Wednesday, June 13, 2012


I tell A. that I sleep in a sleeping bag, in bed, every night. "I've got one for every season: zero-, twenty-, and forty-degree; winter, spring and fall, summer."

She says it's weird. "Girls don’t like that," she says. "Don't do that."

I shrug my shoulders and tell her it's not weird, it keeps the gas bill low.

A. is forty-eight years old, divorced, has two kids, and is dating my pal B., who's thirty-one. Some might think that's weird.

In the last month the first girl whose boobs I touched got married, the girl I lost my virginity to got married, the girl I spent a majority of my senior year of college obsessing over got married, and my best friend from elementary school through high school had his second kid. I'm twenty-nine, I haven't been in a relationship that's lasted more a month in five years, I don't mind that my dog sleeps on the furniture, I haven't kissed a girl in six months, and I sleep in a sleeping bag every night.

I'm not the weirdo, you are.

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