Angelina Jolie

The following is an excerpt from a diary entry; written when I was more stupid than I am now.

I ordered a horoscope to be sent to my e-mail every day so I can get some direction.  I don’t want to talk about it with the roomies, even though they are supportive of my homewreckage. But I feel like a ho-bag when I talk about it. I’m seriously bummed.  I was excited and hopeful for this weekend. For him to maybe text me…BRITTANY STOP.

Many elements about this diary entry concern me.  First of all, who (besides dating coaches and seventeen-year-olds) orders a daily horoscope?  Second of all, who gets excited for a weekend where someone with a girlfriend can text someone that is not his girlfriend?  And lastly, was I talking to myself?  That was pathetic.  How did my brain cells actually lead me into a situation where I needed to write nonsense like that?

I have a lot more things in common with Angelina Jolie than I’m proud of.  Diary entry aside, it’s something I don’t enjoy admitting on a daily basis.  I try to not let it define who I am, especially when I see Angelina claiming she doesn’t have any girlfriends and drags her Brady Bunch melting pot family all over India.  I look at that woman and know I do not want to be anything like her.  I never want to adopt a litter of foreign children with Mohawks, and will never throw knives at my boyfriend before we have sex and bottle up our blood and wear it in a vile around my neck.  Under very strict circumstances would I do something like that.  Like if Ryan Reynolds asked me to.  Then maybe I would consider it.

I can’t stand Angeline Jolie.  When I envision those deep set, brown eyes, zeroing in on Brad Pitt on the set of Mr. & Mrs. Smith, I flinch harder than I would if Angelina elbowed me with those boney arms.  That movie is a sick home video of Brad Pitt’s disgusting love affair with Jolie.  I refuse to watch any of that disturbing demeanor unfold.  Therefore, under no circumstances do I support Brangelina.  I do not support any female who wants to barge in on Jennifer Aniston’s love life and completely ruin it.  That woman has been through enough.

My intense loathing for Angelina Jolie, and the roughly fifteen Tiger mistresses, were the main woman who made me feel like a better person, simply because I would never dip my toe in someone else’s bathtub.  That was until I lay cheating upon myself by letting a guy cheat on his girlfriend with me.  I felt like a hypocrite and a relationship natural disaster.  To twist the knife deeper into my chest, on one of my off days, I went and defined home wrecker in urban dictionary. I was presented with words like; slut, whore, hoe, liar, tramp, cheater, floozy, man stealer and penis.  How does Angelina Jolie live with herself?

My rules have always been to not do anything with someone who has a girlfriend.  Then, when it accidentally happened in high school with a boy who had a girlfriend, my rules changed to not doing anything with anyone that is married.  That was a line I would not cross.   Like I said, being a cheater instigator is not something I’m proud of.  In high school, the little prick told me he had broken up with his girlfriend, who happened to be the hottest chick in our school and later named ‘best dressed ‘in our yearly yearbook installment.

Unfortunately, after a lousy year of sneaking around with the loser and actually believing secret make out sessions were going to lead to cute conversations in the hallway and a relationship, his girlfriend found out and turned the entire school district against me. This went on for a month until the token gay guy saved my life and came out of the closet.  After that happened, I vowed to ignore guys with girlfriends for the rest of my life.  High school was brutal, but you can only imagine how brutal it was when you play tonsil hockey with the guy dating Anna Faris’ body double.

When cheating round two happened, it was the end of my sophomore year in college; I was dumber than a box of rocks.  After running around like a chicken with its head cut off as a freshman, I thought I had everything under control.  This, as you can imagine – was a total hoax.  Joke’s on me, people!  Some mistakes are too much fun make only once.  Or, I’m too dumb to make them twice.

My friend Paula had just purchased a house a few miles from campus.  It was our first month spending quality time trying on this new freedom so we were excited to party.   Some girlfriends and I were getting ready to hit the house-party scene by storm.  Before the big event Taryn, Sonja, Bridget, and I were painting our nails, and drinking Malibu orange juice.  Bridget was talking about her demanding love life.

“I know I’m in love, because whenever he texts me my vagina flutters,” Bridget said, opening the fridge to splash some expired grenadine into her drink. Bridget really had no trouble mincing her words. She was loud, brutally honest, and never apologized for it.  It was refreshing and scary to have her around.  That’s why I loved her.  She was like a wine spritzer.  I always wanted her on the go, and she was exploding with opinionated carbonation.  I needed her around to come to terms with real life, honesty, and authenticity.  Bridget was telling us about her latest booty call, a big black guy on the basketball team.  It’s true, she hasn’t gone back.

“The other night he kept touching my owl necklace and telling me how much he loved it,” Bridget gushed. “That owl necklace gets more ass than a toilet seat. Seriously, black guys love it.”

I laughed at her and started raving about a new player on the Twins that had recently been drafted up to the major leagues.  I liked looking at him more than I liked looking at a buttery pop tart and suddenly, I found myself watching Sports Center more than House Hunters.  House Hunters was the funniest show on television, especially when I would pretend all the woman on the show thought about was Pottery Barn and how she could decorate the house.  And all the dude considered was where they could easily have sex around the house.  It’s safe to say, I was impressed I’d rather watch flabby, retired football players talk on Sports Center than a bunch of horny husbands struggling to mend his sex life on HGTV.

In true Bridget fashion, holding back was not an issue,

“Brittany, you would bang Mr. Ed if he played for the Twins.”

In an onslaught scrounge to be independent; we were all raving to get to the party.  We couldn’t waste any more valued minutes of our party time.  Bridget shoved what she called an ‘underground railroad’ Smirnoff shot under the lining in her purse.  I thought that was extremely clever and fruitful.  If anyone asked her if she had alcohol in her purse, she could open it wide, like Amy Winehouse in a limo, and prove alcoholic absence.  Taryn and I filled an Aquafina bottle with some Burnetts and pranced out the door.  I want to learn who the first person was to put vodka in water bottles and shake their hand.  They have provided me with many embarrassing and successful years in underage college drinking.

Bridget oftentimes was a lot funnier than most people around her.  Upon knowing this, she had a difficult time when everyone else started drinking and finally became as fun and witty as she was.  It wasn’t a vain issue; she just wanted to be entertained and was normally too intelligent to be entertained by anyone beside herself.  This presented a small problem for Bridget because she would get too excited whenever people were finally as drunk and funny as she was.  She was like a puppy that finally convinces her master to take it out for a walk and pees all over itself in excitement and celebration.   Therefore, she celebratory drinks for the sake of having people equally as fun around her and becomes mind numbingly drunk.  This usually ends up with her waking up with bruises the size of grapefruits on her thighs, the color of a severe thunderstorm, and not much to go back on.  As we walked into the party, Bridget promised us extreme drunkeness would not come of her that evening, because she “hadn’t drank an entire bottle of Sterling Castle before leaving the house.”

“Unless there are a cluster of beautiful chocolate candy bars at this party, I can promise you a sobering experience,” she announced.

The party was freeloaded with entertainment and no black men so that ruled out reason number one for Bridget drinking copiously.  No one had to worry about getting caught drinking on campus, so everyone was getting first-Jersey-Shore-episode-Snookie-drunk.  I could see Bridget’s eyes sparkle.

“Every time you think about taking a celebratory shot with someone, God kills a puppy.” I told her as we made a move for the beer pong table.

Inside, a small cluster of large men were dancing to Britney Spears and fondling their man-boobs.  This was something I enjoyed.  Because I truly appreciate men of any size that could cut a rug without feeling humiliated. The fact these particular men had man boobs to seal the package was even better.  The cute little boobies were bouncing up and down like sacks of lumpy powdered sugar.  On the wall behind them, was a large poster of a naked woman with a dart on her hoo-hah. Oopsies. My foot was in the process of tie-dye style soaking itself in warm beer on the floor and it smelt like stale alcohol and B.O.  It was the raunchiest place I’d walked in since The Foot Locker.  That place smells like shit, so that’s saying a lot.

Bridget had already ran off to sign some kind of personal waver before getting super drunk, so Taryn and I hung out by the beer pong table.

“I feel like I’ve died and was reincarnated as a 12-year-old boy.  Is the B.O. that bad in here, or do I need a new stick of Dove?”

“No kidding, I feel like I’m at Justin Bieber’s birthday party.”

“Or, backstage of a Star Search casting call.  Good, God.”

This conversation was brilliantly conducted with a trio screaming sentences.  It was so loud in the house; I dug in Taryn’s purse for the Aquafina water bottle to drown the noise with the internal earplug. While I viewed the situation at hand, and I saw the human whom had equally annoying qualities to biggest zit that had ever resided on my chin; my high school crush. Once I had the crush, it lingered forever and everybody knew it was there.  I didn’t want Taryn to see me checking him out with surprised lemur eyes; it wasn’t a surprise he was at this party, and he wasn’t her biggest fan.  Taryn wasn’t usually a fan of anyone I liked.  It was his first year at school and I secretly knew over Facebook he’d been planning on going to ours.  But I hadn’t seen him yet on campus and this was gifting me with quite the element of enjoyment.

The only twist? I’d basically never spoke to him before and he had a girlfriend.  In fact, his girlfriend’s locker was right next to mine in high school because (bonus!) her last name started with a ‘C.’  Lucky for my ego and I, I got to watch them make out for two years as I would awkwardly shove my Optical Illusion folders in to my Jansport backpack.  The one time I spoke to him, he had arrived at her locker a few seconds early and was forced to wait.  I will bet my next Victoria’s Secret free underwear card that he force fed that entire intellectual conversation, and was grateful when it was officially comatose.

His name was Jeremy.  And he resembled Liam Hemsworth, minus the inclination to take off Miley Cyrus’s short shorts but plus the inclination to have a girlfriend during his freshman year of college, which I dubbed the worst idea ever.  He was the quarter back of the football team in high school, so I guess having a girlfriend to go along with that title was kind of part of the jock package.  But honey, once he put down that first $30,000 for college, he’d better be getting freaky with random chicks behind the Encyclopedia shelves in the library.  His girlfriend didn’t even go to our school.  She went to a public university across the river and (heard through the grapevine aka Facebook) would bike across the bridge under the fall leaves to go to Punch Pizza with him and lick the basil leaves off of his chin every Wednesday.  I’d rather hang out with Chris Brown while he shoves my cell phone up an anal cavity so I don’t get texts from mysterious men anymore.

Acknowledging that Jeremy was in the same room with me sent waves of rejection my way, those equal to the feeling of rejection I felt when I asked Steve Ward out on Twitter.  These feelings got the best of me and I sucker punched Taryn in her upper arm.  Taryn had been batting her eyelashes at a guy who looked a lot like he had to take a shadoobie. Maybe he was intimidated by Taryn’s blond hair.  Physical unintelligence can be intimidating, ask Paris Hilton.

“DUDE. What?”

“Jeremy. Is in this room.” I spoke deeply and softly, so Taryn’s new BFF and God would not hear me.

“Go get em’ girlfriend.”  Taryn was recently single at this point and had no interest in being my personal shrink, especially in a room full of insecure, drunk, and horny men.  I debated how I was going to handle this situation.  Somehow, I was going to have to approach him.  My three Malibu orange juices had already determined this. The only thing we had in common was spending an average of three minutes a day near the same locker in high school, and we were possibly breathing the same oxygen cells at this very moment all over again.

I’d always had a secret crush on him. I watched him sweat it out over a football for three years of my high school career.  I was a little surprised by this.  He was blonde after all, and I normally didn’t go for blondes.   But he was just so adorable!

Ugh, what happened the days when I would check ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Thanks a million, George Straight.

I decided my only answer was to find Bridget and her underground railroad shot for some liquid courage.  I found Bridget in the kitchen, taking shots with strangers.   I knew her underground railroad shot was no longer in tact when she made eye contact with my forehead.

“Let’s play ‘the situation game’!” Bridget announced with periodic slurring consonants as she whipped out her camera.  The ‘situation game’ was an ice-breaker, where someone would yell out a situation and the group needed to react by facial expression.  It would be promptly captured on film.  Please remember, this is no way, how they came up with the slogan, ‘Kodak Moments.’ I went on Wikipedia earlier to make sure.

“Who are you, Tyra Banks? Bridget. Focus.  This isn’t America’s Next Top Model. Where is your Smirnoff?” I had a plan, and it needed to be executed.

Bridget slanted sideways as if she was taking a joy ride on the Titanic and pointed her camera too close to my face, “A donkey just licked your asshole!”  I tried to keep a straight face while Bridget snapped the picture of my reaction and pulled it away too quickly to look at the final product.  She screamed at her camera when the picture came out of her own cleavage.  “Damnit! Again!” Bridget fumbled with her camera case, “A midget just shit on your lips!”  I must say, I would have loved to see my reaction to that one.  But, I lost my patience when Bridget accidentally put the camera on record. I gave up and stormed back into the room where Taryn was sitting on her new boyfriend’s lap.  I imagined I would rather be watching re-runs of Friends and eating nachos in my bed than be the only one in the room who wasn’t drunk or hanging out with a new cutie.  I couldn’t see Jeremy anywhere, so I assumed he had already left to go listen to ‘Such Great Heights’ by Iron & Wine and paint his girlfriend’s toenails.

I resorted to playing a game of tippy cup with a very competitive group of college students.  Including someone who convinced me he’d made out with Lauren Conrad.  “Before she was on Laguna Beach,” he added.  Which brought me to the conclusion his make out session with Kohl’s newest fashionista, was a complete lie.  I hoped his immediate goal was not to turn me on because he needed to do more than kiss and tell to make me swoon.

I was immediately put into a crabby mood.  It was a problem I derived from getting my hopes up on a regular basis.  In this circumstance, I imagined Jeremy and I have a very intellectual conversation about high school and how much he loved the picture of my horse in my locker because I was so artsy.  But since these dreams were shattered by his absence, I had engulfed the uncanny ability to be a complete wet blanket.

I tried having a conversation with Bridget, but she was too busy talking in Spanish to someone who had studied abroad in Spain the previous semester and communicating with her went hand and hand with communicating with Helen Keller.  I couldn’t discuss anything in Spanish besides the weather and what grocery stores stock in the produce aisle, so I was out.  Taryn was walking off with her dreamsicle new boyfriend for a rondevue in a dark stairwell.  And just when I thought the night couldn’t get any better, I spotted a blond gentleman slouched on the kitchen stool next to me, drunk as a skunk.

“…Jeremy…?!?” My voice cracked in excitement.  I was thrilled.

He pity glanced at me just like high school.

“What’s up?” he said.

We were at the point of our conversation where it would usually end, so I was determined to ride it through.

“Someone looks like their puppy just died.” I countered, hoping that was code for his girlfriend cheated on him with Ben Harper.

“Ha.” Jeremy picked up a red cup and tipped it over onto the table, so all of the beer splashed all over his shirt.  I didn’t understand what the motion meant.

“Well, cheer up buddy!  You have a bright future of binge drinking ahead of you!” I didn’t know why I said that because that was the last thing anyone should look forward to.  Unless I suppose if you’re a freshman in college, or Lindsay Lohan.

He didn’t say anything and drank the contents of the beer cup he was hoodwinking around with.  The contents wouldn’t drown an ant.  He tipped his head back until he almost tipped himself out of the chair.  A drop of Coors Light kissed the spot right between his eyes.  He blinked and looked around.  I was beginning to feel legitimately bad for him and self-confirmed he was having some serious girlfriend problems.  Maybe he was depressed no one was going to be there to occasionally buy his Margarita Punch Pizza on date night anymore.  I understood his sorrows immediately, because if I had someone supporting my Punch Pizza addiction on a daily basis, I would be in the same state of affairs when it came to a brutal end.

He looked at me with puppy eyes.  I noticed he had very nice complexion and a dimple on his left cheek,

“I’m sorry I never talked to you when I hung out by Chelsie’s locker.” He admitted.

Any sense of rejection and betrayal during high school was flushed from my self-conscience.

“Apology accepted.” I put out my hand to have him shake it, as if we were sealing a business deal.  He looked at it like it was smeared with feces and went in for a more personal embrace.  He hugged me and put his head on my shoulder like a five-year-old. I locked eyes with Taryn from across the room and her eyes bugged out.  I tried to shrug but was bogged down by the young man basking in his sorrows.  I liked seeing this side of him.  Under any normal circumstances, my sense of attraction for any other man would deflate quickly.  I liked a man that hide his emotions, so I wouldn’t have to deal with the same shitty gossip as I dealt with most of my girlfriends.  But something about Jeremy’s blond hair, his vulnerability, and that adorable dimple kept me guessing.

After Jeremy vaged out for a legitimate ten minutes, we started talking more freely about high school, just as I’d always imagined.  We talked about the delicious cheesy bread during high school lunch.  We talked about school spirit.  We talked about football stars and cool rich kid cars.  We talked about our lesbian swim teacher, who made me flash my swimsuit because I never showered after swimming and completely let the chlorine eat my swimsuit into a transparent outfit Lady Gaga would wear.

“Wow, I always knew she was a lesbian.” Jeremy answered; looking up at the ceiling like he’d just discovered the cure for AIDS by simply texting Cha Cha, “Do you remember when Brady Frank would always walk next to people and pee in the pool!?” he yelled. “You would be treading water and all of the sudden a warm substance would surround your innocent existence?” He was talking about the delinquent who peed near people in our swimming class.  It was disgusting and not normal.  For years, I thought I had been the only victim.  I was overjoyed we had something in common.

I spent the next thirty minutes to an hour standing in between his legs and touched his arm whenever he said something insanely funny, which was often.  I took it to the level of throwing my head back and laughing at the ceiling and nearly whoever was behind me when he threw his punch line. As far as I was concerned, no one else was in the room.  We didn’t have bodies; only faces and hands and lips.  He was the funniest human ever.  However, Jeremy was so drunk, his slurring was starting to interfere with the effectiveness and progressiveness of our conversation.  The conversation was going nowhere, and it meant nothing. We held hands.  We starred into each other’s eyes.  If starring counts as me trying to follow his wandering drunk-eyes.

“Let’s go upstairs.” He suggested.

I gulped and grabbed his cup and tried to drain the contents.  A raindrop of alcohol kissed the tip of my nose.

“Ok, common.” I grabbed his hand and started walking towards the stairway.

He immediately dropped it and looked around frantically.

“I’ll follow you. Go.”

This should have been a red flag for me, but I was too momentarily smitten.  One of my personal flaws was ignoring the warning signs of destruction and embracing my selfishness.  I often bypassed these warnings like I bypass hot gas; it may be a problem later, but at the moment everything seems just fine.  I had assumed him and his girlfriend had broken up, but why was he being so sketchy about following me to where the coats were kept? Maybe he had a back problem and the coats were cushy for his back? Maybe he liked the texture of faux fur? Saving the questions for later, I waltzed to the stairwell and floated to the top.  Occasionally I looked back to see Jeremy following me, less graciously of course.

Upon arriving in the coatroom, I stood in complete darkness against the bed.  We were in my friend Paula’s room and my pupils tried to catch up with the darkness before Jeremy arrived.  I blinked a few times and rubbed my eyes, which wasn’t a blessing in disguise for my mascara situation.

He came into the room as a slender, tall silhouette.  The light from the hallway spilled on to the carpet of the room.  I imagined I was in a movie scene where Ashton Kutcher was the leading man.  And I wasn’t getting Punked.  He slowly walked over, and my heart threatened to pop out of my mouth.  I had been waiting for this very moment since he tantalized me all throughout high school while he touched his girlfriend next to me every day.  He touched her like I wanted to be touched, his fingertips softly touching her elbows, his knee shoved in between her legs, his hips popped out from her locker. I swallowed and let him put his fingers on my hips.  This of course, sent scandalous sparks up my spine, and I wondered silently if him and his girlfriend had really ended things.  If not, I would be sure to eat my feelings in Punch Pizza, later.

He shifted his weight so his body pressed against mine. Thank goodness it was as dark as Lindsay Lohan’s future or Jeremy would have been face to face with my crazy eyes.  I made the possibility of another woman in my mind exit out the side door of my ears.

In two magical seconds, we fell onto the bed, cushy with fur coats, and he kissed me. It was such an intense kiss, I definitely planned on filling up my diary later with it’s description, the content equal to a trashy love novel. We made out like bunny rabbits for about five minutes and then he shot up from the bed like he was in rewind, and had just fallen into a pool of gasoline.

“Um…hey,” I grabbed around the darkness as if I was a little girl and wanted my mommy to pick me up.  I debated crying.

“Not here. Come outside.” He slithered out the door.  I was unsure if ‘not here’ meant no crying, or we needed to relocate due to privacy issues.

It was at this point in the evening I knew him and his girlfriend probably had not broken up yet.  This was because he would rather make out with me in the safety of threatening winter temperatures than a cluster of warm coats. I felt like a dick.  So much for his damn back problem.  I looked into the brightly lit hallway for an answer and got up to follow him.  I found nothing.  My eight ball key chain probably had better judgment than me at that point. The door was halfway open; I followed the opportunity as if Jeremy had a cheese-it crumb path.  I would do anything for those things.

I saw the look on Taryn’s face as I squeezed myself through the small gap.  I put my pointer on my lips and left.

Jeremy was standing under a light pole on the sidewalk.  I couldn’t help thinking about the Narnia movie and Centaur because it was snowing lightly. I ran over to him and jumped up into his arms.  He cupped my jean pockets and we made out standing there in the snow.  We walked around the block, making time to pause and eat each other’s faces wildly.  I remembered three things vividly: the letter patches on his sweatshirt, my chapped lips and the cold, which we were ignoring, and occasional threatening black ice spots.

Our kissing night cap was so epic a train even passed by on the tracks behind Paula’s house.  Jeremy wouldn’t stop kissing me like a horny Jonas Brother during a music video.  That would make me Selena Gomez, of course.  Once we finally decided to stop kissing we started walking back, holding hands.  The snow settled on Jeremy’s hair like flecks of victory confetti. My insecurities toppled out of my mouth in a word vomit stew,

“What about Chelsie?” I asked. This is one of the reasons I hated Facebook; I was always second-guessing.

“What about her?” He asked, looking straight ahead.  You would think I had asked him “what about (fill in random object, like macaroni).  This was his girlfriend we were talking about, not SpongeBob Square Pants-shaped noodles.

“Well, call me cray-cray but I don’t think she would want this for your relationship.”

“Don’t worry,” he looked down at me with those same drunken puppy eyes. They looked extra blue against the dirty snow. “We are breaking up anyway.  So, it’s OK.  Alright?”   The words seemed urgent and forced but he kissed my forehead.  I loved it when boys did that. It was at that point I knew God wanted the best for me.

The next morning, I woke up drooling on myself.  In my own bed.  I had gone home with Taryn and was too busy carrying Bridget across icy terrain to discuss the evening’s events.  Of course, I could barely carry Bridget because I was self-combusting with excitement.  I couldn’t wait to dish to the ladies.

But first, I had a text from Jeremy.


Too bad he didn’t know I was going to spill all of the good stuff to my roommates and friends in about t-minus three minutes.  Unfortunately, his text message made me feel insecure about myself all over again.  I blamed the mixed feelings on that time of the month.  Mother Nature had come bearing gifts rather early and it was feeding my ravaging anxiety like coal to a fire. What ever happened to the fact he was breaking up with Mackenzie? Was he lying to get me to kiss him?  Was Chelsie terrible in bed? Was his personal health OK?  Whatever, I understand that until he did break up with her, he may want to keep those things private, and I was going to make excuses for everything. I was great at making excuses to make myself feel better. Therefore, I decided to beat him at his own game and make him feel sorrier about the issue than I did.  I threw him an intense curveball.


I patted myself on my back as I lay for a few minutes to regain my thoughts.  I was looking forward to the response I was going to get, begging me to wait for him as he broke up with his girlfriend over Facebook chat.  Then, he would come running to me, carrying a box of Punch Pizza, hot from the stove.  I was backhanded in the face with his response:


Understanding?!?  That was utter bullshit.  I nearly fell out of my bed in a tizzy and ran into the family room for some counseling.  Taryn and Bridget were sprawled out on the couch watching a CSI marathon.

“Well, well, well, look who decided to show up.” Taryn said, straightening her poise so she could better dissolve in what I’m sure she knew was going to be an immense and embarrassing tale of the opposing being.

“To what?  A CSI marathon with you piles?”

“Easy.” Bridget said, sitting up as well. “We’ve been very productive already this afternoon.  We’ve solved two murder cases and are in the works of solving another.”

“I have really stinky farts right now but I’m hot boxing them under this blanket so you guys can’t smell them.” Taryn announced

“You are so disgusting and not supporting our case here.” Bridget said, completely un-phased by the fact Taryn had just used ‘fart’ and ‘hot box’ in the same sentence.

“Soooo, tell us about last night.” Taryn said, in the way where she made the last note of the sentence higher than the others. This annoyed me and indicated she knew the story already and wanted to hear it again for personal enjoyment.  I cursed our apartment for being so small; I wished I could dodge the conversation we were about to have. I knew it was going to alter my opinion on enjoying Taryn as a friend, and display the raw truth. According to Facebook, AND Twitter, Jeremy and Chelsie were still goin’ strong.  And according to their statuses, they had no intentions on throwing a wrench into anything.  Taryn was just going to uncover these points and make them more obvious.  I wasn’t ready for the truth.

“Wait a minute,” Bridget countered. “Can we just talk about MY night?  What happened after the electric slide in the family room?  The place cleared up like Hiroshima.”

Taryn looked at her in confusion and completely botched Bridget’s joke, “What did you say . . .like a rooch mole?”


Taryn gasped.

“That was sixty years ago, too soon?”

I fell into a fit of giggles, “The cops came, Sherlock.”

“It’s time to get serious.” If Taryn had a gavel she would have slammed it on our coffee table. “What happened with you and Jeremy?? Isn’t he dating Chelsie still?”

Obviously, she knew.  It’s not like she didn’t go to my high school or had the Facebook mini-feed reloading on her computer every five seconds.  It was even worse because she loved Angelina Jolie and I refused to even watch movies she was in because she was such a home wrecker.

“We kissed once. Ok? It’s not going to happen again.” Look who the home wrecker was now…

Taryn had no room to judge me at this point.  She was on her fourth episode of CSI Miami and had cheddar Sun Chips for breakfast sprinkled all over her chest.  It was 1 P.M.


For the next week, I didn’t see Jeremy.  That was a nice relief considering I was trying to lose ten pounds and hanging out with a tease wasn’t going to feed the fire, or my thighs. I tried not to talk about him to my friends, in fear they would shun me.  Therefore, I channeled all of my energy into creeping on him and his girlfriend over Facebook.  I psyched myself out one day when I thought a special application on Facebook allowed them to see how many times I viewed Jeremy’s profile.  This innate fear stopped the creeping for about seventeen hours.  I took it upon myself to order that personal horoscope to be sent to me every day via e-mail from  It was the only thing I had besides my Magic Eight ball keychain, and seeking therapy.

Jeremy was a friend with all of my high school buddies who went to our college.  So I was bound to see him sans his girlfriend somewhere. The day came on a fateful Friday, when I was hanging out with my other roommate Lauren at our guy friend’s house.

Lauren was the nicest girl I had ever met besides my own Mother.  Unfortunately for everyone who wasn’t her, she was the chick in high school that always had the cool Hollister shirts first and the Burberry scarf I always longed for. But the problem was, I could never get mad at her.  She was funny in a way where it seemed nonchalant and accidental.  For example, when I was studying for Spanish one night, I couldn’t figure out how to absorb the weekly vocabulary words.

“How am I supposed to remember ‘yerno’ means ‘son-in-law’ in Spanish?” I huffed.

“Yerno son of mine!” Lauren yelled from her desk.

Lauren made me jump on the bandwagon of saying, “dicks and airplanes son” whenever someone came up to me and asked, “What’s up?” I was the type of person to forget to say it when people asked, but Lauren always remembered and it was always executed perfectly.  She was hilarious and I wanted to be just like her.

She never seemed like she was trying too hard and her effortless wit and stature intimidated me in most social situations.   During our sophomore year, she was still dating one of Jeremy’s friends John, a super hot hockey player who had grown up in the countryside of northern Minnesota.  This later turned into my husband fantasy.  I wanted a man who knew how to drive a tractor and skate backwards.

Jeremy and I went into the kitchen together and lingered in the hallway, flirting and saying a lot of things that didn’t matter.  Having a conversation with the kid was like trying to get a stuffed animal out of a machine.  I could pry and try all I wanted, but I was just not going to get what I wanted out of it.  He was busily eating chips and chomping in my face.  The saddest part about this story is I thought it was funny.  We were being extremely secretive and sleazy, so he pulled me behind the bathroom door and kissed me right in between bites of Doritos.  Hopefully when I’m married and have kids in later life, I will understand how disgusting this really was.   I didn’t want Lauren to know, so we left immediately after, in fear Jeremy would give me eye contact that shared our story with the public eye. I told her I had gas I feared would turn into something more.

Two weeks later, some of my girlfriends were having a cowboys and Indians party. We loved being politically incorrect and bi-racial.  Taryn and I spent the entire day putting together an Indian outfit with a dark beige pillowcase we had purchased at Targhetto (our ghetto Target near campus).  I shoved on my Uggs, doused my albino skin with Neutrogena self-tanner and called it a night.  Upon leaving our apartment, I looked like a well-cooked baked potato with fringe.

When we arrived, I quickly noticed Jeremy standing in the corner with some buddies.  He was wearing a hot pink boa.

“What is he? A gay cowboy?” I asked Taryn as we walked in wearing our pillowcases.

“Not according to last week,” She nudged me playfully and went downstairs.  I was angry with myself for walking into that trap and followed her downstairs to ignore running into Jeremy.  My downstairs route was proof I was trying to be a good person.  I had full intentions on continuing my Jeremy-fast while he was still “working on dumping his girlfriend.”

But I was not perfect.

In an hour, we were locked in the bathroom and the boa was wrapped around my neck.  We were making out like rabbits again.  He chapped my lips.  He made me sweat.  He touched me in frantic, sporadic motions.  Under most occasions, I was a deep, romantic, and slow lover.  Jeremy made love like a crossbreed hamster.  I loved it.  After whipping my hand across the bathroom mirror and making a grease print, I realized contrary to popular belief, I was not being as classy as Kate Winslet in Titanic.

“But . . .Cheslie…”

He swallowed my words with a kiss.  The taste lingered in my mouth.

Then, someone started pounding on the door.


What!? I squirmed from out from between the wall and Jeremy.  That was ridiculous and quite frankly, something to be proud of.  How could such quick loving, go by so fast? Thank heavens, because I was winded and needed a time out. I reached up to give Jeremy a high-five, he missed and we walked out.

We were two floors up, in the wrong duplex.

The people who greeted us at the doorway were complete strangers.  We high-fived a second time.

The night did not continue to make me a proud parent of my own conscience.  We ended up sneaking out of the party to go make out in his car.  I felt like I was in high school all over again.  Making out in cars was never the answer to anyone’s insecurity problems.  Cars were simply not designed to support two people who wanted to cheat on their significant others unless they wanted to do it with a stick shift up their ass.

The entire way to his car, we playfully pushed each other off sidewalks and laughed. It was cold as Sarah Palin’s caribou meat freezer outside, so I snuggled closer to him.  I couldn’t figure out why I was doing this to myself.  He kept telling me he was going to break up with Chelsie, but this was one of those circumstances where I knew he would never come through. Like when my parent’s forgot about the tooth fairy and I found out Santa Clause wasn’t real.  Or when the dentist told me laughing gas wasn’t scary as shit.

We ended up falling into the back of his Taurus and kissing each other until the windows fogged up and we couldn’t see outside.  On cue, I pressed my fingers against the back window and let my hand make a Kate Winslet mark.  I smiled at it and my phone vibrated in my pocket.  It was Taryn.

“Please hold,” I told Jeremy and I answered my phone.

“WHERE ARE YOU? ARE YOU ALIVE?” Taryn yelled through the speakers loud enough for the deceased to hear.

“Well I answered my phone, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t answer my question, where are you?  We all left the party to come find you and we are on….Selby and Dale….” She paused to look up at street signs.  I gasped and grabbed Jeremy’s chest, covered by his Hollister hoodie and ducked.

“Get down,” I told him and pulled him against the seat.  I breathed loudly into Jeremy’s face.

“What? Who are you talking to?”

“Umm. Justin. I’m at Justin’s house.” I answered, which was terrible game on my part. Justin’s house was a block away and easily where Taryn was or could be headed.

“Oh, great. We’re on our way. I’m so happy you’re safe!”

I hung up the phone and watched Taryn, Lauren, and Sonja walk by through my Kate Winslet streak.

“What was that all about?” Jeremy slowly sat up and pushed my hair behind my ears. The touch was nice but that fact I had just lied to my friend un-announced was not.  I wasn’t raised a liar, or a cheater.  And in the matter of thirty seconds, I was both. I sat up and realized my Indian costume was completely ripped down the back.  I looked like Courtney Love’s cousin.

“I must go.” I fell out of the car and stood outside in the bitter cold.  He looked at me like I was crazy and crawled out.

“I’ll walk you home.” He suggested after put his North Face around my shoulders. Like a true gentleman, he walked me to campus in the snow. Right then, I started feeling bad for celebrities and being stalked by paparazzi.  If I was a celeb, I can’t imagine how many crotch and hot mess shots cameras would capture of my goodie gum drops.

The tough part about the story was that I began to really enjoy Jeremy’s company.  For all of the wrong reasons; how soft his hair was, or how much fun it was to sneak off behind closed bathroom doors.  For brief moments during the weekends, he made me feel loved, if only momentarily.  Like a great Boston CD, I could spend time with Jeremy, and the minute he was over, I was left in the silence of my own, wrenching thoughts.  Every weekend Jeremy and I would make out nothing more, and I would leave feeling momentarily warm.  He was like a bag of peanut butter M&M’s, I hated myself and I loved myself whenever I ate them.

Every weekend after our playtime, I would look at pictures of him and his girlfriend in the apple orchard, in Chicago eating deep dish, or on campus.  I was the mistress and he wasn’t even rich or famous.  He was a normal college dude who played fantasy football and farted on the couch alone.

One night after drinking, I was squatting over the toilet peeing, and Lauren came in to yell at me about the Jeremy situation.  Although I thought I was keeping it secret, it went completely amiss when Jeremy came over drunk one night and peed all over our bathroom.  I had never seen so much urine in one room in my entire lifetime.  I hadn’t even dreamt about it.  But it wasn’t the urine all over our ocean theme shower curtain Lauren was mad about, either.

“You can’t do this anymore Brittany!  He has a girlfriend! Imagine how it feels to be her!? This all has got to stop.

I felt terrible about this incident for a long while afterwards.  That is, until Lauren fooled around with a guy on the seventh floor of our apartment that had a girlfriend.  One day, she had to call Taryn and I when his girlfriend came home because she locked herself in his bathroom to save girlfriend from seeing her wearing his boxers. “You have to help me! Please, I’m so sorry. I’m locked in Brandon’s bathroom because his girlfriend came over.”

To this day, I still believe karma is a bitch.

Anyway, I had to put an end to this madness.  I was putting myself through the ringer. Constantly making out with someone who had a girlfriend was a lot of work.  It was a sneaky, strenuous business, ask Lauren.  I was having a tough time bottling it all up.  I was searching for a valid reason for it all to stop, and secretly, I was waiting for him to leave his girlfriend for me, or for her to find out.  That was never going to happen.  But other things can.

I had convinced Taryn to come with me to a party Jeremy was having at his new house.  We were sophomores and Jeremy and I had been prancing around with each other for a year.  This impressed me for two reasons: one, how long Jeremy could keep our ‘fun time’ a secret, and two; how long I could stomach looking at pictures of him jumping in leaves with Chelsie and still run off with him.  I was not proud of any of this.  Jeremy always told me him and Chelsie had broken up and my hopes would sky rocket like the naïve pre-teen who still thought Santa was real; even after seeing their own father feed the cookies to Mama.  He was not lying one time, when they broke up over Facebook for a couple months in the summer.  Needless to say, Jeremy and I saw each other once during the time of his single days.  I think it had something to do with ‘wanting what we couldn’t have.’

At the end of the night, while Taryn went and fell asleep in our friend Adam’s bed and I went up to turn over the sheets in Jeremy’s.  He wasn’t there yet, but I made myself comfortable in his makeshift futon bed.  Not exactly my idea of a love den.

He was barely drunk enough to function, and came up and passed out spooning me.  This was nice, until I wanted to suffocate and crawl out the window.  I never was much of a spooner when the comfort of my own beauty sleep was at stake. And Jeremy spooned like a Kuala bear with attachment issues.  We woke up in the morning facing each other like a married couple.  We kissed sweetly and had one of those brief morning sessions where we knew it was the last.  He kissed my forehead.

“I’ll be right back, I have to get a drink of water.” He crawled out of his futon and I watched him walk downstairs.  I sprawled out on his lumpy futon like a flying squirrel.  It felt good to be free.

I spent the next ten minutes perfecting a seductive position for his return.  I lay on my side, adjusted my bra, and let my brown hair cascade across my shoulders.  Impressed by my creative pornographic side, I grabbed some Cinnamon gum from my purse to save my breath, which smelt like the inside of an abandoned Taco Bell and a nursery home combined.

Five more minutes went by and I let them pass because well, everybody poops.

Then five more minutes passed and I really started getting agitated.  No man should make any woman wait especially if the woman was sprawled out on a futon like Kendra Wilkinson, and especially if that woman was I.  I was about as patient as a twelve-year-old off their ADD medication.  This put me in morning outrage because I was hungry, my skirt was itchy, and I patience was a virtue I did not want.  I got up from his futon and walked carefully down the stairs.  Taryn came bulldozing out of Adam’s room, looking like she had just done something horrible, like accidentally killed a basket of kittens.

“No talking. Let’s, just leave.” She said, pulling me down the stairs.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

“Let’s talk while we walk towards the front door, please?”

“Wait, we have to find Jeremy. I don’t know where he went.”  I was beginning to think the little Keebler elves had come and taken him away.

“Seriously?” Taryn sank into her knees for dramatic effect and looked at me as if she was going to turn into a pumpkin, starting at her legs.

“Ok, FINE woman. Let’s go.”

We headed for the front porch door, and I felt awkwardly rejected.  Where had he run off to?  It looked like a scene from D-Day downstairs; people were sprawled about the house like dead bodies, and I didn’t see Jeremy in any of them.

That was until we swung open the porch door, on our way out.

Jeremy was passed out on the porch couch; spooning with his “best friend,” Cody and this frightened me greatly.  He was spooning to the point that his face was nuzzled into the nap of Cody’s neck, and his arm was slung over his broad shoulders.  This told me my spooning session with him lacked the elements of passion and intimacy he had been searching for.  And he had found the heat of passion with his male counterpart.

I tried to transform my experience into a mere learning lesson.  If he could cheat on his girlfriend for a better spooning session; he probably wouldn’t have a problem leaving anyone for a piece of romance elsewhere.  Like me, Jeremy was going to make mistakes whether or not they were gay, or straight.

Beyond vowing to never being ‘the other woman’ ever again, I vowed not to be surprised if a man never changed his spots. Sleeping, spooning, and enjoying with a human of the same sex did not count as an improvement in his case.  I decided right away after this, as Taryn began our walk of shame march home, that Jeremy and I needed to come to an end.  Because Kate Winslet would never stand for this. And Chelsie had de-friended me on Facebook.

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University of Saint Thomas graduate. Minnesota-bred and happy to talk about the weather any time you’d like! Strongly believes any situation can be bettered by a slice of generously buttered toast or Phil Dunphy. Would get arrested to touch Justin Timberlake’s face. Always trying to be a better person by not wishing horrible karma on people driving slow in the fast lane. Hear more: @twitter @instagram


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