Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: romance

All We Want is a Bus to Make Out with Girls In

The homecoming dance was behind us and, giddy with post-make-out fever, Chuck and I were determined to recreate what we had since dubbed “bus magic”. Saturday night had been perfect. Actual girls, girls we knew, had willingly kissed us, and then, in a twist, they’d kept on kissing us!


Our dates hadn’t lost a bet, done it on a dare, or done it as part of D.A.R.E. Saturday night had been real—Chuck and I tasted girl mouth and we wanted more.


By the process of elimination, we deduced that the party bus our group rented had been our much-needed game-changer. It hadn’t been our clothes; Chuck and I had worn suits and ties around girls before, like to church, funerals, or School Picture Day, and no fine ladies ever tried to get jiggy and suck some hot face with us then. Charm, too, was out of the question—we’d spent most of dinner and the ride to the dance giggling and quoting Dude, Where’s My Car ad nauseam the way we had nearly every other mouth-whoopee-less day. And, truly, our dates’ nervous laughter subsiding into a petrified, silent horror had been a strong indication that the late-night fervent tonguing hadn’t been prompted by my enthusiastic display of unrestrained agility on the dance floor that I called “getting funky”.


The solution was a simple truth: we needed our own party bus. Life in the last week had imparted that, at least for us, the party bus was an essential ingredient if Chuck and I ever again wanted to cook up a big ol’ pot of make-out-y fun.


Backers and financiers were needed. Fortunately, the allure of a PDA-party paradise made our venture an easy sell. Before even third period, Chuck and I had procured verbal commitments from twelve other sophomore dudes each aching to invest $100 for future access to a den full of uninhibited oral delights.


With potential pledges procured, we took to the Internet during lunch and were pleasantly surprised at how much bus $1,400 could buy. Craigslist and eBay had been scoured and our budgetary constraints had us considering options with descriptors like “great project”, “hasn’t been started in five years”, and “full of owls”.


No details were deal-breakers. I mean, just because one hadn’t been started in five years didn’t necessarily mean that it didn’t run. Like, just because I hadn’t made out with anyone for almost sixteen years didn’t mean that I wasn’t a natural at it and a true, bona fide mouth-hound capable of delivering the perfect ratio of tactical tenderness and unchecked pleasure at a moment’s notice.


Retrieving our to-be fortress for tongue-heavy hedonism would be a snap. One investor, Patrick, we knew had a freshly-acquired license and we totally figured he’d be legit to scoop it with us.


Sure, Patrick was still dangerously awful at driving his mom’s minivan, but that didn’t matter. He’d be perfect to caravan the three hundred miles back and forth from Southern Ohio this Saturday to pick up and drive back an unreliable vehicle six times the size of said minivan. Chuck was skeptical, but I assured him it’d be totally legit.


There would be no issues once we returned with our prize. Another committed shareholder, Jimmy, wanted it for his backyard. He said he knew his parents wouldn’t care; his dad had eloped to Argentina with that slutty mailman two months back, effectively prompting a nervous, sambuca-riddled breakdown from Jimmy’s mom.


Shoes on in the house, candy for breakfast, cigarettes for dessert, dessert after breakfast, Jimmy could get away with anything now. Really, since his dad left, Jimmy’s mom had become, like, hella sweet and it was totally coolio of her to remain apathetically indifferent to us parking our permanent party of perpetual first-basing at her place.


I can’t wait for this. 2010 Census, take note; I know you’re nearly eight years away, but by then we’ll have ridden all this bus magic right up to our new, permanent residence in Make-Out City, USA.

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I Think I’ve Been Pregnant For Years

Uncertainty and anxiety fester. My mind’s racing over the potential duties and doodys I’d be responsible for as a parent. I don’t know how this could’ve happened; I never hot tub naked with others and I’m always vigilant to wipe off seats in all public toilets no matter what country I’m in.

I should just man up and take the pregnancy test but, alas, I can’t. A truth-shrapnel-heavy bombshell could provide a definitive answer but could also eradicate what remains of the sweet delusional bliss I’ve been clinging to. I suppose I’m only deceiving myself, though. The writing’s been on the wall—any idiot could tell you that missing your period for this many months, my entire life in fact, likely means I’ve been totes preggers for at least a few years now.

The proof has accumulated steadily over time. Suspicions first began when my appetite surged to a level of routine gluttony. Gone were the days of being satiated by a paltry six-piece McNugget and medium fry. No, now a ravenous, adult-onset-diabetes-inducing hunger coursed throughout me. Orders of family-sized McNugget cartons and vats of McFlurry paired with near-violent, manager-directed diatribes to restore the Supersize option had become my new normal.

Blame boredom. Blame delicious salt. Blame Netflix. No matter your angle, I’m gorging for at least two now. It doesn’t matter where we are or what we we’re doing, much like a dumpy girl on Prom Night unsuccessfully parting with her virginity and subsequently eating her feelings, I’m getting filled one way or another.

My weight, much like the pregnancy evidence, soon began aggressively accruing. This non-sexual girth first appeared in my ankles. These once-slim beauties, my sexiest feature according to my nineteenth-century Englishmen friends, ballooned into varicose-vein-riddled stumps that branched off into a pair of equally-swollen feet like I was just another patron in a Midwestern strip mall.

Missing periods, being obnoxiously cankled, living in a constant state of food lust: the proof was in the Snack Packs.

Not long after I’d exiled my skinny jeans and sexy underwear to the back of the closet, a sore-nipple epidemic broke out in my life. Maybe it was just that I was distracted with the potential looming pregnancy or maybe I just wasn’t as quick on my cankles now, but the fellow passengers on my morning commute took full advantage. Once upon a time I’d had the quickest pair of hands and the slipperiest pair of nips on the bus; but, lately, the culture of rampant titty-twisting has left me perpetually surrendering window seats in order to stop my nurples from becoming any more raw and purpled.

Mood swings have now crept their way into daily life. I caught an errant whiff of garlic-stuffed olives yesterday and couldn’t shake the craving. When I couldn’t find them in the grocery store I panicked, collapsing on the tile floor in a ball of tears. Perspective completely gone, I latched onto a clerk, pleading that he find the olives for me, but he scurried away, probably rushing off to help a hotter, trimmer, not-possibly-pregnant person.

Magic Eight Ball, you were right; the signs all do point to yes.

Fine, I’ll be the man and do it; I’ll take the pregnancy test and finally know for sure if I’m carrying little Obi-Wan McFly Gawel in my tummy after all.

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