I swear, all we did was talk

Right, and so this cute, granola-looking girl flaged me down in front of the library asking if I had some time to spare for the Democratic Party. Relieved that she was not another Jew for Jesus and not entirely looking forward to getting back from lunch on time, I lent her an ear. Well, half an ear, which is really a lot for me considering my political inclinations... or disinclinations as it were. She said something about regaining seats in Congress. The word "incompetence" was used in its usual capacity. It was a typical Democrat spiel/donation request, but the girl was enthusiastic and intelligent, and I was feeling generous, so I decided to give a little and secure my spot in heaven (or possibly hell depending on your God's political party affiliation.) She wanted $100, which is a little steep for me unless it's going towards jeans or home decorating. I settled on $25 and hoped I wasn't wasting her time.

She handed me her clipboard, and I filled out my information, making a game of guessing how many spam mailings and phone calls I would receive as a result. I lost count around infinity and decided to just be surprised. Suddenly, it seemed really important that I try and explain to this nice girl why I wasn't inclined to donate a full $100. Really, the reason was that that's a ridiculous amount to ask for, especially from me, who today looks like a college student or at least a hipster-type in nerd glasses and a little polo shirt and skinny jeans who works at an independant newspaper for free and as a barista on the side for almost free... either way, not someone who can afford to give $100 to everyone on the street who asks. So I racked my brain for an excuse and thought back to my most recent high but necessary expense.

Well it just so happens that that expense was the exterminator a couple weeks ago. Remember the bed bugs? Right. So I was all: "I'd give more, but I just paid an exterminator, it was horrible." And she asked why: "Oh God, what for?" And so I, being notorious for telling my life story to total strangers, proceeded to tell her ALL about the bed bugs. Well, it turns out this was just the catalyst for more. I used to think it was alcohol that put me into spill-my-guts mode, but it turns out living in a new city and having no friends can have similar effects to alcohol in that regard. So after the bed bugs, I told her about my job and how it doesn't pay enough, but everyone says that. And then I told her how I'm trying real hard to meet people, but it's just not working out as planned. We lamented the absence of the Guy who was supposed to be here to hand out the fortune and fabulous cosmopolitan lifestyle when we arrived. I told her all about looking for another job. (I might work for a catering company soon. She used to do that in college.) And I went on and on about every little thing that's been on my mind lately... all that big life stuff that you tell to your therapist, your boyfriend, and your mom.

I wasn't whining, and I don't think I sounded too pathetic. I'm not depressed or anything, please. But deep down inside, I felt like I was paying the Democratic party for the brief companionship of this girl. Step right up! $25 to tell this girl anything you want, just $25 folks! For as long as it takes you to fill out this clipboard, we'll give you a chance to let it all out, just $25 for the piece of mind that there's someone (anyone?) out there who will listen to your pathetic ramblings! I feel bad about it, possibly in a similar way to other men who pay for relations of any variety, not that I'd know anything about how that feels, I mean please, look at me. I just really needed someone to talk to at that exact moment. Thinking back on it, though, I think I just need to drink some beer. I haven't had beer in a long time. I need to drink beer and sit at a bar with a pool table and a juke box and Adult Swim playing on mute. It would help if it were filled with gay people. Do they even make those kinds of places in New York?

To conclude, today I paid the Democratic party for the companionship of a young woman. But don't tell her that. For some reason, girls don't like being compared to whores, I don't know why.

You're buggin' what, you're buggin' who, you're buggin' me, and don't you see that ain't cool

Today's topic is bed bugs comma the extermination of.

Woe unto me, I picked up this attractive little pestilence on the Fourth of July because I got drunk and went home with someone the night before, let's not discuss it. We're still dating. Whatever, I'm on it. A few days later: "Wow, I itch! Look at all these funny bumps. If I have scabies again, I'm going to kick his ass." Well when it didn't go away, I saw a young doctor (my insurance kicked in, YAY) and she told me "You have bed bugs." And I said "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you over your nose ring. Did you say bed bugs?" Well at least it wasn't scabies.

Ah, how naive. Now I pray nightly for scabies because bed bugs are so much horrider! Apparently I took one or two home that day, and they've been living in my house and liberally feeding on some of my fleshier areas. I had to call an exterminator, and he came Wednesday morning, which I also took off from work. Right, so he comes SUPER early in the morning because I guess his job doesn't suck enough so his company says he has to start work at 7 a.m. Fine whatever, I wanted him out, so the earlier the better. He proceeds to tear my entire house apart, checks every crack in the floors, all my corners and cabinets and bookshelves. He removes my mattress and flips over my bed (he is very strong) and wow, great, he didn't find any bugs anywhere. But he found "evidence" of them, which is ok because I had already. I knew they were there. Apparently not seeing any bugs is good, though, because it means there aren't very many. So I have concluded that I have 3 because I think that is a good number. I named them Lavergne, Cynthia, and Mariposa in the hopes that they are all female and will not reproduce.

So we locked up my retarded cat and he sprayed everywhere with this stinky wet stuff and I actually fell asleep on the couch until he kicked me off. In all, the exterminator got to see the weird yuck at the bottom of my sink, the dirty litter box, the furry couch, my book on anal sex that I forgot to hide (I didn't buy it, don't be ridiculous, someone left it on the recycle bin downstairs where the communal leave-your-book-here area is), and my dirty underwear which he actually touched. Whatever, who cares, I shower.

Oh, and there's no guarantee the bugs are gone because they're such good hiders. And I won't know for a while because the bites I already have will continue to itch and the ones I got before might take a day or two to show up.

It's disgusting. Just imagine for a moment going to sleep at night knowing with 100% certainty that a blood-sucking insect is going to feed on you in a matter of hours. Needless to say, I haven't slept well in two weeks, though I have some security now that my exterminator has been through.

Oh, but wait... it cost me $460. There goes my Paris vacation.

So don't get bed bugs. Don't ever go home with anyone. And try not to touch anyone ever again either. It's the only way to be safe.

Not that there's anything wrong with Chelsea (or Chipotle)

Yet another friend of mine is having issues with one of those ridiculous "tragic" gay boys that have afflicted all of our lives in some way or another. You know the type, and you know you've either dated, slept with, lived with, or been one before, probably all at once, which is basically the recipe for a supernova of inevitable yet needless drama about which you feel the need to complain to me even though I told you to stay away from the asshole in the first place. In case you're still unsure about to whom I am referring, here are some characteristics to help you paint a mental picture, though I encourage you to use washable paints:

• Is under 21, though as I progress through my own early twenties, it would seem this age level is negotiable
• Wears eyeliner, perhaps foundation (and if you're really lucky, eyeshadow) for attention because he's so unique and then wonders why he gets his ass kicked all the time
• Steals from, lies to, and plays head games with friends and is then gets mad when they get upset because they don't understand him
• Clothing and appearance can only be described as a cry for help
• Is convinced that all his hardships as a kid are worse than they really were and that somehow, that makes him better than the rest of us, I guess it's because he thinks bad things make them more mature or something, whatever get over it
• Usually is thin, goddamn him, but not in a sexy way. Gym what?
• Regardless of context, inserts stories of dubious veracity about how he sleeps around, knows lots of guys, strips, is addicted to drugs, and/or prostitutes himself (not that there's anything wrong with that) in a faux casual way, again, as if that makes him better because ooooh you have so much life experience and command over men, yet with this tragic acceptance, you must be really strong inside, but I still feel sorry for you, sure you can live with me until your parents let you go home again

You get the idea. And you probably have somebody in mind too. Right, so my friend was dissed by one even though he walked right into his stupid trap. So they have been talking for a while, and the kid says really nice things and calls him all the time but then is all mean and evasive, but my friend sticks around anyway. A few days ago, they're talking online when the kid said "I need sex" or something, and my friend was all "Yeah, right, well I can't right now, sorry" (only something more playful and coy) and the tragic kid was all "Whatever, I wasn't asking" (even though he was) and then my friend got all upset because he really liked the tragic kid, I dunno, maybe because of all the stimulating conversations they've had, who knows. The point is, the tragic kid told him he had no interest even though all he ever does it call my friend and act all interested, it's retarded. And he said some mean things.

So my friend writes me this whole big e-mail because he's upset (right, valid, the tragic kid is, after all, upsetting) and I'm like "Yeah, ok, I've heard this story before and I tried to tell it to you two weeks ago" but I didn't say that. I said this:

He's screwing with you. I wouldn't take anything he says seriously, be it nice or mean. His behavior is too inconsistent to be genuine, and I think you should just wash your hands of him and move on. If he calls to apologize, it will probably be to just string you along. People like him feel the need to collect followers, not necessarily for the purpose of having loyal subjects, but to have people to refer to in their head to justify their own image of value that they construct with exaggerated stories and made-up drama. I've come across 1,000 people like him, all the same, and they'll all end up either growing up and being mortified at how they acted as teenagers or not growing out of it, moving to Chelsea, sleeping around, pretending they've experienced everything and they know so much, and working the counter at Chipotle until they find some deluded younger guy to move in with (and not pay rent) because they think they can shape him into a decent human in their own image. So forget about it.

And don't feel bad about what he says. You can't properly construct an idea of what he really thinks of you when he plays games like that. At best he likes you and can't handle the prospect of a real friendship or relationship. At worst, he doesn't like you and is holding you in a manupulative limbo for his own benefit. Either way, there are better ways to spend your time.

Pack up, move on.

That's what I have to say. Oh, and also that you're 5 years older than me and even I'm too old for him, so you can borrow my calculator next time you meet someone who can't go to the bars.

That was the e-mail. Anyway, this is basically my public announcement that I don't want to hear it anymore, and if you're going to insist upon fawning over people with abhorrent personalities you deserve what you get. I encourage you to print out the above list and keep it with you when you go out so you can refer to it when you meet people. If they fit any one of those items, just walk away, except for the eyeliner one, that can be ok because boys in eyeliner are hot as long as they do it right, which a lot of them don't so use your judgment if you have any.