Did you fit in in high school?

There is only one criterion necessary to being my friend. I am friends only with people who did not fit in in high school.

When I went off to college, I chose the school I did for two reasons: (1) I did not have to take any math for the entire four years; and (2) the institution of higher learning was known as the "Ivy League for misfits." No one there was "normal." It was a society of nonconformists. My pink and blue hair and sixteen silver, flesh-mutilating appendages had no effect on anyone. No one looked twice at my general wardrobe choice of brown polyesther leisure suits. It was heavenly.

Now I work in an office comprised of people who didn't fit in in high school. Folks don't enter my line of work because they conform to social norms. Rather, they enter this line of work because they hate the way society is ordered these days. I was talking to a colleague of mine who was ranting and raving about how much he hated people. I asked him why he entered a profession where one must deal with people on a daily basis. I asked him why he committed himself to helping people when he hates them so much. His response encapsulated so much of what I love about what I do and what I love about the types of people I find myself around:

"I may hate people, but I hate the government more."

And that sort of comment can only come from someone who didn't fit in in high school.

Plagiarism.

Christians have been plagiarizing off of Judaisim for centuries. They get all pissy about the fact that Jews killed Jesus. But really, would they have a religion if it wasn't for Jesus being killed? They should be thanking the Jews for killing Jesus. As if all this Jews-killed-Jesus stuff wasn't bad enough, they go around taking all our ideas.

Let's look at the famed song "Santa Claus is Coming to Town," for example. He sees you when you're sleeping. He knows when you're awake. Given this description, Santa Claus could be charged with stalking. And this is someone we want coming down our chimneys? A creepy fat stalker? Then Santa Claus makes his list. He checks it twice. He's gonna know whether you've been naughty or nice.

Sound familiar? Huh? Huh?

The Jewish God was making lists long before Santa Claus ever was. "On Rosh Hashanah it is written, on Yom Kippur it is sealed." See, God looks down at all of us little people, and on the Jewish new year he writes down everything in his big ole Book of Life. He checks it once. Then everyone has until Yom Kippur to atone for hir or her sins. If they do a good job, God may edit what he originally wrote. Then he checks it a second time.

His list, however, is far more thorough than Santa's. It's not just about naughty and nice. Seriously, people. I mean, we all know that Christian folk stole the entire idea, but the least they could have done was get it all a little closer. You know how thorough God really is in his list making? I'll show you just how thorough.

The Gates of Repentance High Holiday prayer book (page 108) has the answer. God makes a list containing the following: How many shall pass on, how many shall come to be; who shall live and who shall die; who shall see ripe age and who shall not; who shall perish by fire and who by water; who by sword and who by beast; who by hunger and who by thirst; who by eathquake and who by plague; who by strangling and who by stoning; who shall be secure and who shall be driven; who shall be tranquil and who shall be troubled; who shall be poor and who shall be rich; who shall be humbled and who exalted.

This is some serious stuff, folks. Far more than making silly lists about naughty and nice. But much like television "journalists" merely rewrite wire stories, here we have Christians ripping off the Jews again. And they call us cheap. Hell, at least we're original.

Girlie stuff.

Rumor has it that I am, indeed, a woman. And as such, I am sometimes prone to bouts of insanely girlie stuff. Which leads me to a thought that just struck me. (Seriously. I was sitting at my computer doing something else and it just struck me.)

Do you remember the one kiss that was better than all the rest? The sort of kiss that's better than all of your sexual experiences combined? The perfect - perfect - mixture of lust and friendship and all those other wonderful things that a perfect mixture should be comprised of? Do you remember that?

I do.

Chewbacca.

When I was at training for my job, I delivered a make-believe closing argument. I hadn't really prepared for it and was less than thrilled to be presenting anything to anyone that day. At the end, my boss told me: "Your delivery was great. But you started to go a little Chewbacca on me." Chewbacca? W-what?? And then he explained the South Park episode to me.

Every now and then I'll be sitting in the lunch room at work and someone who is on trial will come in all nervous and shifty-eyed. "I've got nothing," he or she will say. "I close this afternoon and I've got nothing."

To which my boss will say, "There's always Chewbacca."

And so I uge you, dear readers, to check out the Chewbacca defense. And remember... it's only funny because it's true.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vTd77TB8ef8

Bitches.

Most of you know that I don't generally get along very well with women. They irritate me. They whine and complain about really stupid things. They like shopping. For shoes, in particular. And handbags. You know how many handbags I have? Four. You can only carry one at a time, so how many do you really need???

There are three types of women who drive me particularly crazy:

(1) Skinny girls who complain about being fat. You wanna know what's worse than being fat? My foot up your ass.

(2) Skinny girls who complain that they can't gain weight. The rest of us wish we had that problem.

(3) Girls who wear chopsticks in their hair.

Playground antics.

When it comes to interpersonal relationships, has anyone really gotten past the playground antics we used to go through when we were younger? Not so much. It still goes on. "Hey Becca," a friend will say to me. "Don't tell anyone, but Bob and I have been sleeping together. I really dig him." But of course, nearly everyone already knows the goings-on involving Bob. In fact, Bob has already told his best friend Rob, who has told me everything before my friend has even opened her mouth. Invariably, my friend will ask me, "So do you think Bob is into me or is just using me for sex?" And being the good friend I am, I will disclose (while pretending to be far less involved than I am) that Bob has told Rob that he is SO into my friend.

How is this different from the intermediaries we used to use on the playground? Remember the conversations we used to have with our girl friends when we were twelve years old? "Becca, can you ask Joe if Fred likes me?" And of course, I had my own crush on Hypothetical Joe, Hypothetical Fred's best friend -- Fred, being the object of my friend's affection.

Then there were the notes passed in class. "Do you like me? Circle YES or NO." There was always the asshole who would pen in "MAYBE" and circle that instead. As grown ups, these folks are referred to as "married men" or "commitmentphobes." But they're the same as the cheeky maybe-writing-boys.

Seriously, people. This stuff does not change as we grow older. It just gets worse.

What is this feeling?

I had a suppression hearing today. I was moving to suppress incriminating statements made by the defendant to a police officer. (To the non-lawyer types, that means that if the motion is granted, the statements he made to the police officer will not be allowed into evidence at trial.) Criminal defendants rarely ever win such motions. So guess what happened with my motion?

Did you guess?

Did you?

The judge granted my motion.

I wish I could say it was because of my brilliant advocacy. And to be honest, I wasn't half bad. My examinations of the witnesses were good, though my argument could have been better. But the prosecutor messed up just enough that my side won. How awesome is that?

Swoon.

I used to swoon over semicolons. But now I'm starting to realize that some of my favorite people are grammatically incorrect.

Come away with me.

I have an obscene amount of frequent flyer miles these days. Enough for four roundtrip tickets anywhere in the continental United States or Canada. Or enough for two roundtrip tickets to Europe. So I'm thinking I should go somewhere. But I really do hate to travel alone. And so I propose this:

Respond by posting a comment on where you and I should go, when this trip should commence, and why. If I like your idea, you win! We go away together.

Oh, one more thing. I'm totally serious.

* * *

As if that weren't enough, let me remind you one thing about flying: "What goes up, must come down. For, while the skies are friendly enough, the ground can be a mighty dangerous place when heavy objects tumble from overhead compartments."

Sex with me will make you live longer.

It's true. Sex with me will make you live longer. And here's why. Apparently, having sex thrice weekly is the equivalent to running 75 miles per year. While that may seem like a lot, it really isn't. It's only about .2 miles per day, which will hardly keep you in shape. Thus, being hardly kept in shape will not make you live longer.

However, having sex once with me is really like having sex five times with a normal person. That's because I'm five times better at it than regular people. Thus, having sex with me thrice weekly is the equivalent to running 375 miles. Which would be like running a whole mile every day. That ain't bad.

Some (and I'm not saying who) have even alleged that I am ten times better at having sex than your average woman. That would be two miles a day if we had sex three times a week. Two miles a day! That'll definitely keep you living longer.

Submission.

Warning: Mom, you probably don't want to read this one. Seriously. Stop here.

People who know me in life know that I am a force to be reckoned with. While I'm shy at first, once I get comfortable, I just don't shut up. Furthermore, I'm argumentative by nature and I hate to lose. I win so many of my arguments not because I know what I'm talking about (in fact, in many cases, I don't have a clue what I'm talking about), but because I have my bag o' lawyer tricks. It's easy to paint someone into a corner if you know how. It's not difficult to destroy a perfectly plausible theory, simply by pointing out ridiculous, irrelevant inconsistences. If you get people lost in the minutia, they lose track of the big picture and you win. If you reframe the issue, arguing something that wasn't even brought up, you're right, they're wrong, and you win.

I have been aptly described as having a dominant personality. The only place this may not hold true is at work. An office full of lawyers is, by definition, a pack of attention whores. But in social settings, I can see what people mean. I don't have time for bullshit, and don't have the patience to put up with it. I've been told by some that I'm "refreshingly honest," by which they mean I'm a bitch who'll be brutally frank.

So what's the problem?

The men I meet in my life presume that because I'm dominant in life, that's how I am whe it comes to sex. Truth be known, I hate being the initiator or the aggressor. Being the seductress is fine, but when the mindplay becomes physical foreplay, I want to be dominated. I want someone to take control and do horrible things that I can't write because I know my mother is still reading this. (Seriously, Mom, I told you to stop.)

Yes, I admit it: I am a submissive. But I am what I enjoy referring to as a "reluctant sub." I'm fiery. I like to fight back. Sadly, however, no one's ever had the patience or sexual aptitude to realize that I enjoy the struggle, and in the end, the submission.

The KKK song.

In my junior year at Emerson College, I took a class entitled "Copy Editing and Design." It was a requirement for me as a journalism major. My favorite assignment was the AP Style Book assignment. For those of who don't know, the AP Style Book contains all the stylistic rules used by the Associated Press. It is the most commonly used newspaper style (others include Chicago style and the arcane NYT style, used only by the monster that created it: the New York Times).

We were all assigned a letter from the alphabet. We were then tasked with finding a single entry from the book in our assigned letter, and then giving a short presentation on that entry at the beginning of class. I was given the letter K. With the help of some friends and some mind-altering substances, I came to class prepared to sing a song about the stylistic rules associated with writing about the Ku Klux Klan. My classmate, Brian, accompanied me on guitar. It is an awful, awful, AWFUL song that scans horribly and has no redeeming characteristics:

The KKK Song

Now in these great United States
There are plenty of people who love to hate
But to truly understand them you’ve got to know the rules.
So here’s a little lesson on those KKK fools.

Some of them don’t use the full name
The Ku Klux Klan
But on the second reference you surely can
Just ask that Grand Dragon man.

Now the biggest groups, there are only two.
You can find them in Georgia and Alabama too.
Stone Mountain and Tuscaloosa – what are you?
The home of the KKK – it’s true.

So who makes up this crazy bunch
Who might meet occasionally and go for lunch?
It’s an Imperial Board composed of many guys.
But when you wrote “Imperial Wizard” capitalize the “I”

You can call the members Klansmen, that’s all right.
Obviously they’re all white.
Grand Dragon Dale Rousch is what you ought to say
When writing something on the stupid KKK.

Nonduality.

I got a strange email from a friend of mine today. We'd been corresponding as we generally do, which is to say we were talking about nothing. How was your weekend? Oh, it was good. Any wild plans coming up? The mundane Internet version of small talk. And then he wrote me this:

"Nonduality? WTF!!!"

I was in the middle of a rather stressful day. You see, a hearing was scheduled for Wednesday, and my boss more or less threw it at me. Which means I have to go to jail tomorrow afternoon rather than work preparing for the hearing I have on Friday. Which means that instead of writing this, I should be drafting a hard-hitting cross examination. Suffice it to say, the nonduality question more or less sprang up out of nowhere. So I responded to his email in kind:

"Nonduality? What the fuck are YOU talking about?"

His answer was oh-so-enlightening. It said, simply: "Nonduality." Well, yeah, we got that far already. I wasn't really thinking much about it. What I was really thinking about was how to get one guy out of jail and how to keep another guy from going in. So I emailed him back some bullshit linguistic answer about how "duality" means something comprised of two parts, so "nonduality" would thus be something not comprised of two parts. A bit of a wiseass answer, to be sure, but I was operating on high stress and low caffeine.

I went out for a cigarette break, thought more about it, and decided to write a more detailed message when I got home. Now, I don't purport to be an expert on such things as nonduality. I live inside my head most of the time, so some of the stuff that rattles around is buried pretty far near the bottom. My recall isn't what it used to be, so I dug around and came up with the following, not-so-great answer. I throw this out there in the hopes that there are people who know more than I.

* * *

The funny part about explaining nonduality, is that it can only be explained in terms of what it is NOT. It's a total mindfuck. And a horrible connundrum, in that the concept of duality itself is needed to explain nonduality. But I'm totally getting ahead of myself here.

It may be easier to think about if you consider what duality is first. For me, the easiest way to think about duality is in very simplistic terms. I generally look to Greek and Roman polytheism as a guide here. I dig thinking about the Greek gods and goddesses because they seem so very human in nature: they all have good attributes and bad attributes. One of the ongoing themes in Greek mythology is the struggle between good and evil. Indeed, this is the ongoing theme in most literature, classic or contemporary. In that structure, good and evil must coexist; one cannot exist without the other. There are so many examples of these sort of "opposites." How would we know peace if we did not have war? Without black, there would be no white. Yet the concept of nonduality takes all of this and throws it out the window. "Black and white?" is asks. "But what about shades of gray? Black is not black and white is not white -- they are ALL just variants of gray. All this gray simply exists, without the interaction of black or white."

Nonduality posits that there ARE no opposites, and that duality itself is merely an illusion. There is no male/female, active/passive, and so forth. There are no good words to explain nonduality, because it's a realization. How can one assign words to something that must be realized? Thus, ego (sense of self, sense of living, sense of time, planning, etc, etc.), the way it is commonly viewed, is bullshit. We do not think; we merely are present.

When I was a little girl, my mother presented me with the idea that people are not people, and brains are not brains... we merely float around, and this higher being (which some people call God), is really the force that controls life and thought and sense of self. As a 10-year-old, I pictured a huge cauldron over a fire with brains floating around in it like some odd soup, and some bigger-than-life "thing" (for lack of a better word) prodding the brain soup with a huge broomhandle. Strangely, I still sometimes get that picture in my head. Which may explain why I'm as odd as I am today.

Acorns don't grow into maple trees.

But cow seeds must grow into cow trees, right?

So to all you naysayers out there:



(Given my training in journalism, attribution is apt: This photo was forwarded to me by a faithful reader. Thanks Jennie!)

Breaking up.

I broke up with my boyfriend last week. However, the only thing that has changed is the social label we assign to our relationship. I am now free to see whomever I please, so long as I am honest and up front about everything. One of two things is bound to happen given this arrangement: (1) We will fall right back into the relationship we had; or (2) everything will go smoothly until I actually start seeing someone else. This, of course, means that my partner either (1) is really okay with the set-up; or (2) is taking what he can get for now.

I'm not upset about this development. The truth is that this particular person is the best boyfriend I've had insomuch as he treats me extremely well. He is always on time. He is thoughtful. He cuts out cute cartoons he thinks I'll like. He comes to my place bearing cigarettes and a pint of ice cream without my ever having to ask. The so-called breakup has more to do with my general restlessness and desire to deviate from the status quo than with any of his faults or shortcomings.

But at the end of the day, I don't really think I have the energy to get back out there into the dating world. It's such a bleak place to venture into, full of assholes, idiots, and people with very poor syntax and punctuation.

Cow trees.

The first argument my partner and I got into involved the possible existence of cow trees. By “cow trees” I mean trees that grow cows instead of fruit. Picture it: A gargantuan, lush, verdant tree sprouting cows from its branches. Instead of food, the growing cows would receive their sustenance from the tree itself, much the way a fetus receives its nutrients via the umbilical cord.

My partner refused to exist that such trees could ever exist. It’s not natural, he said. It’s not possible, he lamented. It just can’t be.

Open your mind, I urged. Accept that possibility, however unlikely. Just realize that it’s possible for such a thing to exist. I asked a series of questions and skillfully persuaded him that cow trees may be possible if aliens were to bring them to us. But he was still adamant in his belief that neither a quirk of nature nor a scientific innovation would bring along cow trees.

This discourse only illustrates the difficulty people have in contemplating possibilities that may exist beyond their limited understanding of how the world works. It has been said that no two snowflakes are alike. But that’s only because no one has ever found two that are alike. There are countless snowflakes out there. It seems crazy to assert that no two can be alike simply because of some long held societal belief. It’s common knowledge that men cannot reproduce. But with all the technological and scientific advances, is it really a jump to think that male reproduction may somehow, someday be possible?

The reluctance or refusal or inability to dream and consider all potential circumstances makes me sad. Even the seemingly implausible shouldn’t be rejected out of hand.

The other day I presented my cow tree argument to a woman at work. “Cows can’t grow on trees,” she said. I asked why. “Because they don’t have seeds,” she replied. “The only things that grow in trees are things with seeds. And cows don’t have seeds.”

“Not yet,” was my only response.

Sexy is a state of mind.

If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: Any woman can get laid. It takes neither effort, nor imagination. When I was living in Boston, I conducted a test to prove this point. Bear in mind that I am not some gorgeous specimen of a woman. But I walked up to ten men in a bar and asked if they'd come home with me for sex. Eight said yes. One was gay.

As easy as it is for women to get sex, being sexy is an entirely different matter. The sorrority girls of today will become the wrinkled, haggard ladies of tomorrow; the women who, at 40 years old, still wear midriff-bearing halter tops. The 21-year-old princesses who think they can demand the world of any man because they're young and nubile will get married and stop putting out by age thirty-five. The 20-somethings who drink too much and give too much head are not sexy. The vapid women at clubs are not sexy; they're merely scantily clad.

Sexy is a state of mind. Sexy is about confidence. Sexy is about discovering a man's fantasy woman and becoming it. It doesn't matter what you look like. Seriously. It just takes creativity, spontenaity, and the willingness to try anything. As I said above, I am not a beautiful woman; I am marginally attractive. I don't have a great body, but I know how to accentuate the good and eliminate the bad. Yet even being of average looks and body type, I've had beautiful men eating out of the palm of my hand.

Why? Because, once again (say it with me): Sexy is a state of mind.

The beautiful, olive-complected Italian Catholic boy who'd gone to a Catholic high school? I merely pranced into class wearing a plaid skirt, white thigh highs, black Mary Janes, and a tight, low cut sweater. He ended up dropping by later that night because he was "in the area."

The somewhat older BMW-driving yuppie financial advisor? I gave him a call after work telling him I'd help him with some secretarial/administrative matters. I dropped by, purportedly coming straight from work, wearing a suit, hair in a bun, three inch heels, black framed glasses on. I wore nothing else but stockings and garters. The dictation didn't last long.

And the traditionalist? For those folks, nothing works better than throwing on a corset, stockings (fishnet or otherwise), and ridiculously high heels (I own both four and six inch) or boots. Add a trench coat, drive over, and you're good to go.

My point? From what I've discovered (both from personal experience and from talking to my male friend), class is superior to cheap clothing and drunkeness. Stockings and heels are staples. Lowered inhibitions help. And the ability to use language to flirt and persuade and present innuendo -- WITHOUT being cheesy, sleazy, or cheap -- is essential.

So ladies, stop killing yourself trying to get the killer body. Don't beat yourself up because you're not one of the Beautiful People. Just internalize your own sexiness. Believe it and own it, and you'll never fail in getting whomever it is you desire.

I sold my soul on eBay.

Years ago, I sold my soul on eBay. "One virginal soul," I advertised. "Complete with certificate of authenticity." I charged $20 for shipping and handling. It was my soul, after all. I ended up getting more for the shipping than for the soul itself. I used to be very flip about having sold my soul on eBay. I thought it was an entertaining anecdote. I would tell people I had neither soul nor spirit, and would then launch into the story. It was some of my best material and got some decent laughs from the critics and cynics of the world. I'd even throw in a few quips about the problems with "truth in advertising," given that I'd touted my soul as being "virginal."

I was angry. I was bitter. I hated everone and everything. In retrospect, I abhore that I was so callous. Luckily, I came out of it all relatively unscathed. But it was only a little more than a year ago that I thought myself empty. With the help of some introspection and some good friends who were willing to talk to me when I called at 4 am, I've come a long way. But I realize that as far as my spiritual journey is concerned, I still have a long way to go.

The only part that makes me sad is that I've yet to find someone who really gets all this. My social circle is full of lawyers and atheists who don't have the humility to understand that there's more to the world than the spheres of their own experiences.

Creepy stuff.

So I called my mother today to ask for some advice. Her first question? "So who do you have a crush on?"

It's bad enough that my mother is technologically literate. But that she reads my blog? That's just creepy.

On sleeping with Republicans.

It began on a warm sunny afternoon in late November, 2005. Wait. Let me back up just a bit. It began on a hot, relatively muggy afternoon in early September, 2005. I at the beginning of my final year of law school and was ecstatic that I’d made it off the waiting list and into the criminal trial clinic. I sat in the over-air-conditioned room and chatted with Steph, a girl I’d met during orientation two years prior. As we chatted, in walked the cutest, dreamiest law school boy ever. (Remember that most law school boys are decidedly unattractive. Thus, to be the “cutest, dreamiest law school boy ever” isn’t saying a whole lot. Though even on a normal-non-law-school scale, this boy was pretty cute.)

For narrative purposes, and to protect his privacy, I will call the boy “Charlie.” Charlie sauntered into the room and struck up a conversation with Steph. I decided at that moment that Charlie would be mine. Sadly, a week later I found out that Charlie was engaged to his high school sweetheart. Even worse, Charlie was a Republican. My morals took over, and I cast aside the dream of even attempting to seduce Charlie, his boyish good looks aside.

But in mid November, Charlie began emailing me frequently. Though friendly at first, the discussions quickly turned to talk Catholic-school-girl fantasies and other sundry improper topics. Quickly realizing that Charlie had led a very sheltered life (his girlfriend didn’t like him to (1) go out; or (2) have any friends), I decided to make him my project. We began going out, spending time together, and I showed him what it was like to have fun.

In late November and early December, we both began preparing for our mock trials – our final exam for the clinic. He was the prosecutor in his trial and I played the part of his star witness. I was the defense attorney in my mock trial and he played the part of my defendant. For the three weeks spent preparing for our trials, we spent hours together each day. On the evening of November 28, 2005, I made the mistake of kissing him.

That mistake would have been bad enough on its own. But of course it didn’t stop there. I had to bring him the Penthouse Boutique. By the first week of December, we were sleeping together. Not one of my better moments.

By the first week in January, I had put an end to the affair. Even though I’d been the seductress, I’d lost respect for him. Even though I was also at fault, I couldn’t deal with someone who was being so dishonest with the woman he was to marry in less than a year’s time.

By the end of January, Charlie began falling behind in his clinic work. His office visits were becoming sporadic. He was missing more classes than he should have been. He was looking tired all the time, which was to be expected: in addition to school, he was working a 30 hour week and commuting almost every day between Hartford and Bridgeport. It was February in Connecticut. I wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t looking well.

By the second week of February, Charlie was still looking rather peaked. So I asked him what was wrong. And it was then he dropped the bomb: “I think I have AIDS,” he told me. But why would he think that?

He explained: “At first I thought I had herpes. So I went to a free clinic.”

What did they tell him? Well…

“They told me I didn’t have herpes. But I didn’t believe them, so they gave me Valtrex, which I took. Now I have a flu that I can’t seem to shake. And WebMD says that flu-like symptoms are common in the early stages of AIDS.”

I tried convincing him that he was crazy. It was February. In Connecticut. He was in school full time. He was working too much. His body had been busy fighting a virus he didn’t have (herpes). And while he recognized that he was crazy, he could not be dissuaded regarding his having a fatal disease. So I urged him to get tested. Which he did.

The results? Negative.

You’d that that would be the end. But not. “The incubation period is six months. It wouldn’t show up this early.” I tried to tell him that with his symptoms, he seemed to have skipped HIV and gone straight to AIDS. I tried to tell him his symptoms (or lack thereof) were wholly psychosomatic. I even became enraged, telling him that I didn’t appreciate his perception of me as a diseased slut. He would not be convinced.

Thus, at his urging, I got myself tested, not just for HIV, but for the entire range of STDs.

For an entire two weeks, he bothered me every day. Why weren’t the result back? When would the results come back? I finally got them.

The results? Negative.

Did that end it? Nope. From February until April, he went through the entire list of sexually transmitted diseases he may have. He told his mother the entire story. He visited his regular doctor. When nothing panned out there, he went to a urologist. His guilt about cheating on his fiancé was taking a huge toll on him: he was going insane.

I haven’t heard from him since the beginning of May. He passed the Connecticut bar, and I’m told he got married to the dumb girl. So tragic. And with that experience came a very important lesson: No matter how cute they are, never sleep with a Republican.

I have a secret.

I have a serious crush on someone. To be honest, I've had a crush on this person for a very long time. There's nothing I can do about it except enjoy the giddy, school girl-ish feeling I get when I think about him.

Sometimes unrequited lust is the best kind.

When is a kiss just a kiss?

I have been known to say that when it comes to monogamous relationships, "cheating" is defined by the person who is being cheated upon. For some, it may be as little as a conversation or mild flirtation with another person. For others, anything short of full out vaginal intercourse is not considered cheating. The interpretations run the gamut. In my own life, I find it best to discuss with my current romantic partner two things: (1) The expectation of sexual mongamy; and (2) his definition or interpretation of "cheating." It is often not a pleasant conversation to have.

Sometimes people do cheat, in whatever way the word is defined. And so we must rationalize our actions.

"I was drunk."

"It didn't mean anything."

"Only once. Never again."

With all these definitions and interpretations of infidelity, and the mechanics and difficulties inherent in romantic and sexual relationships, one quesiton remains: Can a kiss ever really be just a kiss?

How is love like the circus?

A friend of mine recently got screwed over by his girlfriend. This is par for the course not for this particular friend, but in general. All the time, people are getting their hearts broken. At best, we get hurt and get over it. At worst, we become numb and forget what it is to feel. The solution? There really is not a good one. But thinking about this did remind me of something I wrote over a year ago when I was in a contemplative mood and caught up in my own ongoing relationship drama:

September 24, 2005 – 1.40 p.m.

I realized something last night. It never stops. Love. Once you love someone, you don’t fall out of love. It’s always there, and it’s a part of you. So instead of trying desperately to fall out of love and to stop caring, it’s far simpler just to let that love go. Release it rather than fight against it. And remember how good it felt when it was a part of you, and not just something that exists in a buried cavern inside yourself. Those people that I have loved – that love isn’t gone. It’s just faded, and I remember it as I’d remember a trip to the circus when I was five years old. A memory, dull, washed out, yet still alive.

The world of Internet dating can be a mighty dangerous place...

Alright. I admit it. I have a profile on OkCupid. Why? I'm not sure. In large part because it helped pass the time when I was working at a job that didn't have enough work for me to do. Now I enjoy logging on occasionally to take their assinine quizzes. Which is exactly what I was doing tonight when I got an OkCupid Instant Message. And what with my morbid curiosity to see what happens next, I responded. I have included the conversation below. I've left his screen name the same, but have changed mine for narrative purposes:

hott7inces: ur 3rd pic is super hott!

Me: Does that screen name work for you?

hott7inces: it may

Me: I don't believe you.

hott7inces: i dont know u why lie?

Me: I don't think women want to hop into bed with you because of your self-proclaimed "hot seven inches."

hott7inces: ok
hott7inces: lol

Me: In fact, I'd be willing to bet that most women are more disgusted by the shameless self promotion than anything else.

hott7inces: dont bet then hehe

Me: Can I ask you something?

hott7inces: sure

Me: What is it in my profile made you think I was a vapid idiot who would actually want an "nsa affair" with someone like you?

hott7inces: never know till uask u may be suprised
hott7inces: never judge a book by its cover hehe

Me: See, I thought I came across as a reasonably intelligent individual. You, however, seem like a common horny man with no manners. And I'm far from prude. But spare me the idiocy in thefuture.
Me: And learn how to fucking spell.
Me: Goodnight

hott7inces: ever hear of e shorthand

Me: are you actually really still talking to me?

hott7inces: gnite

High school.

A letter I am sending to the community newspaper where I went to high school:

To the Editor:

High school is hell. Or at least it was for me. Yet I’m left to wonder whether it was as bad for everyone else as well: the sixteen valedictorians in my graduating class, the athletes, the National Merit Scholars. For the kids who gained recognition through sports or scholarship – was high school hell for them too?

I graduated from Bexley High School in 1997. Several months into my first year of college, I wrote a scathing letter to the editor of several community papers in which I lambasted the school system. The thrust of my argument was that although the school district purported to be one of the best in Central Ohio, it rested on its laurels; the students in Bexley would excel no matter where they were placed, not because of the schools, but because of family support and encouragement. I also commented that students like me – smart, but not at the top of my class and not an athlete – slipped through the cracks. The more energetic and competent teachers were assigned to the honors and AP classes, while the students who needed more help learning were left behind.

Several readers responded, including one well intentioned gentleman who suggested I get into the “real word” and do some volunteering before I assessed the downfalls of the school district. My perspective would change with age, he assured me; I was just a tiny fish in the metaphoric ocean of life and feeling a little unsure of myself. Nearly ten years later, this is my response:

I graduated from college, worked for a few years, and then went to law school where I graduated near the top of my class. I am now a criminal defense attorney. Though I am still young, I’ve been in the so-called real world. In fact, working in the criminal justice system has exposed me to a world far more real than many have seen. But my opinions have not changed. If anything, my experiences have solidified the way I feel about my time in the Bexley school system.

A few years after graduating from Bexley, a friend from high school told me that the honors students had the “better” teachers because the honors students “deserved” them. I felt this sentiment throughout my time in Bexley. A feeling of entitlement, as if students who lacked a certain intellectual acuity were undeserving of attention or encouragement.

While smart, I wasn’t smart enough for anyone to care. But for the consideration of two or three teachers, I went through my seven years in Bexley unnoticed. I was not the only one. In the years since I’ve left Bexley, I have spoken with other people who have shared my thoughts: Those of us who did not “deserve” help and attention did not get it. The administration and teachers did not know how to compartmentalize those of us who did not excel in either sports or academics.

I have succeeded not because of my educational foundation in Bexley, but in spite of it. I was lucky enough to receive support from my family, if not from my school. Nonetheless, I do credit the Bexley school system with teaching me other important life lessons. My time in Bexley taught me what it is to feel like an outsider. My time in Bexley taught me to what it is to feel like the system does not care. My time in Bexley taught me how to empathize. And my time in Bexley played a large role in my decision to become a public defender instead of a highly paid private sector lawyer. Though I would not deign to understand what my clients go through, I do have an inkling of understanding about what it is to feel like no one cares. Though this has helped me in my own life, these are not the lessons a suburban middle-class high school should be teaching by accident.

I only hope that my words today are more eloquent and less angry than they were nine years ago. Bexley High School is touted as being one of the best schools in Central Ohio. But there is more to teaching and learning than standardized test scores and rankings. I urge those who currently work within the system now to watch for those students out there who need a little extra time and encouragement. High school was hell. Or at least it was for me. A little more sensitivity to those who are slipping through the cracks is all it takes to make it a little less hellish for those who are still stuck there.

My mother the copyeditor.

We all know that my mother writes copy. She edits copy, too. She buys really bad fiction -- you know, the sort of drek that comes from the racks of airport bookstores -- and reads it holding a red pen. She bemoans crappy editors and wonders where all the really good writers went. She implores me to become a novelist and write my own crappy fiction, insisting that my iterations of hardly palatable prose will be better than what's already out there. But since her requests fall upon my deaf ears, she simply continues to edit the poorly written books she reads.

She used to edit my journals/diaries.

I know this. I know this because I know she used to read them. How? I asked her. Several months ago I accused her of having read the journals I kept in high school. She admitted the atrocity, and claimed that as a mother, it was her responsibility to make sure I was safe. If that meant reading my journals, so be it. I wasn't particularly upset because (1) it was over a decade ago; and (2) my life in high school was anything but interesting. Which is what I told her:

"Mom, I said. "My life is high school was anything but interesting. I wasn't really doing anything."

"I know," she responded. "That's why I stopped reading."

Now, with comic timing being what it is, I know that I should have stopped at that last sentence. "That's why I stopped reading" is a good punchline. Why go on and ruin it? Well, the answer is that I just can't help myself. I'm still in journal-transcription mode, and every now and then I see an odd mark. A quiggly delete mark. An S-shaped, "you inverted your letters, dumbass!" mark. Did I really self-edit my journals after I wrote them? I ponder the situation. And then it hits me.

Like me, my mother couldn't help herself, either. She read my journals, pen in hand, and though I'm sure she tried to stop herself, she edited as she went along.

Musings of a fifteen year old...

Indeed, I am back. Now that I have nothing to do until September 1 (don't ask), I've gone back to transcribing all the handwritten journals I kept when I was younger. Every now and then, if I see something that makes me titter, I will post it for you, my readers:

October 15, 1994

I’m at Molly’s right now. Things have been really weird lately. I don’t know. Maybe it’s teen angst. Or maybe my feelings have been swinging so much because I’m pregnant, but then that would have to be Immaculate Conception, as I’ve never had sex.

Losing.

Back in early March I was going through the end of a quasi-breakup. I only call it a quasi-breakup because the person who I was breaking up with was never more than a quasi-boyfriend. At the time, I was wallowing in self pity, convinced that things hadn't worked out because something about me made me inherently unloveable. And I found this poem that made me thing of him. (Bear in mind that I've never been a lover of poetry. I rarely ever "got" it, and I found most of it incredily trite.)

One Art

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

More than being a quasi-boyfriend, the person who I write of was my best friend. And I felt I'd lost him. Not only lost him, but lost the game. After a year, my shining wonderfulness hadn't won him over.

It's been almost a year-and-a-half since the Quasi-Boyfriend Debacle began. Lots of things have happened. I moved on. I graduated from school. I started seeing someone new. (Though not in that order.) I hung out with quasi-ex-boyfriend this evening for the first time in a month. And though I hate to admit it, I didn't realize until now just how much I missed him.

This cannot be a good thing.

Saluti Cahn.

Coming soon.

Update: For more information, see this.

Operation Big Boy.

I was recently told that my absence is the blogging world has been noticed. Suffice it to say, the world will begin to spin wildly off its axis if I don't get off my ass and write something for my readers. So here goes.

For those who don't know, I argued at a federal sentencing hearing back in February. The ins and outs of the legal stuff are wholly inconsequential. But in the end, our client got sentenced to thirty-three months at a medical facility in Kentucky. So. About a month ago, I get this email from my supervising attorney. For narrative purposes, I will call this individual Hobart. So Hobart emails me and wants me to come up with a proposal for how to get Big Boy (not his real name), the client, to Kentucky.

At this point, I'm sure many of you have stopped reading and are thinking to yourselves, "Get him to Kentucky? Isn't that the job of the Department of Corrections?" If you had this thought, I applaud you. Yes, it is DOC's job to get Big Boy to Kentucky. But right after the hearing, a marshall approached Hobart and said, "You know, Hobart. We really don't have the resources to get Big Boy out to Kentucky. Perhaps you should consider alternate meas of transportation."

At this point I could stop for a moment to write a small rant on how DOC sucks. But I have work to do, so I'll skip over that. However, feel free to submit your own. In fact, best rant regarding DOC wins. What do you win? Hmmm. That's negotiable. Submit your rant for review, and along with it, submit a proposal on what you'd like to win. There you have it. Now back to the story...

Alternate means of transportation. But why? Well, as it turns out, Big Boy isn't called Big Boy without reason. Big Boy weighs 467 pounds. Big Boy's IQ also places him within the borderline range of intellectual functioning. It should be no surprise to you that Big Boy cannot read. So after throwing email back and forth (and after being inappropriately chastised by Hobart), I got approval to drive Big Boy to Kentucky in my car. So on April 12 at 5.30 pm, my driving companion and I picked up Big Boy and made the long trek to Kentucky.

I really wish I had something interesting to say about the trip, but it was fairly uneventful. We did hit an electrical storm of some sort on the way out (in West Virginia, I think), accompanied by torrential downpours. That was not fun. But we made it. We dropped Big Boy off before 9 am on the 13th, stopped for breakfast at a local Waffle House, and then drove right back to Connecticut. My driving companion drove about two-thirds of the way there and back. So I just mostly sang songs and told bad jokes. Somewhere in Pennsylvania (on the way back) I noticed a billboard. "Jesus will come back as lightning." Holy shit. Jesus lives in West Virginia. Who knew?

Right, so this story really wasn't so exciting. My apologies. But wait, there's more. Now for some excitement.

Kentucky trivia, courtesy of my friend Trivia Boy (also not his real name. I'm sorry, ok? I couldn't come up with a better name. I'm tired.)

Kentucky is the 15th state.

Kentucky is known as the Bluegrass State.

Bluegrass is not really blue. It's green. But in the spring, it produces bluish-purple buds that when see in large gields, give a rich blue cast to the grass. Early pioneers found bluegrass growing on Kentucky's rich limestone soil, and traders began asking for the seed of the "blue grass from Kentucky."

"Poop" is a palendrome.

Then again, so is "A man, a plan, a canal: Panama." Of course, without the punctuation. But I just couldn't help myself.

So. It appears that there is this ongoing battle between good and evil. Wait. Let me be more precise. There is an ongoing battle between crazy bitches and assholes. It appears that according to men, all women are insane; and according to women, all men are complete jerks. What I find interesting is that men would never even deign to understand women -- this is something they openly admit. But women? They actually purport to understand men.

Well, it's time for the truth to come out.

I don't get men.

Wait. Let me rephrase that. I don't understand men. Actually getting men is very easy to do if you're willing to let them ejaculate in your vaginal canal. But I digress.

The point here? It's not the "poop" is a palendrome, or that women are crazy (which I admit -- they drive us to it). The point is that I don't think think I'll ever understand men. At all. Feel free to shed some light on this. And if you need clarification, lemme know.

PS - I just felt like writing in color tonight.

I am an alien!

I've been trascribing seven years of old journals. You know, getting them on the computer just in case anything should happen to the books. This is my favorite entry so far:

April 18, 1994

Dear Diary,

It’s time I told the truth. It’s time I came clean. I’m really a space alien. I only pretend to be human. In reality, I am a loathsome, tentacled, squid-like creature. One look at my face would kill anyone with eyeballs. I’m that ugly. I also eat my boogers.