In which the blogger sets the scene through the use of clever turns of phrase and back-handed hyperlinks

I fawned over a graduate student in the winter of 2005. We were in process of the university’s production of Angels in America: Millennium Approaches, and I had convinced the rest of the production staff that the only appropriate look for his character’s was a dark brown rinse (Jew), to be executed personally each night in the hours leading up to performance. It’s quite obvious, in hindsight, that everyone knew I just wanted an excuse to play with his hair. The show was a resounding success, if you enjoy such a thing, and closing night found me on the graduate student’s bed in the house he shared with three other graduate students, having finally convinced him to make good on a promise to kiss me before the holiday break. It sucked – really, madly, deeply -- and the spell was broken. He had a girlfriend, anyway. I had a boyfriend. It could never have worked.

A year later, from a computer then co-owned by the aforementioned boyfriend in a high-rise Chicago lakeside apartment, I alighted on this former graduate student’s Myspace page. I no longer trusted said boyfriend, so there was no guilt in clicking. I was immediately reminded how stupid I was in college. A (poorly-written) blog entry of his (I mean, really) had a clever title, but the content just didn’t fit.

Since, I have removed the boyfriend from my world. The lakeside apartment, owned at one time by a pair of Koreans expatriates, now houses some other yuppie couple who definitely paid too much for too little. I earned the job of my dreams, and had it robbed shortly after. In the interim, I’ve misplaced the ability to trust people, especially myself, and confidence comes in erratic waves that, really, are just frustrating. Anxiety is always coiled inside me, though I was pleasantly surprised to find out that was chemical. Contrarily, I am in love and am getting better at that. My ass (though high and tight) has been kicked, worlds have sprung up and crumbled around me, but I find most of it ironically hilarious.

On the path that leads us downward into our own hearts, to plumb the depths of truth, of sex, of identity, of humor, of the burden of consciousness, I keep banging my head. It makes me feel better that the rock has been smoothed by the heads of others that were probably freakishly bigger than mine. Sometimes, when I smack it really hard, the lightbulb on my helmet breaks and it’s dark; other times, I find grottos and caverns inside myself that no one has ever laid eyes on. What am I searching for? Dunno. But I’m trusting the light there will be a brighter than it is along the way.

The graduate student is long gone, older and married at my last check…but his title isn’t.

I stole the name of this blog. In reading it’ll become clear why it makes so much sense.