"I know you from somewhere..."

I’m boring. I hate when people say that, but in my case, I suppose its true. I work a lot, like you, I assume, Mr. or Ms. College Student reading this blog. “I work too!” you say, “And I’m not boring.” OK, great. Shut up. You probably ARE boring, you just don’t realize it because you’re too busy laughing at your own jokes. That’s how I was, until late.

At a party, I ran into an old… well, I wouldn’t call her a friend, but a person I knew back in high school. And she was wearing a tail.

(I know this sounds like the beginning of a story on This American Life, so insert the twawng-y music here.)

I ignored the tail at first, because, what the fuck do you say to a person wearing a tail? I mean, under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t even be speaking to her, especially because she is wearing a tail. I’d just be over at the other end of the party, whispering about her.

If I’m just being honest.

Still, I realized, this made her slightly more interesting than I was. The things that used to distinguish me, my glasses, my Jewness, my wit, the fact that I could quote Jung and Freud, my camera, and my tights – these were all things that now made me one of the pack. I was just like them. Just like you. You quote people too. You are an indie asshole, too. We’re both listening to bands that aren’t even on iTunes yet. We both need to get laid so badly it’s practically unbearable and I don’t know how we’re dealing. We hate Facebook (but LOVE it). We go to parties to meet people who we can friend on Facebook and might one day want to have sex with us. We watch CNN, and The Daily Show, and read The Onion and look at Postsecret to see if we recognize anyone’s handwriting (sometimes we think we do).

Or maybe that last one is just me?

We get confused about who’s a real friend and who’s just someone we poke on Facebook.

You don’t even really talk to your best friend from high school anymore. Not that you’d want to because they’re weird now.

They stay on your Myspace top eighty anyway.

You’re scared and I’m scared and maybe what you thought you wanted to do you don’t want to do anymore but oh my God is it too late? because you’re three years in already and you used to watch Felicity with Kerry Russle and she went from Pre-med to Art and like, God, you pray you never have to do something like that. But, you’re so busy learning and working and partying and trying to be the, -to borrow some pretentious psych jargon-, “authentic you”, that you’ve almost completely forgotten why you’re in college in the first place.

It was to get laid, right?

This has made you jaded and boring. Or at least, it’s made me pretty jaded and boring.
Tail girl hugs me, bursting my No Touching Zone Personal Bubble. “How are you?” She wants to know. She was always nice to me, even back in high school when I had bangs and a gap toothed grin. I feel like that girl again. At this party, I know nearly no one, and I am late, so everyone stares at me when I introduce myself and wonders why I am introducing myself. Because I am a freak. Like the girl with the tail. Now we’re gonna talk. Freak to freak.

“I am OK, I’m well,” I say. “And you?”
“I’m good. I’m good,” she takes a sip of beer.
“I like your hair that color,” I may have lied. Her hair might look very damaged. Like Britney's post buzz cut between wigs. I may have already run out of things to say to her.
“Thanks,” she says, “So, like, what have you been up to?”
What have I been up to? I hate this question. It is so difficult for me to even think of a quick easy answer, especially since I, as I said earlier, am so boring now and, let’s face it, no one cares. What am I going to tell her? That I have reverted into a twelve-year-old and ride my pink bike on a regular basis while listening to This American Life praying that I soak up Sarah Vowell's awesomeness through a sponge? That I learn how to read like David Rakoff through osmosis? That sometimes, I wear mary-janes and a skirt when I ride my cruiser and feel like a Jew escaping the Nazis? I don't even want to hear that, and its my life.
“I’m in school still,” I say, this is important because so many people drop out around now, “and I am like, a nanny now.” I keep it short and sweet. It simply oozes with boringness.
“Cool, cool!” She nods like she might really be interested, which I know she is not.
“And what about you?” I ask.
“Oh, you know,” she swings her tail a little, “School. Work.”
I nod to show I understand. We are at a lull. “What’s the tail for?” I finally ask. I am kind of interested.
She shrugs, “Just felt like wearing a tail.”
“Is it like some S&M thing?” I joke. “Do you have a safe word?”
“No,” she says, “Should I?”
“Probably,” I surmise. “Mine’s ‘couch’,” I joke. I hope I never have sex that requires a safe word.
“Mine’s ‘banana’,” some guy who looks like Seth Rogan enters the conversation.

I instantly decide that I’ll Facebook him, but I won’t sleep with him, no matter how desperate I am.