What Possessed Me

The world according to Fauxhawk

Lookee here.



What’s this?

Why, it’s a scrap of paper, of course.

It’s a scrap of paper that explains everything.

Everything?

Yes. Everything.

I’ll explain in a minute.

First I have to tell you about Fauxhawk and his friend who lives abroad. Fauxhawk and his friend have known each other for ages and are in touch multiple times a week, either by phone or by email. This week, it seems that Fauxhawk’s is in a situation with a girl. A girl he likes. What follows is a transcript of Fauxhawk’s side of the conversation.

“So you kissed,” Fauxhawk said into the phone.
…
“And then what happened?”
…
“She did?”
…
“So what are you thinking?”
…
“Right. This sounds like Stage D to me.”
…
“Wait – you think it’s Stage E?”
…
“Wow. Good for you, man.”

When it was all over, two hours later, I questioned Fauxhawk on his terminology.

“Stage D and Stage E are part of a system we devised to describe relationships,” he explained. Apparently, Fauxhawk and his friend had spent hours – and I’m talking HOURS – hashing out every detail of every date, labeling each emotion at every step of the way over a period of years to explain what goes on between people when they get that tingly feeling in their loins.

Stage A, he explained, is happy singledom. This is life without a committed relationship during which you date or don’t date, and feel fine either way. This is usually followed by Stage B, when single life begins to grow stale, and when you begin to worry about dying alone surrounded by feral cats. Just when things start looking really bleak, Stage C comes along – a prospect! A busty fashionista! A fetching boy with a bagel! At this stage, your tail is wagging, your coat is glossy, and you are panting with excitement. After a few ambiguous interactions, your hardcore crush is established in Stage D. Let the stalking begin! Fortunately, this stage is brief as it is entirely unsustainable - you will stop eating, sleeping and doing work. You will spend all of your free time diagramming every encounter with the crush over the phone with your friends, you will develop a rash on your face, your right eye will twitch incessantly. The uncertainty is about to kill you when, all of a sudden, you find yourself in Stage E. You are in a relationship and happy about it. Just when you’ve fattened up, the grinding wheels of fortune catch you in their rusty spokes. She’s sick of you. You’re sick of her. Fuck it, it’s over, and now you're in Stage F. You want out. But now that you're out, you're not happy either. In fact, you're totally and utterly miserable. Stage G is that special time when you stop washing your hair, cry in the mirror, and eat condiments out of a jar while standing around in your unwashed pajamas. It can't go on much longer - there is only so much hair loss you can tolerate - so with the help of prescription medicines, you pull yourself through to Stage A.

And it begins again.

“But what’s the smiley face?” I ask. “What stage is that?”

“That’s what happens after Stage E. It’s when you’re in a happy relationship that lasts forever. It’s when you’re officially off the diagram.”

“Holy shit,” I said, stunned by the intricacy of it all. “You guys are a bunch of school girls!”

“I know.”

So now I know.

My boyfriend is a woman.

This explains everything.


Diagram by Fauxhawk. Used without permission, of course.

Morning revelations

The Boy With Unusual Facial Hair, otherwise known as the TBWUFH, made a rare appearance this morning on the subway platform.

Devoted readers may remember TBWUFH from the Great Bagel Debacle of 2007, the Fuckwit Festival in June and the Gigolo Revival in August.

Since I’ve been spending more time in Brooklyn at Fauxhawk’s place, I haven’t had the pleasure of a baffling/frustrating/amusing run-in with TBWUFH since this summer.

“Hey!” he said. “I haven’t seen you around in a while.”
“Yeah, I’ve been at my boyfriend’s place a lot these days.”
“You have a boyfriend?!”

It was less of a question than a statement of complete and utter astonishment. In my caffeine-deprived, slightly glazed state, his tone annoyed me.

“Yeah.”
“You do?”
“YES.”

Was I so unlovable that the idea of being attached to someone was completely preposterous?

“Oh – I just…” His voice trailed off.

Now I was curious.

“What is it?”

It took several back and forths to get it out of him.

“I thought that maybe you were a lesbian.”

Huh.

“Really?! Oh! That’s funny!”

The words were coming out in a strange, chirpy way, as if to say, “Oh, how amusing! Isn’t that fun?”

The truth is, I suspected as much. This explained why, out of the blue, I was aggressively recruited for the women’s rugby team in college, despite being incapable and averse to participating in most team sports. Though I politely declined the invitation, I later regretted the decision. The women's rugby team was a fertile breeding ground for experimental lesbianism in an environment where heterosexuality was a major inconvenience. During my first year in college, the lesbians were the cool girls. They were fun. They were hip. And they got A LOT of action. I, on the other hand, held on to my embryonic heterosexuality and didn't get a piece my entire freshman year - lesbian or otherwise. Not even experimental, fumble in the closet, make out on the dance floor action. While all of my friends were lezzing it up and having a grand old time, I was eating Domino’s pizza with banana peppers and getting fat. I missed my big chance, and I was stuck with...nothing.

A silence passed between us. Finally, I said, “So – just out of curiosity - why did you think that?”

“I don’t know…”

Not good enough.

“It’s my hair, isn’t it?” I insisted.
“Maybe that’s it. It’s kind of…”
“…Kentucky coal miner meets Joan Jett?” I added helpfully.
“Or something.”

So now I know. I have lesbian hair.

WHAT OF IT?

Note to Self: The Year in Numbers

Dear 2007 Self,

In reviewing your statistics for the past year, I must say that I am more than a little concerned.

Let’s be frank. Let’s even be honest. Self, it doesn’t look good. I think you know this and I think you are deep denial. I think you think it’s all going to get better by itself, but Self, we both know that 98% of the time, you are lazy and shiftless and crippled by the competing forces of blind optimism and dark, dismal pessimism. Because of this, I think we’re going to have to do things the hard way.

We’re going to have to tally shit up.



Romantic life:

Number of breakups: 3
Number of distressing ex-boyfriend visitations: 2
Number of evenings spent listening to Joni Mitchell while crying about the above: 132 (rough estimate)
Number of nervous breakdowns and nuclear meltdowns related to the above: 3 (at least)
Number of therapy sessions devoted to the above: 68
Number of hours beloved friends spent coaching you about the above: 1,116
Number of times you batted Fauxhawk around with your paw: 2 (number currently under dispute)

Professional life:

Number of times you cursed your job: 730
Number of viable ideas generated about a more fulfilling career: 0
Number of times you “got creative” when talking about your current career at parties: 57

Family life:

Number of points needed to become Good Child: 7,464 (depending on performance of the incumbent)
Number of efforts made to overthrow Good Child: 4
Number of times your niece threw up on you: 6
Number of times your nephew peed on your leg: 2

Personal growth:

Number of times you made a complete ass of yourself: 182 (generous estimate)
Number of self-help books given to you: 4
Number of times you drank too much: 29
Number of times you drank too much and went splat on the sidewalk: 1
Number of months during which you visited the gym at least once: 4
Number of blogs you created: 1
Number of people who actually read your blog: 4
Number of times you got busted for the smack you wrote on your blog: 2
Number of countries you visited: 3
Number of times your intestines dissolved as result of those trips: 2
Number of plants killed deliberately with Clorox: 1
Number of household cats you hoped to kill with Clorox: 2-3 (depending on behavior)

Finances:

Number of years before you will be able to buy an apartment in New York City: 47
Number of financial planning books you have read: 0
Number of hours you spent contemplating aforementioned books: 12
Number of times you said, “Fuck that!” and picked up Elle Decor instead of aforementioned books: 12

Goals and Aspirations:

Number of times you fantasized about doing something more substantial with your life: 1,654,001
Number of times you actually did something about these fantasies: 0
Number of times you were crippled with self-doubt when contemplating the future: 425
Number of times you contemplated becoming a Starbucks barista: 18

I don’t need to tell you that your numbers have ranged from lackluster to spectacularly bad this year. If I don’t see improvement in your value add over the next quarter, I will be forced to put you on a monitored performance plan and limit your access to the internets.

Best regards,
2008 Self


Illustration by jorg3pavon