Almost Knocked Up or Yes, You Can't Live Here

I've been thinking about how to kick off this blog for a couple of hours now. The point of this thing is to collect all of the stories, anecdotes and cautionary tales that I've managed to amass over the past few years, which are numerous and frightening. I'm not some character out of a Henry Miller novel, jumping from one fringe situation to another, or some crazy bohemian or Lothario. To put it succinctly: I stumble into weirdness. And more often than not, it's of my own design. Maybe I should amend that, then. I plunge headlong into weirdness.

Women have always been a weakness of mine. Somewhere around the age of 21 (legal drinking age...wonder if that had anything to do with it) I realized that I could not only talk to girls, but that I could charm them. You'd think I'd be excited about this, but to be honest, it only stressed me out as I didn't have the bedroom skills to back it up. I distinctly remember the following conversation happening maybe a dozen times at college house parties, circa 2002-2004:

Me: "So...you're in art school. Do you paint or something?"

Girl: "Um, not really, I'm more into video installation pieces."

Me: "I like Werner Herzog movies." (Quick note: may God strike me dead if I didn't say that VERBATIM. Not one of my finer moments.)

Girl: "What?"

Me: (clears throat) "I think we should go make out at your house."

Girl: "Really? Ok."

Then we'd go back to her house and makeout, or mess around, or have sex, all with varying degrees of success. I'd say that it took me a good couple of years to get to a point where I didn't view my sexual prowess as "sophomoric" or "totally unfulfilling for the girl". I remember the first time a girl called me "sexy", I started laughing uncontrollably because the idea seemed so foreign to me. It still does. I refuse that mantle. Cute? If you say so. Handsome? You're making me blush. Sexy? You're lying, but thanks.