Pages from my diary of flamboyant untruths, part one:

About a week ago, a disagreement arose during a conversation
with a very close friend. This was troubling to me because, not
only did it tear asunder the accord we’ve shared for most of a
decade, it also called into question all my hopes and dreams
regarding the female gender. Ever since this chat, my mind
has been in turmoil, my life has been uprooted, and doubt has
besieged me on all sides. I’m afraid you might think me an
oversensitive, whiny human wreck, but I must confess that
my everyday existence has become a relentless nightmare of
confusion and morbid anxiety.

Before I get into why, I should probably tell you that I bear
my friend no ill-will. She was just the messenger of these
unhappy tidings and–to be honest–she was probably the
kindest package the nailbomb could have arrived in. Be-
cause of my respect and regard for her, I will allow her to
remain anonymous here. Suffice to say, she’s a dark-haired,
massage-school attending, Seattle-dwelling lass with an-
drogynous nickname that begins with a “M” and ends with
a “L”.

Right. Now, onto the dispute. You will have to forgive me
if I become unduly emotional. M-l and I were in the midst
of one of our usual talks, commenting with Algonquin Round
Tablesque wit on subjects ranging from the simple majesty
of a raindrop on a maple leaf to the aesthetic tendencies of
Restoration-era tapestry. When our chat, as these chats
must, turned to the subject of barnyard animals, I put
forth what I imagined would be a subtle and appropriate
transition to a new topic. “You know what’s a good pick-
up line?” I sallied forth, oblivious to the suffering I would
soon suffer.

“What” M-l asked, all eager to uncover further evidence
of my omniscient wisdom.

Clearing my throat first for effect, I said, “Hey, sweet-stuff,
wanna come over to my place and have a look at a ten-gallon
jar full of goat eyeballs?”

The silence that followed here was a wound that my will to
live still seeps out of. Finally, her voice resounded back at
me from across the chasm of unspeakable existential despair.
“I don’t think that’s a very good pick-up line at all,” she said.

“You don’t?” I asked, longing for her to confess that she was
just kidding, that she didn’t mean it, that the world was still
right-side up. This was not forthcoming, however. A sad
sigh was all the consolation my mauled soul would receive.

“Go to a bar some night and use that line. You’ll see how
good it is,” she explained, “Maybe it’ll work on one of those
creepy, vampire-wannabe girls, though.”

Her words struck me as the truth. Unfortunately, these are
the kind of facts my gentle spirit cannot withstand. With an
inner ache so throbbing I was nearly blinded by it, I clumsily
changed the subject to the national epidemic of obesity. I
couldn’t keep up my end of the discussion, though, and it
trailed off into nonsense until dear M-l hung up. That’s when
I began to cry. Yes, I cried! I cried long and hard and wetly!
Oh, how I cried!

I’m not crying now, of course, but this is unusual. Any liquid
I put into my body immediately flows out as fresh tears. Over
the past few days, I’ve cried out seven cappuccinos, all my
cereal milk, some jell-o, and about six hundred cans of Diet
Coke. Do you know the kinds of looks you get strolling down
the street with Diet Coke leaking out of your red, agonized
eyes? You don’t? Well, let me assure you, they’re none too
pleasant, these looks...

Oh, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Kevin,
you are possibly the A-Number-One-Sissy of the Universe,
bawling like a baby just because your friend pointed out how
shitty your pick-up line was! Well, obviously, those of you
hinking that are bad people who I shouldn’t waste my time
explaining myself to! You may all click over to one of those
websites where they talk about other things. Monster trucks,
perhaps. Or NASCAR. I bet you like NASCAR, don’t you?
You Toby Keith listening dirty bastards! Go shoot your guns
and ride your snowmobiles! Yeah! Yeah, you heard me!

Pardon me.

As for the rest of you, please allow me to bare my soul. I have
had, in my life, the good fortune never to need a “pick-up line”
per se. With my “buff” musculature, my chiseled jaw, and my
lustrous, Horshack-styled hair, I need not speak to the women
I wish to engage romantically. Indeed, I’ve heard it said that
it’s better if I do not. My “pick up scene” is not the dimly-lit
bar favored by mediocre men, it is the mini-golf course, the
city impound lot, the sequin aisle of Joanne Fabrics, and
everywhere in-between.

But perhaps I should admit that my luck in this regard is
not entirely genetic. For I also have come into possession
of a mojo hand filled to the brim with John the Conquer
root. Which makes these things a whole lot easier.

Easier, perhaps, yet far more complicated. Hence my
ten-gallon jar of goat eyeballs.

I feel I have a lot to explain. I am tired, though, and it will
all have to wait until later.