calculation is null
I tapped his trunk; the syrup was stale.
Pancakes, tequila, and baseball bats.
The weekend had had one simple goal: Martha was having her
now annual Leather and Lace party, and I was supposed to be
there. With Seb. In the red leather chaps Seb and Rocco and
Neet and I had collectively found and agreed went well with
my skin tone at this superbly awful fetish party Rocco had
taken us to in SF. And I was all right with this; I was
good to go. It's the mark of a truly talented couple days,
though, to be able to, on one hand, bear unto its
participants a time of beauty and love they'll never
forget, and to, on the other, rip to bloody rags any hopes
anyone had for an end to the unrelenting drama that is the
Stanford Slimies' Summer of Sin.
I skipped half of my class on Friday so that Neet and I
could go pick up Laam from work and go swimming at his
place. When I got up to leave the room, my professor said
that I should try to schedule my social appearances so that
they don't conflict with "his time". Maybe if "his time"
was the slightest bit of interesting, I'd stay more often.
He's just a bitch that I'm pulling an A. I left with a roll
of my eyes.
Laam was waiting for us outside his office when we pulled
up in the Puddle Diver.
"Y'all are late."
"Just get in the car, Laam."
"Y'all are late."
"I'll make your ass late for next Tuesday if you don't get
in the fucking car!"
That was fine: we bought some sushi and a couple boxes of
wine on the way to his apartment, and then proceeded to
become thoroughly inebriated and how-can-you-people-eat-raw-
fish?-It's-raw-fish! full. We swam in Laam's pool,
harassing the kiddle gang in retaliation for their
splashing hijinks a couple weeks ago. They were -so-
crying. Neet and I were thoroughly amused; Laam-- he's such
a mush heart-- said he felt sort of bad. Neet and I laughed
at him too. But then we attacked him and tried to make out
with him, so it was all good. A little mock, friendship
incest is healthy. When he grabbed my balls trying to get
me off him, I bit his tongue. He said that I didn't do it
nearly as well as his girlfriend-- his -new- girlfriend of
whom we won't speak right now. (Slutastica, Mart and I call
her.) After we left the pool, I fell asleep on his oh so
soft and comfy papasan to the sounds of "Answer the
question, Claire!" and of Neet and Laam crushing ice for
margaritas and yelling at each other on speaker phone to
I woke up to a dark apartment. The curtains were open, and
I could see a cop car cruising the street. Fucking pigs.
Laam was sprawled on the couch, and Neet had fallen asleep
in the lazy boy. I kissed them both, and walked the couple
miles home to my place. My clock read 4:34 when I looked
over at it, kicking off my sandals. When I looked over at
it again, this time from my bed-- how did I get here?-- it
glared 12:22. And the sun was scalding my forehead. And I had slept
on top of my final's first draft. Ugh. A most appropriate expression
for the start of, what would turn out to be, a thoroughly nuclear