Some Dating Thoughts (Part I)

Kale's boyfriend is a weirdo. Weird-o. Doesn't help one of the first times I met him he was high off Pepto Bismol running around our sketch rehearsal and screaming the N word.

When they started dating, it was like, "Wait. Wut." And then I went away for summer, and in that time they fell in love. When I came back, it didn't take very long at all to see that they are great together. A clear case of a romantic relationship pulling both parties up toward betterment.

Because of Kale, the bf seems more tender. Like, he's still a nutjob, but now, he's like...a nutjob that someone loves. And that someone will take care of him and his nuttiness. We don't have to worry about it. When he starts screaming about harvesting babies (or whatever) in my improv class, no one is worried, "Oh no. This kid is too strange." We look over at Kale, laughing to herself, and believe there's a sweetness to his extremity.

Here dey is at Shells' birthday dinner. April 2012.

I don't think people need to be in relationships. I don't think we're here to become part of a whole. But much to my chagrin, there is a validity involved. I must admit.

Inadvertent Racism

Ro and I were talking about a largely hispanic neighborhood in Phoenix--let's call it "Guad"--that is often a hotbed of crime, grit, general sketchiness. I backed up the stereotype with a fact:

ME: Yeah, the other second-year playwright lived there last year, and his house was broken into.
RO: Okay, maybe this will make me sound racist, but I didn't even know any white people lived in Guad.

Get it? The joke is that Ro, self-awarely, made a comment about racial communal borders, but, in the process, insinuated that playwrights are all white*. Hilarious, hilarious.

Ro, Ru, & me. Pore strips while watching Sister Act. 2012.

*To be fair, Rye is white. But! Ermo (head of the program) is Chilean. Burrito** (last year's grad) is Mexican.

**I really shouldn't talk. I am aware that I gave my Mexican classmate the pseudonym Burrito. I deserve to burn in racist hell.

Sincerely

Dude, two nights ago I stopped for gas after rehearsal, and I decided to look at things inside the snack-station. (Okay, I am just now realizing that in my head the building on the gas station premises I have always called a "snack station"--it only just occurs to me writing this now that my secret in-my-head-definition might not be one anyone else uses. Moving on...Except also I should explain I go inside snack stations very often because I like to look at candy and the fridges of colorful drinks even if I don't want to buy any. NOW, moving on.) A thirtysomething guy in nasty brown sweat pants that were kind of like capris came in to pay for his gas. He looked at me and licked his lips.

I headed to my car. Then, a minute later I hear this guy yelling through the rain, "Lemme--lemme--lemme--" I didn't look up because I was still hoping there was some kind of misunderstanding. After all, I was sporting pigtails, a bright yellow headband, and the Catcher in the Rye t-shirt my aunt gave me. Come on, man. But he finally yelled, "CAN I PUMP YOUR GAS FOR YOU?" A little late. I was just getting back in my car.

I'm pretty sure this dude wanted me to feel embarrassed and flustered. I mean, he sure didn't really think he was going to get my number right? In his sketched-out outfit? I mean, did he really intend to take me in my daffodil boat shoes out to dinner sometime? So, instead of getting crazy awkward or scared, I just tossed my hand at him, "Oh, get out of town," I said with a modest grin. And, HE mirrored it back the smile like, "Awwwww, shucks. Okay. I am being ridiculous." And he kind of waved me a good night.

Basically, when you're honest and just open up to people, you'll be pleasantly surprised by the sincerity you find. Everyone knows whats going on more than we everyone else credit for.