No. 131 "The Worst Day (Part 1)."

It was Spring 2006. Failure to Launch was the number one movie in America for some odd reason, James Blunt wrote a song that would guarantee him poon tang for life and I was living in Flagstaff during my sophomore year of college. Life was good as I was making the obligatory transition from socially awkward teenager with bad skin to outgoing twenty year-old with an Accutane prescription. I was enrolled in courses that actually related to my major and involved in my first real relationship. My girlfriend and I had been dating since the previous December and the relationship was chock full of giggles and blow jays.

Who doesn't love a film whose title is a facsimile for erectile dysfunction?

Looking back, dating this particular girl was about as regrettable as shaving your balls. I'll illustrate for my female readers reader: Every man has made this mistake in his life; where he believes that curtailing his fun sack will make his man area more comfortable and aesthetically pleasing to the female eye. Be that as it may, it is not worth it by the second day where you are compelled to scratch your nether regions uncontrollably like a rabid grizzly bear with crabs. But you live and you learn, I suppose.

Anyway, said girlfriend was living in Scottsdale and I in Flagstaff so not only was I concurrently having my first meaningful relationship, but I was also doing it long distance. This is comparable to going into a boxing match with absolutely no training, drunk. But, that's another story I'll tell another time.

At this juncture in my life, immaturity was at the forefront of my existence, and I cared nary a bit as I was much more interested in finding burnouts to buy me booze and playing video games where running over hookers with stolen cars was the primary objective. Unfortunately, due to a lack of friends who would agree to live with me, I had to reside in the dreaded dorms for yet another year. These rooms were a bit larger than my freshman year living quarters. I shared a bathroom with three other people instead of eighty, so it was certainly a step up in the "did I just step in cum?" department.

I had a new roommate for the spring semester since my old roommate had failed out of school. He was a nice, unassuming Asian dude named Jim -- or Yim? I called him Jim, so that was his name. Within the first ten minutes of meeting him I realized that we were not destined to become BFF's and share inside jokes while we rode a tandem bicycle. I just prayed for him not to turn out to be insane; or worse, super religious.

By this point in the semester, it was midterm season and I was preparing for my exams by getting drunk every night and procrastinating so efficiently that it became ironic. That day I had my first midterm of the semester in my Electronic Media class. I decided not to study until thirty minutes before the test began and felt very confident in my ability to procure a C on the test based solely on my charm and good slightly above average looks.

Needless to say, I failed the shit out of the test. I couldn't have done worse if I tried to intentionally fail the test in some sort of bizarro world where ineptitude was rewarded. After I handed in my scantron, the professor didn't even take the time to grade the test; he simply wrote "F" with a big red marker and told me to fuck off and die. Or something like that.

This was the first "important" test I had ever failed. Flunking an exam in World Politics was no big deal since it was an elective and I could drop the class dexterously. This really got to me, and I almost began to break down and cry on my long, dejected walk back home. Luckily, I was wearing sweet sunglasses, so even if I started to bawl like a volatile chick during the peak of her menstrual cycle, I would still look fly.

Finally, I made it back to my dorm where I decided that a few hours of mindless Halo would dispel my woes and cheer me up. Unluckily for me, as I opened my door, I received a eyeful of my roommate jerking off to hentai porn. How did I know it was hentai porn, you may ask? Well, what other porn gives you brief epilepsy after only catching it for a quarter of a second? Plus my roommate was an Asian nerd, so do the math. I hastily slammed the door and fled for my buddy Branden's room to feverishly rinse my eyes with hydrogen peroxide.

After flushing the nauseating image out of my eyes, Gideon decided to stop by. Let me give you a little back story on Gideon so you can fully comprehend my disdain for his entire existence. He was a hipster before hipsters weren't cool. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, spoke in a matter-of-fact way that made most people who had even the briefest conversation with him contemplate the repercussions of homicide. And, he was in my Electronic Media class. For some reason, Branden was friends with this dip shit, and that almost made me want to terminate my friendship with Branden based on his sheer defiance.

Gideon in his natural habitat.

Our conversation that day went something like this: (Just picture Gideon as a low-rent Jason Schwartzman, and me as a handsome motherfucker).

Gideon: "Good afternoon, gentlemen. I was on my way to promote some band you have never heard of, but wanted to stop by to borrow a vintage scarf since I'm a pompous asshole."

Me: "Why do you talk like that? No, we don't. Go away before this room turns sepia."

Gideon: "Rats. Oh, Patrick, did you receive your exam results in EM?"

Me: "No. They're online? I guess I'll check it out later. Good luck finding that scarf. I guess I'll see you later."

Gideon: "I did very well on the exam, a 97% in fact. Why don't you look up your results now? There's a computer right here."

Me: "I'll do it later. Leave."

This went on for a few more exasperating minutes until I finally succumbed to his duplicity and looked up my certainly inadequate test score. I attempted to beguile Gideon into believing that the internet wasn't working by typing too many "W's" and ending the internet address in ".cum" but Gideon caught onto my brilliant plan and commandeered the keyboard from me. He reservedly brought up the test results himself, where I was greeted with a definitive 32% staring back at me from Branden's monitor. Lemon juice, meet wound.

My expression immediately went from "Maybe the Scantron fucked up and I got an A" to "Welp, I'm screwed. Now I'm going to have to murder my roommate so I automatically get all A's like in that one movie no one remembers the name of." Gideon couldn't hide his Schadenfreude and offered to tutor me at a discount.

After punching Gideon in his horn-rimmed glasses, I made the trek back to my room to see if Jim was "done." I cautiously knocked a few times and gave a full three-count before I slowly entered the room like an international jewel thief. The overall smell of the room was a hodgepodge of AXE body spray, tube sock, and dried semen. I really hate the smell of AXE. We exchanged awkward head nods as I walked in. Mine saying: "I know you just made your dick throw up, but I'm gonna pretend I didn't see what I saw and watch Sportscenter." And his saying: "I swear I wasn't whacking it. I just was readjusting my sweat pants and accidentally clicked on a weird porn site." We both decided that eye contact would not be necessary for the remainder of the semester.

I then made way to my computer to check out my MySpace account. (Remember, this was over five years ago, and it was totally cool back then, I swear). I logged on to see if anyone had commented on my new profile picture consisting of myself holding a beer and looking wasted. No new comments unfortunately, but one new message from my girlfriend. I expected a nice poem or cutesy message about how she missed me, but to no avail. Just four words that no guy ever wants to hear:

"We need to talk."




Part 2 coming soon.