making yourself feel better for doing nothing but homework for four days straight by saying, “at least i’m not out spending money!” only works until you realize you’re spending $32,000 a year on college.

anxiety takes many forms. sometimes you lay in bed, cold sweats abound, fearing that the walls are actually closing in on you, for reals this time. sometimes you stand at your kitchen counter with your back to the ever growing stack of dirty dishes and drink half a bottle of maker’s mark, shot-for-shot.

and then sometimes you obsessively clean your bathroom at half past midnight and think about all the homework you should be doing and all the boys that will never love you.

i did the latter tonight. i’d say it wasn’t helpful or productive except that my bathroom is clean.

at some point i stopped thinking, “when will 2011/summer/the quarter/the day/this minute” be over because it never is, you know?

on october 5th, 2011, at 9:48pm, after four hours of homework and most of a bottle of red wine, i had this moment:

seven months, a few mistaken sexual trysts, countless times running from the room every time that damn song came on, and more drunk dials than i’d like to admit, i can finally say: I AM FREE.

have fun on sittin on that flagpole, dude, because PEACE I’M OUT.

EDIT: two hours later. finished aforementioned bottle of wine. still over it. WIN

7: postcards received (bringing my collection to 50)
5: boys slept with (summer of slut success!)
3: times that was with the 90’s pop star (i.e. too many)
2: boys made out with but not slept with (keeping it in my pants success!)
—-: gallons of alcohol consumed (let’s not think about it. love, xtina’s liver)
3: airport floors slept on (i fucking hate air travel)
2: hipsters at the ellensburg rodeo (commence xtina & emily boner for cowboys)
1: taxidermied bulls sat upon (YEE HAW)
6: teen lit novels read (who needs a life?)
185: dollars spent at the puyallup fair on corn dogs, rides, and airbrushed trucker hats (HIPSTER LLAMA!)
1: drunken marriage proposals in slurred british accent (goddamn you, john hughes)
694: times i’ve thought, hmm maybe i could study abroad next quarter (GODDAMN YOU JOHN HUGHES)
0: oral sex received in the bushes (sadly)

last sunday, september 11 (never forget!), was the day that my real life was temporarily suspended and was replaced by something akin to an 80’s movie. sex, romance, confusion, it’s all there, although the soundtrack exists only my head.

at the end of my shift that day, i struck up a conversation with two dudes sitting at the bar. one of them is loud and kinda douchy. the other is cute. and british. me, realizing that i need to cross “hot british boy” off of my sexual bingo card, decide to see if i can’t hit it. i flirt, ask questions. he is 21 because of course he is. he is leaving in six days because of course he is. he asks me if i’d like to go get a drink with him. boy, do i.

“a drink,” turns into like ten. we go from shots at the george & dragon and then to the backdoor, where we are both shitwrecked and completely making out in the parking lot, oblivious to my co-workers directly to the left of me.

ben: why is christina so drunk?
gavan: i think so she can hit that.

and hit that i did. the next morning, we wake up groggy and hungover. i offer to walk him to work so he doesn’t get lost, thinking that this will be the end of it. to my surprise, he asks if i’d like to go to a baseball game, something we discussed while drunkenly assessing the odds of getting the other into the sack. um, a follow up to a one night stand? geez, you really aren’t from here, kid. i say sure and offer to buy the tickets. sarah asks me why i’m going when it so goes against my priorities, those being finding a relationship that’s actually going to work in the long run.

xtina: i need to get my mojo back.
sarah: where’d you leave it?
xtina: in sean’s prius.
sarah: “i left my mojo in sean nelson’s prius.” there’s chapter one of your book.

and so i went. i introduced him to the magic of the mecca, where he was delighted by the dinginess and by the fact that i was friends with every crusty old man in there. i was glad someone found this facet of my life a positive. from there i took him to his first “american” baseball game. our seats were fourth row, so we’re practically sitting on the field. he is impressed by my ticket-buying abilities and the excitement of the game. until the game actually starts.

xtina: woo!
british boy: did something just happen?
xtina: it doesn’t look like it, but yes.
british boy: this is the fucking american version of cricket.

despite the baseball game being incredibly boring, he assures me he had fun. we walk back from the stadium arm in arm. he asks me questions about my life. we argue about the right names for things.

xtina: what the fuck is a petrol station? it’s a gas station, dude.
british boy: i don’t know what language you speak, but i myself speak english.
xtina: yeah, well i speak american. suck it.

we go back to mecca and talk for hours. having nothing to lose, i tell him that i really like him. he concurs. he tells me he wants to see me again. he spends the night. the night is shiny and perfect. because of course it is. everything temporary is perfect, right?

xtina: how did i even get into this situation? god, my life is so weird.
bday: i’m not gonna argue with that one
xtina: he doesn’t even live here. it’s like i’m experimenting in new ranges of unavailability.
xtina: relationshipception
xtina: WE HAVE TO GO DEEPER
bday: there should be a movie about you
xtina: for reals dude. i went from middle aged former pop star to 21 year old on a student visa. what the fucking fuck. WHY CAN’T I HAVE A NORMAL BOYFRIEND
bday: you probably could if you’d just chill out for a few.
xtina: i’m like biggie. you can’t slow my roll.
xtina: or was that tupac?
xtina: they’re both dead though.
xtina: nevermind
xtina: i’m not like them

despite not being shot in the chest three times, slow my roll i did not. i text him and see if he’d like to hang out again.

…. aaaand nothing. for reals? what the fuck? i’m sorry, are you somehow put off by hot blonde americans taking you to baseball games and fucking you? alright, see ya.

cue the montage of me moping, drinking, and going to the 90’s pop star’s apartment at one o’ clock in the morning.

until a few days later, when he texts me, oh of course i want to hang out with you, how’s tomorrow? i meet him. he apologizes for being busy the past few days.

xtina: well, if you don’t have time to hang out, it’s no big deal.
british boy: no no no. there was no way i wasn’t going to see you.

in the back of my head i know this will only make it harder when he jets off to you know, THE OTHER FUCKING COUNTRY he lives in, but i have a hard time keeping it in my pants. apology accepted.

i take him to the top of the space needle so he can take in the grandeur of the gray damp shithole i call home. he is incredibly impressed, so much so that on the deck of the space needle overlooking the puget sound, he grabs me and kisses me. we make out for like five minutes as tourists have to walk around us. if my life had a soundtrack, this is where peter gabriel would have kicked in.

we have night of debauchery that includes him accosting a family on the space needle elevator, making out in various cabs and street corners, and me sitting between two englishmen who try, and fail, to explain rugby. and drinking. lots of drinking (side note: don’t try to keep up with europeans. it doesn’t work).

we catch a cab to my apartment. we are very drunk.

british boy: you have to come to england!
xtina: yeah, right. i’ll get right on that. should we get married too?
british boy: YES! driver, take us to vegas!
xtina: driver, please don’t listen to him. please take us to the previously mentioned address.
british boy: no, we’re engaged now. you can’t stop it. just wait, we’ll be married.

cringe. cringe. don’t boys know that you can’t say shit like that to girls? don’t they know that we watched say anything when we were twelve and are still waiting for lloyd dobler and his jambox? don’t they know this? WHY DON’T THEY KNOW THIS?? i’m going to teach a class for boys on how to deal with girls:

If You Like Her Just Fucking Call 101
Don’t Kiss Her Goodbye If You’re Never Planning On Speaking To Her Again II
Don’t Propose In A Cab And Then Leave The Country (Hybrid Course)

lying in bed, he says things like, i like sleeping next to you. i’ve never been this comfortable sleeping next to someone, it should be illegal.

i go to sleep reminding myself that i’m both a realist and a cynic and that i do not look like molly ringwald.

when i try to leave for work the next morning, he pulls me back in to bed and we make out for a while. i am twenty minutes late for work. i serve eggs and day dream about dual citizenships. mid afternoon i turn around from a table and he’s standing there. in full soccer gear. he looks kind of stupid. it’s endearing.

british boy: i just wanted to say goodbye. and thanks for everything.
xtina: oh. right. well, happy trails. don’t forget to send me postcards!
british boy: i will. and um, come to england. really.
xtina: i guess i’m going to have to if we’re gonna get married.
british boy: if you’d have just let the taxi drive us to vegas, we’d be married now.

he walks away. cue that OMD song from the end of the breakfast club.

i’ve spent the last two days alternating between feeling really bummed and just glad i had the experience at all. i initially cursed the universe, asking it why it couldn’t just throw me bone, and then realized that after a summer of bad sex and 90’s pop stars, maybe it did. i mean, i made out with a british guy at the top of the space needle. that shit doesn’t happen. so there it is.

but of course this level of optimism is probably temporary, especially considering we’re facebook friends, which means i can stalk him and see all the stupid british skanks he’s sleeping with once he gets home. stupid internet.

exit movie, return to real life. roll credits.

x,
the corn is already taller than me. it’s awhile since i’ve eaten from the cob — forgot how it polka dots the stool.
if you were here, i’d get in my pig suit and you’d dress-up like farmer bob. i’d thrash around the yard of wet mud and you’d have to tackle me and hold me down as i slithered underneath yr clutch.
i miss you.
xo,
d

i met you at al’s tonight. we had a short interaction in which we joked about trying to figure out where we’d seen each other before. as we talked you kind of stood closer than necessary to me and through the collar of your shirt i could see a tattoo on your collarbone. i got a rush of blood to my face, among other areas. you shook my hand and left the bar and, presumably, my life.
why is this important? well, Boy I Will Never See Again, i’ve spent the last month or so venturing into the world known as “online dating,” which i think is code for “awkward interactions with booze.” i’ve gone on dates with three dudes, and found myself staring off into space, thinking about chubby nerds and about who will get voted off the voice this week. i drank too much out of boredom. i even pity-made out with a couple of them. i was about the accept this as my fate, believing that i should just settle for one of these dudes because i am not 22 anymore, and giddy love is a myth. but tonight, unbeknownst to you, our short exchange changed that for me. because i want that rush. i want to wonder whether a boy stood that close to me because he’s kinda drunk or because he thinks i’m pretty. i want to flirt with a guy without knowing what cds he would want if stranded on a desert island because i read it on his online profile.
emily thinks you will come in to the restaurant this weekend. i don’t. i think you did think i was pretty but i also think come tomorrow you will have forgotten about our interaction entirely. but, as much as i want to bone you, it doesn’t matter. i deleted my online dating profile and am going to wait it out. something real sounds cooler.

thank you.

love, xtina