Going Under

My critical nature has always been a wobbly cornerstone in the foundation of my psyche. My analytical rants may be good for a laugh, but even hearty guffaws grow tiresome, like the body blows from an overzealous frat bother during a lengthy reacquainting. You once loved each other, but know you wish he'd just go away.

Debauchery is another disposition that can pollute my normally pleasant character, like silverfish in a bowl of Lucky Charms. Your favorite cereal is Magically Delicious®, so you disregard the tiny cockroaches while you dig for the purple horseshoes and green clovers in my red heart. Eventually entomophobia takes over and Wham!—I'm standing alone in sneakers and a bath towel at the Power Exchange Ballroom on a Saturday night.

Today I'm going to see Devo at Del Mar Downs with a lady friend. My on-again-off-again paramour has warned me to be sweet tonight: she's had a rough week, so she doesn't want me to act like a dick. She's not the first girl whose given me a pre-date playbook. When my first 10 girlfriends called me an asshole, I chalked up their unanimity to coincidence and estrogen. Now that's I'm living in an apartment with a dog and a cupboard full of Campbell's soup, I'm starting to think they might be right.

So tonight I'm going to be nice. If the conversation turns to politics, I'll tell her John McCain is a patriot, and that I don't see a hint of irony in the fact his running mate—the governor of Alaska—has a fondness for fur. If things get romantic, I'll leave my Mag light and alligator clips in the glove compartment

They say love is blind. If you have to bite your tongue this hard to avoid causing a scene, I'd call it epileptic


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