This afternoon while I was at work, I got a call from a number that I did not know. Not one to break with routine, I didn't answer it for fear of the ex-girlfriend's wrath, and lucky me, they didn't leave a message. I am so brave.

It wasn't until later that I realized that the number in my called ID was dangerously close to my number. Only one number was wrong--the last one. And, on top of that, the mistaken numbers were similar in shape and height only theirs was missing a piece on the left hand side. Does that make sense?

Ok, fine. I guess I can explain a little better without giving out my whole phone number on the internet. The last digit of my phone number is an 8. The last digit of the mystery number was a 3. They look similar, right? Right. Other than that aberration, our numbers are identical.

This is a riddle of sorts.

Who owns the other number?
Why are they calling me?
Is anyone else involved?
What about the man with a hook for a hand?
Am I really this neurotic?
Are we there yet?

I slept on the conundrum(it's hell on the back, by the way), and when I awoke this morning still thinking about it, I decided to do a little sleuthing of my own.

I tried doing a reverse look-up on the odd number, but it the search produced no results. I wasn't expecting any. I do, however, know that it's a Verizon number. Or was at one time, at least.

That's it.

Here's the scenario that I've cooked up in my head:

I don't know good ol' Number 3, and they don't know me from that putrid, Mexican lady squishing her way down the aisle at the Big K on Lake St. Someone involved in this does, though. I think that at some point in time, I wrote my number down for someone, most likely a girl, and due to my cripple's scribble, the 8 looked quite similar to a 3. There's also a distinct possibility that I gave the girl a wrong number on purpose. I don't remember doing that recently, but that doesn't mean it hasn't happened.

Yes, I know. There's not a secret code in the world tougher than the one I dub "One Number Off". No, she'll never figure out my clever encryption scheme! She's an idiot! Why am I using so many exclamation points! Speaking of which, if you're ever in Minneapolis and see a yellow Specialized mountain bike chained to a rack or a sign, and it's tethered by a combination lock, the encryption scheme is entirely different than the one I just explained.

Ha ha, suckers. They'll never be able to steal my bike now! Oh crap, am I still typing?

Ahem.

So, this girl tried to call my number, but kept mashing the Number 3, because, well, the damn thing looked like a 3. Why wouldn't she call it? The owner of Number 3 gets pissed at all these wrong number calls, and decides to find out who "Chad" is, and why this girl is incessantly calling at all hours of the day, even though she's been told time and time again "Chad's not here." Neither is Dave.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that I'm just stupid enough to write down a false number, but only change the last digit. I'm not smart enough to, oh I don't know, give her a completely fictitious number that was originally activated in Ypsilanti, could I? No, that's crazy talk.

I suppose I could've told her that I just wasn't interested, but that would give me less to write about.

What? Goddamnit, people. I'm sure it's all a coincidence, but I need something to write about, and until I get mugged, you'll have to deal with this tripe.

You have been warned.

Why am I admitting this?

It's my blog, and I'll give too much information if I want to, too much information if I want to.

A little bit of a preface first: I am not normal. No joke. You've probably realized this. Still, it's moments such as the one I just experienced that make me question how much the therapy I'm bound to need is going to cost.

I first started having sex in February of 1994. Groundhog's Day weekend, to be precise. Just like any other teenage male in the midst of trying to bust out of the horror that is puberty, I was over-excitable. Just how over-excitable? There were many a times that I had to walk to class with a backpack over my crotch in order to hide an erection that just wouldn't listen.

My dick was a disobediant puppy.

I'm sure there are at least a few guys that know what I'm talking about. There was nothing I could do to make it pay attention to me. Sit. Stay. Roll over. I even went far past rational and hit it with a rolled up newspaper, but that just ended up hurting me in the end. Quite literally.

Bad dog

Kissing, yes sir, that's going to cost me an erection. Exposed cleavage--a girls, not mine- was definitely going to result in a unwanted, and definitely unwarranted, not to mention highly embarrassing, response. Hell, even randomly thinking about something along the lines of, oh I don't know, Grandma's sponge bath sessions would create a tightness in my 501's that made even me feel like I'd fallen on the wrong side of the dirty tightrope. God, I just grossed myself out.

It was also, naturally, at that time that I became familiar with the "smell of sex". It wasn't until a few years later that I realized that it's not really the "smell of sex", it's the smell of "rotten crotch". There were times, while standing in the elevator on the ride up to my 9th floor, beiged walled prison dorm, that the smell would force it's way up my nose, and I'd think "Hey, that smells like sex!"

No, Chad, that's unwashed crotch that you smell, not sex.

I was in the Mexican Ghetto K-mart of few weeks ago, walking behind a short, pudgy woman with frizzy black hair and bad skin, when I was blasted in the face by that smell. Up until 5 years ago, I probably would've been transported to a certain time with a certain girl, happily reminiscing about all the bad sex that was had. Good times, those were. That's probably what I would've been thinking.

There, though, in the bright aisles of lowest of the low rent Big K's, I came this close to puking on a mexican woman with a filthy Hoo-Haw.

Also over the years, I became acquainted with my own smell; the smell of liquids seeping from my person. That's right, I'm talking about jizm. If you take enough target practice, shoot enough rounds, eventually you're going to become accustomed with the smell of gunpowder. Repetitiveness begets familiarity.

Or something like that.

As Raven Simone once said in an episode of The Cosby Show in which she was trying to convince Cliff that she was growing at an alarming rate of speed, "I know my body!"

So, of course I was suprised when I was sitting here, at the Independent, and I noticed the aroma of a very manly bodily fluid.

Why in the fuck does the Independent smell like the inside of my boxer shorts after the slow, painful walk past cheerleading practice during my freshman year in college?

There is a direct correlation between the phase of the moon, specifically a full moon, and the level of crazy inherent in all women. As the giant, sunlit orb waxes towards obesity, women get crazier. It's a scientifically proven fact that this phenomenon is real, and very dangerous. By "scientific fact", of course I mean that it's a myth perpetuated in my own messed-up brain, the conclusion derived from 2 months of direct experience. 2 months is all the research I require. Fucking scientists and their over-elaborate ways.

Silly me, I was under the assumption that the full moon only affected werewolves and alcoholics, but wouldn't that mean that all the women of the world are hard-drinking, sex starved animals? That's not true, otherwise it wouldn't be so difficult for me to find a woman that gives great head.

Yeah, yeah, I know that the only person causing a problem in that regards is me.

Saturday night, as I walked along the path to Anthony's place, weaving and skipping my way around the lake, destined for drunkeness, I looked off to the north only to see that the moon was abnormally large, white and bright enough to burn a hole through the retina in my right eye. Great, I hope this is isn't an omen for the course my night is bound to take, I thought.

As I arrived at Anthony's, I shrugged off the overwhelming feeling of impending and unavoidable doom, chugged a red, plastic glass of keg beer and tinkered with my nose ring a little, never fully realizing the direct implications of the lunar schedule on the outcome of my night. That realization would come later.

Also, having Jon dressed up as Magnum P.I, completely with cheesy, Just For Men soaked mustache and Detroit Tigers hat is as a good a way as any to forget one's troubles.

Let's take a moment to look at last month's bone chilling, day-long episode of the dramedy that is my life, shall we? I can't believe that I just wrote the word "dramedy".

I was neck-deep in dealing with a crazy, stalker ex-girlfriend that thought it appropriate to leave false-voiced messages on a friends phone, not fully understanding that, hey, even though you can costume your voice, it's not going to change the stomach turning reaction I get from hearing it. To borrow a phrase from a friend: "what a fucking whack-a-doo!" I was also trying to figure out what, if anything, to do about a girl that wanted to give me a hernia check with her mouth, just a few minutes after meeting me at William's. There was only one option, and that was to Brillo pad my brain in hopes that I'd forget she ever existed. It didn't work, in case you're wondering.

So, the last full moon was a Snickers bar--chock full o' nuts.

I don't have the energy to recount the various instances of drama during my one hour stint at the Independent on Saturday night. Believe me, it was coming from more than one source, all in varying degrees of fucked-in-the-head. And it could've been worse. I'm pretty sure that Emily was there that night, too, because I saw her friend Jenny, and those two rarely go galavanting around town without eachother. I didn't try to seek her out, though. Long story. Not getting into it right now.

Now knowing that a full moon equals estrogen overload, at least I'll be fully aware of the possibility of behavior abnormalities oozing from female types in and around May 23rd. Consider my calender marked.

One thing still baffles me, though. I use this here blog as an outlet for frustration, not in an attempt to be a digitally penned Bassanova. A friend told me that I should be getting laid more due to my writing, but that's not my intention. Come on, what sane man would ever expect women to fawn all over him when his subject matter includes, but is not limited to, poop, unintentionally politically incorrect humor, and last, but certainly not least, Emily? Not I, that's for damn sure.

I've been writing about her for 4 years now, and it boggles my mind that any other girl would still be interested in me after reading of our sordid, drawn-out, 10 year lust affair. Why any self-respecting woman would put themselves through such an unhealthy torture, well, that's beyond me. It's not wise.

I am bruised fruit, man. I am a dented can of generic, black and white label peas.

It's one thing if they don't read my blog, because at least in that respect they're being lied to. But, when someone religiously reads the shit that pukes out of my brain--and face it, we're all devout members in the Church of Chad--they know too much about me. Knowing too much about me is a bad, bad thing.

That's why it's impossible for me to date another online "friend". I've done it before, and it causes me to shutter up my writing windows, closing myself off completely. I feel like I should censor myself, and I hate, hate, hate worrying if the shit I spew will offend or hurt someone. And, if I ever had to choose between writing and a girl, there's not a girl alive that stands a chance, not even Emily.

Writing is the only mistress I need.

Beer being my main bitch, of course. I just wish she'd learn to fellate me without all the teeth-scraping.

Part V:

(Hey, look--I posted this right today! If you missed the first 4 parts, scroll down and read up)

I thought about detailing the rest of Sunday night, but I've come to the conclusion that some things are better left unwritten. It doesn't matter. I dropped her off at her apartment at 11:30 am on Monday, almost 24 hours had passed since we met up. After not even having written contact for 2 years, to say that I'm baffled is an understatement.

As of right now, I'm not all that worried about where this is heading. I've done that before, and I already know that it just doesn't work. There are some things that I have figured out, though.

• Something is different
  I don't know quite know how to explain it, but Emily is not the same person that I remember from two years ago. She's not worse, definitely not worse, just different. From the steps she takes to initiate physical contact--like holding hands, you sick-fucks--to the way she kisses me, all the way down to spending the entire day together and not getting the impression that she had somewhere else to be--it's all different.
  
  I don't know if it's because she feels terrible for the way she treated me--which she should--and she's trying to make up for lost time, or if there's another motive behind it. I've spent so long being there for this girl, that it's nice, for once, to have her respond in kind, even if the moment is fleeting.
  
  Yes, yes, I know. It's only been a few days. I'm not holding my breath.

• I'm sick of pussyfooting around our issues
  Two years is a long time to think about something like this. I look back and realize that there are times that I let her run over me. I don't feel that she did it intentionally, but I was there to be an emotional chew-toy--just there to gnaw on for awhile and then spit out when something else tickled her fancy.
  
  Hi, I'm a pussy sometimes. Fuck that.
  
  I get nothing out of being timid with her, and blunt and honest is now the name of the game. What do I have to lose? Absolutely nothing.
  
  "You know, I'm sick of always being second best, or always taking a back seat to everything else in your life, whether that be another guy, your career goals, or whatever. I just don't think I fucking deserve that." I said while we were laying in bed yesterday morning.
  
  The only response she could give was a pained frown and timid stammering.
  
  I don't expect anything from her this time around. I don't expect that she'll finally realize that we're perfect together, and that we're the only people responsible for making this 10,000,000x more difficult than need be. I would, however, appreciate a little of the respect that I've been doling out to her for close to the last decade. I don't expect it, but it sure would be nice.

• We will never have a platonic relationship
  There is no way in Jesus-tapdancing-Christ that we'll ever be "just friends". Been there, done that, and we both know that we're too sexually and physically charged together to ever have that work in the long run. Almost a decade we've been doing this. We part, have a reunion, part, have a reunion and each and every time we meet again, the attraction is still there, and it's like we never spent any time away. There is a reason for it. What is it? Who-the-fuck knows.
  
  You know how when you break up with someone, and the next time you see them that feeling you once got from just by having them near isn't there? That's never happened between Emily and I. We now have come to grips that we'll be doing the same thing 10 years from today, as well. Unless someone is run over by a steamroller, we are bound to repeat the cycle again.
  
  So, what are our options?
  
  We could, of course, continue to relearn how great it feels to be around each other. You know, hanging out, talking, laughing, drinking, ending up together in bed when the mood strikes us, which oddly enough, sounds like a real relationship, only minus the label of boyfriend/girlfriend.
  
  Hi, could we lie to ourselves even more?
  
  I've had that type of relationship before, and they can be so much fun. Really, they can. The problem arises when one person finds someone else that they like to date, and hello, that relegates me to second best again. Huh.
  
  We both know that washing our hands and simply walking away is another, viable option. On the other, dirtier set of hands, I highly doubt that either of us is quite that strong right now. It might save a little pain in the present for what might be a castastrophe in the future, though.
  
  Here's the problem--and I'm writing this part as a reminder to to bring this up to Emily the next time I see her--that I have with taking the cowards way out and walking away: As I get older, I see more and more just how fragile life is. Whether that be witnessing my parents age and the health problems associated with that, or that I'm more aware of the world than when I was younger, I don't know. When you're young, you think you're bulletproof. Nothing can touch you, and you think you'll live forever. So, the small pain now vs. large pain later makes sense on that level.
  
  Not that 30 is relatively old, or that I'm all that wise, but a few years ago I wouldn't have understood just how flawed that concept it.
  
  Let's just say that we both chose "walking away" as the only course of action between us. We'll both hurt for a little bit, but life isn't that one dimensional, and you can't predict, ever, what will happen.
  
  What happens if, after walking away, the other person is in a tragic car accident and dies? Not fun to think about, but it happens more than we want to believe. Well, not only is there the intial hurt of having to walk away from someone, but it's also compounded by their death, and losing someone that was once special to you. On top of that the pain is magnified because you missed out all the time that should've been spent together, but you were too busy worrying about what might happen, rather than just enjoying what is happening.
  
  We've now got 3x times the hurt due our own, stupid safety mechanism!
  
  This whole entry turned into one clusterfuck of a Nike ad, but life is short, and any energy used on worrying about what "might" happen, well, that's just wasted energy.
  
  Why do we do this?

Fuck, nice work, Captain Tangent.

What do I think about this? I have no clue. Is their a very real threat that I might get hurt, worse even? Hurt, yes. Worse? Probably not. The thing that hurt me most two years ago was not having answers to why she was being shady and reclusive. I've got some answers, and my only goal right now is to find out as many as possible.

So that's where it stands, and all I can say right now is "We'll see."

Oooops. I am a dumbass, and it's a good thing Chris mentioned it, but I forgot to post Part III before I posted Part IV. Stories tend to flow better when you don't leave a WHOLE SECTION OUT.

Ok, Part III has been added where it's supposed to be. Scroill down, and it should make more sense now. At least I hope it does.

(4th installment. Read the first three, then come back)

The LCD screen lit her face while she read as I sat on the bed and worried. She laughed at all the appropriate places. That is, until she got to a paragraph near the end.

"Hate fuck? You wanted to hate-fuck me?" she eeked out inbetween uneasy laughs.

I explained that it was hyperbole for effect, and that at the time, I was mad at her. Sure, I wouldn't have minded having sex with her, but even I acknowledge that using the phrase was a little strong. Not that I would ever go back and edit it, though.

"Still. Hate-Fuck? She questioned again.

"We both know it would be impossible to hate-fuck someone you don't actually hate. I haven't forgiven you for how you treated me, but believe me, you wouldn't be here right now if I hated you." I replied.

She let it go.

Laying on the bed, I extended my arms and made grabby hands towards her. When you take something from a baby, they usually extend their arms, flex their fingers, clench and unclench their tiny, fat fists because they want the object back--that's what I call "grabby hands". That's my way of saying to Emily "Get over 'ere." And you know what? It works. I perform grabby hands, and she obeys.

I pulled her close and we curled up on top of a clump of sheets in the middle of my unmade bed, talking about other sections of the story.

"You'd really have babies with me?" she asked.

I've vehemently insisted that I never want kids, mostly because I haven't found anyone that I'd be comfortable having kids with. I'm sure that once I find that perfect person, everything will feel "right" enough, and hey, I may even want her to squirt out a few of my red-faced alien offspring. The prospect of having kids with Emily has never scared me, though. Will that every happen? All signs point to no, but if anything, it proves that I'm not a completeley heartless, selfish asshole. There's hope for me yet.

"So...you thought we'd ultimately get divorced?" she finally asked. I was waiting for this one just because I knew it was easily defensible.

Given her actions over the course of the months after returning from Ireland, there was nothing in the way she spoke, the way she acted, or the way that she reacted to me that made me believe otherwise. She was selfish, and for lack of a better way to put it, acted crazy. She nodded as if saying "You're right." and that part of the conversation was dropped.

At the end of an awkward silence, I unwrapped myself from her body and got ready to meet up with friends at Old Chicago. It's odd--most of my friends, even my very best of friends, have never seen me with a girlfriend. And I can honestly say that they've never seen me with one that I've truly been interested in. Sure, there have been other girls, but with most of them I'm apathetic and indifferent. With Emily, though, I'm a retard.

Yeah, a huge retard. In fact, I would go so far as to say that when I'm around her, I definitely don't "look gay".

We only stayed at Old Chicago for one beer because Anthony and the guys were sitting outside, and Emily was too stubborn to bring a jacket with. From the OC, we went to the Independent to grab something to eat and a half an hour later, we were laying on my bed again, very much sober.

It was then that Emily leaned in and kissed me.

Anyone that really knows me, knows that I am not a sappy or overemotional person, nor am I all that romantic.

This kiss, though, there was something different about it.

Why is the room suddenly spinning?

[to be continued]

(If you missed the first two installments, scroll down and read from Part I and up. That should get you up to speed. If you care, that is.)

After I left Emily's at 6:30 in the am, I laid in my bed, staring at the ceiling, attempting the third-times-a-charm fall asleep method, but I couldn't shake the feeling of deja vu.

Our last night in Derry, we squeezed onto a couch as the sun came up, kissing and talking about where everything stood between us. Just the way she looked at me was enough to make me a shell of the man I was supposed to be. I, as a whole person, was "goo".

Last night was ended the same way--on the couch as the sun came up, talking and kissing, with her looking at me in that same exact way that makes me not me. I'm a sucker.

I slept for 3 1/2 hours, and that definitely wasn't enough. The only consolation in that is that at least I wasn't hungover. As fucked up as it is that I experienced deja vu Saturday night /Sunday morning correlating to my last night in Ireland with Emily, Sunday afternoon was more of the same, only reminiscent of the day that I met up with her in Dublin.

She's habitually slow in regards to getting ready in the morning, and Sunday morning was a direct replay of when we met at her hotel in Dublin. She was flighty, slow, and took her ol' sweet time getting her things together. Both times I could've very easily been annoyed, but I was more happy to be with her than anything else. And if anyone says that I'm too forgiving, you can eat my ass.

Are you catching on to the cyclical nature of our relationship? It gets better. Or worse, depending on if you're a half-full or or a half-empty type of person.

Our whole day was comprised of fragemented bits and memory inducing pieces of our dysfunctional, 9 year relationship.

9 years. Very few people reading this are older than I am, but for most of you, 9 years comprises a fairly large chunk of the amount the time that you've been alive. She's been around, left, around, left--rinse, repeat, wash--for one-fucking-third of my life.

I can't believe it, either.

We left her apartment--that's dangerously close to my old favorite bar, Lyle's--at 2:30 pm and walked towards the Walker Arts Center's grand reopening. There were far more people than I wanted to deal with, especially considering the number of answers that I wanted to get from this girl. I didn't want to be around a lot of people. So, we walked on.

As we were crossing the pedestrian bridge over Hennepin and Lyndale, Emily made a comment that didn't register at first.

"Didn't we go through this park when you walked me back to Jesse's?"

I didn't understand, but when she mentioned Our Lady Peace, the significance hit me in the face harder than a burlap sack full of baby carcasses. Is that the plural? Carcassi? Regardless, it hit me hard.

Pssst, this is where you have to click the link to get the backstory here. That way, I don't have to make this longer than need be.

Anyhow, we walked through Loring Park, and planned on getting something to eat at a restaurant along Nicollet. The conversation was a little awkward at times, so how do we remedy that?

A drink, of course!

We settled on The Local, and if you're not familiar with the significance, this will fill you in, in detail. Basically, it was the very last place I ever saw Emily, about two years ago.

We had a drink, and talked about things that mattered. None of the "How are your parents?" bullshit that we don't need to weed through. This was heavy conversation that both of us handled pretty well, all things considering.

We are adults, after all.

As the Local is super expensive drink-wise, even mid-Sunday afternoon, we set off to Pizza Luce to eat and enjoy happy hour. More conversation, and that conversation turned to seemingly harmless flirting. We were both only one drink deep at this point, so it's not even right to blame it on the alcohol. That's just how we are.

We could not talk for, say, two years...hey, wait! That's how long it's been! What a coincidence. Anyhow, we're the type of people that are always going to have an attraction to each other. We get together, and the invetible happens; we stand close, hold hands, hug and act exacly like all those couples that I abhor.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

We left Luce and were on our way back up to my place so that I could change, when we passed Rock Bottom Brewery. We popped in there for a pint of stout, and it wasn't until Emily mentioned that it tasted like black licorice that I decided it was icky. Up til then, I thought it tasted like a combination of coffee and chocolate, but the second she planted the black licorice seed in my brain, I couldn't finish my beer. I hate black licorice.

The walk from dowtown to my house is somewhere around 20 blocks. Not a long walk by any means, but long enough to sober me up.

I wish I could pass blame on the Smithwick's for showing her a story that included her, but all I could do is wait for her reaction after I fired up my computer and said that she should read this.

I'm either really stupid, or really, really stupid.

I laid down on my bed in wait to find out which.

[To be continued]

Part II:
(If you missed part I, scroll down and read up from the bottom)

"Emily!

She turned and gave me the same, sheepish smile that I remember oh-so-well from the Our Lady Peace show 3 years ago. The situations are oddly similar, but this time the falling-out preceding the reunion was much more severe.

"Have you talked to Jon, lately?" she asked.

"Not for a week, or so" I replied. "Why?"

She saw Jon, my old roommate, last Thursday while he was working at Trygz, and asked him to say hello to me for her. That was her way of feeling out the situation rather just blindsiding me by asking for my new celly number. She was also afraid that I wouldn't want to talk to her

"Well, do I have any reason that I'd want to talk to you?" I said.

And that's the last I remember being all that snarky to her, as we talked about how we've both been lately.

Shortly after the last time we talked in April of 2003, she got into a relationship with a guy that was controlling and abusive. She wasn't allowed to talk to her friends, let alone me, hence the reason for the complete ignore thing that she did. I wouldn't consider it valid as an excuse in the least, but fucked up relationships do fucked things to seemingly normal people. He wouldn't even let her go out with her friends, apparently, for fear that she'd do something stupid, like cheat on him.

He fucked with her head huge, even going so far as getting to her believe that I was the crazy stalker type because of how I reacted around the time they got together. Admittedly, I was a little over-the-top, but I can't imagine how anyone would react differently when not getting answers to questions they had that should've been easily answerable.

She had been living with him after he moved to California, and the only way that she escaped from the abuse is that her friend, Jenny, the blonde girl with her that night at the Independent, bought a one-way ticket to Cali, pushed her in a car, and drove her back to Minnesota.

When we were driving around Ireland together, I told her flat out "Emily, this isn't you." in regards to a messed up work situation she had gotten herself mixed up in. Saturday, she finally admitted that I was right, and that her actions the last 3 years "were not her". She is not the girl that you'd typically pick out as one that gets stuck with an abusive boyfriend, as she's got much more going for her than just some insecure shmuck ever deserves. It even happens to the best of girls, too, I suppose.

The last three months she's been living in a studio apartment that's only a few blocks from my old place. Recently, she's walked by where I used to live, hoping that my car would be out there, and she could either talk to me or leave a note on my car, because she had so much that she had to talk to me about.

It's probably better that we ran into one another the way we did, because I don't know how well I would've handled her showing up on my doorstep with an apology. At least in a public place, neither of us is willing to do something stupid, or embarrassing.

We closed down the bar with beer, apologies and a little bit of crying, but nothing that both of us couldn't handle. A year ago, I wouldn't have dealt this as well as I did.

As we walked outside, she asked for my number so that we could meet up on Sunday because she still had certain things that she wanted to talk to me about. I agreed, as we'd never came to a definite conclusion about anything we talked about that night. I walked her to the car that she and her friends had all piled into, and that's when she asked me if I wanted to come over that night.

"Thanks, but no thanks. I need sleep, and it's better that I just go home to my own bed."

I slowly walked home, a little numb as to the night's events. As I washed my face and got ready for bed, I was still trying to get myself to believe that every thing at the Independent was a booze-induced hallucination, or that I'd wake up to find that her number wasn't in my phone.

We all knew that my willpower in declining her invitation would only last so long, and I called her shortly after I realized there's no way I'd be able to sleep not knowing what else it was she had to say to me. Was it good? Was it bad? I needed to know.

I packed a little bit of this, and a little bit of that(no whiffle ball bat) in my backpack, walked my bike downstairs and headed off towards my old neighborhood close to 3am. I arrived outside her building a few minutes later and she came down to get me.

There isn't much to say about the rest of the night. We talked a little, but not as much as I might've hoped because Jenny was staying over at her place. When Emily passed out next to me on the futon at 6:30am, I slid my arm out from underneath her, kissed her on the nose, retrieved my bike from the basement bike storage area, and slowly peddaled my way home in a hazy fog, not unlike the one that was clouding my brain.

I only hoped that I'd be able to sleep at least the tiniest bit before meeting up with her on Sunday. Something felt different in the way Emily was acting. Not good, not bad, just different.

[to be continued]

I wasn't sure if I was going to write this up, because for one, I don't even know what to think about it right now, and two--even though it's been less than two days--the story is long. Due to that, I'm going to break it down in parts.

Most reading this are in the know as to who Emily is, mainly because this whole relationship dates back 1/3 of my life. For those that have no clue what I'm talking about, read this.Most people that don't already know about her, probably don't care. No biggie, but it's a good story, nonetheless.

To be concise, Emily is the girl I shared an incredible trip to Ireland with 2 years ago, and susequently had a fiery falling-out with a few months after that. We've been on this relationship rollercoaster since we met during her freshman year in college. She just turned 27 late last month.

Hope that helps.

Part I:

Early Saturday evening I was at Canterbury Park, figuratively getting my ass handed to me at the poker tables by a fat man with an emornous tuft of white chest hair poking out from the neckline of his orange t-shirt. It's a good thing that Jeremy did so poorly, otherwise I would've been down much more than I happened to win on my first casino trip on Wednesday.

We left around 10 pm because both Jeremy and I had lost a large chunk of money to bad players, and Josh had to get back to the city for a night out with one of his buddies that's moving out of state in a few weeks. When we arrived at my apartment around 11, I wasn't even sure I wanted to go out. Josh was going to the Red Dragon, which, though I like, I didn't want to sit at after losing money at the tables. I'd absentmindedly left my celly at home that afternoon, and when I checked to see if anybody else had any other options for me, I noticed that Anthony had called just a few minutes before, saying that they were going to be at the Independent.

It's times like these that I take a step beck and realize just how absurdly different my life would be today, Monday, if I opted to minutely change my plans and stay in for the night. If you would've told me sometime last week that, Saturday, I'd run into Emily, at my bar of all places, the only reaction I'd have is to give a slight laugh and follow it up by puking in your shoe.

Unpossible.

As I walked in the bar, nothing was out of the ordinary. My friends were drunk and hitting on all the suburban girls that were too dumb to admit that the tag on their Kate Spade purse really read "Kate Spode", and just like normal, the bartender shook my hand and said "Miller Lite?"

I nodded and scanned the room, looking for anyone that I know outside the friends that I'd planned on hanging out with. My friends are great, and a hell-of-a lotta drunken fun, but I was sober and they were completely ass-faced drunk. I don't deal well when I'm that sober.

I didn't notice anyone that I knew. I did, however, see a few people that I thought I might, possibly, maybe, sort of recognize. Minneapolis is a small town and that type of thing happens all the time. I know that person from somewhere, but where? Most of the time you just occupy a lot of the same bars on the same nights, but there are few times that you really don't want figure out how you know them.

Two inparticular, stuck out to me; a tall guy with curly blond hair, and a shorter girl with long blonde hair. I know my descriptions are terrible, but I have trouble remembering details when I'm sober. Deal with it.

I know those people, but from where?

I had them pegged for people that attended Minnesota State University-Mankato at the same time I did, but there's something more. I knew them better than that. As in, we'd probably talked on numerous occasions, and I could even hear the girl's voice ringing through my head.

Oh shit. Shit. SHIT!

After her voice left my head, it was immediately followed by Emily's voice, and at that moment, I realized who they two people were, and where I knew them from. They both went to high school with Emily, and we all attended the same college at the same time. The were both very good friends with Emily, and in a hometown that small, everyone usually goes out to the bar in a group.

So, where was she? She had to be there.

I turned my eyes towards the floor, silently weighing my options. What would I do if she really was at the bar? There was the whole punching in face vs. hate-fucking scenario, but the only outcome those produced ended in me getting 86'ed from the bar where everybody knows my name. Or, at least a few people know it.

Fine, I'm the only one that knows my name there, but at least everybody recognizes my face. And that's enough for me.

With those options being out of the question, I requested a refill on my empty beer. I don't know what it is about The Hoppy Goodness, but it makes me have to pee. I'm an odd duck, I know. As a reflex of the having to pee, I looked back towards the bathroom to see if a line had formed, and as I looked over and around people walking, I saw Emily.

Shit.

She was sitting right off to the side of where I had to walk if I wanted to empty the ol' bladder. I closed my eyes, put my full pint of beer to my lips, and chugged. I've never done a beer bong in my life, and I'm not a chugger, but it wasn't until I opened my eyes again that I noticed my glass was empty, and the only thing I'd been swallowing for the last 4 or 5 seconds was air.

The swallowed air combined with the nervousness I felt over seeing Emily for the first time in over two years produced a feeling deep inside my body that can only be described as "puketastic". And as the beer settled deeper into my stomach, the pukey feeling shifted more towards something I like to call "shit-a-riffic".

Whatever you call it, it wasn't good.

Emily was sitting with a guy that I didn't recognize, so I wasn't about to walk up to her, though, surprise is probably the best plan of attack with a girl like this. There's no reason to announce my arrival, just barge in and fuck things up like I feel I should be allowed.

In the span of 10 minutes, I think I drank 3 pints of Miller Lite. I don't remember if that's exactly right, as my head was too fuzzy with things that I wanted to say and the conflicting orders that my brain was sending my arms.

"You better punch her"

"No, we're going to work as a team and hug the damn girl."

Considering that conversation, it seems like I could've had closer to 5 beers, who knows. I did know for sure that I wasn't leaving that bar without talking to her, and the conversation was going to take place with me, hopefully, at least partially drunk.

I took a sip from my pint, and as I removed the edge of it from my lips, I noticed that her friend, the blonde, was walking by me, followed by a straggling Emily. And best of all, no guy.

This was my chance. As she walked by, I yelled out.

"Emily!"

[to be continued]

Remember The Girl that, if I ran into randomly on the street, I wouldn't know if I'd rather punch or hate-fuck her?

Last night I had my chance, and I dropped the ball. I couldn't punch her in the throat, and it's hard to hate-fuck someone with which you hold such an unbelievably deep emotional attachment.

She lives in my neighborhood now, and as of today, Sunday, I am too wonkified to understand if this is a good development or leaning more towards the bad. Whoever said "There's a thin line between love and hate" needs to eat shit and die, because I'm tiptoeing that line after a late night of apologies and I'm sorrys, and all it'll take is a slight breeze to push me one way or the other.

If you don't hear from me for a few days, you know why.

One question before I go, though.

What should I legally change my name to: Rob Gordon, or John Cusack?

I am addicted to Caribou's large iced mocha. I blame Alicia. Sadly, all she would do tee hee at me, so it's no use holding a grudge. Still, it's her fault, and at almost $4 a pop, it's an expensive fault.

I hate coffee, though. It tastes like dirty, tepid water that's been passed over a fat man's ass, and then pushed through a filter made of shit, after which it's poured into the mouth of a man with severe ginigivitis and spit into my glass. It's downright disgusting. Anyone that can drink their coffee black--hey, just like I like my men!--well, they need a brainyotomy. Something's just not working right.

Espresso tastes different than coffee, it really, really does. I can't get enough. When I drink it, I want to make love to my cup, but the opening is too big, and that's depressing, so I just drink it instead. I tell myself "No Chad, you don't need it", but I can only avoid it's siren song for about 10 minutes. Then I get the shakes, and I don't want the shakes so I drink the mocha and the mocha is good so I drink more, and I feel better, but then I get the shakes from the espresso but I still feel better than without it AND THEN OH MY GOD IT'S ALL DOWNHILL FROM THERE.

By downhill, I mean downstairs. To the bathroom.

Seriously, do I have "I'm Freaker Friendly!" tattoed on my forehead? Is my breath infused with a weirdo attracting pheremone that science doesn't know about yet? If that's the case, I need to chop off my head or just stop breathing so damn much.

Last night I went to William's by myself for a quick 2-4-1. Yes, we all know that by this point, I'm pretty much "asking for it" when I go there alone, but I wanted to get out of the house for a bit. I had no more than taken my first sip from my Limon-n-water(with a lemon!), that I became aware of a man standing dangerously close to my left-hand side, staring at me. I did what any other uncomfortable person in my predicament would: I looked his way.

"Hey", I said with an empty nod.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he slurred in the accent of a Midwestern Drunk that I knew all too well.

Where I'm from, "Hey" means "Hey, Creep. I don't want to talk to you. I just acknowledeged that you are, indeed, breathing.", not "Hey, I like having alcohol bought for me by guys I don't know."

"No thanks. I've got two drinks already" I faux-apologetically replied while making sure he noticed my glasses were indeed full.

"Are you sure? They're free. No? Ok, your loss." He pleaded while pointing to a not-so-crisp Twenty.

He turned away to get the bartenders attention, and when he noticed that she was way at the other end of the bar, he turned back towards me.

"Free drink? Ah, I wonder if they have coffee." he questioned.

It was through his repeated begging and my determined denial that I realized that he was not a midwestern drunk--he was German and very drunk. His frustration with the lack of service grew, and he definitely voiced it. Not loud enough for anyone outside of me could hear it, but I noticed.

"Fuck!" he muttered under his breath, followed by some German gibberish that I'm sure would make Hitler proud. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

At this point, I was mentally ready to react by diving behind the bar in the event that he pulled a Luger from the crotch of his pants . I was never a Boy Scout, but I see no harm in always being prepared.

Do you hear that? It's the sound of a cannonball of a question about to hit my square in the jaw, and won't realize it's implications until long after it was asked.

"Are there any hotels in this neighborhood?"

What an odd question. Whatever would he need a hotel for in Uptown? Is he lost?

"No, man. Downtown. There are plenty of them Downtown, but none around here" I replied, dumbstruck.

See, now I was thinking that maybe I had read him all wrong. Perhaps he was just a friendly German tourist that had lost his way after all? That still doesn't answer why he'd be looking for a hotel room at 11 o'clock on a Tuesday night, but what did I care? People are weird.

His annoyance levels through the bar's high ceiling due to still not being served, he gave me a tap, tap on the shoulder, an "Ok, buddy" and one last muttered "Fuck." and he was out the door.

After he left, I talked to the manager, Mike, about him. Turns out that he was in there just last week, drunk, and drinking coffee. He was acting odd then, too. He thanked the bartender--by shaking his hand-- for making the "best coffee he's ever had". And he wouldn't let go. Mike said that he stood there smiling, shaking his hand, for like a minute.

Mike also said "Oh yeah, he's gay."

And that's when it really hit me--I was just propositioned by a drunk, gay German guy to have dirty, dirty hotel room sex. He was into men, and I was his attempted, and subsequently, failed conquest for the night. The dirty Twenty he held was probably earned through a hard Monday night of glory-holing.

Ew.

I bet he wouldn't say "Danke Shoen" in the morning, the fucking Kraut.

Funny:Petty property border disputes between two gay men.

Funnier:One of the parties involved(the next door neighbor, actually)--while holding a Bichon under each arm-- being chased down the driveway as the other squeals "Get your fat ass off my property!"

Funnierest:My roommate, Colin, devising a plan to prank call next door neighbor, but then chickening out using "What if they catch me?" as his excuse. Colin, it's a prank call, not a death threat. Also, they're gay, not Italian. What--do you think they're going to sick the Prada Mafia on you? Even if they did, they wouldn't kill you, they'd just make you look pretty and teach you how to accessorize.

Speaking of gay men--why do so many of them own Bichon Frises? My landlord has at least two of the little ankle-biters, and the next door neighbor has at least as many, if not more. When a man comes out of the closet, is there someone there ready to bestow a congratulatory Bichon on them?

"Here's your one allotted, non-shedding dog for admitting you're gay. The rest you have to buy on your own. Happy Homo-ing!"

Holy shit, I just had an epiphany. It all makes sense.

It's like "Book It" for gay men. Instead of receiving a personal pan pizza for every 5 books read, the gay receive a Bichon for every straight man they convert.

They don't want me, they just want the doggy!

This story just keeps getting better.

Remember how I had Dawn call both weird numbers? Well, one of them was routed directly to Carrie's voicemail, which I'm guessing was at her house. The other was, more than likely, a cell phone, because Dawn said that it sounded like the girl was driving in a car when she answered.

When the girl in the car picked up, Dawn made up a fictional person--Katie-- that she was trying to get ahold of. Apparently, Carrie has Caller ID at home as well. How do I know?

Thanks for asking!

Dawn got a call last night from a number that came up as "Restricted", so she did the smart thing and let it go to her voicemail. When she her messages, this is what it said:

"Hi, I'm looking for Dan..oops, I mean Dawn. Yeah, and you sound like a bitch!"

*click*

It doesn't take Stephen Hawking to figure this out. My guess is that Carrie matched up the number from the missed call on one phone to the wrong number call on another, and realized that someone was fucking with her. Whether or not she thinks that someone is me, I don't know. How would she?

In other news, did I tell you that I bought a pet rabbit last week? His name is Floppsy.

[To eveyrone whose number I should have in my phone: If we've talked in the past month or two, and you think you should be entered into my phone book, please let me know. It's possible that I haven't saved your number. The reason I ask for your number again is because I'm not answering any call from a number I don't know.]