A.T. Guy, Bachelor of Arts

The following is a recollection of history in the making, or history that was made. It isn’t a recollection of history to be made, because even I haven’t seen that far into the future.

The scene: CSULB’s Central Quadrangle. The star: A.T. Guy, candidate for Bachelor of Arts in Rhetorical Studies and Political Science. The enabler: CSU Board of Trustees. The crime: graduation. Yes, this is how most crimes begin. Give a person a degree and watch power get abused, especially starting this fall. But for now, the graduation experience as presented by me.

Graduation hit me like a sack of bricks, considering the whole week I had spent with other people committing shenanigans left and right. As a matter of fact, my sleep deprivation grew to be pretty severe during the process. I was granted a week’s extension to move out, yet I may have only spent a night there. The funniest thing that happened was that I acquired a cold, or at least I believe I did. I wanted to sleep, but I was convinced that partying would solve my problems. Seeing as I was weak, the three drinks I had knocked me out cold. During this process, I missed out on an opportunity for guaranteed entertainment. Lesson learned? Do not get sick during a party, because if you do, I promise you…it will be funny.

Graduation itself was funny, because I woke up extremely tired, but I had to shower and get dressed casually. I donned my WrestleMania shirt which I had been saving for this very occasion, and it did not disappoint. After debating, I also strapped on a belt underneath my robe. I sleepwalked to the gathering area, where I greeted teachers, classmates, and kids who couldn’t write lucid essays. It was an eerie sight, as the communication department is perhaps the largest on campus. If not the largest, it comes damn close, because during the proceedings themselves, we outnumbered everyone combined. It was fun connecting and seeing my days pass before me; my mortarboard summed up my journey in a math equation. Something along the lines of 170 units, six years worth of work, three years of involvement in salsa, one restraining order, three dorm rooms, two majors…and I’m still not done. That candid snapshot of me encapsulated all of my thoughts perfectly. I’ve created a lot of noise, and it’s not over quite yet.

I made a few unflattering-but-hilarious remarks while sitting through the ceremony due to Jordan being textually available. Hell, after having confetti thrown at me, why wouldn’t I be jovial and blunt? Everything I said was a witty one-liner. The top-ranked graduate majored in Spanish Translation while hailing from Mexico. No offense, but if…certain things should not be heralded. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was a forceful nod to the recent Arizona immigration law, but I digress. The fact is, they had a ready made controversial feel-good story in me, and they passed. Their loss. The most exciting thing I saw was the Master’s students getting hooded by the faculty. I await the day I receive my hood.

Hitting the stage was where the main event took place. When I arose from my seat, my sash and honor cord fell off. As I knelt to pick them up, I dropped my name card, holding up the whole line. Then, I hugged Dr. Downey who was standing at the end of the row directing traffic, and I was pretty elated that I could do that. She firmly reminded me that my mother was to see her afterwards, and I obliged. My professors did not say good luck or have a nice future; they said “see you in three months.” Wow, way to boost my spirits. I frantically searched for another card, and received one after what seemed like a lifetime. I scribbled my name and email address, passed it to the Michael Buffer impersonator, and heard the most beautiful words echo throughout the university:


I crossed the stage, shook hands with the provost and president, and even the ASI president left his seat to congratulate me. Clout comes in all shapes and sizes, but of course, the Shaman of Sexy is the gatekeeper to the in-crowd. I took a few pictures, returned to my seats, and then all the communication majors…continued to walk the stage. Holy frick. My day was done, my goals ordained, and my undergraduate career officially declared closed. A flawed success, but a remarkable success. I thought back to the time I had my first official kiss; I bought a girl condoms for her boyfriend (ultra-sensitive), and she pecked me on the lips. Fell backwards. Damn senior year of high school. Graduation was like that: unintentionally awkward, but everyone gets a laugh and a story. Took pictures with my family, introduced them to the salsa community, and well, relaxed long enough to say I’m done.

Well, not really. I went dancing later that night, destroyed the floor, had any girl I want, and that was it. For once, I didn’t think about the absurdity of things I screwed up. I thought it wouldn’t be as fun walking off the stage to a girl that wasn’t there. Instead, it was fun seeing my family beam with adoration, seeing Jordan being Jordan, my niece…and others. Seeing Marco later on that night made things come full circle. Satisfied, yet indifferent, I am now safely home in Hawthorne where I will rest until the time comes for me to shine on again. In the fall, I won’t have a problem starting over, because I did my job with aplomb this year. For now, work and lesson planning will run the day, as I figure out what it means to be calm and well-rested. My immediate plans are empty, with the exception of the final fulfillment of the Tragic Triumvirate. Brandon was last Saturday, I was yesterday; Jordan’s in two weeks. Then, of course, we’re golden. Eight questions to leave with:

• Are you graduating with broader views of what you might do in life compared to the ideas you had when you arrived? (Yes: considered the Peace Corps, law school, and East Coast schooling.)

• To what degree have you learned how to lead by subordinating your own ambition to the common good, rather than vice versa? (Salsa Club/Team Treasurer; didn’t lead, but lead through presence.)

• Have you mastered a mode of inquiry, or developed anything that could constitute a permanent and fertile source of intellectual interest? (The study of rhetoric qualifies.)

• How much more did you contribute to classes and organizations and jobs than you took from them? (I pushed myself to be the voice to stimulate others despite my wishes. I made things livable.)

• Have you as yet loved anyone or anything beyond reason? (Victoria, Pippa, movies based on comic books, being an unabashed leftist…)

• Have you learned how and why to risk a serious, public failure? (Without hesitation, for love, honor, and the good of my allies.)

• How well can you sustain a determined, focused and disciplined attempt to solve an important problem? (One year of salsa taught me my worth in spades.)

• How much more inclined and more able are you to recognize and appreciate real genius, whatever its mode of expression? (Everytime I see a freeway or a dance floor, I’m constantly in reverie.)

• What have you become willing to do without getting paid, graded or recognized? (Too much. Gambling has more or less become my calling card.)

• How much room have you been able to leave for the inconvenient exercise of compassion, kindness and generosity? (My steely veneer has been pierced; I will do what must be done at any given moment.)

Those are my answers; I can only pray I guessed correctly. Next stop, the Seventeeth Grade. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Train “Hey, Soul Sister”


Naked Bricks

I started my journey in this room a scant eight months ago, determined to make my senior year the stuff movies could be ostensibly be made from. I had an uneventful start as a freshman, but I slowly picked up steam during my succeeding years. When I move out in a couple of days, I will effectively kiss off my undergraduate career that is tinged with honor, blown saves, romance, novelty, the fame, and analysis. I played each day with the sole expressed goal of leaving nothing to chance, leaving my effort on the floor that I walked. In my passion, I also left my corpse behind. On the bright side, I can say I did have a girl in the room I expended a $1000 premium to obtain. It was probably the last peaceful night I had. Room D123, you have served me well.

Brandon told me that it seems whatever event happens in his life, I have an event that exceeds it, usually on a traumatic level. I probably would have been offended if it wasn’t so damn true. The 2010 year has left me saying “fuck” on a daily basis, because I can’t seem to shake the monkey on my back. Everywhere I turn, there’s a problem I accounted for in theory, but not in magnitude. Even to the end, I have to move everything out of here within one day, because I’m scheduled to graduate and evacuate Thursday morning. I walked out of my room a few minutes ago, and lo and behold, I saw cats, one of which was in my building, which I presumed empty. I guess as is with most things lately, I’m proven incorrect. For a fleeting moment, I could’ve sworn I possessed Jack Swagger’s smile. I no longer do. I feel hollow, horrible, and hurt. The most damning part about this is that I have no choice but to shake it off, because that is what is expected out of me from others, and myself. I don’t truly want to be the bigger person and overcome my thoughts. However, the way of the land stipulates my presence at the end of the world to start coordinating how to tell the media it didn’t really happen. Of course, it didn’t really happen; it was just a small nuclear accident.

I went dancing last night to celebrate my graduation; ironically enough, I’ll go dancing again on graduation day. I was celebrated because I was the only one crazy enough to dance in my robe. This is why I’m not supposed to retire; I don’t mind stepping out of the ordinary long enough to make it fun for others. It was an impressive night, as I tagged every girl I wanted. Seriously, it was heaven on the dance floor, along with cheap pops, laughs, jokes, and the absurdity of wearing a shirt that says “I’m Awesome” underneath the vestments. While I could have stolen any girl there, Victoria commanded most of my attention for obvious reasons. The happiness she fills me with is different than the thoughts I have of Pippa. I shouldn’t have either thoughts, but they plague me constantly. We danced, laughed, and she admitted that we have the best chemistry on the floor. I went back down memory lane when I busted my ass making her salsa functional. I succeeded in spades. In accordance with the prophecy, I was reminded that it would all be a pipe dream at the moment, perhaps forever. We were nose to nose, perfect opportunity to go for the kill. I passed, accepting the moment for what it was: a good song that I had internalized.

Jordan greeted me with a text this afternoon alerting me I had two more days. It hasn’t dawned on me why I should be happy, but he said something that made a shit ton of sense. There were people not expecting us to make it. Brandon made it. Jordan made it. I made it. We’ve all dealt with our moments of inadequacy, sometimes perceived, sometimes real. The fact is, we made it. I talked to Kristen last week, and she’s making it. I’m questioning why the fuck it has to be so hard, but realistically, it can’t be another way. If I was handed everything on a silver platter, I wouldn’t appreciate the honor of saying “thanks, but I still have six more years before I can relax.” I may not date Pippa. I might not marry Victoria. I might be single until the day before I die, young or old. Thursday, though, I pick up my Bachelor of Arts in Rhetorical Studies and Political Science, pulling off six years of work in four years. I return in the fall to embark on another two years of study in Communication, after which I’ll have my Master of Arts in Speech Communication. If I’m lucky, I’ll have a Peace Studies certificate to go along with it. I’m not happy because I wanted my significant other to cherish the moment of a milestone. I’m relieved that I have my best friends and a crazy mother who accept me for the success I don’t quite feel I deserve.

I am A.T. Guy, or at least that’s what I’ll be forcing people to call me after Thursday. I have sacrificed all I had for this shot at being happy, and I’m not happy. I have outworked my competition, then subsequently stuck it to them to prove I could. I will bitterly and humbly accept my degree Thursday, knowing fully well that I’ll be pissed until I get the one prize I’ve sought for years. I will probably succeed here, most likely won’t. However, I will persist or die trying. That’s the only way I know, that is the only way I know. Skibbedebebop. Not soon enough.

Current Track – Eminem “Not Afraid”

At Peace…Mostly

I woke up groggy this morning, probably because I did not sleep. I should probably stop lying about being immune to caffeine, because the two small cups I had last night/this morning forbade sleep before five. There was a documentary that required attention, and it brought me back to my childhood with the Power Rangers toys and other weird stuff I coerced my mother into buying. Films like that is why I’m a communication major.

Still groggy, I run to my mailbox where I am greeted by a couple of missives from the school. One is another congratulatory note, the other confirming my soon to be employment here. As of press time, I was granted three sections of Interpersonal Communication, none of which is on Friday mornings. That would have been a major point of contention, seeing as I would like to peg Friday as my “recover from previous night’s debauchery” day. More or less, I am happy. They already decided my last day of working at Cash America, which was pretty nifty. I thought I might stay on for an additional month, but they squashed that idea. Groovy. I have not been assigned a GA mentor, but from what I understand, I am in high demand among professors. I do not have the best grades among all the grad students, but I keep hearing I’m the most comfortable in my own skin. Is that what the world needs right now: a guy who is comfortable in his own skin? Whatever the case, I hear that fits me.

Looking ahead, I’m nearing the point where I see the world in for what it is: a maddening sequential chaotic order. My mother keeps telling me how proud she is of me, and my teachers are happy that I’ll be sticking around for another 780 days or so. My mind individually has an eye towards the fall when Jordan and I move into our own Palace of Wisdom. I’m not sure why this is so exciting, considering I’ve been in college for four years. However, the next two years (probably six) have that potential to be groundbreaking. It’s one of the few things I’ve envied about Brandon: he’s been on his own since high school. Sure, I’ve moved here to the dorms, and Jordan had a small stint, but I knew that Mom was always there, especially since I didn’t have a kitchen. Now, I get to download my illegal music and porn again. I’m going to part ways with the computer I’ve had for ten years, and have a room practically designed to my schematics. I have a vision of blinding lime green and being lost in the glow. I want to hang up my belts. I want…to have a freezer that has ice cream in it. Big dreams, big dreams.

Speaking of big dreams, the more I look around, the more things aren’t as they appear. People abdicating leadership positions, uneasy alliances, wrestling booking that’s starting to make sense, and the Young Bucks losing the tag titles. Despite conventional wisdom telling me to run, I still think of her everyday. I read an imaginary commencement address from Yale, and it posed a potent question: have you as yet loved anyone or anything beyond reason? She qualifies. I hadn’t thought about it until I reread the poem I dedicated to Liz, and there was Pippa’s tag with link, still active. Last time I had checked, she blocked me on Facebook, but er, there she was. When I mentioned possibly moving out for the next term, she said that she’s coming over because she wants to cook. If we did get back on good terms, I’d have no problem with that. After all, she’s 1/8 of the solution to my Bachelor of Arts according to Yale. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Saliva “Time to Shine”

Interpersonal Communication

So, that committee interview I had last week…yeah. In a story that could only be summed up as “it could only happen to me”, I came across as pompously arrogant in my interview for a position. There’s good news involved in this: I still got the job anyway, teaching Interpersonal Communication. The best news is that Dr. Fox defended me against the criticism. I didn’t think we clicked when I took him over the summer, but I guess he appreciated my frank respect for his teaching style. Well, I got hired. Hurrah! Sure, it’s a formality since my ego already foretold these events, but still, it’s something I’d like to say “look, I’ve done something.” I get the uneasy feeling though that at my wedding, when I say “I do” to my wife and justice, I’m going to be greeted with curious stares. My voice has an unrelenting sarcastic bent to it that is starting to annoy even me. I can’t stand listening to the thoughts in my head now because it doesn’t scream sincerity. On the other hand, I’m still everyone’s new trusted friend because I refuse to say anything that’s not on my mind. I swear, I’d like to become a nice guy because people would be less likely to confide in me as much as they currently do. On the other hand, I’d probably kick myself in the process.

I retired from Salsa Club two days ago, and was immediately approached by Samuel L. Jackson disguised as Nick Fury to join SHIELD. No, that’s not how it happened. I left my post as His Eminence, only to be asked to join Black Ops. I had no clue Salsa Club had a Black Ops division, but I’m sure it wasn’t necessary until now. In the process, I’ve had preliminary discussions about manning Salsa Team. Originally, the idea was to continue in my capacity as Holy United Treasurer for both organizations, but taking over one and shadowing the other isn’t bad. I find it funny that I was adamantly against any participation until someone coined my work as Black Ops. It takes a certain amount of doublespeak and Aesopian language to quell the beast. After all, I am a COMM…not a major. Deity? Specialist? Guru? I’ll stick with specialist at the moment. I did celebrate Monday with the salsa crowd, which was always enjoyable. Sharing the same birthday dance with my sponsor was groovy, despite the fact that we missed half the song. I didn’t get what I truly wanted for my birthday, but I believe I got what I needed. Since the teacher is out of the picture (lamentably), this fall, I’ll be starting fresh. I don’t want to use power to get where I want to be this time around, as anything being close to my neighborhood could be catastrophic. There could be a grad student in the department that works, or…maybe I should just let the network play itself out. I can at least manage that for three months, I suppose.

Quick political aside: when did liberal become a horrible word? How come there have been no Democratic gubernatorial ads in California? Sheesh, I’m no longer the biggest political nut, but this makes me wonder. And if it hasn’t been said, Boston has the greatest fans in the world after what happened at the TD Garden. I would have been irked if 20,000 people mocked my future. If one of my classes starts chanting “California” or “UC Berkeley” at me, so help me, they’ll meet a firing squad. Unless of course, this is when I get my MA and its well known that I’m gone.

I’m currently on my victory tour, fully prepared to register for classes and walk the stage. In my greatness, I bought my gown and cap two weeks before I needed it. In fact, buying it was the first time that I felt that this chapter is definitively over. Misty-eyed? A bit. I’m not quite sure who’s leaving with me, because everyone’s coming back. Maybe I was remembering my year once again and being thankful I made it through. Considering the last couple of months, or this semester in general, I have had trauma after trauma, tragedy after tragedy. The circumstances of being Anthony Guy have been less than ideal. Even so, there’s enough for me to pat myself on the back. I guess my sister was right when she pegged me as a survivor. I keep running into minefields and crawling out. I wouldn’t say that I’m covered in teflon, because there are a few incidents I didn’t extinguish. However, I’m not above slithering to safety, as has become the norm lately. My sleeping patterns have still been horribly altered, and my mind keeps resetting itself whenever I think about what happened this semester. Sure, I’m amazing when it comes to honing my asshole character, such as my CM Punk homage in Story Telling, or my vegetarian assclown leanings in Oral Persuasion. I do miss the side of me that didn’t feel so much, though. I didn’t want to be alone, and I found someone I deeply loved. It hurts picking up the pieces when there shouldn’t be anything but fireworks. I wonder how long I’ll consider the idea of what could have been, what might have been, or what I hope would have been the future. I still sometimes ask myself is there a chance of reconciliation. The future is a curious thing, as is the workings of my mind. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – B.o.B. feat Hayley Williams “Airplanes”


For two days, I have been 22. Funny how a person can celebrate a milestone as significant as a birthday, yet still be as depressed as hell. It takes a real sick fuck to pull that off. In my purest form, I am unstoppable. When heavily diluted with grief, a smile is impossible to conjure. I can’t say it hasn’t been a random ride. I could not have had a more maddening week. The day before my birthday, I’m ousted from the salsa club board. My birthday itself…

I wake up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy (what up Guy?)…no, that’s incorrect. I woke up feeling neutral. I barely stayed awake to see the clock strike midnight, and the day was to be occupied by work. I went there, had a pleasant time talking to my boss. I left work to receive word a teammate’s motorcycle died. That trip took me from Carson to Watts to Garden Grove. Yes, I spent my birthday being someone else’s driver. After driving to Long Beach to charge his battery, I dropped him off in Manhattan Beach while I returned home to Hawthorne. A couple hours or so with my family was good. Later, I picked up my teammate, drove back to Long Beach for a party I planned to avoid, but it killed time. Funny, when my appearance is the hottest thing at a party not involving salsa, something’s terribly wrong. Upon conclusion, I drove my friend back to Garden Grove…after he forgot his battery. I said “screw it”, we went back to Long Beach and attended an afterparty that was supposed to be for my enjoyment. I didn’t enjoy myself; I spent the whole time staring out the window looking at the view. I wanted so badly to be happy, but the only thing I could think of was how this year had crapped on me mercilessly. There was food. There was dancing. There was approximately 50-60 messages on my Facebook. I should have been happy; instead, I left for home at the first opportunity. I could have been heard murmuring “are you freaking kidding me…”

Yesterday was Victoria’s party. That presented me a conundrum: girl I like is throwing a ball, but I might depress everyone there again. While pondering my options, my coworkers had pizza and a cake for me. Not sure why, but that put a smile on my face. It’s the simple things, I suppose that make all the difference. After being bombarded with requests, I relented and went to the party. The theme was neon colors, which is all too easy to pull off with my closet. People were happy to see me, despite the fact I wasn’t 100%. The major premise was getting me out the house, minor premise was talking to Victoria, and actual premise was directing traffic. I get the idea that my knowledge of everything makes me a dangerous weapon, the sort of weapon that can’t leave the program. I know all, and knowing all might keep me from leaving. Needless to say, shit hit the fan, and there I was in lime green, slightly inebriated, doing damage control. In the hoopla, I barely spoke with Victoria. In fact, the most interaction we had was when I took her for a ride during the salsa version of “Stairway to Heaven”. After a few glances at dance footage, I bade my comrades farewell for perhaps my last evening as a salsa regent/active participant. That’s a Kodak moment waiting to be picture.

Graduation comes soon, and I’ve taken a look at my potential schedule for the fall. It takes my mind off things, for a few minutes anyway. By the time my birthday is firmly a memory, I would have celebrated four or five times. I vaguely planned on doing it once, but I’ve somehow broken my record. And the sad part is, I’m too consumed with how I wanted to spend my time that everything else is secondary. How did I want to celebrate? Spending time with a girl, alone, away from the hustle and bustle of my day-to-day life. I was reminded of what was lost when I looked out of my window. Yes, she was walking with a couple of guys from the dining hall. I’m quite sure she was within 25 yards, so I naturally freaked out and called my lawyer. Kidding, but I was moderately saddened. Someone once said the greatest loss is not death; it’s what dies inside you as you live. This semester needs to end so I can reinvent myself in my own image. With the money the department will be paying me, maybe that image will be of Floyd “Money” Mayweather. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Orquesta Orengo “Escalera al Cielo”

Cordially Yours

In three hours, fifteen minutes, a certain amount of seconds, so on and so forth, I will be 22 years of age. That means I have walked around this planet for 22 years. Most of it has been in California, and recently, walking was shunned for driving, and yeah, that’s that. It also happens to be Cinco de Mayo, which is the national day for drinking; ironic, tomorrow’s the National Day of Prayer. Does that mean asking for forgiveness for sins committed a day prior? Probably. Doesn’t necessary apply to me, because I only had an appletini.

In three hours, two minutes, a certain amount of seconds, so on and so forth, I will be 22 years of age. I will end this year as treasurer, tentatively not to return to salsa. I lost my re-election bid, so I’m taking that as a sign from the stars that I should find something else to do. Losing bugs me; God knows how much I put into what I’ve done, and well, I’d rather not be around the scene at the moment. I started dancing four years ago as a hobby, then it became my identity. What’s an identity, anyway? It’s something that people grow comfortable with, a perception of who they should be, and other shenanigans. For the first few weeks in office, I was pretty much referred to as “salsa dude” around random freshmen who took my course during the summer. Now, my resume reads “former treasurer.” It’s been a blast seeing people grow before me, getting loud, crazy, and all of the weird shit in between. Yes, there was weird shit…like bad drinks, funky dance moves, awkward conversations, and even a restraining order! I’ve never grinned the way I did last Sunday seeing our competition team stomp the other schools. But for now, the shoes and sleeves go on a mantle in my abode. It’s been a fun ride, and I hate for it to end. Unfortunately, I don’t share power all that well, so it’s time to find a new calling.

In two and a half hours…yeah, that’s getting tired. I walked into class yesterday to hear a funny story. Apparently, the department withheld my acceptance letter as a joke. My professor for Story Telling told me that she’s known since April, but couldn’t say anything because of…she didn’t specify. I was jubilant when I responded to her inquiry about my status, then she dropped that bombshell on me. Like, really? Wow, I couldn’t necessarily be angry, but that’s something to consider. However, she did present to me an interesting proposal: she runs the Gateway to Communication Studies course, which all majors and minors have to take. She invited me to be her top lieutenant in the class…POWER! I was honored, flattered, flabbergasted, ecstatic. That is one option on my table. Dr. McCroskey and I already have a rapport, so it’s natural for me to return to my duties as her lackey. The most intriguing option, however, is working with the Forensics and InterACT squads. Since I’m a performance specialist, my interview went in the direction of bolstering the performance of our teams. A quite tall task, and I was weary of accepting the position as a graduate director. However, salsa has spoken, and I’d kill to leave my mark on a rising program.

My thoughts on the year as a whole are mixed. There’s a lot I’ve done that makes me stop back and say “wow, that was purely unintentional.” The classes were daunting, work was flippant, and salsa was a joyride. Along the way, I became a published author in an academic journal I may never read. I temporarily flirted with not being single after pursuing the wrong girl, and for all I know, that wrong may be righted. My niece is now a star student at school due to my pushing. I saw WrestleMania in person. I lead in the face of adversity, social or health for that matter. Still, I grade myself with a steep curve, so this year will go down as a failure for the sole purpose of flirting with success but not sealing the deal. Hell, coming back here to grad school hasn’t started off with the feel I wanted. In two hours or so, I’ll pop a bottle of cider to toast something that may or may not be appropriate for human ears. With great aplomb, I close this year…cordially yours.

Wretched Colonies

Two days before I hit my birthday, I’m staring down the safeties yet again. Do I want to throw a long ball? What about that pleasant play-action tight end fade to the corner of the endzone that I’ve grown to love. When did I stop playing Madden or other video games, anyway?

I interviewed yesterday for my assignment in the Communication Studies department. I could be wrong, but I have a feeling that they will be slotting me with the performance troupes. It’s unsurprising, since my years of being a wrestling fan leaves me with ample time to cut my own promos. I was asked if I had any communication apprehension as far as teaching in front of a classroom. Of course, my answer was something along the lines of “I could teach naked and have the kids sweating.” The professors that interviewed me were all that I held in high regard, but the room itself was intimidating. Overall, I feel that I’ll be put in a position to succeed, which is all I can ask for at this juncture.

As a director of the salsa program, I was in attendance for the 2010 College Salsa Congress and Championships. It was a fun night time, as the Sleazy Sovereign led his troops to battle and victory. For my own personal performance, I again made sure my double hammerlock was flawless; on a side note, I believe I roared when I stood up, and the crowd roared back. Personality always makes things special. Following the first night, an all-nighter occurred where I basically showed my hand about Victoria, saying that I’d marry her and any girl I’d pursue would have to possess her warmth. That’s something unquantifiable; how do you measure warmth? You can measure hair color, wit, determination, surprise, et al, but you can’t measure warmth. Are my two years here to get my Master of Arts (and can I be called “Master Guy”?), or is it to right a criminal wrong? Anyhoo, on the second night, our competition team withstood a furious attack from CSU Northridge to claim the first College Salsa Championship. I was like a proud father, living and dying with every success and failure. I yelled words of inspiration at my children so they would know that their daddy cared. We took the title, the check, home floor advantage, and…it was a raucous crowd. I told them that all the schools were playing for second place; I didn’t lie, did I?

Sleeping has become few and far between due to the pace I’ve been working, and weighing things on my mind. When I do sleep, it’s nice and peaceful, except for when I wake up in a cold sweat to see that I’m not done yet. Court took a lot out of me, and as much as I try to accept the consequences of what happened, I’m reminded of the fail that was the situation. When being interviewed by the department, I had the sneaking suspicion she’d take one of my classes and then call the cops. When discussing my feelings about Victoria, I thought of how I chose the other path because she said she needed me and time. When running salsa, oh hell, that was just fabulous in the sense that “restraining order” happens to be the new joke. It’s amazing to see how everyone has rallied around me; it’s even more amazing to see that people are constantly feeding me status updates about her despite my wish to be left alone. I can’t deny that I laughed when one friend cut off ties with her. I also couldn’t laugh when my roommate found out that he’s taking a class with her and she needs help with the quizzes since she’s shunned lecture. Note, the class she’s taking was a former specialty of mine, and if we were dating, the answers would be in the palm of her hands. Justice is a dish served…over grades, I suppose.

Two days before my birthday, and I haven’t any plans. Friends are clamoring to get me out the house, but I feel safe here. At least on Thursday, contact will be minimal; hell, I plan on following my routine of going to work for eight hours. Birthdays are special to people who have something to cherish, something they’ve earned. Granted, in the last week, I’ve had a restraining order, an acceptance letter, and $2,000 check with trophy. That is one hell of a week, a very odd week. For me, though, it rings hollow. The one birthday wish I’ve prayed for most of my conscious life is to have someone to share it with, as in a girl. Don’t get me wrong: Iron Man 2 with the gang will be fucking spectacular to say the least. I’m not sure what’s going to be involved, but I have a feeling alcohol and as Brandon would say, “Bible Burger”, will be in near proximity. I’ve consistently put up numbers to high acclaim, and for the most part, the future is bright. Then again, that’s been the story for 22 years. When will the story read “…started to work on his project, but his girlfriend invited him away from his desk. After all, there’s a party waiting for him with a bottle of cider.” That’s what I wanted for my birthday; perhaps next year. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Trey Songz feat. Fabolous “Say Aah”