Whip-Smart: The Graduate

Whip-Smart: The Graduate

When you’re in college and about to graduate, your life can be consumed with announcements and it all can be taxing unless you have somebody who lives for it and I do - my mother.


“I want to make it clear about the ground rules for this,” I told her over brunch. “No speeches, no programs, no brouhaha over this.”


“Of course not,” she said, averting her eyes from me.


“I’m serious,” I said. “You put together a Power Point presentation for my high school graduation. My life flashing before my eyes by way of Microsoft technology.”


“Okay no presentations,” she said. “Just some bonding with family.”


“Then there better be booze at this,” I suggested. “I bond better with a buzz.”


And from one announcement to another, my friend Owen called to tell me all about his potential haircut that, to him, was the biggest news ever.


“It’s going to be like Jake Gyllenhaal’s,” he said.


“‘Bubble Boy’, ‘Jarhead’, or ‘Brokeback Mountain’ Gyllenhaal?” I asked.


“‘Brokeback Mountain’,” he scoffed.


“What’s with the sudden hair change?” I questioned. “You’ve always loved your hair. It’s your trademark like Elton John’s sunglasses or Paris Hilton’s vagina.”


“I wish you’d come to the MOA with me,” Owen said. “There are more gays in The Buckle than an audience at ‘Rent.’”


“Well be wary of any spontaneous dance numbers,” I advised. “Unless it’s from ‘Newsies’, then I give you my blessing.”


“Since you’re going back to La Crosse are you going back to The Russian?” Owen asked me, out of nowhere. “You two keep colliding together like it’s fate.”


“It’s not fate just the gravitational pull of his sadism and my masochism,” I replied.


“Well nothing like a little S&M to spice up a relationship,” Owen laughed.


The status of my relationship with The Russian wasn’t the only thing in flux.


“I’m scared the Cowboy and I are going to break up over break,” he told me. “I’m working all these hours and won’t get to visit him.”


“Are you scared that you’ll break up or are you scared of a future of actual happiness?” I replied.


“I am a bad person,” he sighed.


“You’re not a bad person,” I said. “You do realize that I’m going to write about this.”


“Of course,” he smirked. “That’s what I’m here for.”


“You’re here because you’re my main gay and don’t you forget it,” I replied.


Later that evening, I stopped fighting fate and talked to The Russian.


“You know I graduate soon,” I told him.


“Well prepare for hell then,” he replied. “I’m a realist, not an optimist. That’s my downfall.”


“Just that?” I playfully retorted.


“I’m sending you a song,” he quickly snapped.


“He sent me Macy Gray’s I ‘Try’,” I bemoaned a few minutes later. “And it could mean something or it could mean nothing.”


“Probably nothing,” Gavin assured me.


Saturday night, I went out with some friends and ended up getting more drunk than one of President Bush’s twin daughters. After getting home, I decided to send out some instant messages under the influence of one too many UV Lemonades and then promptly passed out.


The next morning I awoke, the smell of bar all around me, and saw my computer was still on. I closed all of the instant message windows still opened, most just filled with drunken announcements of how wicked awesome I am.


And then I stumbled on one last instant message window box, which took me a second to figure out what I had written. But when I did, I let out a shriek of horror.


“I love you Nikolai.”


I had drunkenly announced my love for The Russian.