since last summer, and that situation absolutely paled in comparison. Tear ducts? They’re working overtime, baby! Facial muscles? They have the next week off, as I haven’t managed to form a smile in a solid 24 hours. Think I’m teasing you? Try me.

My heart is in a thousand pieces scattered in and around Manhattan, Queens, the George Washington Bridge, and Route 17.

Friends, lovers, loyal readers, fans, cult followers: M.Hal’s <3 is fractured beyond orthopedic repair (sorry Callie O’Malley) and will never be(at) the same. I know I reek of senseless sentimental cliché; you’re thinking “OMG, another gooey entry?! I thought Proud of Commitment would be the last of that shiznat!” Yes, Jenna B. I’m sappy and cliché; all 4 billion peeps WORLDWIDE have uttered the phrase “my heart is, like, broken” at least once every 10 minutes. So what makes my experience any different? Well, I’m special, in case you haven’t figured that out already…

…and it’s my blog, bitch.

Onto the story / comedy that is my life; ever had one person/event/city single-handedly light a fuse that all-too-quickly travels to the wooden, dynamite-saturated barrel containing the words “My Glamorous Life” painted in tantalizing turquoise? All of a sudden, the barrier we have to protect our soft underbellies is quickly and unmercifully wrestled from our hot little hands (sort of like Jamie Lynn’s fame, but faster).

“My und-uh-bell-ay? That’s such an “eh” word! Me? Vulnerable? Bitch, please – I am NOT vulnerable!” (quoted from Your- Average- New- Yorker- Who- Has- an- IQ- of- 72)

Mr.(&Mrs.) IQ-of-72, you ARE vulnerable. You might live in a concrete jungle where people are devoid of feelings, compassion, and trust – but seriously, get over yo’selves. Your underbelly is no different than someone from Friendship, NY.

I don’t know why I was in New York City this past weekend. There was little to no incentive for such a fruitless trip when I have 9,827 pages of MCAT prep to read (still on the agenda). Let’s analyze.

Clubbing? No fake I.D. and the only ones worth the outrageous cover (Marquee, Bungalow 8, Pink Elephant) are 21+.

Cornell friends? Love them to pieces, but I speak to those who matter at least weekly, if not more. (SHOUT OUTS TO Jules (my everything), Aviva (l-o-v-e), Danielle (in awe of her and her fam), Rachel (you are my life, MiniMe), Sarah (you hate my family, but I ADORE you), Alex (you iz mah #1!), JBart ($$$$$ is a powerful incentive to like you), half of TKE (I needed a place to sleep like whoa)).

Shopping? SoHo is SoHoverpriced.

Pride Weekend? Every day is Pride Day in NYC, so allocating an entire weekend for middle-aged queens to come out (ha) wearing tight clothes they shouldn’t and actively perpetuating the stereotypical nature of homosexuality is as tasteless as it is disgusting. I don’t want 50-year-old well past his prime staring at my ass. He licks his lips while I vomit Bocce. What’s worse is gay teens/tweens. I don’t want to see or hear wanna-be M.Hals complaining about their weight (spare tire! OMG!), their skin (pimple … pop that shit!), their nails (mani/pedi, yes?), or their sex life (manhunt, tehehe).

NOTE TO GAYS WHO EXCESSIVELY CARE ABOUT THEIR APPEARANCE: Pierre-Fitch-style physical attractiveness is only appealing to muscular tops who, ironically, won’t even be looking AT you during the *discreet fun* (giggle giggle). They’ll be busy thrusting and checking out their pecks in the mirror. Therefore – bottoms, go ahead and order the side of fries @ Katz’s. You’ll still get ass. Don’t be discouraged tops – go ahead and order the chocolate chip cookies @ Max Brenner. The gay community is HEAVILY bottom-dominated. You’re in demand, so you’ll still get ass.

Gawd. I can’t stand gay men…

…but maybe that’s for the best. No guy’s worth the time and effort.

M.Hal is now asexual. I’ll be straight by tomorrow.

Back to the point: The brawny beef behind the boisterous trip was, pre-dick-tably and pre-asexual, about a boy. A boy that I kinda-sorta knew way back in ’06 when I was friend-less, closeted, awkward, and enjoyed popcorn with extra butter (I saved THE worst for last!).

He was cute, but I never actively pursued it and was 95% sure that I wouldn’t pursue anything now (me not pursuing something? I know…). Anyways, I messaged him this past Spring, 1.5 years later, with the intention of setting him up with a past-mistake. Why the sudden generosity? No idea. They both went to the same college and maybe sparks would fly and the cu…I mean conversation would be flowing? Little did I know I was about to embark on a 4-month text-message love affair with someone that could not only understand my humor, but match it with some of his own.

I’ve never laughed harder in my life from pixels on a cell-phone screen. He was fast (5 minute return time), reliable (always got a response), and damn good. Kay? Kay!

You know the rest… M.Hal did what the 95% of his intuition noted he shouldn’t. Boy messed up. M.Hal messed up bigger. M.Hal got his heart broken AGAIN. Why is this new? It isn’t, but this is:

M.Hal’s ranking of la boy’s tastes and preferences (Naughty Line #50):

Just-turned-18 twinky twink the boy met on MySpace >>> fugz fag who snaps his fingers to get a cab in NYC >> M.Hal

I don’t get jealous … ever. But seriously? Seriously?!

I devised this innovative ranking system and why he pushed meeting the two Twinkies to come clubbing with such haste and fake excitement. I mean, I was in the city for two days, and these bitches were in the city for the summer; was it that I wasn’t hot enough and/or wasn’t funny enough and/or I simply didn’t rub him the right way? (Naughty Line #523). Did he want to show off prospective guys to raise the marginal benefit of pursuing him? Leaving Microeconomics out of it, could he really NOT give up one Saturday night for lil ol moi? There was a party @ NYU I was dying to have a date for…

Boy and I parted ways last night after exchanging words in mid-town (I was pro-NYU party, he was pro-trashy-club-gang-bang). It didn’t take long for me to realize that I said harsh (though facebook worthy) lines, so I crossed from 7^th to 6^th Avenue via a dark corner street in hopes of finding the boy and apologizing for being a complete asshole. A homeless man came out of NOWHERE and eerily walked next to me for a few seconds, emulating my stride. I could feel the hairs on my body suddenly begin to rise. I was on an empty, dim-lit street, and alone save for a man in a ripped trenchcoat that was slightly taller than me. I turned to him, and he pulled out an object that resembled a knife (maybe? I didn’t ask questions) and demanded $20, then $30, then $50.

I lived. He didn’t say anything else; instead, he just ran off with $50 and not my life.

Unbelievable. The whole scene was surreal. My life flashed before my eyes.

I left without saying goodbye to boy – completely fitting for a cheesy Hollywood flick. He would still have to grovel and apologize and we’d reconcile in a public place (Naughty Line #51).

Was he a good fit? Everyone seemed to think it and I started to believe it. Who knows? Am I a good fit for anyone?! People can be disheartening. He was dead-set on going to a club, even after I was mugged by Mr. $50-None-the-Richer. What bothered me is that the boy didn’t care enough to try and talk to me after the fact. All that seemed to matter to him was tapping one or both of the Twinkies “ranked” higher than me on the most FABULOUS weekend of all (P-R-I-D-E OMGZ LIKE NO WAY!). Clearly, his priorities rested outside of the realm of friendship and, clearly, he hasn’t realized (quite yet) that he did anything wrong.

On the subway this morning to Penn Station (6 to 42^nd then 7 to Times Square then 2 (or 1 or 3) to 34^th; I remembered that trick), I ‘chatted it up’ (Naughty Line #52) with this tall professional-looking guy, donning a pleated button-down and a fresh pair of khakis (obviously not a native New Yorker). Indeed. He hailed from SoFla, graduated from Wharton in May (undergraduate) and moved to NYC last week to work for Goldman Sachs. He wrote his number on my hand, which must mean that (a) we’re both in grade school and (b) I’m some-what appealing (M.Hal still has it goin’ on). When he noticed that I didn’t seem too enthused, he not-so-nonchalantly mentioned that he knew I “must be somebody’s baby.”

I heard that song (“Somebody’s Baby” by Jackson Browne) on the GW and the tears started flowing and haven’t ceased since – Mr. Wharton, we WILL meet again. Today is the day to let all the emotions hang out and dry. Tomorrow can be about MCAT and picking up the thousands of heart-pieces that were so violently displaced over the course of 24 hours. For the next thirty minutes that I’m awake, however, I get to bask in the greatness that is…sadness.