November 8,2000

So, last Sunday, I was at "work," which means that I was sitting in a cold, dark, heartless place with nothing to keep me company but the Internet and a pleasantly plump ignorance of the farce that this week's election would become.

I had read all of Salon. I had read the Onion. I had looked at some naked pictures. And then I was done. I mean, what else does the Web have to offer?

A look into my sordid past, apparently. Well, not really my past, and not really sordid, but damn, did it feel that way. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I went to the ever-popular google.com and typed in my first little boyfriend's name. I will refrain from naming said first little boyfriend here, because, well, I would never want to embarrass someone like that (unless, of course, he was Harris). Anyway, I typed in his name, and nothing came up that looked like it was remotely associated with him. First Little Boyfriend, Ph.D. Not him. First Little Boyfriend, Esquire. Not him. First Little Boyfriend@ilovebabies.com. Not bloody him. Though I wouldn't mind that. Him. Bloody.

But I wouldn't stop there. Last I heard, First Little Boyfriend had run off to Michigan to get married to Stupid Girl. He and I didn't break up because of Stupid Girl, and I, in fact, liked Stupid Girl, despite the fact that she was stupid. Actually, when I knew her, she hadn't yet become stupid. She was just unfortunate. But, upon learning that she was marrying First Little Boyfriend, who even I had the foresight not to re-entangle myself with after he cheated on me, lied about it, cheated on me, told me about it, attempted suicide in my driveway, wore a stupid fucking top hat to my prom, danced with my arch nemesis at said prom, and attempted to date rape me, which, thankfully, I would not go along with, but I felt so guilty about it I thought it was really only fair that I blow him, she became, in a run-on sentence kinda way, stupid.

Anyway, so I put Stupid Girl's name in along with First Little Boyfriend, and BAM! I get his journal. Well, not really journal, but his website, on which he details his recent wedding, not to Stupid Girl (who finally left him, so she's not so stupid after all), but to Alaskan Wookie, so named because a) she's from Alaska; and b) they bonded over, among other things, Star Wars.

Oh, and yes. They met over the Internet.

So there are a bazillion pictures of First Little Boyfriend and Alaskan Wookie's wedding, which took place in his mother's backyard, where I frequently could be found, back in the day. First Little Boyfriend has not aged well. I am not kicking myself for letting First Little Boyfriend slip through my fingers. I am not fondly remembering my ever-so-gentle (not) initiation into the pleasures (not) of performing oral sex.

And he's wearing the same goddamn top hat, for chrissake.

At first I was just amazed that I had happened upon his site, and that I was virtually at his wedding, seeing as I haven't seen or spoken to him in about eight years. And I was sort of genuinely happy for him and Alaskan Wookie. He seemed to be ravenously in love with her (though, well, that is his MO -- to be ravenously in love until the cheating, lying, cheating, top hat incidents ensue), and I sure as hell didn't want him, so…y'know, I was glad he was happy (though slightly scared that he now has two stepdaughters. The horror. The horror.)

But then I perused the rest of his site, and read his brilliant (sic), pithy (sic), original gut-busting essays (sic, sic). It seems he fancies himself a lothario of sorts, and has written essays on the wide range of "pussies" he's encountered. And how to please them. And how expertly he does so.

And he wrote an ode to how crappy restaurant service deserves crappy compensation. Which I can actually get behind, to some extent. Except that he kept talking about how he expected to be "treated like a king," and he also seems to be under the delusion that all wait staff are women.

And then, the kicker. He wrote a somewhat unflattering piece that describes a physical trait of mine in less than glowing terms. (note: it is not about my "pussy.") (Which, by the way, does in fact glow.) It is not about me, and it's played for laughs, of course, but I'm pretty sure I was his reference point. I did not so much appreciate this..

I'm sure you're all dying for me to give you his URL, but I'm not gonna. A) He would surely find my site, and I surely don't want him to; b) it would send his hits through the roof; and c) he's the type of person who would totally get off on this, and his ego would grow to the size of a small country. Alaskan Wookie would probably not appreciate this, seeing as she has to share a bed with him, an' all.

My point in telling you all this? None. I just figured you all might be just as sick of checking the status of the goddamn Florida vote as I am.

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