wake up, kids. we've got the dreamer's disease.

A continuation from this past Friday...

When my phone buzzed, it was like an omen.

While pumping gas at the local station and talking on my cell phone to Military Mother (who I've known since I was 6), I had run into a guy from around my way, Chigger (as opposed to "Whigger"). Chigger had tried to get with me all through junior high, then dated Military Mother after I moved to Virginia.

A little after running into Chigger, I got a text from my two other best friends (who, along with Military Mother, are my sisters from other misters), asking to meet up with them the next day for lunch.

And a short while after texting back my girls, I'd bumped into Whigger 1 and Whigger 2, two dudes from around my way that have signed minor baseball league deals and now drive fancy-schmancy cars.

The more my day continued, it seemed, the more back in the day I was being dragged... Then Flo.

By the time I was in Williamsburg with Groovy Girl (heretofore known as "GiGi"), I had readied myself for some serious flashbacks. After all, an acquaintance from high school had invited me to the very same party, and the theme of the day seemed to be "Blast From The Past"!

But no. I didn't see anyone from high school. I did see, however, lots of cute breakdancing boys, and ghetto-pretty dudes who could get some. And, man, did they get some---*ahem* I mean, man, did I have fun!




In case you didn't get the memo: I've been getting my groove thang on. A lot.

Okay, okay, I know I don't write much on here about my recent sexcapades, and maybe I should, but the fact of the matter is, I ain't the type to kiss and tell. To strangers, at least. Out of context. For no reason.

(I think that covers it...)

I mean, yeah, back in the day, I woulda loved to leak out all of the wet details of my shenanigans, but my private life.... well, it exists now. There are certain details that I'd rather leave for my nearest and dearest to hang over my head when they really need a favor. Not all of the two strangers that read this (sorry, Pugs & Joe) need to know all of that.

But anywhos, yeah: Friday.

I party-hopped in Williamsburg with a couple female acquaintances, and ended up spending the night with a beautifu mixed-Latino man whose friend GiGi found attractive. [NOTE: If there are any coming-of-age chicas reading this, pay attention. There is always more safety in numbers. Maybe not a lot more safety, but enough that you should skip on the sultry sex god in favor of the .14-less-attractive guy who has a roommate your friend wants to fuck. At least both you and your friend are in the stranger's apartment. I'm just sayin'...]

So I'm having a fuckalicious time with this random beautiful man, and the next morning, I wake up at 9:14, and I'm not really sure where I am.

I mean, I hadn't been so terribly wasted the night before that I forgot that I'd hooked up with a guy. I just didn't remember how we'd gotten to his apartment. I vaguely recalled a cab ride with GiGi, Beautiful Boy, and Beautiful Boy's roommate - but the details were sketchy, at best. Had we left the county of Kings? Had I somehow found my way back into my borough of Queens? And if the latter, could I be close enough to my house that I could hurry there, take a military shower, and be on my way to work?

Because, yes, ladies and gents, I work on Saturdays. Starting at 10 a.m., to be exact.

And yet there I was, in a sranger's bed. In an undisclosed (or, at least, unknown) location. Having lost my bra. And I had 45 minutes to get to work.

Unbefuckinglievable!

Beautiful Boy woke up with a jolt (no doubt after having felt me wake up with a jolt and rustle the sheets). He offered me coffee, commented on how crazy the night had been, and very amiably asked if I wanted breakfast. From the expression on his face when he woke up, and the subsequent way in which he spoke to me, I'm sure the first few thoughts in his head were: 1. FUCK! I had beer goggles on, fucked a girl, and she's STILL IN MY HOUSE! 2. THANK YOU SWEET JESUS, she's actually kinda hot... 3. And I remember the sex being really good. 4. Decision: I'll be nice to her.

Needless to say, beside the usual pleasantries of the morning after, I didn't speak to Beautiful Boy much. In fact, I was sure that his name was David or Michael or some other arbitrary and ubiquitous Hispanic God-type name, but according to GiGi, his name was Ralph. (Neither of us are too sure, so he'll remain Beautiful Boy.)

In the midst of my getting out of him the location of the nearest subway station, and his offering to drive me to said subway station, I searched for my bra - to no avail. (What did he do, eat the thing?!) I washed my face, gargled with mouthwash, ignored his polite musings about random hook-ups and the morning after, thought really hard about taking him up on his offers to 1) make me coffee, 2) buy me breakfast, 3) take me to Duane Reade for assorted toiletries, and 4) drive me to the train station, and answered only the last suggestion affirmatively.

So there I was. Wearing the black dress that I'd picked out for hanging out with Flo. Thankful that I'd been sensible enough to pack a pair of "cute shoes I can run in" (another noteworthy item to all coming of age young women). And worried that I 1) stank of booze, 2) stank of sex, 3) appeared ridiculously dis-sheveled, 4) left necessities in Beautiful Boy's apartment, and 5) would be late for work.

Thankfully (or maybe not so much), only 4) ended up being right on the money.

Work went well. I'd texted some of my nearest and dearest, and Indiana Poetess, about my morning, and I was able to laugh at myself. My boss lady asked about my slightly too-stylish duds, and I told her up-front that I still hadn't slept in my own bed. And I spent the time walking around the lower east side with some students, taking note of the various community gardens (E6 Street, between Aves B & C - go check it out. It's bananas, it's so beautiful! And the treehouse is awesomely Robinson Carusoe-esque).

Before long, it was time to meet up with two of my sisters from other misters. I'm sure I've already given them cute nicknames, but I'm too lazy to look for references to them in previous posts, so they'll be Jersey Girl and SoHo Suit. (I'm giggling to myself as I realize after-the-fact the pun in "SoHo Suit" - but whatever...) We had set on meeting up in Fort Greene, at Habana Outpost, at 4 p.m., but my class had let out early and I'd decided on sitting in the sun and reading my NY Times.

The first high school I attended (the most notable one of the four I attended), Brooklyn Technical High School, is in Fort Greene, and while I was a student there, the neighborhood was just approaching gentrification. Now it's fully hip and hipster-fied, and despite the dwindling battery on my cell phone, I decided I had to call up some high school buddies and discuss this fact.

I talked to Lawyer Lady, Will-to-my-Grace, and Best Guy Friend, (all of whom attended Tech with me) and even spoke for a minute to Clairvoyant Symphony and Opera Singer. (Most of these conversations, I'm thinking, will be referenced one time or another in the near-future...) Then, with my phone almost dead, I met up with Jersey Girl and SoHo Suit.

Jersey Girl's been in a tumult about whether or not she's gonna marry the man she's engaged to, but she told me that she's finally set on being Mrs. Man-She's-Engaged-To.

At first, I didn't believe her, so I turned to SoHo Suit.

"No," Jersey Girl said, cutting off my query to our friend. "I'm serious."

The secret to her new happiness with Man-She's-Engaged-To?

"I stopped being an asshole."

From her lips to God's ears, lemme tell ya!

Like the other three of us, Jersey Girl tests the limits to every relationship she has. SoHo Suit winds up being whiny, Military Mother becomes extremely passive-aggressive, I end up (sooner than later) a blatant bitch, and Jersey Girl becomes an asshole. It's just what we do: somewhere in our hearts, we believe that the person we end up with will know how to deal with this very negative side of our personality, and we'll be convinced that they're "the one."

Jersey Girl had stopped being quick with her temper and her actions. She stopped picking apart her fiance. She stopped doing the things she usually does at this stage of a relationship... And she started to enjoy herself.

Two weeks had passed, Jersey Girl said, without an incident. Then another two weeks had passed. Before she knew it, a month and a half had passed and she and her fiance still hadn't gotten into an argument. A little while later, they did get into an argument - but that's to be expected between people, sooner or later. And besides, it was the right kind of argument: not so petty as to be confused as anyone pickig a fight, but not so big as to be an indicator that they're not right for each other.

Habana Outpost was crowded with yummy-looking people and yummier-smelling food, and the three of us were knocking back margajitos (you guessed it: margarita-mojito concoction). Jersey Girl had already gone through the last couple of months, up to the point where she described how her husband-to-be has just acquired a couple new properties, how her engagement ring and wedding band are too large to be put on the same finger, how her fiance has stopped working and wants to buy a house in Florda.

A year ago, I would've quickly written off Jersey Girl's sudden change of heart as an excuse to start a more comfortable life, but last Friday I simply took the news for what it was: a joyous and life-altering change of pace. For whatever reason, one of my best friends is going to enter a new stage of her life - and I stopped being a bitch and got really happy and excited for her.

When Jersey Girl got up, I quickly assailed SoHo Suit with similar questions. How was her rapper-boyfriend? Work? Her family? She said, without missing a beat, "Everything's good."

I knew she was lying.

"No," she insisted when I pushed. "Seriously. I have nothing to say because everything's been really good with Rapper Boyfriend."

A year ago, I would've launched into a whole tirade. "Why are you lying to me?" I would've asked, indignantly. "You're my sister and I love you and I'll support you 100% in whatever you want to do with your life. Just tell me the truth. I just want to know more about you."

But I knew why she didn't owe up to her lie. Just like I knew why she always texted and called me with such trepidation in her voice. And just like I knew why there were no pictures of me in her apartment... Not only have I failed to be there for SoHo Suit when she needed me, but like it says in a book about love that's in her apartment: "I dislike you because I see reflected in you things I dislike about myself, and it's easier to dislike you than it is to dislike me."

I read SoHo Suit like a book and I find faults in things that Military Mother will write off as a "quirky peronality trait" and Jersey Girl will call "just the way shit is." I'm the one who's looked SoHo Suit in the eye and told her that I think she can do better than her current boyfriend - even though she's set on marrying him. I'm the one who will tell her that she deserves more out of life than a man who treats her like an inferior person who is to be put up with. I'm the one who will tell her that it's cool to have fun and swing on stripper poles, but that it's an unhealthy form of ignoring deep-seeded problems if she uses sex to distract from what's really bothering her.

On Friday, I played along with the charade even after the three of us made it back to SoHo Suit's apartment and smoked bud and drank some more liquor. But it stopped the second Jersey Girl and I realized that SoHo Suit was crying to her boyfriend on the phone and pleading with him not to leave her.

"Does this happen often?" I asked Jersey Girl.

She nodded. "At least four or times a week."

I knew what was happening even before we walked into the bedroom. It isn't that Rapper Boyfriend is a bad guy, I know. He's faithful to my sister in that he isn't cheating on her. But he doesn't have faith in her. He isn't in love with her. He is always playing mind games with her to prove that he's the superior intellect.

I know this because I used to do this all the time with guys. I picked apart their words and preyed on their insecurities. I knew how to manipulate them to get exactly what I wanted and to make me feel better about myself. I know that that's what SoHo Suit's boyfriend is doing, and I know that she's feeding into it.

"I knew it", I said to Jersey Girl. "When I asked SoHo earlier today about things with Rapper, and she said they were fine - I fucking knew she was lying to me! Why doesn't she get it, that she's my sister and that I will support her 100% no matter what she chooses - but do I think there's someone out there who's a better match for her? Yes! Do I think there's someone out there who won't make her cry every other day? Yes! Do I think there's someone who knows and appreciates how her mind works, and will love he? Yes!"

Maybe I should've said all that to SoHo when Jersey and I went into her bedroom - but at the time it felt like an elaborate way to say "I told you so." I couldn't find the words that would make everything okay, so I let Jersey reach for them instead. I patted SoHo on the back and kissed her and hoped that she could read the space between us and know that it was full of empathy and feeling.

We went out to eat later on that night, and when we all parted ways in the wee morning hours of Sunday, we were in downtown Brooklyn. Queens was at least an hour and a half away. I was too broke to take a cab. I hadn't changed clothes or showered since Friday afternoon. My father had gotten into an accident while driving my car a few days before. And I was tired. Emotionally and physically, I was just tired.

If I hadn't been so sure that SoHo hadn't read the space between us, and that I was too spent to go into all of it with her, I would've asked to stay at her place. Instead, I made my way to Would-Be Romantic's place. We talked and laughed and slept together and had sex. I couldn't sleep soundly.

Maybe it was all the alcohol, or maybe it was the events of the weekend, or maybe I felt guilty for treating him a little like Underground Rapper treats SoHo Suit, but I kept on tossing and turning and waking up whiny and annoyed.

At 5 a.m., I lay in bed next to Would-Be Romantic and thought about everything changing. Jersey Girl deciding to get married to a man she'd been convinced she didn't/couldn't love the way she'd like to love her future husband. Military Mother saying that she'd contradict her plans and desires to leave the military if her lover asked her to re-enlist. SoHo Suit settling for a man who makes her cry. And me...

Would-Be Romantic woke up and asked me what was wrong. I said that the alcohol had left me dehydrated and that I wanted water.

"But we don't have water", he said.

"Also", I said, feeling the craving define itself, "I dunno why, but I want mangoes."

It was five in the morning and sunlight was only a promise to the sky.

"Sure", Would-Be Romantic said, begrudgingly. "I'll go out and buy you water and mangoes."

So he did. And we stayed up for a couple of hours, talking and laughing.

Fully hydrated and happy, I kept trying to think up Best Guy Friend's phone number, so I could tell him that I had to cancel our plans to walk aimlessly - but the digits escaped me. Even though they'd been etched into my memory years before and I'd been implying to Jersey Girl hours before that he might be the one unrelated man to really get me...

My phone was dead and Would-Be Romantic and I would have sex and cuddle and laugh and talk and be happy all day, and the rest of the world be damned...

I didn't get home till the wee morning hours of Monday, and by that time all of my thoughts about giving in and giving up were safely surpassed.

It is the artist's and philosopher's way to always analyze, and I will always wonder why I do what I do and whether or not I could've done something differently in order to make positive changes to my life. But when it comes to people, in general, who cares if we become hypocritical or hyper-critical of statements and decisions we've made in the past? Does it matter why we turn over new leaves or make changes to our lives or steal ourselves away from a future we'd once coveted?

At the end of the day, I can never really know if other people have given in or given up. Sometimes, I guess, everyone just has to give.