It’s summer. You’re home from college. Warm sun, long days, mojitos, sweat, short-shorts and spare time. You meet someone. They’re hot, they’re fun and they’re down to get drunk and fool around. Congrats. End of summer, end of fling, capiche? Fast-forward three months. It’s Thanksgiving and you’re both back in town. Long time no see. The smartest thing to do? Avoid each other. Seem cruel? Fine. Do coffee. Horny? Rub one out. You’re not smart though. No, you’re dumb. So you “grab drinks.” Now you’ve done it. It’s not going to be the same. Never will be, no matter how many mojitos you force down your throats. Here’s why.
Firstly, you don’t like talking to each other. It’s not that you have nothing to say. In fact, it’s the opposite. In the summer, you can just shoot the shit about nothing. Stare at the sunset, sing drunken acapella renditions of Wonderwall, or just fucking make out. Now, you’ve got lives. And trust me, you don’t care about one another’s. “Oh, your grandma’s ill? I’m so sorry to hear.” Of course you aren’t. In the summer, you could have said, “Well, that’s life” and it would have sounded poetic. Now? You just sound like the insensitive prick that you are.
So of course, you drink. More and more, because, well, drinking makes everything better. But being drunk and being castrated doesn’t change the fact that you’re still about to be Mr. Dickless – it just helps quell the pain. So you move in forward, start holding her hand, because that’s what you used to do. Except now it feels entirely forced and uncomfortable, not quite like rape, but more indirect, like turning to prostitution out of no other way out of the ghetto you were born into because of a vicious cycle involving intersecting issues of race and class: it feels wrong, but you can’t pinpoint any specific reason why, so you just go with it. Eventually you’re at her place. It still smells like it used to, but that faint smell of deodorant and jizz feels wrong: it’s the scent of another man on both counts, and though you’ve never been a fan of Speed Stick, it does inspire you to eat more pineapple. She’s probably gotten fatter. So have you, but you’re the type of person who says, “Double-standards suck, but hey, that doesn’t mean they don’t exist” and convince yourself that you’ve come out on top in the whole thing. You fuck, but it doesn’t feel right. There isn’t the passion, and it feels more rehearsed.
It’s at this point that you realize you’re American Wedding, and even though you never saw it, you know it was a bad idea. “There were probably a lot of tits in it, anyway” you consider, while staring at the sagging pair which once drove you to ecstasy. Now, like Jason Biggs career, they are lifeless. It’s at this point that you realize you’re fucking your old fling while thinking about fucking pastries. Is this really your life? You also get an STD because you two totally raw-dogged it all summer because you were semi-exclusive but now you obviously aren’t but since you never used a condom before you didn’t even think about it and that totally sucks and you have to spend like fifty bucks on topical cream so seriously, don’t do it.
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