A Year of Personal Holy War:
How the Brady's played Sack-Race on Antarctica

So I sit in the peaceful splendor of the local, bustling coffee shop writing furiously in my, "Sexxx (and love) Notes" journal. At this point I am desperate for answers. I scribble questions like, "Am I the only one who thinks it isn't worth it if you don't get off?" and, "Where did I miss that memo?" all in order to figure out why the hell icecream boy is still on my mind. None of it pans out. I still feel like a fool for not sealing the orgasm deal. I pick up the cell and dial quickly.

"Maggie? Hi. It's Chris. I'm coming up," spout I. I leave the coffee joint immediately and drive straight to Boston. I need the equivalent of an emotional spa, and I know just where to go for it.

That night Maggie and I discussed everything. And when I say everything, I mean it. EVERYTHING. We dredged up a year of pain. I learned a few very important points about myself from an outside point of view. I have so much to think about before I trot off to school.

A year ago I was in turmoil. I was lashing out against everyone who thought I was obsessed with an ex. I spent every day trying to force myself to cry, hoping it would make me feel better to just get it over with. Maggie had to prop me up with all of the support she could muster, or she knew I'd lose the last marble. She is the only other person who has an glimmer of an idea what I went through last year and her perspective really helped me understand the path I took to get to that table in the coffee store, scribbling about icecream boy.

After being stripped of all sense of dignity, self respect, or confidence by the people surrounding me, I had to fight. I slowly worked to regain a sense of self worth...but starting from scratch is very difficult.

Maggie and I put it like this: It was like they had all taken me on a joyride going VERY VERY fast, and suddenly slammed me into a brick wall. I got out of the car ok, but imagine broken bones that are never given casts to heal with. It heals in its own way...but its fucked up.

And I...I was fucked up. I built up my self image again by sleeping with people. My ex thought I was ugly? How about if I get with his first? Slowly I started to gain some semblance of self respect, because when I told the stories of my conquests to people, they were fascinated. They wanted to hear all about it. They were awestruck at how ballsy I could be. And so I started sleeping with people to have a story to tell later. It meant nothing. I felt nothing when I would sleep with them. It was just a way to get off, and then tell a story. I was ice cold. But I was "happy"...and popular. Like fucking Marcia Brady.

And I did this for a year.

And then I walked into a little ice cream store and met a cute guy. And we hung out. And we stayed over his friends house. And I had a crush. And he kissed me. And it felt like the world was at my fingertips, and I felt like I had never been kissed. Somehow, in the way the series of events fell together, he got through to my arctic shelf of a heart...and it was amazing.

And, I got rejected again. It wasnt a hurtful rejection. You may have read about it, "Let's be friends. We leave for school in a few weeks..." Any normal person would be fine with that. And in a way, I was. It had only been a night. I barely knew him. But what was I so freaking worried about? And then I started to dig through the layers of pain I had covered with astro-turf. And here I am, for once not blaming it on someone else. For once taking into effect that its my fault too. For once feeling emotions and, God, does it feel powerful. I realized today what that whole, "Everything Happens For A Reason" saying is about. And its very simple. Everything happens for a reason.

I guess I knew I would make it out ok. No matter what, I make it work for myself. It's the only thing that keeps me going.