Oh Woa Woa, I'm on Fire

This weekend was my swim team (DCAC)'s annual Fall Ball invitational meet, of which I was a volunteer. I decided a while ago that I was not going to compete because I'm nowhere near in the shape that I'd like to be in order to participate; plus, I also don't want the added stress of worrying about competition while I'm school (I'll be lucky to get in more than 2 workouts a week, I figure).

Anyway, it was a good time because I served as runner between the Timers and the Clerk of Course, which basically meant I got to see and talk to a bunch of volunteers and swimmers throughout the day. I flirted with some of them, and amazingly enough got flirted back at also.

Saturday night was the after-meet reception at Halo which was also a good time. I didn't really eat dinner so after a few free drinks (pocket stuffed with free drink coupons - score) I was feeling buzzed and happy. And also, the stars seemed to be aligned in a way they rarely seem to be these days, and I received some attention from a few gentlemen callers, which made me feel even more buzzed and happy. (Although, sadly, not an ounce of attention from Crush #1, who is, 1) mind-numbingly cute and; 2) also [I found out] single, and for these two reasons had guys surrounding him all night like white on rice.)

But I digress.

The night before I'd met a guy (let's call him L) at Vapiano and to make a long story short ended up back at his place, making out on his couch. Yes, I'm a bit lonely; and yes, maybe a bit needy (and yes, more than a bit "anxious" as Beetlejuice would say); and L is a great kisser. We were going at it for a long time, exploring each other's mouths, bodies, etc. It felt really good. Duh.

"Let's go into the bedroom," he said finally. And most of me really wanted to. But then suddenly I had a moment of clarity. There was focus. And this weird little voice inside me. Seemingly before I could stop myself, I was blurting out words:

Me: "Umm, there's something you should know..."

L: "... You're married?"

Me: "Ha! No. I'm... celibate."

L: "Ha, good one!"

Me: "Uh, no. I'm serious..."

L: "Seriously? As in ..?"

Me: "Yep, as in I don't ..."

L: "..."

Me: "Yeah... Sorry."

And I explained all the reasons: Trying to stay focused; not wanting a distraction; wanting a little discipline in my life; and although he was cool about it, I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm a freak (and not in a good way, like in a Superfreak kind of way).

Since I'd pretty much killed the mood at that point, the only thing left to do was go home. In the rain. At 3 am. And as much as it kinda sucked excusing myself from such a fun situation, I am glad that I was able to maintain some control.

On the long, rainy walk home I rewarded myself with a Big Mac from the all-night McDonald's on 17th St. Because really, the next best substitute to sex is an order of soggy super-sized fries.

Casualties of My Lifestyle Change (Pt. II)

[Ed. Note: See here for Pt. I]

And yeah, this one stings a little:

8. Flying home to Chicago whenever I want.

Since I arrived last month I set as a goal a non-specific weekend date in October to return back to Chicago to visit friends and family.*

I thought about Columbus Day Weekend, because 1) it is a three day-er for me; and 2) it is the same weekend as the Marathon, for which I could go cheer on a few friends.

Tickets are hovering around $300. I just can't afford it (anymore). And it isn't like I'm waiting until the last minute - prices have been this high for the last 2 weeks.

Ditto for the weekend after that, too. Looks like I may try again for early November.

I was once naive to believe that there might still be hope - via way of one of those "last minute deals" websites - but we all know those don't really exist (seriously, I've never met anyone who has actually scored a last minute deal anytime anywhere).

I'm not gonna lie, I'm a little disappointed. I could really stand a visit back home to see friends and family.*

* Or, as would be more accurate, "Get the fuck out of DC before I kill someone."

So This Is My Life

Sunday afternoon, and after a good day of hanging out with Emily, I need to settle in for the evening to get caught up on studying, and put a dent in the homework that is piling up. So what do I do? Make a schedule, of course.

I actually wrote the below before I jumped into the shower:

5 - 9 pm: Patho studying

9 - 10 pm: Review of Assessment lecture notes (H,S & N, HEENT)

10-11 pm: Review NIH and CDC websites for info on Varicella

How lame and ridiculous is my life that I now have to schedule my evenings to the hour?

... Only 15 more months of school left...

Yes, But Is It RiDONKulous?

Friday night, standing in a long line to order food at Vapiano (don't even get me started), a text message convo with my new friend Emily ensues:

Me: "I am having the most ridiculous evening ever."

Emily: "Yes, but is it ridonk?"

I love my new friend Emily.

New Favorite Phrase in the English Language

"See you next week."

- Uttered by my Philosophy teacher (in his thick German accent) Thursday 11:35 am.

On a day like today -- where summer and its nasty, nasty humidity has reared its ugly head (seriously? it is almost October. wtf.) and allergies are killing the shit out of me (I weeze as I type this) -- there is no greater phrase in the English language.

This has been a Rough. Week. I am grateful that it is almost over.

Dear Rock Creek Parkway

Dear Rock Creek Parkway:

What gives? Yeah, I know you have mysterious ways and all, and that you're one of the city's best kept secrets and all that bullshit, blah blah, blah.

But seriously: is there a secret handshake I need to know about? Some kind of password in order to gain access?

No? Then why the fucking secrecy? Why do you make it so difficult to find/get onto you?

The other night I had to drive from my place in Columbia Heights to National Airport to pick up a friend, and I thought I would take you in order to get there. Considering I live just about a mile from you, I thought this would be easier - and more logical - than driving all the way through the city. I figured, why not take you and get to National in a matter of minutes instead of, say, taking 16th St. all the way down to who-knows-where (Constitution? Independence? I haven't clue.) and then onto 395, etc.? But no.

Imagine me and Edmund, driving down Klingle thinking, "OK, there's going to be a sign somewhere along here directing me to the southbound ramp..." But you know what? That sign never came. Ever.

Here I am, driving parallel to you for a good 15 minutes and no sign ever came. What the fuck is that about?

What could have been a 15-minute easy stroll through the western edge of the city to National on a balmy DC evening instead turned into a name-cursing, gas-guzzling, white-knuckle hell ride through first Mt. Pleasant, then DuPont Circle, then Foggy Bottom (hello Watergate!), then Georgetown (huh?), then - wait for it - fucking Rossyln (for fuck sakes!), before somehow meandering through motherfucking Crystal City before finally getting to the airport.

In what reality would a trip from Columbia Heights to National Airport involve a sidetrip through Rossyln?? Only in your sadistic one, Rock Creek Parkway.

Fine. I know I'm relatively new here (again). And therefore not too familiar with best routes to get through the city, but I also don't consider myself an idiot when it comes to driving and directions.

Would it kill you to have a few directional signs posted that point to your on ramps? Or is "Figuring Out How To Access the Rock Creek Parkway" just another one of those subjects that new DCers must figure out on their own, like, say, "Getting Temporary Tags for Your Car Before It Gets Impounded" or "Finding a Grocery Store with a Decent Produce Selection"?

I thought so. Go fuck yourself, Rock Creek Parkway.

Proof That I Am Not the Typical Georgetown Student

While studying in the SMH lounge this afternoon, I overheard a student talking on her cellphone: "Dad is complaining that I'm spending too much money, but I found out he's joining a country club and going on a Norwegian cruise in November."

More proof that the average student here is different than I.