"I live in a Sitcom", by Rox Midge

I was talking to a friend of mine about this and he said that she probably doesn't make the connection at all, that it's all just in my head. She said herself yesterday (unprovoked) that she likes the book and that she has it sitting on her coffee table. So it's not like I'm some three headed monster who should pray for death.

Anyway, while all this was going on, I bought a Super Nintendo. Now, I have some pretty fond memories of playing this system from when I was younger, so I figured it would be a pretty good investment seeing as how I can't afford a PS2, and the GameCube and Xbox (which I also can't afford) weren't out at the time. I think I bought Super Metroid with it, because it was the one game in the store whose box was in decent condition.

I have this thing about boxes, see. They all have to be in absolute mint condition, and I have to have the box if I buy a game. I don't want just the cart itself, or even just the cart and manual. I've got to have the box. I managed to find a decent number of games in mint condition on ebay (including Final Fantasy III, whose manual actually wasn't in mint condition but close enough).

In total, I think I bought ten games over the course of a month, with an average price of around $40. Yes, you read that correctly, I actually spent $400 on Super Nintendo games after distinctly not buying a PS2 because it would have been too expensive. And the thing was, I actually didn't have the money to spend.

So I wound up being about $200 overdrawn that month. Luckily I get paid on the last day of the month, so I was able to float a check to pay rent. I live in Seattle (Capitol Hill), and I pay a ridiculous sum of money for a pretty nice apartment. If anyone knows of a cheaper place to live that has a bus route I can take to work, let me know.

Anyway, I digress. I was $200 overdrawn, so I floated a check to cover the rent. Except I accidentally put it in the mailbox instead of the dropbox for my landlord. I taped a note to the mailbox asking the mailman to please transfer the envelope that had my unit's number on it into the dropbox, but it was raining so the note wouldn't stick to the box.

Now, bear in mind, this all happened months ago. I had to stick around in the rain waiting for the postman to arrive so that I could explain the mishap and recover the note. Except the postman NEVER CAME. I used my cell phone to call into work sick around 2:00, and I waited by the postbox until 6pm. No postman. The mailbox said that the last pickup was at 6pm, so I go home (now with about $6.35 from begging change from people) and go to write my landlord another check.

Except I'm out of checks. FUCK!

I'm wet and tired, but I remember that I had some starter checks in the back seat of my car, from when I started the bank account. I really needed to pay rent, so I went back outside. I was halfway down the block, walking away from the mailbox, when something made me look over my shoulder.

There was the mailman, happily yanking the mail out of the box I had put my last check in.

Like a madman I run down the street (my car was parked uphill; the mailbox is at the bottom of the hill) to try and catch him before he finishes the job. Mailmen here aren't usually known for their efficiency, but this particular specimen was obviously lightning fast, probably because he was hopped up on goofballs.

Anyway, I get to about thirty feet away when three thoughts occur to me simultaneously: one, I'm travelling a lot faster than my feet are technically able to carry me; two, stopping will take a lot longer than thirty feet; and three, I could have ridden on the back of a turtle down here, because the postman is an old man who is moving about as fast as molasses in January.

Actually, these thoughts would have occured to me, but what happened instead is I just ran into the guy headlong.

I'm sure many of you are familiar with the comic strip 'Blondie', which comes from a long line of unfunny (or subtly genius-level humor, whichever you prefer) comic strips such as Peanuts, Beetle Bailey, and Brenda Starr. Actually Brenda Starr is in a different class; it's more of a drama strip than a comic strip.

Anyway, in Blondie, the husband of the title character is constantly late for work and he's constantly rushing out the door and running into the mailman. This happens quite often, as he is late a lot and the mailman is always standing directly outside his door and he doesn't look where he's going. For some reason this is hilarious and can be made into a joke over and over again.

It wasn't so funny when I hit the mailman though, because it knocked us both unconscious. I came to first, and the mailbox was still open, so I grabbed my rent check and took off, hoping nobody had seen me. I was wrong.

Turns out that I was only out for about two seconds, if I was out at all, and that someone who lived across the street from me saw me. The cops came over around 7:15 after the postman filed a report. My neighbor had gone out and helped him, and he knew that I had taken something that appeared to not be mine and made a run for it.

Turns out that the postman was mysteriously missing $80 and his watch, both of which I didn't take. I explained this to the police, who didn't believe me because I look like a punk kid who would mug an old postman for $80 and a watch, so they arrested me. I had to go down to the station and tell them the story.

Except we didn't get quite that far. As we were pulling away from my apartment complex, they got a call on their radio, something about gunfire in another part of the city. Gunfire == cooler than mugged postmen, so the three of us (there were two cops) head off to the scene.

The excitement was already over by the time we got there. It was actually more than just gunfire, there was an accident involving an SUV, a Jetta, a police cruiser, and a fire hydrant as well. Water was all over the place. The car I was in was the second on the scene.

I sat in the back of the police car looking at all of this for a while, until one of the cops came over and let me out. He explained that there were other witnesses that saw my neighbor lift the money and watch from the postman, and they believed my story about the check, and that I'd still have to come down and give a statement but there's not a whole lot of point of me sticking around, since it would be a while before they were done here.

Which is great and all, but now I'm halfway across Seattle and I don't have enough money for the bus. (I had forgotten about the $6.35.) Further, I wasn't familiar with this section of town, and my sense of direction is horrible, and Seattle is overcast anyhow, so I had no idea what direction my apartment was in.

So I start walking in the way the police car isn't pointing, and I figure I'll eventually run into someone who knows where the hell I am and how I can get back to where I needed to be. I ask a few random people, most of whom ask if I have any change before telling me to perform various sexual acts on myself.

I finally find a bookstore, and I duck in to ask directions. As I'm making my way up to the counter, though, I notice something odd about all the books. They all have .. pictures of men on the covers. In various stages of dress, of the un- variety. The title of one, for instance, was "Boy Toy" (which you can also purchase at Amazon if that's your thing).

I remember this book's name, incidentially, because I had it in my hands when someone behind me said my name, almost with a squeal of surprise. With shock and horror I instantly recognized the voice as that of SSG, and I turned around, trying to think of the best way to summarize the situation in as few words as possible.

To be honest I don't even remember what we said to each other that day. I think I tried lamely to come up with a cover story about how I was looking for a gift for a friend of mine, or something like that, and I remember her winking at me when I said it.

I also remember her introducing me to a large, stocky, 6'4", muscular guy wearing a black wifebeater. She introduced this man as 'my friend', and he went out of his way to convey to me that he wasn't gay (by busing himself with lesbian novels and saying too-loudly things like "wow, that's a nice rack!"). I can only assume, therefore, that this is 'the friend' who she mentioned she was seeing earlier.

Eventually I try to extract myself from what is quickly becoming an extremely awkward situation, and move toward the counter to ask for directions. Except I'm still carrying the book, and SSG (who has evidently completed her shopping) is coming with me. Fuck.

So I get up to the counter, and wince as I put the book down, knowing I have no money to buy it, and not really wanting to buy it in the first place. The guy behind the register compliments me on my excellent choice (wince) and tells me that this particular book is part of a series (wince), all of which is fantastically well written (wince). My total is $24 something. I reach into my pocket..

. And find a $20 that I'd forgotten about. FUCK. Fortunately it's not enough to complete the transaction. I halfheartedly pat my other pocket, the words "I'm sorry, I seem to be a few dollars short" on my tongue. Clink, says the change I had begged earlier in the day. FUCK.

To make a short story even longer, I eventually count out the remaining $4 something in nickels and dimes, while SSG and the cashier talk about the series of books that I was evidently just getting into (my protestations of "it's for a friend" have by this time largely been discarded). After a few agonizing minutes, I complete the transaction, ask for directions to a road I know is near my place (which turns out to be "go out the door, take a left, and walk a block), bid SSG a good evening (it's getting close to 9:00 at this point), and walk out of the store.

Clearly, SSG thinks I'm gay; that's the problem, but not in the way you'd think. It's actually helped ease the friction between the two of us which had been there since I gave her a depressing book and asked her out. She talks to me a lot more these days and we've gone out for coffee a few times (as friends, since there's obviously no way that I'm interested in her). Since she wasn't interested in me beforehand, at least we're pretty good friends now.

The problem is that she keeps trying to hook me up with 'nice boys' who would be good for me. Occasionally she'll bring these boys along when we go out for coffee, in the hopes that we'll hit it off. Every one of them, without fail, three minutes into the conversation, says "You're not gay." Which is good, but SSG somehow takes that as "I'm not interested" from the guy who said it, and it doesn't alter her perception of me as gay.

So that brings us to a week ago. SSG once again brought along a boy, except this one wasn't disinterested. In fact, he was so interested that he somehow convinced SSG to leave early so that we could be alone. My mind is racing, trying to come up with ways to extract myself from this situation while still retaining the respect of SSG, but I've got nothing. She leaves us to it, in the middle of a Starbucks.

Literally the first words out of my mouth, as soon as she's out of earshot, are "I'm not gay." I explain the entire situation to the guy, how I have a crush on SSG, how I was arrested for running into a mailman, how I went into a bookstore to ask for directions ("You went into a bookstore named 'Beyond The Closet' and didn't realize it was a gay / lesbian bookstore?") and everything else that led up to this point in the story.

His response was something along the lines of "You know, it's okay to be gay. You don't have to hide it." FUCK.

I finish my coffee as quickly as I can and stand up to leave. He stands up too. We look at each other. I sit down. He sits down. We both stand up again, and then sit down again. I say "I'd like to leave."

He says "Okay, we can go for a walk."

I say "No, you're not quite understanding me, I intend to leave on my own." This causes him to launch into his PLUR speech again, which causes me to launch into my "I'm seriously not gay" speech again. I stand up. He stands up. I eventually say "fuck it" and let him come with me.

The plan is, I'll let him walk with me for just one or two blocks, claim I have a headache, get his number (groan) and then never call him. This plan works flawlessly, except.

Within those two blocks, by some perverse twist of fate, SSG has found a park bench for herself and her large boyfriend who could rip me apart like a paper towel. I don't realize it's them until we're right next to them, and my "date" (wince) is giving her the thumbs up, and she's winking at me. FUCK.

We walk another block, and then I stop and face the guy. I tell him, in no uncertain terms, that I'm not gay and I'll never be gay, that I'm not interested in him, that even if I were gay I think he's pretty ugly, and a thousand other things. By the end of my monologue I'm practally screaming at him. It's not totally his fault, but at this point he is solely responsible for the fact that I will never be able to get into SSG's pants.

I use my headache line for no apparent good reason, but don't bother to ask for his number. Two days later SSG and I go out for coffee again, thankfully sans the dense gay dipshit (DGD). She asks if I had a good time, mentionting that DGD said he had a great time and wants to do it again sometime.

Now, if I was going to tell her that I'm not gay, and that I in fact have several gig's worth of porn, all of which features women in various stages of undress, this would probably be the time to do it. Except I don't. I tell her that he's really not my type (maybe because he's a guy) and that I'm not really interested in a relationship right now.

That was two or three days ago, bringing us to earlier today / last night, when SSG handed me an note from DGD along with my order. God, I swear I feel exactly like I'm in high school, except this is some weird parallel dimension nightmare high school where no one pays any attention to what I say, and the course of my life is chosen for me.

The note says, in its entirety: "Hey, I had a great time last week. I forgot to give you my number -- it's xxx-xxxx. Why don't you give me a call sometime? xxox, DGD." (Except the note actually has his name and number, instead of DGD and xxx-xxxx.) Thankfully, he doesn't have my number, and I'm not listed, so he won't be getting it any time soon.

Okay, and because these things typically end with a question that blithely sums up the entire post for those of you who don't bother to read it all: How can I tell DGD that I'm seriously not interested for reasons of he being of the wrong gender? Similarly, how can I tell SSG that I seriously am interested for reasons of her being hot as hell? And how can I convince her brawny, ripped boyfriend that he shouldn't goatse me when I get it on with SSG?