No Man is an Island

  Other than calls from FHC, my cell phone hasn’t rung since SET called at 5.21.2006 at 12.43pm.  I’ve gotten one or two text messages here and there, mostly from Nick D. who was just using me to get information or people like Ben T. who text only to explain why, after listening to voicemails I’ve le ft for them, they’re not able to call me back.  The text message “I can’t hang out with you and FHC” excuses range from “I’m in LA LA land” (yes, Ben, we know) to “who is this anyway?”  We even had a camping trip for this weekend that was “cancelled” – it wouldn’t sound so fishy if Kevin D. hadn’t packed his tent, sleeping bag, condoms and birth control pills before disappearing for the weekend.  When we go out (with our Mark H. since we have no gal pals of our own), the only people we bump into are current UPenn students born in 1990.  Even our attempts to fish for friends haven’t been successful; after pretty much begging Cub B. to play with us, all FHC got was a short message: “Mucho thanks for the b-day shout-out on le blog.”  Yeah, thanks is right.
With this absence of social companions, FHC and I are left to – gasp – spend all our time together.  We’ve been obsessively watching the first season of “Lost” from Netflix, and by “watching” I mean fast-forwarding through the boring parts and slowing down whenever we think we might get to see Ian S. shirtless.  We’ve also been trying to do more “sports,” or really FHC goes to Results each night to catch a glimpse of the new twinks in town and I pretend to go jogging with him but last for about 20 minutes before collapsing and wishing I’d stayed home to do laundry instead.  Tomorrow we’re going outlet shopping for pants, since “business casual” doesn’t mean jeans and a polo.  Oops.

Comments

[kevin d.]

this is the saddest, most pathetic blog i have ever read. even terri schaivo was in a better situation than poor ll. you're only doing it to yourself, kiddo.