Awkward Things I Say To Girls


IT ALWAYS SEEMED LIKE THE RIGHT THING TO SAY AT THE TIME

Friends share beds all the time as, like, just friends. That’s not weird.

Monday, July 27th, 2009

Part 4 of 5, Chapter 20

I was on my bed with HCE stretched out next to me.

“But we made out four weekends ago.” She propped herself up on her elbow to look at me. “So it has to be our anniversary this weekend, right?”

I took my hand off her hip and brushed the hair out of her eyes. “This is ridiculous,” I subvocalize.

“No, you pick! We have to have an anniversary date. Honestly.” She rolls onto her back while I roll my eyes.

“Be a man,” I say, louder.

She covers the phone and shushes me. “He is!” she says. Then, back into the phone: “Sorry, a suitemate is being noisy. I’m just saying, you can’t have it both ways. You have to pick a date for us to celebrate our anniversary on.”

“I think YOU are.” I say, and reach for her crotch because I want to pretend to check, but also because it’s a crotch. She squeals and sits up.

“Can I call you tomorrow? Something fun is happening here now.” She hangs up with her boyfriend then, who still isn’t me. This is a fact that obviously is failing to bother me to a spectacular degree at that particular moment.

“Okay, mister.”

“What?”

“Please wait until I’m not on the phone with my boyfriend to molest me. It’s just not cricket otherwise.”

“First of all, talk to your boyfriend on your own damn bed. Second of all, I don’t molest you, I just gaze longingly.”

“This is my bed too for this entire week. Now move, I need to change shirts. Don’t look.”

In May of 2003, I came to briefly live with a girl I loved but who was dating someone else.

After too few weeks, Hot Copy Editor was regularly dating that boy she had invited to make out with her. I didn’t like him. Where the old Boyfriend had been Tatooine’s smoldering heat, the New Boyfriend was Hoth’s icy stoicism. He bored me.

“He’s boring,” I said.

“Are you listening to me?” she asked. “So they absolutely won’t give me an extension. I’ll have to move out into the street until my lease starts. I’ll be homeless and destitute!”

“Well why don’t you stay with me for a week?” I asked. “My roommates won’t mind.”

My roommates minded. “Justin, that devil girl is absolutely not moving into this apartment.”

“Aw, c’mon, guys, she has no place to stay. She’ll just stay in my room most of the time and she’s absolutely no trouble to take care of. Plus she already promised to do dishes.”

One roommate leaned forward. “I’m interested,” he said.

“Well, this way we could watch her destroy him firsthand. Think of it as ringside seats.”

“Okay, Justin, it’s a deal.”

I was as happy as a kidnapped clam with Stockholm syndrome.

There are things about having a girl wash dishes while you dry, fundamental species-consciousness things, things that engage the parts of my brain that are in my chest and that have been hollow so long I forget they’re there until they aren’t hollow for a few soapy minutes any more. Maybe at first you’re arguing about grammar, but before long incidental task-related physical contact devolves into soapsud attacks and water flicking, until you’re mock-angrily facing each other and the only reason you haven’t dissolved into a sudsy puddle of makeout on the kitchen floor is a flickering pilot-light of awareness that one of the two of you has a boyfriend.

This is the sort of ridiculousness that took place all week long. She whispered in my ear to distract me while I took a practice LSAT, ostensibly as some sort of distractibility resistance training, but mostly because it’s fun to whisper in a dude’s ear. I bet her that I could take her bra off with one hand one night, and she let me get my hand all the way up the back of her shirt, our faces close together and my other hand on her shoulder, until one of my roommates stumbled past the open door to my room and we guiltily separated, as though that were the line, that was the point where we grew consciences.

Why wouldn’t I assume that the new boyfriend was only temporary?

The Indians weren’t that good then, either.

Tuesday, June 10th, 2008

Part 4 of 5, Chapter 19

My whole world was just about complete.

Well, except for that HCE wasn’t actually really dating me. Yet. We went out on weekends and saw movies and had dinner, and we chatted online constantly and talked on the phone, plus we wrote notes to each other in class in the form of haikus where we told each other that the other one was cute. But, other than that, no. We weren’t dating.

Plus, I was busy limping out of school with the minimum possible academic performance. If collegiate (and subsequent) experience has taught me anything, it is this: if something comes so easily to you that you can rush through your homework and never study, which to you is a fantastic deal because you don’t really enjoy it much and want to get on to something else as soon as possible, that thing is not the sort of thing that you’d best choose as a major in college. “Wow,” you want to say of your chosen field. “I could listen to old people drone about this subject for hours! Then I want to rush to the bookstore and drop hundreds of dollars on hardback books about it that I will want to actually kind of skim!” If that is not you, then I hope you either prefer used books, or you are good at forcing yourself to do things that you find at least mildly unpleasant, which frankly is a useful skill that you wish I would acquire so that you could actually read this blog instead of refreshing it in vain. Well, college also taught me that wings and beer go great together.

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I really love waffles.

Tuesday, May 27th, 2008

Part 4 of 5, Chapter 18

Deep breath. Okay, another.

The professor is swimming in the front of the class, nattering about the difference between GDP and GNP. HCE is scribbling something in my notebook.

I could still throw up
It’s “Regurgitation Day”
I won’t if you won’t.

Waking up still drunk and going to class anyway wasn’t something I did a hell of a lot of in college, partially because our college was less fun than a pocket calculator with a personality disorder, and also because I didn’t go to a tremendous quantity of classes in the first place. That is, unless a certain someone was going to sit next to me and write haikus at me all class long. Especially if both you and that someone are coincidentally now single. I picked up the pen.

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I hope we can still be friends.

Tuesday, May 20th, 2008

Uh, hey.

Look, I know it’s been a while, and I know I didn’t call or write, and I’m sorry. Though it’s little consolation, I want you to know that I thought about you constantly. I only saw other people like half a dozen times, and frankly I didn’t enjoy it and missed you.

There were lots of reasons not to write the blog, virtually none of which I can describe in detail without continuing the extended metaphor much further than is approved by the FDA for human daily allowance of metaphor. However, I do realize that I won’t get out of this week’s blog post alive without hitting three more things:

  1. Yes, I am 100% single.
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Q & A

Wednesday, January 16th, 2008

Gyaaaahah!!!! Jeez, man, write something!!!
Everyone

Okay. You didn’t want to do any work today anyway. But rather than fire directly into Part 4 of an ongoing story or take a shot at transcribing any pent up awkward things of which I have several, let’s do a long-overdue Q&A mailbag. The rules: questions, comments, insults, and search keywords that someone used to find the website will be in bold. The silken lyrics of forgotten love songs, which may or may not be awkward, will be in regular type.

It is not is surprise to see that quirky yet relatable blogs like Awkward Things I Say To Girls ran away with Funniest Blog and Most Addicting Blog…
Jon Baliles

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Trust me, these kinds of chapters hurt me more than they hurt you.

Wednesday, December 12th, 2007

Part 3 of 5, Chapter 17

I broke her gaze and looked down at the box of relationship-droppings, outside her dorm room. “You broke up with him.” Junior Midshipman Obvious, sir, reporting for duty aboard the USS No Kidding. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine as soon as I get everything that was his out of my life,” HCE said. “Here, you can help. Find his books in the shelf and put them in the box.”

“Which ones are his?”

“Which ones are stupid? At least give me some good news. How is your girlfriend?”

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I just knew.

Tuesday, November 20th, 2007

Part 3, Chapter 16

I only spent a few nights up in Art School Girl’s cozy, strange bedroom at the top of the ancient house just off campus that she shared with three other people. It was Dumbledore’s office if he had been an art student, full of dark colors and smelling like home.

“What is this?” I said the first time I took a tour of her bedroom, pointing at spilled sand on the wood floor beneath a window.

“Don’t step in it! That’s a bird.” A bird? Oh. I noticed the tracks. “After I spilled sand one day, the bird got in and walked on it. I figured I’d just leave the tracks here.”

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If I know anything, it’s that dressing like the 80′s never fails.

Thursday, November 8th, 2007

Part 3, Chapter 15

“Finally,” I thought, as I leaned in to kiss her.

I specifically remember this particular kiss as being the first time I realized how much I like to draw out those brief intermediary moments when there’s a pause and your faces, eyes still closed, remain micrometers away but yet fully connected by the warmth and breath and anticipation, stretching those quick quarter-second kiss-intermissions that punctuate any normal makeout to ten seconds or more, until both of you are wound up so much that you’re unable to delay gratification any longer without being so full of adrenaline you burst.

It’s tough to describe without physically coming over and puckering up. Plus, the previous paragraph is guaranteed to be awkward or your money back. Who cares? I thought the kiss was spectacular, and I’m pretty sure she liked it, because, when I finally wrapped it up and stepped back, she whispered, eyes still closed, “Please, could you do that again?”

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Sometimes I’m looking at other things. Like eyes, naturally.

Tuesday, September 4th, 2007

“She was super hot though.”

“What?!” I say to my friend sitting two stools down from me at the bar. “You can’t be hot without being smart. They’re like the same word.”

The waitress making a drink behind the bar snorts, smiles, and looks up at me. We make the kind of eye contact that only happens when two people connect at last, hungrily, across the endless void that leaves souls cold and alone.

This is important, because after briefly dating the nerdy girl who I had incidentally met several weeks before writing about her, I am single again. It’s okay, I’m fine with it. I’m balanced and stable and centered and ready to start awkwardly hitting on waitresses for your personal enjoyment. So here goes:

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Warning: This post contains love poetry. Please do not read without adult supervision.

Monday, August 20th, 2007

Part 3, Chapter 14

“Justin, I can’t begin to describe how drunk I was…”

“Don’t even worry about it.”

“You think I’m dreadful. I’m so sorry for behaving like that.”

“Quiet. Listen: I have a few thoughts about the other night. I’ll write you a haiku.”

“Okay!”

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