'Adam and Daniel are having sex in the hallway'
I wrestled Adam today. He shot me with his 2 dollar water gun in the neck--for no reason--in the hallway. Normally I wouldn't care, only today was not the day to be shooting anything at me, especially water. I responded with a 'fuck you' and he put his gun down, but then he fired on me again 5 minutes later. So I jumped him.
The experience was not a pleasant one. Adam kept using his longer arms to switch off with the gun, which I was trying desperately to...take from him? step on? melt down into little orange plastic pellets? Anyway, he kept switching off, as I said so I finally just did the piggyback thing, which didn't work so well because he is about 4 inches taller and 50 pounds heavier. He tried to back me into the wall, but I got out of the way just in time, but then he tried again and must have succeeded because I feel now as if I had been squished between the erasers of two giant pencils, one at my rib cage, the other at my back. I tried to step on his hand at one point, but he shook free and promptly sat on me. That didn't feel so bad, but it didn't feel so good either. He made an effort to embrace me by the legs and drag me around like a plow, but I cut myself loose of his knot of arms.
Then he started playing dirty. Without warning he started squeezing my pinky at the fingernail; it felt horrible; "Don't do that," I said. "Well let go then," he said back. Another minute of painful but eerily sasisfying exhaustian of savage masculine fumes (It was all about the water gun, honest), and I did. The bastard ran away holding his prize; he fired a few shots in my direction as he ran, but all that came out was mist. "Shit, now it's empty!"
I feel ashamed about the whole thing. One, because my chest still hurts and my arms are still red, and two, because that was the straightest thing I have ever done in my life. Which makes me such a hippocrit--whenver I see two frat guys at lunch talking about a semi-attractive girl in chem class, or a guy in a Hooters t-shirt, or a guy with long, unmanicured fingernails, I always hang my head in shame and say, 'Ah, straight men...' to myself. I'm not cut out for this, I've decided. I'm definately not in the business of acting so straight or, for that matter, of making physical effort of a kind that even vaguely resembles a sport.
And now I have to write an essay that is due in three days ago. Fuck. After a shameful display like that, what I really need to do is watch an hour's worth of Will and Grace.
The experience was not a pleasant one. Adam kept using his longer arms to switch off with the gun, which I was trying desperately to...take from him? step on? melt down into little orange plastic pellets? Anyway, he kept switching off, as I said so I finally just did the piggyback thing, which didn't work so well because he is about 4 inches taller and 50 pounds heavier. He tried to back me into the wall, but I got out of the way just in time, but then he tried again and must have succeeded because I feel now as if I had been squished between the erasers of two giant pencils, one at my rib cage, the other at my back. I tried to step on his hand at one point, but he shook free and promptly sat on me. That didn't feel so bad, but it didn't feel so good either. He made an effort to embrace me by the legs and drag me around like a plow, but I cut myself loose of his knot of arms.
Then he started playing dirty. Without warning he started squeezing my pinky at the fingernail; it felt horrible; "Don't do that," I said. "Well let go then," he said back. Another minute of painful but eerily sasisfying exhaustian of savage masculine fumes (It was all about the water gun, honest), and I did. The bastard ran away holding his prize; he fired a few shots in my direction as he ran, but all that came out was mist. "Shit, now it's empty!"
I feel ashamed about the whole thing. One, because my chest still hurts and my arms are still red, and two, because that was the straightest thing I have ever done in my life. Which makes me such a hippocrit--whenver I see two frat guys at lunch talking about a semi-attractive girl in chem class, or a guy in a Hooters t-shirt, or a guy with long, unmanicured fingernails, I always hang my head in shame and say, 'Ah, straight men...' to myself. I'm not cut out for this, I've decided. I'm definately not in the business of acting so straight or, for that matter, of making physical effort of a kind that even vaguely resembles a sport.
And now I have to write an essay that is due in three days ago. Fuck. After a shameful display like that, what I really need to do is watch an hour's worth of Will and Grace.