The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince

To you, my new-years nogoodnicks,

     This seems the title that feels most appropriate right about now. After my prolonged literary absence from your dull and dreary worlds, and two weeks of intensity and exhaustion, the title rolls off my lips like a gentle exhalation. Like a sigh of relaxation, really. There are a score of other titles I’d kicked around and thought of using, alongside relevant subject matter that’d been on my mind, some of which were “Ketchup, Country Music, and Other Symptoms and Causes of Republicanism”, “Don’t Blame Me; I Voted For Gary Coleman”, “I’d Call That A Bargain; the Best I Ever Had”, and of course, “M Stands For Monster”. Some of the corresponding subjects I may touch upon tonight, though far too much has happened within the past two exhausting weeks for me to recall it all now. A beginning, I need a beginning.

     I woke up on New Year’s morning alongside a beautiful, naked girl, and finding myself in the same state, found myself wondering just how exactly I’d gotten here. Not that I’d had a single lost memory of the preceding hours or the night before, and to be truthful, it wasn’t morning, it was afternoon; we hadn’t actually gone to sleep until late in the morning, but the simple fact remained that I was absolutely bewildered at the fact that I had completely found myself in this situation, such a pleasant way of waking with lusty and romantic feelings fresh, without having gone out with any expectation of such, nor intention, nor even the slightest hint of what was to happen.

     New Year’s Day I’d been anxiously awaiting, knowing very well that it would be my first chance to catch up on the sleep I’d been missing; finally, a day off in which I could sleep in and escape the torment of the constant pummeling of 3, 4, 5, and 6 hour nights (the 6 hour nights were a rarity, the 5 hour nights the most common). I realize that those serving in the military generally sleep 4 hours nightly themselves, but then, I also realized that it’s a known fact that military service takes years off a person’s life, and furthermore, I was at the absolute height of exhaustion. I’d been falling asleep in strange places, waking up disoriented and confused, and consciously wandering in and out of dreams in my waking hours.

     Christmas was the culprit to begin with. I’d started out the month completely broke, having finally saved enough to pay off the medical bills I’d accrued months prior due to my damaged ankle, the doctors visits, and trips to the X-Ray machines, and what money I had left after paying off the doctors, or hospital, or whoever I paid, was spent on rent. No longer drinking, I found spacing out my spending considerably easier, and the lack of spirits in my life made it considerably easier to keep my fingers clutched firmly on my money, now that I’d had a serious expense cut out of my spending budget.

     Feeling rather benevolent near the beginning of the month, and deciding not to repeat the mistakes of the past (this brought on by thoughts of forgiveness and the gained wisdom of maturity) I decided to give the Magnificent M a phone call. She may have been altogether lacking as a female love interest, but I figured there was no point in not trying to rekindle a friendship between us. Friends are quite the valued commodity to me, and I appreciate every one of them, so rather than waiting for M to come around, I swallowed my pride and gave her a call.

     The conversation was subdued and a bit awkward, and as I made my apologies and told her I forgave her, I found myself quite shocked to be receiving nothing but overt hostility from her end. I instantly regretted having made the effort, realizing once more that she was incredibly immature and carried a big chip on her shoulder, a chip far too large to ever be brushed off. Still, I kept my cool, didn’t respond in kind to her attacks, and ultimately, ended the conversation by giving her a simple choice. In short, I told her if she ever did decide she wanted to be my friend, I’d be around, otherwise, she’d not be hearing from me again.

     Following a few days from that, my second paycheck of the month finally came in. Finally, I had the cash to go out and get presents for my friends and family, those ungrateful scoundrels. I, already exhausted from overwork, sacrificed my last free hours before Christmas in doing a last-minute present grab for the members of my family. Immediately following the end of my shift, I’d head out to the madness of the malls and search and scour for things that were just perfect for those members of society that share a sizeable chunk of my genetic code. I’d then head home, tired and exhausted, crashing on my bed for another scant 5 hours of sleep so that I might wake up and begin the process again. One thing was made clear to me through this repetitive sequence of events: I HATE the mall.

     I finished work on Christmas Eve, exhausted and passing in and out of consciousness. There was no time for rest however, because upon reaching home I had to wrap presents and pack my things. Finishing that, I was granted enough time to shower and shave; then I was crammed like a kipper-snack into an overloaded car and headed off on a three-hour trip to the backwoods of California to visit family. Tired and frustrated, there was little to calm my spirit and soothe my nerves along the way, save for the Broadway Cast recording of Pirates of Penzance, which I listened to along the way. I can still sing the song of the Modern Major General as well as any of the professionals, I’m proud to say.

     We arrived late, I was afforded an inflated mattress on the floor, and then I passed out, but it was hardly a steady and restful sleep. In years past, a tradition of sorts has been begun in which never do I get to sleep in on Christmas day. In fact, never even do I ever get to be well-rested on Christmas Day. This year would be no exception, for only a scant few hours after going to sleep I was awoken by the mewing of a hungry cat. Prior to that I’d been constantly awoken by the sagging of my mattress as I found myself resting firmly on the floor, and following not that long thereafter, I was awoken fully and without return by two hyper and destructive children that were accustomed to waking at 4 in the morning, and busy in tearing apart the presents that had been left for them by the fireplace, conveniently not three feet from where my designated resting place had been.

     By this point I had also firmly determined that I hate Christmas. I hate this wretched holiday. I’m reminded now why I started celebrating Festivus instead several years ago.

     Christmas SHOULD be called, “no-sleep-for-me-day”.

     I got up, grumpy and with irritated eyes, and threw on my coat and headed outside for a Christmas morning cigarette.

     “Merry fucking Christmas,” I told my lungs.

     An hour or two later we were on my way to see my sister, her husband, and my niece and nephew. As I stepped out of the car on that rainy Christmas morning, the humidity was heavy, the sky overcast, and raindrops pelted the brim of my green derby. Passing my brother-in-law making pancakes on my way inside the house, I tossed my hat down onto the small, but suitable head of my nephew. Better that the boy looked classy on this day of all days, and being that this was one of the few moments in which he wasn’t trying to gain access to his penis, nor walking around with it exposed, he made a suitable hat-rack. He looked positively Dickensian. Thank goodness the lad had learned to walk.

     After we’d been fed a breakfast of pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, and Tapatio hot sauce, we got to the traditional activities of Christmas morning. In opening presents, I was quite pleased to find that the high point was when my niece received the green Care Bear with the shamrock that I had bought her. Not long thereafter I passed out from exhaustion on the couch, and my niece and brother-in-law delighted in placing things upon me as I slept and otherwise harassing me until I was forced to fully awaken once more.

     The rest of my memories of the Christmas weekend beyond this point are a blur to me; a ragtag collection of images and sounds involving screaming kids, drinking family, cigarettes, eating Mexican food, football games on television, vaguely-Christmas-related movies, and more screaming kids. As night approached, family went to sleep and I found myself watching TRON on the inflatable mattress alongside the daughter of my uncle’s wife. I’m not sure what that makes us, but as we were laying there together in our pajamas on the mattress, there was a strange energy present to be sure. As feelings of confusion washed over me, she became tired and headed off for bed, which I strongly suspect was for the best.

     The next morning I was woken up much too early again by screaming kids, and promptly forced up from my sagging, deflating bed. Never having been one for coffee, I woke myself with cigarettes and fed myself the remains of my leftovers from the Mexican restaurant. After a quick shower, we headed off once more, to see my sister and her children once again before the end of the holiday season and the return of the normal work-week caused us to once more put an end to our trip and return to our humdrum day-jobs.

     I don’t really remember much past that, except to say that I recall sharing a sandwich with my nephew, and that like all the other children who had come before him, he quickly took to liking me very much. It was one of those little things that made me glad that coherent thought was finally starting to occur inside that tiny little man-head of his. I should have been a piper.

     Heading back towards home, my ears were assaulted and I found myself utterly disgusted and irritated at having to deal with the one inconvenience I had specifically made clear that I absolutely, under-no-circumstances had wanted to be faced with. Sitting in the car, trapped by locked doors and seatbelts held firm, my ears were stabbed at and my sanity challenged by the sounds of Keith Urban. I hate country music.

     I had specifically stated prior to beginning the trip that I had absolutely no intention of listening to modern country music. The hillbilly, sister-humping, queer-negro-and-Mexican-bashing, truck-driving likes of Toby Keith are simply unacceptable and would not be tolerated. I’d gladly tolerate a few hours of Barbara Streisand singing ballads, or Celine Dion, or Stevie Nicks, or even the testosterone-and-life-energy-draining wailing of James Taylor. I’d even take the hell-on-Earth suffering of endless easy listening, the pointless meandering of jazz, and I’d suffer through just about everything short of Gwen Steffani pop-hits to just have this one convenience and courtesy. But I was stuck; forced to endure modern country music for the hours remaining in my return trip home.

     It’s not even that I have a problem with all country music; far from it. I’ve enjoyed quite a bit of country-infused rock in my time, along with modest bits of honky-tonk, rockabilly, bluegrass, jugband, folk, traditional ballads, and even the occasional bit of gospel and even OLD country. But new country? No deal! I don’t think there’s a single talent performing country music in the form it exists in today. Dixie Chicks, Toby Keith, Faith Hill, Big and Rich, Cowboy Troy… they all suck. Heck, the biggest guy they have representing country in its current form is Garth Brooks, and even he tried to reinvent himself as a pop star. Don’t even get me started on Shania Twain and her attempts to break into the realm of bhangra.

     Oh, those bygone, halcyon days of Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Elvis are long gone. So I say, if it’ll spare my ears any more assaults by country music (not to mention further Republican rhetoric) then next year, fuck family! I’m staying home and sleeping for Christmas. Bah fucking hunka-hunka-burning humbug!

     Upon finally returning home from my traumatic trip home and the depleting experience of enduring family, I still had no time for rest. Nope.

     My chum, The Castle, had returned from the Airforce for a visit. I hadn’t seen him for a few years, not since before he’d moved down to Florida. We’d kept in contact by phone, talking every few months and keeping track of every female that had come through our lives, for good or bad. He tried his hand in Florida for a long while, having poor luck with jobs and women, and surviving many tropical storms along the way, before finally opting to follow in his father’s footsteps and join the Airforce.

     Friends come before sleep, always. So upon reaching home I gave my old chum a call to see just what exactly he wanted to do, now that we were both able to finally to see one another once more after a gap of several years. I didn’t know what to expect exactly; in our long-gone days together things had been decidedly simpler, less difficult, less adult; just a couple of young happy-go-lucky kids hanging out with innocent-but-curious minds, full of hope and spunk. In those days we were contented to smoke cigarettes and watch Spice World and do whatever drug was available, be it pot, or Ritalin, or once ecstasy, followed by once speed for the day at work thereafter.

     The Castle is a military man now, and of course, he just wanted to go to a bar. One thing I’ve noticed about the military from all my friends who’ve joined it, is that if there’s one thing the military trains you in, it’s a beginner’s course in alcoholism. Every single one of my friends that I’ve seen since returning from the military has had a serious love for the bottle. Though not drinking myself, I felt in no position to argue, so I suggested that we hit up The Four Provinces, one of my favorite little Irish pubs down in the sleepy little town of Pacifica; not too far at all from the beach. The Four Provinces has always held a special place in my heart ever since my Irish friends and myself were invited there some years back, after-hours, to watch Ireland’s soccer team compete in the World Cup competition. Ireland lost, but it was close, and it certainly was a treat to feel such unexpected comradery and unusual revelry, all while Pacifica’s finest watched us like hawks to make sure not a single one of us had a nip of anything to drink. My, that was a fun year, filled with rum, Johnny Cash, and zany Irish antics. Those halcyon days.

     As it worked out, Foxy Valentino and Mr. Mystere also both called me, looking to hang out, and so Foxy and myself resolved to go down to The Four Provinces to meet up with the Castle, while Mr. Mystere ended up ducking out, as he tends to do a lot these days. Upon reaching the pub, we found the Castle hanging out with Desi Delirium, his ex, which I must say, surprised me a bit. We’d gone to high school together and I’d found her cute myself, though my chum eventually found himself involved in a rather lengthy relationship with her, which he’d ended once he’d determined that she was crazy. It actually wasn’t that long thereafter that he’d moved to Florida.

     As we sat at the bar, Mystere called us up and told us that he’d decided to join us after all, and so we waited for him to join us. And though I wasn’t drinking myself, I decided I didn’t want my chum, the Castle to be deprived of the experience of tasting the finest whiskey ever crafted, especially considering the fact that he was now serving in the armed forces, and with a Republican president in office, his chances of living long enough to try it for himself were considerably reduced. At the very least, I could enjoy my favorite Irish whiskey vicariously through him. Middleton’s Irish whiskey is reserved for the absolutely most special of occasions, and so I slammed down the $12 dollars on the bar top (which is a much better price than you’ll find at most places sophisticated enough to carry Middleton’s)  and bought my chum a shot of the finest spirit ever to befall a mortal tongue.

     Not too smoky, and with just the slightest hint of peach, the Middleton’s suited my chum magnificently, warming his stomach and spirit along the way. As I reacquainted myself with friends long not seen, Mystere arrived. We all hugged the bar and chatted, enjoying a simple night in the company of friends. Caught up in one of the simple pleasures of life, we stayed and chatted until the bar closed and we had to leave.

     In the parking lot, following our pubbing experience, we all quickly realized that we wanted to continue hanging out, though we all had very different ideas of just what to do. There was talk of beaches, Mystere’s place, and of course, our favorite dive, The Surf Lounge. The dive eventually won out, and so Mystere took his leave of us, but as we reached the dive, we quickly realized that we had no overwhelming desire to sit in the Surf Lounge ourselves, and so we headed over to Safeway for a bottle of Jägermeister and a fire log or two and then were off on our way down to a secluded little beach in Pacifica where we had spent much of our youths.

     We sat by that stinky burning fire for several hours, smoking cigarettes and catching up on old times. Things were invariably thrown on the fire that shouldn’t have been and we told one another many a thing that not a one of us would have ever expected to hear. We were out late on that fine old night, and I spent far longer than I should have on that familiar old beach under the cliff. I went to work after only a few hours of sleep the next day, and I stunk of bonfire.

     The next few days are a bit of a blur; a mixture of work and exhaustion. Somehow along the way I never caught up on sleep. This was all well and good until Thursday when the Castle recruited me once more to go out into the city with him and his father. We were going on a last-minute whirlwind tour of the hottest hotspots; something which my chum would recall on those long exhausting days back in his air-force dormitory. I was instructed to dress up, and so I threw on the shirt which the Magnificent M had made me, and my green derby and jacket. As I hopped into the car, I was met with one warning, “okay boys, we’re going into the city. Prepare to be assaulted.”

     “In a good way or a bad way?”

     “I don’t know.”

     As we flew down highways and city streets, the Castle’s father chugged from a flask of rotgut he’d kept at his side and I knew I was in for a night. Life is short, friends are number one, and sleep is for pussies, three facts I kept reminding myself of along the way, though even in bracing myself for the events to come, I really had very little idea of what to expect. Parking the car in one of the worse areas of San Francisco, I was informed that we were hitting up one of the best Goth clubs in town. Though I’ve never thought much of Goth culture (or lack thereof) I was up for anything. In my opinion, life’s too short for such pretense as dressing all in black, acting depressed, and killing my brain cells to the sound of Bauhaus and The Cure, but as a casual observer; as a tourist and not a permanent resident, I saw no harm in taking in another a new experience.

     Having already braved through encounters with unscrupulous homeless thugs and various other riffraff, we waited outside the club smoking cigarettes and chatting and laughing until the doors were officially opened and we were allowed inside. I’ll admit, waiting outside, under rainfall amidst a bunch of unimpressive seeming youths, I was feeling a bit cynical and skeptical of just how entertaining this spot would actually be. Upon making it inside, I realized that the place might actually have some potential.

     MEAT was the theme of the evening, and fittingly so; there were chunks of meat about everywhere. There was a Christmas tree covered in meat-based ornaments in one place, a semi-dissected cadaver in another, as well as a black and white film being projected which showed the meat-making processes that occur at your standard slaughterhouse But by far, the best aspect surrounding us was the gaggle of half-naked Goth-girls stamped with “Meat” running all about us. There was even a girl or two amongst us with a Flock of Seagulls haircut, and though I found the hairdo to be rather unpleasant, their barely-their outfits and particularly provocative dance moves left me drooling all the same.

     Dressed up as I was in my suit of clover and in my green derby as my friend the Castle had suggested, I found myself feeling a bit out of place. This feeling soon went away upon seeing a Goth lad in the club walking around in a kilt. I eased into a feeling of comfort with the Castle and his father as we sat at our table and they knocked back beers. We sat chatting, observing the girls surrounding us, watching the projected displays, ogling the dancing girls on their platforms with chains, and at regular intervals the Castle’s father would cry out with his rendition of the villains theme music from the 60s Batman, as if to punctuate the fact that I was there among them.

     Before too long I was randomly sighted by two friends I hadn’t seen in years, and they came over and reacquainted themselves with myself. The one I’d seen most recently, a Native American princess, was the one that had spotted me, recognized me, and sought me out. She did most of the talking, catching up as she did, and slipping me her phone number. The friend that was with her, Wild Wes, I hadn’t seen in many a year, not since he’d moved away to Los Angeles. To see these chums at the height of my exhaustion, while I was already in the presence of two others I hadn’t seen in many years, was quite a shocking thrill indeed.

     It should go without saying that despite the fact that I had to work the next morning, and regardless of my tired state, we partied down well into the night. I got down on the dance floor with my Native American chum, smoked cigarettes, and headed over to a nearby liquor store with the chums I’d arrived with, at which point they chowed down on beef-filled deli food until we were kicked out by the staff and we walked back over to the DNA Lounge. Again, there was drinking, dancing, and revelry, until we were forced to leave the club as well. It was time to head home, for us all to get SOME sleep.

     After a minimum of rest it was off to work once more, and upon finishing work, I found no rest at home. We had visiting family present; my uncle’s stepdaughter was staying over and she’d brought her kids with her. It’s not that I have a problem with children, and in fact I’ve always found her older boy to be quite well-mannered and sweet, and in addition to his gentle nature he is further made impressive by his quite precocious interest in the sciences. However, her younger boy I must admit I despise almost to the point of complete detestation.

     The youngest child is almost certainly the product of some sort of chromosome mix-up. He’s an ugly, ugly lad with a head that is noticeably too large for the rest of his body, and a grumpy scowl permanently etched across his face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the boy to smile. The boy, when gauged by his appearance and violent nature, seems almost certain to grow up to be a football player, though not the type of golden boy, all-American status. Nay, this one seems more suited for the ranks of the lumbering, acne-covered, thuggish ignoramuses. The type that bully the intellectuals, commit date-rape, and usually end up in prison. A modern day sort of orc.

     Anyway, rest was difficult to come by. When the lad wasn’t screaming and throwing tantrums, he was silently committing acts of vandalism and engaging in all sorts of nefarious behavior. The advent calendar, which I’d purchased and not yet finished, he found and feverously tore into tiny bits which he spread all throughout the house. In retrospect, I’ve been wondering if in fact his mother swiped the chocolate herself and then left the empty calendar for him to find, and thereby destroy the evidence, since the calendar was placed much too high for the little shit to notice, and (so I thought) to reach. Whatever the case, the boy’s mother left the mess for me to find, and made no effort in cleaning it, nor did she seem the slightest bit concerned.

     The boy continued in tearing up our papers, breaking our flashlight, and drawing in permanent marker all over the portrait of myself that my great-aunt had drawn many years prior. What seemed clear to me was that while some misbehavior in children is understandable and to be expected, this little bastard seemed to go out of his way to absolutely cause as much destruction as possible, quite probably delighting in the fact that no matter how terrible he chose to act, it was completely permitted. What also seemed quite clear to me was that if his mother wasn’t indeed ENCOURAGING this behavior (which at many points it seemed like, she, being a guest in my house; a feeling of envy and animosity almost seeming present) she was at the very least making absolutely no effort to stop it. Any feelings I might’ve felt during a prior viewing of Tron were completely dissolved by then.

     Escaping to work in the morning, sneaking past the little screaming tyrant, I locked the door and found myself anxiously awaiting when my house would be free of visiting family again. Making it through another day at work, I can’t recall why, but yet again I received no rest. The next day was New Year ’s Eve, and upon finishing my shift at work, found myself being picked up by none other that The Red Rightwing and The Caroling Canuck. It’s always a good thing to have the pleasure of such company, and in addition to this bit of good fortune, we were off to a party. Our old pal Swee-Jee-Juevo was having himself a New Years party, and in addition to that, a grand send-off for himself, now that he was joining the Merchant Marines, and sure to be shipped off soon.

     Now there were two things I was relatively certain of in the final hours of 2005: 1. that I didn’t want to be alone this New Year’s Eve, and 2. I was having some damn champagne at midnight. I’d been very good in my quest for sobriety, managed to make it through all the familial horrors of Thanksgiving and Christmas completely dry and sober, and goddammit, I was having me a damn glass of champagne at midnight. I deserved this much. I couldn’t guarantee myself a kiss at midnight, but at the very least, I could have this one small comfort. Just this one convenience; this one small perk of having made it through another year. Just this one thing I wanted.

     We arrived at old Swee-Jee’s and quickly found ourselves surrounded by drunken revelry, and friendly faces galore. We got to socializing and smoking cigarettes and I worked hard at not letting my exhaustion overtake me. One of the things I quickly realized that of all my friends, those that knew me best and had the most honest knowledge and fullest awareness of my drinking habits, none actually believed that I had any sort of drinking problem. I liked to drink, indeed, none would deny that, but among the whole batch there was not a single soul with any concern about my well-being. I quickly found myself being offered drinks at every opportunity. Faced with the reality of the opinions of all those who know me best, I was in no position to argue. My bartender pal Swee-Jee-Juevo mixed me up a drink and I gladly accepted. It was good to be back.

     The choice was always mine. Despite the control I’d shown in simply stopping and staying stopped, I’d been duped into doubting my self-control. It took me far too long to realize where I was really at. All I had to do was choose to be responsible. I had, quite simply, never chosen to be responsible in the past. As the Green Lantern ring around my middle finger signifies, I’ve got a lot more willpower than anyone, myself included, gave me credit for.

     We partied for a good long while, and I tried calling The Castle once or twice, in an attempt to see him once more before he shipped off for good to the Airforce. He was already partying down out in the city, so I told him I might see him when we got out there. It was a bit of a funny situation for me, knowing I was losing two friends, one for the Airforce, another for the Merchant Marines. In the case of the one leaving for actual military duty, I was at least glad for the time in which I’d gotten to see him again.

     After a few drinks and a few hours of fun, the Canuck, Rightwing, and myself took off, alongside Dave Cane, to head out into the city for further partying. We met up with the Canuck’s friend, The Tootherific Tiphany at her friend’s house in the Haight. I hadn’t seen her since All Hallow’s Eve, and she was a welcome sight. We also met a few friends of hers, though all that stands out in my memory is her chum Megaphone Michael, a rather charming lad that lived in the house we were in. To our good fortune, our old chum, traveler-extraordinaire The King of Asia, made an appearance, having made a short visit back from his conquest of Hawaii.

     Oh we partied. And partied. And excess was the theme of the evening. I started to realize that as much as I love my chums, they may be a bit of a bad influence on me. It wasn’t helium we were huffing.

     We mixed drinks and socialized, I smoked cigarettes with Michael while I discussed the finer points of Batman Begins, and how Cillian Murphy was just too damn pretty to be playing The Scarecrow, though I couldn’t recall his name at the time. The Canuck and Rightwing were the first to go, clearly the first to wear out. In fact, as I recall, they didn’t even last until midnight. I, on the other hand, had woken up completely, now fueled by vitamin A, and had no intention of ceasing in partying down any time soon.

     With pots and pans in hand, we gathered into the television room to watch the final countdown until the New Year hit. As the ball dropped, we made a glorious noise, breaking a spoon or two along the way. At midnight, I pulled in Tiphany for a kiss, which she granted to me. Nice. From there well all took a short trip down onto Haight St. in the pursuit of pizza and further vice.

     Dave Cane and the King of Asia were the next to leave, and as they headed out, I made no effort to join them. I was now in the company of strangers, stranded in San Francisco, far from home. For the first time in my life, I didn’t care. The streets of San Francisco didn’t scare me; my only concern was the fear of cutting my fun short. As Tiphany and myself hung out and chatted in the kitchen, mixing ourselves drinks, I took advantage of the opportunity of privacy afforded us and pulled her in for another kiss. Though in later, more sober moments I felt embarrassed at this brash action, at the time, she didn’t seem all that unhappy with my actions, though perhaps a bit embarrassed by the fact that we were so brazenly kissing in the kitchen while her friends lurked about only a few feet away, just around a corner.

     Late in the morning, probably around 4:00 in the morning, Tiphany and I left together, everyone being far too exhausted to continue partying any longer. Tiphany and I hailed a cab and headed off for her place. Frankly, from there on, there is no need for details.

     No, no need to tell of the lack of sleep that ensued, no need to brag about the size of my anatomy, nor need to report of yet another vocal praising of such by yet another female. No need to discuss my physical ability. No, this is not the place for that. I’m far too sophisticated for such things.

     This brings us back to where I started I suppose.

     I hadn’t expected this, but I suppose she’d only wanted one night’s company. This I understood, though it’s not generally my way of going about things. To her credit, I’d at least been forewarned by her early in our moments together of what exactly she was looking for. I’ve not gotten such a courtesy from any of the other girls I’ve romanced. Though I would have preferred to see her again, I understood what she wanted and respected her wishes. I, myself, tend to go for romance and longer-lasting relationships however. Ahh, women.

     Whatever the case, waking up on New Year’s morning (afternoon really) in this particular situation, next to a gorgeous girl, filled me with the feeling that this is going to be one hell of a year. I’ve already gotten a proper start.

     One other thing also occurred to me: while I may not slut myself around as the majority of the populous around me tends to, I am still far from virginal. Despite my heightened morality and sense of ethics, the high standards I demand from myself, and the enormous amount of self-control that I normally maintain, the simple fact is that I’m long beyond the point of being able to count all the people I’ve been with on one hand. Though my self-respect remains intact, I nevertheless think a name-change may be in order. I can’t quite keep a straight face and call myself The Virgin Prince anymore, and yet, I’m no longer quite saddled down enough with vices to go by my old moniker of King Vice either. I am something else; something different. The Gentleman Prince perhaps?

     Ah, things are as I always knew they would be. Always such a preoccupation with being the gentleman. My pre-pubescent desire for a top-hat and tails comes back to haunt me. Fitting.

     And so there is my tale of two weeks of complete, and maddening, exhaustion. If that all sounded like a bit much to you, bear in mind, that’s just December. We’re now nearly to March, and in the time since then, there’s been much that happened, a lot of which I probably no longer recall. Oh there’s been so much. Parties, deaths, fun, adventures, romance, love, and heartbreak. There’s been hilarity, sadness, action, things lost and things gained. And if you want to hear about it, you’ll just have to wait until next time.

     Oh, and a special "get bent" goes out to the Omnipotent Poobah for linking to me without giving me a heads-up.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince