After doing that thing I always do (bring a hot guy home and then sloppily make out and that's it because I'm Jakey and I DON'T DO THAT), I decided to go to the boy version of a gynecologist to get things, um ... y'know ... cleared up for business. My doctor is very handsome and he talks about everything like he's in an action movie about to diffuse a bomb.
"There are two ways to fight constipation," he said, but I wasn't listening because I got lost in his dreamy blue eyes and I could see his chest hair poking out from under his uniform. Also, his nurse's assistant is totally a broski and was like "Weren't you here for this last year, too?"
"Yes," I said. "The first time was two years ago on Valentine's Day and the last time was in April." I remembered that because that was when I got my heart broken and my butt went along for the ride.
My stomach got worse after my visit. I think I have psychosomatic Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
I was gearing up for my trip to San Diego, but I went out to The Saloon with Tan Man on Sunday! He graciously agreed to drive, because I am budgeting, and by "budgeting" I mean that I somehow had literally no dollars to my name. Earlier that day I asked Wesley who we wanted to win the Super Bowl. He said Denver so I decided I was going to root for Seattle.
We ran into Paul Ryan at The Saloon! "Be careful, Jakey," he said, and that was our entire interaction. Dammit! He totally hit it and quit it! Well, it's me, so he, like ... lightly slapped it and quit it? Leave me alone. I was drunk and sad so then I falsely accused Wesley of having sex with somebody that he didn't. I cannot have nice things.
Speaking of not having nice things, the whole point of going out was for Jared's birthday, but he passed out after brunch and no one woke him up and he called me livid at 3 in the morning. "I missed my own birthday!!" he shrieked. "Oh, Rhoda," I said.
Wednesday night, I was gearing up for my trip to San Diego! I was going with my mom, my aunt, and my cousin, who is a 15-year-old girl. We decided she would be my chaperone. I was nervous about the trip for a few reasons. We were going to my cousin's wedding, and the wedding was going to be very very very evangelical and very very very Jesus-y, and I was worried about feeling awkward (I don't read as "evangelical", y'know?). Also, I had nooooooooo money and I was embarrassed about my mom being my ATM for the three days we were there. Not to mention that my stomach was still acting up, to the point that every time I went to the bathroom there was a lot of heavy prayer (even I can get Jesus-y when needed).
My father and I talked about money at 1:30 in the morning. "I love you, son," he said.
"Don't say 'but' after that," I pleaded.
"I won't," he said. "You can't live here."
"Thank you," I said. "I needed to hear that."
"If your mother had it her way, you and your brother would live here for free until the day she died," he said. "But, Christ. You're almost 30. Weren't you going to live with that clown in the suburbs?"
"Kevin?" I said. "No, that wouldn't work. We would have to have a grown-up conversation about if we're ever gonna be in a relationship or not, and then I would always be asking who the slut in our kitchen was."
"I .... okay, then," was my father's response.