Trials of Chastity

[Yonphi]

So, ok, there's an infamous question guys get asked. Er, not me: normal guys. And even then I'm not sure. I really have to wonder if it's asked for pure inquisitive reasons or if it's just a rhetorical question.

"Boxers or briefs?"

Like anyone's been dying to know. Blaaah.
I'd really like to know what sort of things this is supposed to answer, if, in fact, it is a real question worth asking. I presume the correct answer to this is boxers. Now, I'm no expert in attractiveness, but my guess would be that boxers are manly and exciting. They have patterns for interesting things to catch your contrast, titled with neato sayings and witty retorts or with icons, or come plain white (for boring folk, perfectly matching a Wife-Beater(tm) brand sleeveless undershirt), they can be silken, and can come off in a snap.
On the contrary, briefs are boyish and funny. They have either solid colors (boring), just white (even more boring), or patterned with cartoon characters (exciting, but not in a good way when you're showing them to a prospective female friend), or small bikini-style for euro-stylin' folks. They come in cotton and... cotton, and they can come off _with_ a snap.

So what's my answer? White briefs, of course. What else would a nerdy virgin wear? I may consider boxers if I could get one with Maxwell's equations on them.

Er, ah, no.

Sorry, but, boxers are no good for me. I wore a pair one day, when I didn't have anything to do... just around the house. And I tell you, false alarm city. I could even walk not only without creating a wood situation, but, once tent has been pitched, no way to hide it. While I can see how this would be an advantage... no, wait, there's no advantage to that! Like someone who wouldn't even consider me would say, "Hey, here comes that _______, he's such a dor-- oh, wait, what's that? OOoh, well, that changes everything. Hey there, stud muffin!" Besides, there's something to be said about not disclosing what you know until the right time arrives.
Briefs, on the otherhand, are a stealthists' dream. Nobody knows anything, unless they care to find out with a touch, or, in my case, as an assumed result of a female asking me to come back to her room to help her with some sort of itch. Very handy, they are, from preventing incidental rubbing and therefore incidental erections. It sure made things easy when I took Speech my college freshman year. A big plus is just holding EVERYTHING in place. I need not worry the problem of sitting on my nuts accidentally on a hot day.

Of course, there's always the option of no underwear. Hold that thought.

Now, with women, I can't talk from experience but I have some ideas that may hold water.

Growing up, Victoria's Secret was the place I walked by really fast. I'm not sure why, but I think a lot of guys get a little uncomfortable around there. No, see, I mean, I'm REALLY not sure why. Logically, I can see how nothing bad can result from such a store. At the very least some perfect strangers would think I'm a pervert (like that changes anything at all: not like I'd have a shot at any of the females at any given time, and, if I did, they wouldn't care), and at the very best, someone might need help in determining the best color silken bras. OH TEH HORROR!!11

If there's one television show I absolutely cannot miss, and I have several of them, it's The Man Show on Comedy Central. They've got a lot of humor in there. There was one recent episode where they had one of their poster girls in a bikini shop, asking guys if they liked how it looks on them and let them watch her in different outfits, hang out in the changing booth, etc. Then, the punchline is when she would ask them to buy it for her. And, yeppers, they did. I'd like to think I'm a little stronger-willed than that, but, again, the difference between the hypothetical and the real rears its ugly head.
Then again, they wouldn't air the ones that weren't funny that way.
And there was one guy who they caught on camera sniffing the bottoms of the bunny's outfits every chance he got. It was really amusing.

And you know, some girls sell their used panties on ebay. Which makes me wonder... how does it smell? Chalk this up to the pentathalon of sex for me: see, hear, touch, taste, smell. No, no matter how tempting I probably won't get one, since the last thing I need is for people walking their dogs to stop by the front of my apartment sniffing around my mail. Might summon the DEA or something.

So there's something strange and unusual about women's underwear and I just don't get it.

But there's one thing I half get: the thong. Made popular...erm, somehow. "Back in my day, those were called G-strings." I mean, it's simple enough, but I have to think that, hadn't panties been designed with a flailing back for a reason? Maybe, and maybe that reasons (whatever it was) is now obsolete thanks to technology. One thing, though, they're a neato combination with low slung jeans/shorts that's so popular with young ladies these days. Which answers a concern I had: what good is exotic underwear unless you're planning to strip down in front of someone? Now if your sitting or bending over with too-low pants you can show the world you're bold by wearing a thong without all that hassle of showing your ass all over the place.

Of course, there's a third alternative. No underwear at all. While modern technologies like, ahm, soap, make it possible to pull off without risking life and rather important limb, it still sounds risky. Underwear seems to be an added layer of separation between the outside world as insurance. If your $80 designer jeans split thanks to poor seaming (what more do you expect from starving third-world children working 23 hours a day for just half a cent?), what insurance do you have that you won't be shooing the breeze all day? What if it rains? All of a sudden that tight white T-shirt becomes a portal into another world.

Then again, I'm sure it makes sex at a drop of a hat easy... no underwear to misplace, which makes one less thing that could potentially be stolen by a wandering animal. I wonder if it's ever been a problem? "Oooh, wanna do it on the rooftop? You have twenty seconds to decide..." "Aw, shucks, I would, but it takes me that long to take off my underwear..."

Since I'm on a roll of embarassing things I've tried, yeah, I've tried sleeping naked. But aside from being a whole other topic, it made me very paranoid. If there's a fire, one of the last things I want to worry about is what am I going to wear.

Well, not to discourage any ladies from having one less layer of clothing separating them from myself, that is.

[Yonphi]

Whenever possible, I went to summer school. What was I going to do? Or, rather, what was my parents supposed to do? Shell out some cash to dump me off in a summer camp, where, if movies are any clue, young teenage campers often find themselves sexually, through various awkward and amusingly scripted events?

So, ok. my first summer school session (and last in this area) was a big surprise. Six hours of classes five days a week for six weeks. But they couldn't start it at a reasonable time, nooooo... it had to be the same lousy time as throughout the school year. Like 7:30am. Feh, I don't even wake up at 7:30 am unless you're willing to pay me at least double minimum wage.

So I had to take a bus, since not every school conducted summer school, which I found rather strange, except when you consider that each school costs X to open, and there aren't enough students to open all schools cost-effectively. So fine. If I'm just six dollars a day to these people, then I'll just have to make sure I become successful enough to buy and sell the school administrators later.

And my ass was out on the street at 5:30 am, waiting for a damned bus. And there I waited. I swear, these guys are like the cable company. Practically "we'll be there between 10 and 2." One day the bus could get there at 5:30, the next it would be 5:50, and you know if I wasn't there when it was it just sped on by. There was at least one day where I was literally walking towards the spot when the bus whizzed by me, and I heard the other bus occupants screaming at the bus driver that I was there from outside the open windows. And of course, in the end, it's like I missed six classes in a row.

Now, what would this post be if it didn't relate to a first this, a first that, or a whistful cry for help? (or not.)

One morning I walked out to the stop and, much like my first porn encounter, found something on the floor. What can I say? Maybe I look at the ground too much. Maybe that's why I look at the ground too much even today.

I saw a box of condoms. It wasn't well hidden, though. Out in the open, as if thrown from a passing car. No, there were no gross used condoms in there, but, to be perfectly honest, I didn't even consider it to be a possibility. There were about six left, all individually wrapped.

The expiration date was, like, August 1997. This was found back in 1994.

"Holy shit! This'll save me a bit of trouble! I'm sure to use some by then!"

And you know how that wound up.

Now, I may have mislead you. This wasn't the first time I saw a condom. But it was the first time I was in possession of at least one. My first encounter was in an outdoor mall. I was really hungry and we were jumping from stupid store to stupid store. I saw a basket of walnuts and asked my mom to buy it for me. She said no and promised to take me to eat "soon." I said nuts to that and went up to the shopkeep asking how much for a walnut "just one 'coz I'm so hungry." He smiled and said it wasn't a walnut. I thought he was completely daffy and expressed this in the meekest way possible for a kid, to which he "cracked" one open and showed me the ribbed condom inside.

My response? "Oh. Nevermind."

But this time I got some on my own. Of course the first thing was put one into my wallet: even though I knew that was the worst place to put it insofar as making sure the latex remains in good condition. But I didn't care, because now I was ready for action.

And that summer I didn't get a cool girlfriend, even though I did have designs on one of my lab partners. And even though that didn't go through, I didn't care, because, that fall, I was still ready for action.

And sometime between then and there, I used that condom to toss a gross water-and-glue-mixture-balloon off a shed. It was lubricated, and left my hands all sticky and I even missed the road-reflector target. But that's ok, because, since I had five left, I was still ready for action.

As the months went by and my fledgeling list slowly grew (and I mean slowly... at this point in my life it wasn't going very quickly at all...), and I got bold and tried one of them on. Honestly, the first one I rolled out seemed far too big and frightened me a bit... but that's before I heard about this joke:

"So what do you think of the serial numbers on condoms?"
"Huh? There are no serial numbers."
"Oh, never unrolled them that far, eh?"

Anyway, I was really surprised how well it fit. And how easy it was figuring out how to get an air-tight seal. I was thinking to myself "And this isn't 100%? What kind of idiots are screwing this up?" I'm still surprised. It's like it's been scientificly designed and shaped... oh wait.

In the end, I felt really really depressed by the time August rolled around of 1997. But it's ok. Because I got some more, and they expired, too. But then I got some MORE. And, now, I'm ready for action.

Too bad Mar 2003 is just around the corner.

[Yonphi]

They say there's three primary attributes which sells real estate. Location, location, and location. There's one more attribute, really, and that's location.

It stands to be asked, where are you that you can't get laid? Can't get a date? Either I've been pummelled with an ugly stick, or I live in a town with, like twenty people in it, with all the females closet lesbians.

'fraid not. I live in Miami, in Florida. A far cry from Armpit of the South, but certainly part of the Dirty South. The land of little grannies who can't read being so upset they can't follow simple directions, land where the old mayor of the city embezzled millions from the budget, leaving the city bankrupt and taken over by the state, home of OJ Simpson and Janet Reno. What an asshole, (oh, and OJ, too) but at least OJ's got a good sense of humor about the whole beheading his wife thing. Feh. The land that screwed up the Democratic primaries: which I'm convinced was a ploy to get them all riled up to turn out in great numbers... which, from my understanding, happened and backfired. At least that little fiasco made it easy to toss in my early vote. Yeah, the constitution and all and it should mean something, but my theory is that it's just a fancy way of doing your absentee ballot: otherwise it would definitely be illegal.

So, where was I? Oh yes, crunchity, peanut-buttery Butterfinger.

So, yeah, Miami. Complete with the Vice City Playset, you get South Beach, Indian Gambling, and 40% of the population that not only doesn't know English, but has no intention to learn it, which pisses me off beyond all words. Forget the fact that if you suggest for a second that they should learn the language that we use in America (when in Rome, do as Romans do), they get all pissed off that anyone dares try to stifle their ethnic pride.

Miami. Where one of my favorite non-Starbucks coffee houses closed down and was replaced with a Cingular Wireless store. 'Coz God-forbid a trendy-trendy can stay off the phone for more than five minutes at a time, instead of, oh, driving.

Miami. Where, as I've discovered, the only two anime shops within 200 miles of me both stock bootlegs (while passing them off for the real thing at 250% markup) almost exclusively.

"Ha ha ha! If you can't get laid there, you're not trying!"

Thanks, TORA. I really hate that phrase. I think, far and away, there's a drastic shortage of cool women out here. A lot of snobs, a lot of the Beautiful People that Marilyn Manson sings about, a lot of trendy-trendies that go club hopping trying to meet a hottie-hottie and fool around in the back of one of their SUVs (bears mentioning that NOBODY car pools here. NOBODY) and do everything except intercourse, because she's not a slut.

Behold normal people, as I see them. Poking around on this board, lurking here and there, I've learned that none of y'all are normal. And that's fucking fantastic.

Think I'm being too hard? I beg to differ: I work with lots of normal people.

"Trendies" come in all shapes and sizes, it would seem. You have to ask yourself:
Which is a better movie? Rush Hour or Swimming With Sharks?
Which makes better music? Brittany Spears or Garbage?
What's a better hang out spot? The mall or a rooftop?
"There's nothing more exhilerating than pointing out the shortcomings of others, is there?" a) Yeah! b) What does Exhilerating mean? c) Quote from Clerks.

Are _you_ a Trendie?

"Ok, ok, sorry about that 'if you can't get laid there' crack. If it sucks so badly, why don't you move?"

Yeah, that's a good idea. Except I'd like to finish school, and, if it's one thing I'm a sucker for it's stability. Right now I don't have too many worries other than my unrealized sexual fantasies. Potentially I could end up sacrificing my sure things right now for a glimmer of hope. Nah, I can fake a glimmer of hope on my own thank you very much.

Not to mention it took me about 4 years worth of driving to be passable in navigating around here. I'm a really horrible navigator.

And, I've been living there about 7 years. While I'm not sure of the temperature there right now, I'm pretty sure it's around the 80's, with minimum of cloud cover, yet plenty of humidity making it worse. And then this maximum of heat and heat related issues leads to a minimum of clothing at times, which is either incredibly fabulous, or conductive to making my head explode.

I have yet to determine which.

On even another hand, there are some signs of intelligent life down here. On occasion. The university I go to (come on, there really are only three choices: can't expect me to spell it all out for you.) is a nice hopeful place. I was able to make eye contact with a seemingly strange girl who was holding up a 3x5 index card with a word written in green (didn't catch what it was, it was THAT powerful), but, my punk self was talking about school work with a teammate and we were to be late to class.

I didn't realize what exactly I could have capitalized on until I was already in the building. Chalk one up to sheer stupidity... last time I tried to find her I spent maybe an hour getting sweaty brisk marching around campus. When I die at the end of the match, Super Smash Brothers would have issued me a "Sheild Stupidity" award.

So I go back tonight. Somehow I think I wasted my time up here since I could have potentially tried to practice my craft. But, ce la vie. Perhaps, upon graduation, I get swept up into a west coast job.

If anyone knows where all the really cool girls are, please point me there. "Trendies" may not want a nerd like me (my evidence suggests that is the case, since apparantly that's all I find out here), but the "Coolies" might.

[Yonphi]

It's clear that the clothes make the man, or, that's what the clothing companies want you to think. There are people's livelihoods on the line, and they certainly won't let you believe you can get away with low-markup 100% cotton clothings to cover thine shameful body.

Getting back home I felt a need to get some new clothes. I've been wearing the same things for, like, a really long time. I'm really a jeans and T-shirt kind of guy. Really. But there are alternatives.

As I mentioned before, formal wear is supposed to be really good. Putting on clothes is really a hassle for me, and multiple layer upon layer upon layer is a triple hassle. While I didn't go to prom night (wow, what a surprise, I know), I have to wonder if bring around a bunch of girls when I look my best would have gotten me laid in a cliche' teens' sex life turning point. (Then again, I would have had to have gone with a date or girlfriend or someone... wrestling a female from the arms of her mate is something I don't think I'd like to do (or even can do)).

It seems a shame that, during a large portion of one's adolescence, you as a person are defined by the clothes one wears. Shame, because, who makes their clothes? Perhaps those that I respect: I may be good with my hands (and fingers, in some twisted attempt at basic, untested flirtation. Poor, yes, I know. I'll never say anything like that again), but tailoring, like optics, is akin to black magic.

But who cares about what I think about clothing in general, y'all just want to hear how it relates to my misguided opinions on sex, am I right?

Aparantly I missed that half a week of cold we get around here. But that's ok, because that means I didn't miss anything. What I'm talking about is my fellow students.

One thing I'm going to miss when I graduate is that. I'll spare you the awful pun of "The Student Body," since, you've heard it before and under a wittier pretence.

Now, I had briefly mentioned that such things could make my head explode. But currently has not, which is rather lucky for me. The thing is, yes, I've expressed concern over objectifying women. But it's hard to put blame on myself when some just let it all hang out. Does that give me a right to, well, anything? Probably not, but I'm certainly allowed to look: a privilage I'd certainly be willing to give up should it be for a good reason (as in, a girl to look at all I want to call my own, or, rather, to allow her to call me all her own's).

Thing is, I'm terrible at describing clothing (I'm terrible at a lot of things, actually). So I'll try. Imagine a tube top, but with strands at the top... not thin strands, they look like a continuation of the material which makes up the top. Now, just what _is_ it about girls who wear this and their penchant for bending over? Not that I'm complaining, but, stop it already, if I'm walking around campus I've probably got something on my mind and I certainly do not need to be distracted by someone who, truth be told, probably won't give me the time of day. Trust me, I've tried. (the watch I wear must be a dead giveaway. :] )
So, engage the experiment. About three weeks ago, I had time to kill and was just walking around. Enter a lovely black woman donning said equipment. And I caught her bending over for no apparant reason: she was wearing flip-flops.

And I followed her. For about 10 minutes. Purely scientific reasons: I had to know what the hell was going on.

So many semesters at this school talking few classes at a time (I was double-majoring, but opted for a single minor, which is why I graduate this semester instead of another year or so) has its advantages. One is you learn all the tricks and traps of the place. I carefully watched, walked to places with good visibility, under a variety of conditions (well, ok, just one condition really).

She bent over no less than five times. I had my doubts, but I decided I should talk to her. To find out why she was doing that was the main driving force, but, I would have liked a date.

I'm usually very very cautious and suspicious about really good looking women. They aren't unapproachable: when you're rejected by all regardless of looks it's difficult to reason that one group is more likely to reject than another.

No, my suspicions are that they are more likely to consider looks a high priority. I theorize a good looking woman in conventional in-person encounters is unlikely to be not considered by men, especially those who are superficial. Therefore her "potential pool" is quite large, and overly weighted towards those whose first priority is physical looks. It follows, then, that she herself can be picky and select the optimal man. When presented with a group (remember, kids, the woman ultimately chooses the man), it's only natural that she selects the optimal choice. In this case, it's easy to see how her selection may already be heavily weighted to a superficial person: especially if she is herself. (they'll have plenty in common).

But, then again, it's only a theory. A simple disclaimer used to save my butt from any attractive women who are hunting me like the crocidile to be tagged by Steve. Yep, all of them.

... yeah, because there's a lot.

*sigh*

Aside from the twisted fantasies I paint for my own sanity, back to the subject. Even though I lack a proper control, I press onwards for the sake of science.

She walked into a pathway which I knew had a blind corner in it. I approached and figured by the time I got there she would leave the air conditioned building's hallway. I nearly ran into an opening door, which is precisely to plan. I was really proud of how well orchistrated it was, but I couldn't be too happy since I was on the spot.

"Whoa there, you almost hit me."
"Oh. Sorry."
"Are you in a rush?"
"No."
It bares to be said that she at no point stopped walking.
"Oh."
At this point I pussed out. She seemed like she couldn't be bothered with the hassle of talking to me. I guess that means she hasn't got Jungle Fever.

Since I didn't follow through, I didn't give her a number. Mission aborted, as it were. I didn't even ask why she was bending over, although I should have.

While this entry turned into something I wasn't planning it to turn into, I will say this. If she was doing it to attact men, it would seem that I didn't fit the archtype that she expected.

Whoops, my bad.

[Yonphi]

This topic is really one that I've been sitting on for quite a while. I've got a list of (now) about 16 topics ready to go that I'm "meaning to get to."

"Does that mean you're only going to post 16 more times before it's over?"

Oh, no way... you ask almost as if you wish it was the case. :] This is just evidence that, yes, there's a method to my madness, and I do spend a bit of time arranging things to delicate perfection.

...

Yes, it's a very loose use of the word "perfection."

Legend has it that there are girls out there who like boys, without said boys from making any moves towards said girls. Really, a truely astounding revelation!
Joking aside, I've always seen it as the male makes the first move, and the woman approves it or disapproves it. Much like aquisitions: you ask, and you either get or you don't.
But, irritatingly enough, there's another way to look at it. Like just about everything.

What makes a man approach a woman? Certainly a woman has to do _something_, yes? Women, after all, can be "Thirds," yes? Maybe it's a little obvious giggle for cuteness, a look of being lost (real or fake), a glance, a "come hither stare." Oh, gawd, can't believe I actually quoted Frank Sinantra. Something, clearly, is wrong with me.

So it can't be completely out of the ordinary for a woman to intentionally direct her barbs in specific directions, as a "Get over here!" Ah, quoting Mortal Kombat. Much better.

I've heard that women decide within the first twenty seconds whether or not they'll have sex with a specific man they meet. I take it with a grain of salt. Partly because it sounds a lot like that so-called statistic that men think about sex every 7 seconds. Feh, if you told me not to think of a white bear I'm pretty sure I'll think about a white bear every 7 seconds at least. But note I only said "Partly".

It would totally suck if it were true! If I had proof it's true I'd probably up and quit right now: I can't do a damn thing in 20 seconds to swing opinions from a thumbs down to a thumbs up.

One of those topics they have in just about every shroggy sitcom is a Sadie Hawkins dance. Aw, how cute! Twenty-something actors pretending to be fifteen year olds pretending to be anxious if the lead winds up with the opposite lead. As if nobody knows. One angle those sitcoms usually don't play up is the anxiety that comes with the role reversal. Like a "Take that, female of the species! Harder than it looks, isn't it?" But, it's not the writers' fault. They probably can't play that up the same way that politicians, when faced with a opponent who is a minority, cannot be made the target of negative ads because it will make the first candidate look like a racist. And nobody wants to label Disney/ABC's TGIF lineup as sexist, do they? (do they even still have that TGIF?)

"Don't be so cynical, you know if you were approached by a little firecracker and she said 'hey, wanna see the inside of my van?' you'd be all up in there."

Perhaps. Does that make me weak? Perhaps. Is this example completely exaggerated? Definitely. Last thing I need at any given time is to be cloroformed and sold on the black market as a real life lockpicker. (not true, actually... I'm a lock picker in training... one of my current projects.)

But I would totally respect a women who approached me. I think it'd be fun to feel the other end of that, especially since it can't be worse than my typical short end of the stick. Maybe she wants to use me, exploit me, or even tie me to a bed and steal my wallet.

And I wouldn't hestitate to walk barefoot through hell to let her.

Not to say I'd like such terrible things to happen, but desparation clouds the mind.

A bit ago I found a little net article (sorry, no linkage, it's a little old) about some thai women going around towns inviting men to suck on their breasts. When the men did (note I said "when" and not "if"), they would be taking in knockout drugs painted on their boobs. Once out cold, they would then rob him. And once those tourists finally finished calling their banks and hotels to get things straightened out, I'm sure they layed in bed that night thinking: "Wow, that was pretty cool of them to be so forward. I should have known better."

But, perversion aside, I think it'd be mega-cool to get invited out for a cup of coffee. I'd give her a chance to small talk, interested in what she had to say. Since she approached me she would have already earned buku points on the cool-o-meter. Something about an assertive woman that makes me happy to think I could finally have a worthy opponent in Magical Drop 3.

I wonder, in her mind, if my approaching and trying to talk it up gains any points. I wish it did, but it's clear I fail to sweep anyone off her feet. Maybe I ought to just carry around a few snares, or hire a midget to crouch behind her and trip her. That'll do it "fer shuah."

Now the rubber meets the road. Do women ever walk up to men and hit on them in real life? I'm asking 'coz, obviously, I don't know: never been hit on. And if I have, I'm sure it was after that initial twenty second gap.

[Yonphi]

Just so that everybody can be on the same page here, take a little trip to www.camwhores.com . No, I'm not hiding any CGIs giving me kickbacks: if you know where that goes and are familiar with it, by all means, don't let me detour your online habit.

In some e-mail discussions with a reader, I've been convinced that virtually all technological advances were in persuit of sex and/or sexual stimulation. That and games. But mostly sex. I always found it amusing looking at old computer adverts when they invented 4-color displays for home use. You know the ones, where the screen always shows a bar graph with all four colors. Feh, you should see some of the CGA computer porn I have. (ok, ok, it was only one file and I think I lost it years ago, but quit splitting hairs)

So one wonderous invention was, as I remember it, CUseeme, or something like that. Video had existed, and was being used for pr0n and pr0n accessories, but now there was a technology enabler that let the common person to broadcast their own little studio. And while CUseeme is dead, it's vision of live porn lives on.

Enter today. Loving parents buy a computer for their college-going daughter, ignoring the fact that there really isn't that much it can do for your school, outside of a word processor and being more convenient than a shelf full of encyclopedia books. That liberal arts degree doesn't need a 1.4GHz+ machine, no matter how you slice it.
Back to the gift giving. In a bonus gift they may give her a webcam, it'd be so cool to be on the phone at the time as seeing her friends, what dad wouldn't think that's a great gift for his daughter?

And then amazon.com comes out with wishlists. Whoops. The intarweb is so big that nobody would recognize her (and if she did, hey, it's ok, these day's there really is no shame in being a naked girl. (was there ever, really? I mean, we're all creatures on spaceship earth, after all.)) if she were to try to get some gifts.

So then some braniac decides to devote a site to girlie web cams. And they are dubbed: camwhores. Now they can get paid regularly to do naughty things in the privacy of their own home.

...

Hmm, this is really very much a non-post. I thought if I'd be disciplined enough to write daily I could just ramble on about anything. My bad.

Maybe I'm more tired from work than I anticipated.

Anyway, the short short version.

Sometimes I see these camwhores having sex on camera with their boyfriends and stuff (and they are, at least, the camwhores that aren't real whores or porn stars or something).
I hold no judgement against camwhores. I think if you can make money making a bunch of honey onlookers happy, more power to you. And I wouldn't feel threatened having sex on web cam, so long as I can at least do it some of the time off camera... you know, not so explicit and bump and grind, but take it slow occasionally, with fun and sensuality in mind. Yeah, that's the ticket.

...

Looks like I can be concise when I really want to after all, eh?

[Yonphi]

If there's ever one thing you'll catch me alluding to over and over, it's Orgy Day at work.

I am, in comparison to others based on what I've been told, a very lucid dreamer. Before I looked into that sort of thing, I always classified my dreams into two categories: those I watch and those I'm in. I thought that's just the way it is, until it became clear to me that lucid dreaming (the dreams you're in) is a special thing that people try really hard to try to get.
One thing I'd like to say is that it's not so great, to be kind to those who are unable to have lucid dreams. But that'd be a lie: most of the time it's really fun. Note I said most. Some of the most vivid nightmares I've had were lucid ones.

But this ain't about my wacky tobaccy dreams (worth stating I've never done marijuana, but only briefly since "who cares"). This post is about Orgy Day, so it only refers to one lucid dream.

I walk into the old office. Much like the Human Instrumentality Project Evangelion hentai that's done its rounds via WinMX, I walk in to find most of my coworkers fucking and sucking and all sorts of not-work-related (to my knowledge) things. Questions as to what exactly was the dealie was responded to with embraces and passionate kisses... thankfully from a subset of coworkers that were all female. And, being a proper lucid dream, I could feel it.
Now here's a question I can't answer: how'd my dream figure out what kissing feels like? And, what it apparantly pulled out of its ass (does that make it my ass?), how does it compare to the real thing? Like I said: answers possibly exist, but I am unable to provide them.

I remember not taking a whole lot of convincing to join in. And it was supposedly pretty fun. At first. I recall that each had a different "feel", but it was all more or less the same. (Again, same question as above. If it's realistic, perhaps that is indicative that to truely enjoy sex it must extend beyond the purely physical.)
Sharing was taking place, but that was ok. Because that day it wasn't so terrible forgetting to clock in.

But after a while it got real boring, at least in the dream it did. I had a little of every woman there, and then thinking "hm... ok, who's the best that I should finish with?" But I recall not wanting to make that decision because I didn't want to hurt anybody's feelings, therefore making them mad at me and perhaps not letting me on rethinking it over.

So it kept going like that, and it seemed like things were pairing off amongst themselves. FMF, FFM, MMF, MF-MF-MF, it was all sort of reducing down to not an orgy, but just a bunch of people having sex amongst themselves that happen to be in the same general vicinity.
Being so concerned with doing the optimal thing (that is, the thing that would hurt the fewest number of people, which would hurt my future-of-that-dream's sex chances) that eventually I lost place. I would up taking my work post anyway, finishing myself off, and trying to keep busy since there clearly is no need for me.

Enter the real life analysis. In real life, I've noticed that large groups above, say, four or five participants, usually end up breaking down into smaller groups. I call it Friend Fission. Even if everyone likes each other in their own way, they'll eventually separate into smaller, more intimate groups. Sometimes it doesn't always work, and there have been times when I fall outside the system and end up being the lonely one surrounded with people.

Sad, really.

But aside from that, I'm wondering what I can take from real life orgies from this. Not much, I have to remind myself, since this, after all, is completely manufactured by my mental playground. But I have to wonder if real life orgies that are allegedly going on reduce down into smaller pairs like that. If that's the case, I guess there is at least some semblance of intimacy. Sort of. Perhaps newly found intimacy with a stranger? (intriguing...) Or are orgies, like the club scene, dictated primarily by looks? (I am making a few assertions there that are perhaps unfair, but, whatever, who's keeping count anyway?)

Hopefully this journal has enough readership that someone does regularly do that sort of thing and I could be educated on that little underworld.

But aside from that, I have no personal objections to orgies. There's a lot of sexual fetishes and stuff that's out there, and, for the most part, I don't make too much effort to keep up with those latest trends. Not to say I'm not interested, but, if I have to pick one rule about my sex life (I don't have to pick only one, but if I did), it would be:

"Try it straight up first, before you start adding a spritz of this or that."

[Yonphi]

Zoowongle, I've been discovered!

In an interesting turn of events, it turns out E1 has routed my safe little solo perch.

E1, a member of the two-fiddy, found me pretty much because of my writing style. It only took fourty something posts. Although that's not really fair since the style has changed dramatically from the cold and calculated first bucket of posts versus the style it is now.

And that's an example of caving. I say something, and then to make it less harsh, I cave. I've already discussed with her a few points.

1) No caving. What I post here is the way things are. I won't sugar coat anything nor casually omit things simply because I don't want to hurt her. I won't do so intentionally, either. That's only fair. Don't worry, E1, I have an excellent recollection of the facts as I'm sure you are aware.

What you just read in that last paragraph is an example of addressing.

2) No addressing. I will not write here as if I'm writing to her, and, while I enjoy the private conversations I have with readers and others, I don't write here directed towards anyone specificly.

Unlike a lot of journal writers here, I aknowledge that I write here partially for me, and partially for the collective you. I want you to understand my confusion, because I certainly can't make heads or tails of it myself. I want you to understand that "just go out there and get laid" is easier for some than others. I want you to understand a cause-and-effect that can be traced to any current mental problems I've allowed to develop.
If I die a virgin, never having given what I give in the course of intimacy, sensuality, and sexuality, then my gift to the world is this.

Enough with the mush-mush.

E1 has written and evidently still knows the type of person I am. She made it very clear she has a "nice" boyfriend. So for those keeping score, please don't start a dead pool about when E1 will throw me a mercy fuck, 'coz it won't happen.

...

Not to say I wouldn't accept one. But the "mercy fuck" topic's been on my list, whooo, since the beginning, like "The Girl Who Slapped Me" and "Rape" and "All About My Penis". Hmmm... this doesn't mean my readership will drop now, does it? Someday I'll pencil those in.

In short, nothing's changed. And I don't anticipate E1 being a way out, or even getting too much use out of her insofar as Trials' is concerned. Aside from a few hereandtheres, it should be just the same conpared to another potential destiny in which she did not e-mail me letting me know she knew who I was.

And so, without further ado:

TRIALS OF CHASTITY VERSION 2.0

If you need to remember pi, just count the letters in each word in the sentence: "May I have a large container of coffee?" If you get the coffee and are polite and say "Thank you," you get two more decimal places. [3.141592653...]

...

Yes, I'm kidding.

[Yonphi]

Ah, a lovely rainy day. It's the dry season until spring, so it makes me happy to get a deluge like this. "I'm only happy when it rains." Or something of the sort.

So, aside from aimlessly wandering the suburbian wastelands, the strip malls, I'm here. Checking sites. Personals sites. On a Saturday night. W00t w00t. I just can't take get-lucky-this-weekend-or-die kind of pressure: it makes my Mondays more miserable than they have to be, you know, reeking of failure and all.

Now, this is nothing new. I've already given the details on F4 quite a while ago when I spoke of the girl who out and out drew the lines: and made it a point that those lines represented the impenetrable walls of Jericho.

But, being a sucker for misery, I figured I check out some again. Aside from free sites no longer free (isn't it always the same?), I reminded myself of something I noticed that I'd forgotten about.

Check out personals.miaminewtimes.com, search for marietadelao, and then come back and tell me what strikes you as odd. I'll wait.

Note in her personal ad that she is 23. Under "The Goods", note the age range she wants for the guy: 23-29. Um... ok, so, a guy six years older is ok, but a guy one year younger is not?

Hence: The Age Difference.

In this society, it's typical, nay, almost required that the man must be older. Why? So he can die first? Actually, it doesn't matter: they do anyway. Men, on average, live to 74. Women: 77. But those numbers might be old.

A woman and a younger man? Pish, posh: "couldn't you get with a real man," they'd say. "Cradle robber," his mom would tell her. "You're too old for this stuff," her father would tell her.

I'm happy to say that I'm not willing to abandon any hopes due to a little chronological mishap. Unhappily, I must admit, it's all for naught. I don't make the rules, so just because I don't care how old she is, doesn't mean she won't.

Now, there are extremes. My mate will have to be at least remotely in touch with the way I think (as impossible as that may be for one to intentionally screw things up). If all the world's wealth were spent on computers, and they would only total as three separate machines in your mind before doing the proper modern adjustments, then you're too old. If you think cables on phones are just for looks, then you're too young. Unfortunalty, these rarely translate into strict numbers.

There's an older crowd running around on this board. Which is great. I've met some really k-rad people who happen to be older than I am. (happy (belated) birthday you-know-you-you-are(name withheld in case it's not meant to be public information)!) And there are a few younger folks that are very interesting too. Adding an e-mail and ICQ to my profile was perhaps a very good thing to do to learn of people perhaps more interesting that I am. Well, that and these journal.

But, yes, once I've made up my mind that (perhaps erroniously) they are not entirely likely to reject me, age is no object.

But, what, really is in an age, but a "guess" at what sort of things they feel? LABELS! STEREOTYPES! LIES! I'd much rather let the merits of her qualities shine through.

I've always run with an older type. I started school early, and all the moving around wrecked havoc on the standard school ages. I have spent the majority of my school like being one year behind the rest. And you know, what? The "little brother" complex is a terrible one to shake off. (then again, no harder to shake off than the "brother" complex period.) So, yeah, perhaps it wasn't that hard to believe that none of the two-fiddy considered me since I couldn't even get my restricted when I met the majority of them. I established myself as a kid, and that will never leave me.

Sometimes I take a quick little look around. Thanks to E/N sites, there's a lot of info just waiting for the pharming. There are a lot of 22-year olds already married. Wow, I havn't even had my first kiss and these people are all ready trying to have a kid? I've got a coworker who is 25 years old, with a 7 year old son.

It should be said I'm not a big fan of kids. A cool girl is a cool girl, but, unfortunately, a cool girl with a child cannot be my mate. I'm just not secure enough in my manhood to be a surrogate father.

But I digress. (All the time, actually, but I'll say it here.) There's a figure that a man reaches his sexual peak at 18. And a woman reaches her sexual peak at 38. Isn't life fair?

Call me crazy, but I'd be cool with that. "The horny sexpot shows the innocent virgin a life of debauchery..." sounds like a foreign porno title.

Of course, it's hard to pull off when you're the younger guy. You really need a special kind of girl who will proudly proclaim "nuts to this" and do whatever the fuck she feels like: and if that includes taking advantage of a guy like me, well, more power to her.

The moral of this story?

...

I like stories.

[Yonphi]

It's time *tunes guitar* to pick up the pace a little. Or slow it down. Whichever is cooler.
Actually I'm sick. I can't talk worth anything. I thought I'd feel well enough to go to work, and I was... and then I felt much much worse when it was over. Lessons learned, definitely. I don't care if it is my 2nd week.

But I thought I'd post "questions I havn't recieved, but thought of answers to."

Q1) So, why make a big deal about any of this?
A) Because it sucks, figuratively speaking. It sucks to look across an ocean of cool potential girlfriends and think that each one probably wouldn't want anything of the sort. While I'm lightening up and think it's ok to have female friends again (what can I say? I'm craving attention of any sort), it's not a good feeling that it doesn't go beyond that.
Think of it as my "SEE?!?" for all the stuff that normal people are able to do comparatively easily like get a date, meet a girl that eventually becomes glad to have met you, and everything else they take for granted.

Q2) Ha ha, I know who you are! You're ______!
A) Actually, I was discovered, but I was expecting a lot of "Aha! You are soandso!" before I'm actually discovered. But no. My response? "I am, nor I'm not. I was, or I will be. You'll never know. But, in case it is me, be nice to him. And if you can, show him a good time, since even if he's not me, I'm sure he'll appreciate the gesture."

Q3) Ok, how is it that you work part time and live on your own?
A) Easy: sacrifice. While I won't go into my theories on The Boyfriend Quotient just yet (oh, and I've got a lot to say about it), I was under the impression that if I strip myself of all negative attributes my boyfriend quotient would be higher than it might be normally, and then I could be a good boyfriend choice for a girl to select. It's a strategy of making myself the best possible choice she could make. And there were three big attributes: Job, Car, Batchelor Pad. Check, check, and check. Unfortunately, just because I've got them, doesn't mean it's immediately obvious that I'm worth her notice. I'm actually considering moving back home since I'd like to actually save up some money in case I want to do something drastic like backpack cross-country. Or trade in my car or something for something newer (that doesn't need repairs every three months... I'm actually overdue for a unscheduled maintentance).

Q4) Maybe you're gay?
A) I was ready to pounce all over this question. The presumption that I'm having trouble finding a female that is more than indifferent to me because I'm not really attracted to them is absurd. I am attracted to women to a point of annoyance, actually. Besides, if women don't want me, what makes me think men will? Reminds me of a line from a stand-up routine: "I'm here, I'm not queer, but it's nice to get a little attention every now and then." Too bad nobody asked this. And it makes sense because, damn, that'd be stupid.

Q5) Ever been in a fight?
A) No. I'd like to say I'm a lover, not a fighter, but, ah, so much for that. I did manage to start a fight between two guys I didn't know. That felt pretty satisfying.

Q6) Wanna go see a dead body?
A) No.

Q7) Are you right handed or left handed?
A) Right handed. You'd think I would have no trouble adapting to society then, yes?

Q8) When is your birthday?
A) No! Mustn't say! That'd be way too easy for those who know me to know Yonphi, and not enough benefit for those who know Yonphi to know me. Suffice to say I'm a winter child. And that's all I'll say.

Q9) Yer a gamer, huh?
A) Yep. As far as video games go, I love retro stuff, new stuff, I love it all. Doesn't mean I'm good at it all, though. I'm notoriously bad at the old Castlevania games, hopeless at Chess, and a one-trick pony in Magic. But, I am a time-based puzzle game demon, and am pretty good at brain teasers and above average at every Mega Man title ever made. RPGs are a reason for living, and fighting games are ok, but I'm embarassingly mediocre at them. Of course I'm great at hentai video games, but so is everybody as determined as I. :]

Q10) You're great! Won't you please let me bear your children?
A) Heh, chalk this one up to wishful thinking.

/end of intermission

[Yonphi]

So, things are kinda slow, yeah. I'm not sure whether it's been stress, lack of time, or if, in fact, there is a subconscious force preventing me from going too close to #100.
And while probably inappropriate for my fiftieth reply on this journal (yay persistance!), I'm not going to talk about me.
Oh, who am I kidding: it's rediculously easy to be self-centered when the spotlight's on.

Today I found something unhappy when I got home. I popped in my old copy of Timesplitters and found that I was getting the grinding blue disc of death on my PS2. After sent it in a few months back to get it fixed. Thankfully I didn't pay for the "repairs", but I did have to pay for postage: and the fact that I have to deal with that hassle again to get my was-$300 system in check kinda pisses me off.
Feh, once I get this fixed up, I'm gonna mod chip it and pirate the fuck out of those games. It was less than a year before it quit reading blue discs. It's a nice thought to have rented the system from Sony at that price for that length of time, only to have them spit-shine and put an ugly bar-code sticker on the outside as evidence that they "fixed" it.
I can call to complain, but I think I can envision a Penny-Arcade comic now: angry Yonphi calls Sony to bitch about it, and the rep goes "Oh, so, we better fix it or we'll be sorry? Well, YOU'RE A VIRGIN! HAR HAR!" So if Gabe or Tycho read this: don't you hate unsolicited comic ideas?

Before you think I'm completely off topic and you want nothing to do with this post, consider DOA2. Just breifly.
For the uninitiated, Dead or Alive 2 Hardcore was one of the few US release titles available on Playstation 2's launch. By my estimate, no more than five minutes can pass, even without touching anything, before you think to yourself: "Woah, bouncy." This fighting game has many model-esque females, who probably wouldn't be models in real life since their busts are so big. But don't expect to hear any teenage boys complain: or speak any coherant words for that matter. I enjoy playing the game, even though I'm not all that good, and even then I'm still sometimes taken back at all the obligatory skimpiness and completely intentional boob bouncing and am shrouded in a little shame playing a game like that. Yet I have no shame being my non-flinching porno-head self... interesting, huh?

But this journal isn't about video game reviews, it's about sex and my persuit of my first. Well, ok, even that's become relaxed since I'll talk about persuit of my first kiss and first girlfriend and stuff. But it's hard to separate all that. But I digress.

There seems to be a new video game female evolving beyond what anybody really expected. Hanging out in arcades a lot I remember seeing Dead or Alive (original) and perhaps I wouldn't have made a second look except for the fact that the one thing that popped in my head said "boing." I've actually asked if boobies really bounce like that, and she said yes. I'm not sure if she was kidding, although I hope she was: otherwise, women would just be flailing about all the time. (yes, I know they invented the bra, but I'm not talking about that mysterious thing yet.)

So these digital females are prancing about and I can't help but feel badly for the organic females out there. Machines live for inspiring obsolesence. Which I think is a shame, because I happen to like real women. You know, cause they're, oh, I don't know, REAL?
I'm really glad I've got a strong mind (or at least think I do), cause I could certainly see how such stuff could completely warp it if I let it. One reason why I'm completely in favor of letting kids play with this stuff. If the young men are only turned on by techno-babes, then, by Darwin, they won't pose a threat to guys like me. (Always the giver, yes, I know.)

And this isn't as rediculous as it gets. How about Dead or Alive Beach Volleyball? Yeesh. Can one even try to play that game with a straight face?

I can't feel just a little insulted by this. At least with porn, it's blatant. It's understood what you're getting into. But I want to play a nice game. And while certainly I don't mind a little cheekiness, must every camera angle be centered on T&A? Must their virtual nipples truely be bump-mapped? (and I thought my nipples were useless... a very thin reference to Krakow.)

E5 once told me a story (I'll introduce her soon enough) about how she was upset that her boyfriend was too busy playing Command and Conquer to give her some loving.

Man, oh man. Some people really don't have their priorities straight. I don't care if it's championship of the world, if I can get some nookie I'd frag myself over and over again.

Then again, ultimately, these video game girls are no less real than the Hypothetical Girlfriend. Really brings context to things.

But I'd really like a backrub around now. Never had one of those, but I imagine it'd be a lot better to alleviate the stress, especially if administered by a real life woman, versus beating the crap out of some half-naked female video-game fighter with my own half-naked female video-game figther avitar in some kind of catfight.

Once again, lover, not a fighter. *sigh*

[Yonphi]

(BTW: if I owe you a reply, I'll probably do it tomorrow~ I'm really tired today for some unknown reason (that curse someone put on me, most likely))

On the night at which they'd play the Victoria's Secret fashion show, of course it's fitting that I should post, despite the fact that all the by-products of my immune system at war with some foreign germs are being coughed up and out. Isn't that lovely? The side effect of all this is that I've got what I would consider to be a sexy voice right now. And all I had to do is turn my voicebox into a petri dish for some bacteria cultures and, voila, I've got a golden voice that just so happens to cause pain when I talk.

One must suffer for their craft. And to think, only ten years ago, you would have been laughed at for suggesting people shoot their faces up with botulism for wrinkle control. I could be on to something here.

So, I've been communicating with a bunch of people and every now and then I'll hear something really strange. Today I heard something strange: Chicks dig guys who drive stick.

First, a little background. I'm currently doing a bit of auto research. My folks are looking to buy a car, and, like a lot of things they do, they're just never paying attention enough to make the best of things. They're the type of people that trust sales pitches and advertisements. My mom was telling me about a dealership that "give you $4000 of every trade, even if you have to tow it in." And, being a good mom, she's telling me how I can do this with my old car and milk the system.

Poor deluded fool. How I would love to live in a world of ignorance.

For the younger people out there, I'd like to say it's true, but I cannot without simultaneously being a liar. That $4000 is tacked on to your finance amount, but the people that fall for that won't see it because they are blinded by the fact that they've got a $200 monthly payment (for 120 months) on their $16,000 MSRP car. It's really sad... nobody should have to pay MSRP for a car (unless they want the newest hottest trend), and, even then, that they can be swayed with a low monthly payment. But this isn't "Trials of Consumer Reports" so I'll spare you since, to most of the readership, it won't be news.

Since I have to take care of my dumb folks, I'm doing most of their research so I can be the only hard bargainer they'll meet... that'll be in their favor. (Or maybe they're just pretending to be dumb to get me to do stuff for them?). I'm looking, and, yeah, I've been considering to dump my ride before it loses all its resell value.

"So, guy, you gotta get manual. Chicks dig guys who drive stick. I don't drive stick, and I only barely get an inkling to go by. I like automatic because it frees one of my hands to, say, eat a cheeseburger or finger a girlfriend."

It's pretty recent and usually I like to wait until the topic is resolved before I comment on it, but, huh?

I really don't understand that one. Well, is it true? Well, the stick part, not necessarily the manual mutual maturbation whilst driving.

I don't even know stick. But I wonder how important that is, if it's not just a joke. I promise the next post will be about The Boyfriend Quotient, to be concrete about things. But, for the meantime, I wonder how influential car is to that formula.

For the foreigners in the crowd, one thing they should know about Americans, if they want generalizations that are true, is that we love sneakers and we love cars. I've always known the former, but recently started to believe the latter. Now that I'm not completely anal about the mechanics of driving, I'm ok.

So, the big joke is that a guy driving a red racecar has a really large penis... or a really small one. The guy driving a minivan is whipped. The guy driving a Honda is poor, unless he hits the other extreme (which very little gray area) in which his Civic is souped up with a large spoiler (since once the car hits 30 it's gonna flip the fuck over without one), mega-noisemaker exhaust (but I outgrew the whole baseball-card-in-the-spokes thing long ago), with super BASS that makes you wish they had their trunk reserved for fish instead of those monster speakers better which, if unpurchased, might have driven the cost down enough to let some local bands get good equipment for their big gig versus your car (end mini rant). And the guy driving a volvo is an obsessive compulsive.
These are all stereotypes. Some are more true than others, but they say a car tells a lot about the person. But I have to admit I've totally missed the point of that. I mean, what am I supposed to think of the bitch in that black Expedition I meet every single friggin' day during rush hour traffic who simply loves tailgating me... and I don't even have any bumper stickers ('coz I'm lame... or, again, just can't find one with Maxwell's Equations on it).

Often I'm surprised by things that seem to come out from little jokes and stereotypes as truth, kind of like art imitating life. Like the first time I ever saw a bull dyke in real life. And the flannel she wore (although it seemed to be a flannel print: you'd have to be nuts to wear flannel down here on a regular basis), with the armhair just as thick as mine (although mine isn't very thick at all). Or maybe you can tell a guy who has a cell phone surgically attached to the side of his head driving in a beamer convertable is more likely to be a good lover.

Or just more likely to be a sugar daddy.

As for me? The most I've done with my car as it relates to women is trying to pick them up. Ha ha, no, only literally. Parking at my school is a complete nightmare: left to its own devices I would have to park nearly 20 minutes away on foot to where I have to be. In the heat and sun and humidity.
So anybody on foot in a parking lot heading in the opposide direction of any buildings is a target, and they have sharks slowly trailing them like stalking hunters. I don't like being stalked, but I'll tolerate it. I've only tried to stalk once, and had awful luck: the target was walking back and forth across rows making it impossible for me to tag her with my blinkers, and, of course, The Asshole in the SUV (I'm sure there's at least one in every town) who drives pretending they're invincible not because they are, but because nobody in a car wants to be killed by one of those jerks, takes the spot.

(No, I didn't key the car: you don't fuck with a person's car: EVER.)

So, back to the semi-point. Instead of trailing I'll open my window and propose. "I'll give you a ride to your space if you'll give me the parking!", often followed up with "My A/C works!" And, surprisingly enough, nobody's ever done it. Ok, ok, so the "let me give you a ride" is a creepy angle, but, girls, when I propose that to you, it's not because I want to date/grope/rape you, it's because you're only value to me is in your parking spot.

Then again, maybe they know I drive an automatic so they know I can't possibly be a sexually satisfied male, and then they have reason to believe I will try to take it out on them.

Or maybe next time I'll offer a dollar. Sure beats a $50 improper parking ticket... feh, it's not like they use those fees for making new parking spots for students. They gotta fund football somehow, after all.

So, in conclusion, that Victoria's Secret Fashion Show was on CBS today at 9pm. And they say I can't keep focused while I'm posting.

[Yonphi]

Growing up and trying my best, I was at a loss to determine why some guys get all the luck, and felt the answer isn't in some 80's song, but, rather, in mathematics.
Alternate titles included: "Math sucks", "Mathematics is the Language of God", "Weights and Measures", "Science Rules", and, simply enough, "The Boyfriend Quotient". Don't worry, though, "Weights and Measures" will be used for another topic later. *pencilling in schedule*

I know exactly why I turned to math. Programming. I've been programming in concrete computer languages in some form since I was five... about a year after learning to read. From BASIC to 6502 assembler by age 10, then Pascal, 80386 assembler, C++, Java, and, where I'm at now (22) with my new toy: C. I take offense to those who categorize it as C/C++ since, while some parts are very similar, if you've always coded C++ properly, then coding C is like trying to code with a hand blown off.

But while music hints at being good at math, programming and algorithms force one to think routines and boolean algebra and sorting and stuff.

So there had to be a reason why girls were picking other guys for their squeezes. Was it looks? Maybe. Personality? Maybe. Social status? Maybe.
It was all those questions that made me think that there has to be a method to it all.

And hence The Boyfriend Quotient. It's real easy, I'm just pretending it's a big deal and a big revelation.

"People aren't machines, you can't judge in terms of black and white."

Yeah, ok. But I believe a few key things about human nature. (commence philosophy). I believe that nobody makes any intentional mistakes. I don't care what they got on their SATs, the only reason why people make mistakes is either because they're not paying attention, the decision they made was, at the time, the best possible decision they could make with the information they had, or because they tried to do something they were unable to do (although, incorrectly gauging self-ability can be classified as variation on the second point).

To be more precise, how does one decide the "best" decision? It's clearly a formula. Doing something, like buying some new chair X, would, for example, increase personal comfort by some dx1 compared to the way it is now, "decrease" the space in your room by dx2, increase that no-more-sore-tushy-feeling by dx3, increase attractiveness of your domicile by dx4, and "decrease" your excess funds by dx5. A decrease is in quotes because it's really a negative increase.
Now you have a value system. No matter how deprived of values you may think (*snort*) a person is, they have their own values. I, for example, value personal comfort a great amount (V1 = large). Things are a little cramped right now, so it wouldn't be a good idea to get chair X if it takes a lot of extra space (V2 = large). I absolutely hate the feeling that I've been sitting too long, so that's even greater than general personal comfort (V3 = large). I'm not all that concerned with how my place looks (V4 = small), and, for the time being, I've got fairly good excess funds, so my value in saving is lower than it prudently should be (V5 = small). So I've got V1dx1 + V2dx2 + V3dx3 + V4dx4 + V5dx5... that determines the overall value of the action of "buying chair X to replace current chair."
If I wanted to be truely complete, I'll have to factor in a "hassle" factor. If I had to go to, say, Office Depot where they'll pretty much leave me alone, the hassle is low... especially when compared to a dedicated furniture store, where carry a cane to keep the sharks away. I dislike hassle very much. V6 = high, dx6 = low negative since I'll go to Office Depot. Then there's the problem of the old chair. I'll just call up my cousin and she'll probably even pick it up and give me a few bucks. V7 = high, but dx7 is a small positive.

It's easy to see how you get a very large formula. In the end, they evaluate the sum of V(i) times dx(i) for all i's. If it's positive, it's a go, whereas if it's a negative, it's a bad idea.

I don't think anyone goes through such detail and precision: including myself. But it's all internal within your mind. It's taken care of automatically. For little things, the number of i's are small, like what to eat for lunch. Those are snap decisions. But big things have lots of i's and need careful pondering and weighing the consequences.

Of course, V(i) changes all the time. One day you need a meat-based lunch, another you need a grains-based lunch.

So, yes, dropping out of school to become a rock star might have been a mistake. But, at the time, you said "fuck authority" and tried anyway. Now look where you are. The slim odds that you'll make it combined with the fact that you've eaten ramen noodles twice a day for 45 days doesn't make it look like such a great idea. But when you made it so long ago, hell yeah, the value of being a rockstar! Chicks'll throw, like, panties and stuff at you! And mean it with nice intentions!

Deciding between two things is a little more complicated. Choosing who to let you take you on a date this saturday, when faced with a few options, is simply a matter of internally evaluating who's better. Do women lay at home thinking about the best man for her to steal the soul of? Maybe not, but the value system implements itself in a variety of ways. This could be implemented simply on who she likes better. But, if you were to trace her synapses, you'd probably see an internal value system at work.

Guys aren't off the hook, either. If the average male stereotype has told me anything, it's that the value of a girl that'll put out without fuss (as in, Vsluttish) is extremely high compared to the value of a girl that has large nostrils (Vcavernous_nostril). And, I'll confess that Vcavernous_nostril is very very low. Then again, if the nostrils were the size of dinner plates, d(girl)cavernous_nostril would be very large hence compensating and possibly overtaking the value weight.

So, selecting the right guy is a matter of finding the maximum sum. What about those girls with fake boyfriends that pretend they're real when approached by a creepy guy? Clearly, either the value is negative (what, she thinks ability-to-crack-his-neck-without-using-his-hands is a turn off (negative value weight)?), or the final score is less than the score of the average guy, and she thinks she can do better.

And that's how it ties into things.

I tried figuring out what women hold valueable in their boyfriends. The stuff I managed to figure out on my own are stability (as in, not going to go "ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKE HOMER GO SOMETHING SOMETHING"), fun, attractiveness, anticipated sexual abilitiy, romantic capacity, selflessness, caring for all creatures great and small... and, has a job, drives car, doesn't live with parents, and has a penis. Note that these items are in The Boyfriend Quotient... not an indication of his value in any other way. I know if I lose my penis is a freak accident, and I'm married, I'd still want to please my wife any way possible. I would wholeheartedly expect her to stick by me until the time comes when I can figure out exactly how to go about doing that. Maybe a solution using some kind of strap-on. But that's the last time I'll talk about that (at least for a while)>

New additions over time thanks to feedback and by others or indirectly include: sweep-her-off-feet (how well he went about sweeping her off her feet), military (sometimes positive, sometimes negative... does she want a warrior or a healer?), height (yeah, I'm a little short for typical guys my age. Boooo...), kinkiness (self-expanetory), and willingness-to-perform-cunnilingus (laides: don't let him fool you. You're just as entitled to it as he is).

So my next car probably won't be a manual, since, while the consensus so far is about 50/50, my not-knowing-stick-ass stalling and doing bumpy shifts and dropping my tranny are definitely NOT sexy (unless she's sleeping with the mechanic).

And, in an interesting turn of events, I've made up my mind to move back in with my folks. Not only are the lost without me, but being free of rent will help me live better on my income and save more: for the move somewhere someday in the future.

Come on, now, what makes me think I should be allowed to start my sex-life log without worrying about her father catching us, or having sex in a car, or wishing for the day when we could actually sleep together too, or stuff like that? What, like I should be able to have sex in the comfort of my own bed? (actually, they'd probably be cool about it.)

I wonder how many points off for, instead of having to deal with questions the next morning about who was here last night and when they're going to meet her and send the marriage invitations out, suggesting we do it on the roof of a 7-11. *shrug*

[Yonphi]

Greetings. After almost a week of ISP difficulties resulting from a poor customer-first ethic (little things like a curtousy call when one's credit card is to expire), and the culmination of various finals-related projects, and volunteering to be the turkey chef this year has painted me somewhat unavailable.
"They have helicopters, don't they?"

Ok. End arcane movie reference.

Within the past three days hanging out in the undergrad labs I've seen more couples coo-coo-cooing than I think I've seen within three months (at least at school).

And it bothers me slightly. It's easy to focus on the tasks at hand and forgetting my troubles in favor of dealing with other, more rapidly approaching troubles. But I really don't want to wrestle with debugging critical section code while hearing face sucking going on right next to me. I feel badly enough I can't get my custom algorithm to work: now I have to feel badly that when I come home after getting stressed out not making sounds of those on my behalf. (well, I can, but only the same way foley artists do: sloppily kissing their arms. Not terribly relaxing, I must admit.)
And that's just one encounter from the last three days.
One of the Hypothetical Girlfriend questions posed is: what of public display of affection?
There are a few limits as I see them. The limits of polite mixed social company, the limits of mixed company, and the limits of the relationship.

The first one is easy. If you're double dating or something like that, one (or rather, a couple) should be cognizant to the status of the other couple. If you guys just set them up on a blind date (ahem ahem) it's probably not a nice thing to totally make out while the who strangers stare at the wall, commenting how interesting paint really is and how the old phrase "watching paint dry" carries an undeservedly negative connotation.
Of course, I'd be jazzed to be on a date period, so aside from showing a little lack of class, I wouldn't necessarily have my time ruined. But that's just a minor tangent.

Not to mention that, as my gut tells me, it's probably not a good idea to talk to your one-day-will-be-parents-in-law in breath catching moments of making hickeys on your lovers' neck.

Which brings up a very real question: what the hell is a hickey anyway? All I know is that it's got something to do with a neck and a mouth, but that's it. Are they biting? Sucking? Releasing venom from a set of fangs I've been born without? Search me.

The next one is a little harder. If you're not in social company, there's just incidental mixed environments. Like a computer lab. Or maybe the subway (no, that scene in Risky Business was a deliberate and intentional (albeit, in this case, fictional :]) act). Or possibly waiting in line together at the bank.

Now, as mentioned plenty of times before, I'm no sociologist. But I think the rule should be: quick. Show your love, not love the show you're putting on. And quiet. Yeah yeah, you love your honey. Well, fuck you. I think you can pull your tongue out from under hers and we'll still be very confident that, indeed, you are a couple.

But the last is probably the hardest. Is it appropriate to interrupt a Kevin Smith movie-a-thon for a little molestation? How about a little trailing hand while on the tilt-o-whirl? (the ferris wheel is ok, but the tilt-o-whirl?)
This is definitely To Be Determined by the couple. My fear is that my first girlfriend (if she ever comes to fruition) would be the poor victim of all sorts of clingy-clingy actions on my part.

After all, I've got a lot of time to make up for.

[Yonphi]

Not to be confused with Absolut Terror Field, which can't be a fear-inspiring thing at all. Unless you're on the wagon or something. To those, I whole heartedly appologize. Yours *gulp* is a journey *pour* I wholeheartedly respect. *gulp*

I'm not sure what kind of a drunk I am: I don't get drunk all that often. Yeah, a little buzz lets life not seem so bad after all, but as a disclaimer I will say that life isn't so bad at all anyway. Y'know, except for the whole being along during finals thing, there the three liquids which keep the universe in balance is caffene, sweat, and jizz. One to keep you awake, one made as the deadline approaches, and one that somehow feels nicer when you're letting out your stresses in condensed milk form.

I wonder, really. I havn't really really gotten drunk around anyone, leaving me no feedback. Turning 21 is supposed to be a big affair, but mine was spent alone. Oh well.

I don't think I'm an angry drunk, though. I'm too mixed up in despair to rise up against it. But that still leaves happy drunk, sad drunk, scared drunk, and rip-roaring-drunk, each of which the jury's out on.

Ok ok, so this isn't "Alcoholism: The Early Years." Right now I'm a little under the influence of a bit of holiday rum. And I'll share some of my fears.

No, under no conditions do I want to claim that I am fearless. Each time I approach a girl (yeah yeah, I havn't done it in a while, but I have several good excuses with which to flounder about with) it's with fear in my soul which I can only pretend to ignore. And when the rejection comes to fruition, there's a lot of "HA! TOLD YOU SO!" going on in my head.

But it doesn't stop there. Oh no! I start to extrapolate from my vantage point forward, and lead myself down a tower staircase of fear. Combined with my unknowing of anything sexy or relationship-based, I leave myself very very prone, even if I don't fail. This is very much a case of ignoring the old adage "cross that bridge when you get to it," but I can't help it. I'm weak. Ba-dump-ba-dum.

Some things I already touched on. What limits do I place on myself? How soon before the first kiss? When that happens, how do I pull it off? What precisely do I have to do... I've got an idea but what if it's terribly unrealistic? Same thing for making out, for a dry-hump in a basement couch (ok ok, there are no basements in Miami but let's pretend), for doing the deed? Yeah, it's "cute" having an almost innocent guy flailing like an idiot and biting inappropriate things and being all naive and stuff, but, really now, is it "hot"? I fear that it is not.

The biggest fear is that I may have absolutely no chance to snatch a fun, healthy, satisfying sex life from the jaws of fate. That those "proper" openings are all closed, and anything I do from this point seeks only to emulate The Way Things Should Be (tm).

Are these fears unfounded? A fear I have is that they are not unfounded. I fear being right on this one.

And that makes me a sad drunk.

So long: I owe some folks replies but I've still got lots of projects hanging over my head and I need some sleep. Sleep is for the weak, yes, but you know that principle (one of them, anyway) that one cannot accellerate to light speed because the limit of fuel consumption approaches infinity the closer you get? It's like that with caffene: the more you try to push yourself the more fuel you'll need, and pretty soon you'll need infinate amounts just to make speed.

Or perhaps I should have left this one at "and that makes me a sad drunk." Oh well.

[Yonphi]

#include "whiney_whiney_'wah_wah'_about_how_i_hate_my_finals_projects.h"
#include "my_teammates_are_dumber_than_rocks.h"
#include "more_whining_about_the_way_thinks_should_be_(read_the_way_that_gets_me_some_action.h"

So, yesterday, this girl comes back to work from her vacation. Which knocks things a little odd since I've just almost barely not pretended to forget people's names. But she comes back, and they introduce us to each other. And... hmmmm....

Interestingly enough, I've been continuing correspondance and getting little snippets of stuff. Coincidentally, I did recieve something that very day going: "I'll bet lots of girls flirt with you and you're just too shy to pick up on the signals." It's an anonymous quote to protect the innocent.
Besides that disclaimer, I very much aknowledge that I am dumber about relationships and courting than I ought to be. There is a question about whether it is my fault or not regarding that, but now is not the time to get into it. And a victim mentality is always the LAST mentality one should adopt.

Anyway, this girl I thought something strange of. She looked at me weird. In a good weird. I was very much OMFG A GOOD WEIRD LOOK MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHASHELJAHSEPLJSEA and stuff like that. (if you're a closet virgin male with the plauge like myself, you know precisely the emotion I so clumbsily defined.)

So, I did my bit to introduce myself and get to know her. I wish I could say I was the same with her with all the other females, but, no. I felt myself doing a lot of really stupid things with my eyebrows. I don't normally do such things, but, ah, I don't know. Probably because the tone was so flirtatious so quickly.
And I have to I was doing little jumping jacks in my head: "OMFG SHE LIKES ME MWAHAHAHAHAHL:ASKJ" and so on. (I promise that'll be the last time I do that bit. Or at least describe it like that here.)
Now, we didn't hit it off like I would consider hitting it off. It was a very on-the-surface kind of conversation. I tried to be mildly deep and thoughtful, and they seemed to illicit responses from her that were, quite frankly, strange. She would really really laugh at something I said that was only supposed to be mildly funny. For example, I made a quote of Office Space: "Sounds like someone's got a case of the Mondays." And she was all like, LOL and stuff, practically ROOFLES around the place, going "Ah! Office Space!" and then breaking into laughter again. Ok, slight exaggeration, but she really did LOL and nod her head a lot and go "Office Space, yeah!"
And I thought to myself: "this is what people do when they like someone? I certainly hope I don't act this way." And I made sure to remember times when I might have and can confidently say I never have.

Oh, but far be it for me to illicit excitement and suspence on your part. The end of story is that she's got a fiancee. But, when you get there, pretend to be surprised. Yes?

So, I try to do my work and she's swinging by any chance she got. Or at least it seemed that way. She wanted the share a chair with me (!!) and said things like "ooh, nice hands." Me? I know I couldn't have been that interesting since I was still getting over the fact that she's, like, stroking my hands. Yeah, holy shit indeed.

Now, that morning on the drive to work, I noticed that, on each lightpost on the road there was a single bird on top. And a few of those birds had their wings out and open, like a flasher would open his arms. And the funny thing is that it wasn't, like, stretching. These birds just stood there, exposing themselves to other birds at their elevation. I know because bumper-to-bumper rush-hour traffic gives one lots of time to absorb the environs.

So while normally I would dismiss her as a complete nutcase that of course I would pounce on once the shock of having a girl so forward with me (that simultaneously "likes" me) wears off, I figured that if something unholy were to happen today, it would be the same day the birds are frozen in time. So, yeah.

Normally I dart out the door after my shift to make it to class on time. I need to speed speed speed all over town, grab the quickest friggin' fast food thing on the road and gulp it down in order to jump the drawbridge into a single mile run to the classroom since parking is so bad. Well, everything but the drawbridge. And the single mile is more like half a mile.

...

And of course I asked her to have lunch with me instead. Hence the title: "Prioritization."

So we had lunch. Here's some of her lines:
"Oh, wow, we both went to the same high school!"
"Oh, neat, our dads are from the same villiage!"
(of course, it wasn't all roses.
"Oh... so, um, you like video games?"
"Oh... and, um, you're studying computers?"
"Oh... why exactly are you eating that pizza with a knife and fork?"
(the answer to the last one is because it's freakin' greasy: and once I get grease on my hands, the only way I can get it off is with a lot of soap and water and scrubbing. And then instead of having clean fingers I have either greasy fingers or fingers that smell like detergent soap for hours on end.))

So I'm thinking, ok, this is coming closer to a lunch date, but we really ought to be getting to know each other instead of talking current events, weather, and cute fuzzy things.
When, out of nowhere, her friend pops up. They say "Hi!" in various high pitched tones and kiss each other on the cheek and do all those things people in Miami do. They start talking and... and...

She didn't introduce me. Hmmm. Well maybe she's just rude. Well that's ok. I politely butted out and sipped my Dr. Pepper when I heard: "How's your fiancee?" Thanks to some cat-like reflexes I completely avoided choking (or maybe it's my uncanny ability to breathe Dr. Pepper?). I look up and this girl who, had you asked me an hour ago I would have said she's hot for me, I had invested some emotional time in going "yes yes yes yes yes" in my head towards, and she said "Oh, he's good."

"We're picking out the ring tonight."

And then when I looked at her cross-eyed she explained that he was so cute and he gave her a picture of a ring because he wanted to make sure she got a real ring that she liked. Like, gag me with the knife I was cutting through too-tough pizza.

And then her friend looked at her, then at me. Then nutty girl over there looks at me and goes: "Aw, but I love you too!" and reached across the table to pat me on the head. Like a dog.

Oh well.

"What if they break up?"

If they do, man, forget it. She already took me for a ride: played me like a harmonica (not literally, unfortunately).

But I won't hold too much against her. After all, today she was playful with me, too. But we really don't have a whole lot in common.

I wish to see with eyes unclouded.

[Yonphi]

Burned out is no way to be.

I went searching for some porn online (wow, that brings back memories). And, wouldn't you know it? Remember that picture I told y'all about that I got in my e-mail and I was all like super jazzed that some kind girl took the time to do that for me? Well, it turns out it was a public picture modified to have the face blurred out to trick me. And trick me it did. Oh well: I really should be more of a critical thinker.

So today I feel totally burned out. I feel upset at myself that I didn't make the time to post when it's fun and easy to do. Not like complaining about it will stop anything. In fact, I could be spending time right now working on my stuff due Monday. But, again.

I wanted to post something really cool and insightful. But it's the wintertime, and everyone here in the northern hemisphere may be feeling a little bluer than usual. Maybe. Actually, no, I don't speak for everyone. Sorry for misrepresenting myself.

This isn't a picture journal. I want to avoid it becoming a picture journal. But today I thought back some a funny little something I saw about 9 months ago. Lacking the hosting space, I'll just link to the original site. Thought I'd share it because it pretty much wraps up everything I have to say about nipples (an entry on my list), and does it so well. So I hope I am forgiven by those who demand a pure-non-picture journal. Looks like I ruined it for you. But for those who may be blue, looks like I'll add a tiny touch of enjoyment for you.

[Yonphi]

"Welcome back"
Why thank you Clyde Frog!

In the interest of making a holiday special, I'll post a few entries over one person of the two-fiddy I've been avoiding talking about for quite a while. On purpose.
See, now, if you knew me, you'd think that titling this "The Christmas Story" would mean that it's a clue to the persons' real name: "The Christmas Carol" is a one-degree title that would have also been easy to pull, therefore "Carol" must be E5's real name.

But I assure you that is not the case.

...

Then again, even if it was, would I admit it?

One reason why I've been putting it off is because I think folks here know more of less what kind of person I am.
But if I had to pick one attempt that really hurt me emotionally it would have to be E5... but then again I've got a few that were emotionally taxing upon my soul. I saved her for nearly last because, well, I had to. She was, like, my best friend. For a while. And then not. And then we were again for about 6 months. And then, July of this year, not anymore.

Hence that's the person whose attention I was looking to avoid posting publicly here. Since if she reads this, she knows that, eventually, I would get to it.


So, ok, female best friend. Isn't that a bad way to get a girlfriend? At the time, I thought so. It's like going to the friend zone so deeply in you become like a brother. And incest is not something that works these days.
She was there when I was complaining about all these girls that reject me for no apparant reason. She actually helped convince me that I was a dateable guy. A "catch." Now you see why I have a block in my head that won't allow any notion of anything other than not being a catch to enter my brain. It's a Skinner Box of sorts, my brain.

So she helped raise my confidence to a level that I possibly might not have gotten to on my own. I was completely not looking for a girlfriend during the last three years of high school. The hope was that she would find me (hint: she didn't, and I've more or less abandoned that concept as a viable one). So she helped me a few feet higher against the downward spiral. And for that I am thankful.

However, student soon turned on teacher. Ah, a confessional she was. How wishy-washy she was. I never did get a straight answer out of her. I had to figure it out on my own when she got a boyfriend. Whoops. Sucks to be attentive sometimes.

So how is this different from anything else?

Notice my premise: male best friend cannot become a boyfriend to a girl.

Well, there are only three phases of matter unless you count the phase that results due to extreme conditions (plasma). When things overcome what cannot be, things happen. Square root of negative one. Limit as X approaches infinity. Black holes, tears in the space time continuum. My left sock appearing from the nothingness back into my dryer where I put it.

Her new boyfriend was a close friend of hers. Had I not been around he would have been her best friend. Clearly I was doing something wrong wrong wrong. And would find myself doing something wronger 4.5 years later.

[Yonphi]

The point of encapsulation, if anyone ever asks you, is three-fold.
1) To prevent users of your data structure from learning how you implemented it (job security)
2) To enforce rules you have placed that could be overcome if they learn the intricacies of the system (therefore potentially breaking it)
3) To hide your private attributes and methods.

This repesents a fairly new programming technique. Fairly is used quite liberally: it's been used in the real world for about 8-10 years. But it's specification has been around for nearly 40 years.

Ultimately that means it doesn't fare well for future usefulness to wear your guts on your sleeve. Even if it is just your heart.

...

Wasn't that the absolute lamest corrolary yet? Honestly, now. *points at myself* Be More Insightful.

When I confessed to E5, she was quite wishy washy. What is wishy washy? A lot of "I don't know," and "Well," and "Maybe if," and all sorts of oddness. She never did just come out and say "no."
The confessional is really a technique of all or nothing. There really is no half-way point after you tell someone that you can't help but think about them all the time, that you are feeling things that could easily be called love if that sort of thing was easy to label.
It's very very difficult to turn back the clock. Always. Things between E1 and myself are going well. She's just as cute as ever. I can only hope she thinks I'm as fun as ever. But I know nothing like what I am desperately seeking will come of it. How do I know? Because she doesn't drink. (I'm not in a serious mood tonight as you may well have figured out.)
It's because it's ruined: it's already out and loose. If we were to argue, she could easily escalate it to the point of going: "Oh yeah? Well, you hit on me and 24 other friends in a three month period! You're a jerk!"
And no matter what kind of confidence I can muster, I won't be able to forget that things didn't go the first time around because she's just plain not interested.

Actually, maybe, I could convince myself, if, in fact, I didn't screw it up with E5. In such an unconventional manner I ultimately decided not to give her another number. And _that_ took balls of steel (details coming on the 60th reply: suspense is not a healthy feeling, but who said I was all about health?)

So, back to E1 some more. After all, I said I wouldn't censor myself due to her contact. We're getting back to pre-failure status, and it's nice. But we have to be careful not to approach the event horizon: if she enchants me again I'll have no choice but to fail again. I'm just a rag doll being tossed about in the difficult world of finding love.

Awww... mushy mushy.

E5 gave me a call, oh, I would say January of 2002. How she found my number is beyond me. My parents weren't even aware of her existance beyond a single photograph of "evidence". I really didn't question how she found it, because, frankly, the idea of a girl thinking about calling me sounds a little hot.

Just a little.

It very quickly turned into pre-failure with her. Very quickly. That should have been a warning: how could things get so close so fast? I mean, it was, like, four and a half years: doesn't that mean we're strangers again?

She absolutely did not change from when I last saw her. It's as if she was caught in a time warp. (a possibility, I admit.) Whereas I changed a bit: physically and emotionally.
So, about E5. She's just a little shorter than I, long hair, and was pretty curvey (which is a technical term I assure you). While my physical descriptions are on the low end of the skillful physical descriptions trade, I think I can describe something a little specific. She has these legs (don't stop reading so soon, I'm going somewhere with this) that were weirdly shaped. Not weirdly shaped like tentacles or something like that, but weirdly shaped such that no matter what kind or size of skirt she wore it always looked way too short. I remember it being a joke of sorts: the physical phenomenon that was her too-short skirt.

It's still a mystery to me. Almost as if it is a supernatural force at work.

Feh. And you thought I was going to say something perverted about her legs.

Well, of course I didn't complain. What, like I'd try to convince her to not wear skirts?

So now you know... the rrrrest..... of the story.

...

No, wait. No you don't. More to come~

[Yonphi]

Well, as it turns out I have regressed back to an illness from a couple of weeks ago. The verdict: PNEUMONIA.
1) It's not cold around here. Not by a long shot.
2) I get sick during every finals week I've ever had since starting college.
3) ...
4) I can't think of a number 3 because I'm totally floored by the notion that people actually do contract pneumonia. Normally that disease is renowned for being the sarcastic disease of the era.

Come inside of you'll catch pneumonia! Oh, sure. No clean towels. I'll just stand in the bathroom soaking wet and catch penumonia. (in best Artie Lang voice) Sorry I had to catch, PNEUMONIA (/end Artie).

So, yeah. I hate doctors. But I hate doctors' staff even more. My last appointment I walked out with my chart after they had taken in a patient without an appointment when they were already 30 minutes late with my appointment. The staff was completely unappologetic, and the doctors must have been hiding in the back smoking a stogie, afraid to go up and do their jobs. Nevermind I waited a week for that appointment. And they wanted the copayment upfront. Bastages.

So where was I? Oh yes.

When I first broke into them, cleaving my way through the two-fiddy one at a time, E5 was the fall girl most of the time. Oh, sure, the "range" was C1 through E7, but I didn't wait for her to be E7 in the hopes I could throw her off my meticulous nature. At least I don't think I threw her off in anycase.

It always seemed to cliche, really. "Oh, bew hew, she didn't go for me." "Thera-there. Thera-there." I would go through the details of the encounters. They were pretty vivid anyway. The way I felt her energy and friendly-ness sour instantly when she figured out what I was in for. The shame when I greatly stepped over the lines. And they were always well received. Each time with a recession of faith in me. She really was the queen of "You deserve a really good girlfriend."

And it took me in the future to realize it, but slowly it was etching away at her. When she knew I had the cats eyes things slowly changed. She used to sit on my lap, for no reason. Even with lots of other places to sit. As a best friend, we would play "stare-down" until it became no fun (she would always end it with a kissy face). I _could_ have taken that for a cue, but I'm not completely dumb ya know.

And then, slowly, things started winding down from there. She wasn't freely flirting anymore. But she was more of less the equivalent person. Friendly, inspiring, etc.

Not to say that the others weren't. But I _had_ to pick on to entrust all my private stuff with. As much as I like to pretend I am ruled by logic and science, there comes a time when even I need a moment to whine and cry and curse my twisted fate (in no particular order).

Eventually, her confessional went ok. Once again I pointed out the shortcomings of others: so many say I deserve a great girlfriend, but when it comes time to enter the spotlight they all shy away. Due to a shortage of devoted followers, the production of leaders has been discontinued.

And, after that was done, I figured she'd be a good someone to keep around. After all, I wouldn't have anyone else to whine to if she were to disappear. So, two more times (E6-E7), and we kept in touch.

Enough in touch for me to learn that she had a great new boyfriend. While I have learned to accept the statement that a girl isn't looking for a boyfriend right now, she didn't use that one. She used, and I quote, "But you're, like, my best friend. We've got a special bond: you're like a brother."

Suprise! She had another close friend. To which she flirted with him more and more as things declined between us. Aha, it would seem that I am being just a little self-centered thinging it's all my doing. To the point where they were joined at the hip.

And yes, they were going out.

So much for expecting a little honesty to go with good friends.

And I leave it off today with a translation of that quote. "But you're like, a loser. You are just an entertaining toy to me, and you have to be a loser to actually take my playtime seriously. Now, if you'll excuse me, this guy over here was in JROTC.

Damn the military.