You lived.

College thing. Both drunk. You liked it rough. Asleep.

Woke up. Floor. You in bed. My bed. Snoring, unmovable.

Slept in friend's room. On floor. You in bed. My bed. Goodnight.

Next week: Overdose. Cocaine. You lived. You left. I graduated.

Goodbye!

You were O'Sketchy.

We met at an Irish public house, the kind with no chairs and wood everywhere. I admired your youth and vitality, as well as your discerning palate: top shelf vodka to go with your Redbull. You asked me if I wanted to dance...that is, after the guy you were with went to the restroom. Forgive me for having intruded into your personal affairs, a thousand apologies...but I did have to know who he was. I explained to you my position on getting punched in the face. You laughed, explaining "Oh, that's my sister's boyfriend." Your sister was nowhere in sight. After a few more minutes, I was too.

You got home.

We met at a party. It was late, I was drunk, and you were there. I told you my plans of going home and making some blue box macaroni and cheese, and you told me you were a classically trained chef. I wasn't drunk enough to believe you, but I thought maybe some assistance with cooking would possibly help prevent me from starting a fire in my apartment. I let you walk me home, and by the time we arrived I was too tired to think about eating. I decided, against my better judgment, to let you stay over. You tried to convince me to sleep with you. I said no. You tried to convince me to pleasure you. I said no. You then excused yourself to go to the bathroom, when I decided I would lock you out of my bedroom… until I heard the all too familiar sounds of puking coming from down the hall. Since I'm a semi-decent person, and was afraid I would eventually have to clean something up, I decided to check on you. The bathroom door was open, and you were praying to the porcelain god… wearing only your t-shirt & tighty whities...that unfortunately for you were not so tight.

I screamed and ran back to my room to attempt to locate your pants. Being that I was quite intoxicated and forgot to turn the light on, the mission turned out to be quite unsuccessful. You finished your business, came back down the hallway, and started to put your shoes on. I told you that you could stay on the couch. You refused. I told you that you couldn't possibly go home in this state. You refused. I told you that there was no way you could walk home without your pants on. You told me, "Don't worry. It's happened before."

I still to this day do not know how you managed to get home with no pants, no cell phone, and no keys.

-Submitted by Neelloc.

You slept like a baby.

We were friends at overnight camp when I was 12, back when you had a big head and no womanly parts to speak of. I happened to randomly run into you ten years later, and you had turned out so hot I would, to quote a friend, "eat your shit." I nervously asked you out on a date and you said yes. We went out to an expensive club, you spent all my money on $15 vodka redbulls, flirted with several douche bags in Ed Hardy T-shirts, and ended up drunk and shirtless outside the bar at 12:30 an hour and a half after we got there. I ushered you into a cab and by the time we got to your place you had sobered up and invited me in. An impromptu bang session occurred during which you passed out. I woke up the next morning covered in a puddle of your cold, sticky pee. You woke up 10 minutes later, made yourself a bowl of cereal, and pretended like nothing happened. Did you think I wouldn't notice? I guess I should be thankful you didn't take a dump on me. Thanks but no thanks.

-Submitted by LLCoolJay.

You had an unhealthy obsession with William Shatner.

We had sex. It was ok. I was drunk and I think you might have bit me at some point. Everything was fine until I went to check my email and saw an online shrine to all things Kirk. I thought it was a joke or an ironic quirk. I couldn’t have been more wrong. You really thought he was hot. You watched his Priceline commercials with frightening glee. You really liked him. You had his musical records, pillowcases, pictures and even a poster of you superimposed, kissing him. I couldn’t tell you why I wouldn’t talk to you anymore. Maybe it was because I was embarrassed to have ever been inside you. Maybe it was because I was afraid you’d stab me in my sleep. Either way, the last time we saw each other, you came over my house to give me a parting gift. You gave me a Rubik’s cube because you “couldn’t figure me out”.

Beam me up creepy.

Your boyfriend showed up to our date.

It would have been nice to know you had a boyfriend before we went out. Three drinks in, and you told me that you didn't want to come to this bar because your boyfriend comes here. Interesting. Five more minutes and there he was, pulling up a seat right next to us. It was really nice hanging out with him by the way. When we all had a drink together, that was about as awkward as the sex we ended up having later that night. Since we're playing the "hindsight is 20:20" card, it would have also been nice to know that you weren't on the pill before the intercourse. If you're pregnant I'm claiming it's his.

You need to reevaluate your definition of a romantic evening.

You shouldn't have been hooking up with me in the first place. We had one drink, literally one drink and I drove you home. You wouldn't let me go up to your apartment because you have cats or something so you wanted to have sex in my car. Regrettably, I accepted. But seriously, you set the bar pretty high for this relationship thus far. You broke my cupholder off when you pulled some maneuver that ended up pinching a nerve in my back and giving me a herniated disc. In honor of this night's events, your bra is now on top of a tree at Mt. Snow. Talk to you soon.

Your friends literally shit on people for money.

You told me you were bisexual on our first date. Ok you win, I was intrigued. But when our dinner came out, was it really necessary to tell me graphic stories of your friends who have defecated on their sexual partners for money? I'll never look at shortribs the same way again. Thanks.

You got too excited talking about Bed Bath and Beyond.

I couldn’t fathom how someone could gain so much pleasure from a store that devotes an entire section to crock pots. It was a Friday night and you had your whole Saturday planned around going to a store dedicated to all things bed, all things bath, and all things beyond. Fogless mirrors, scented candles and stainless steel hell were your final destination. “Oh my god, I hope they have Snuggies! I totally want one,” you said with genuine enthusiasm. I said something sarcastic and you told me I was totally a “Chandler." I have never felt so aware of my own demise.

You bled in my mouth.

First of all, you took me to the one Mexican restaurant that I told you I was kicked out of - like literally a life ban. There was no reason to test the waters. Taking me there didn't put me at ease. Second of all, 20 minutes into our first date there's no reason to tongue kiss me from across a family style table - the table was too wide and the Asian family uncomfortably staring at us didn't make anything 'romantic.' I get it. You are a sensitive guy, you want to make a real life connection, but can I give you advice? Next time when you drop a girl off and go in for the goodbye kiss, wait a few days until after you have a root canal. Your mouth tasted like iron and now I have to bill you for my HIV test. Thanks.

You read porno on our first date.

You taught me that going on dates with guys on MySpace is really a bad idea. Thanks. I know you go to Brown University and all, but the academic crap is really all you have going for you. I probably shouldn't have let you into my apartment on our first date - that's my fault. Here's a tip though: when a girl's apartment has a variety of porno magazines on her coffee table in a fan display, it's most likely a J-O-K-E. There was no greater buzz kill than to watch you ogle over old porno for half an hour. There's a reason I wouldn't even make out with you.

Your mother is obese.

It was like looking into a crystal ball filled with all the salad and breadsticks you can eat.

You and my dad have the same accessories.

We met at a college reggae bar. You were the guy in the button up shirt who was already out of college. I was the 21-year-old in the too-short skirt. When our mutual friend introduced us I was already 4 cran-vodkas in and thought that your white guy head bob was sort of endearing.

The next night the 3 of us met for drinks and when you went to the bathroom our mutual friend let it slip that your ex had a restraining order against you.

I went out with you later that week anyway.

We went for a lovely walk in a nature reserve, but when you took off your jacket I saw it: You had a cell phone holder clipped to your belt. At least it wasn't a beeper.

You have a really lame tattoo.

I dig chicks with bad ass tattoos. Who doesn’t? Nothing says “daddy issues” like some ink under your skin. But when you bent over I was shocked. I can deal with a Japanese character or two. Maybe you got a little drunk after a WBCN River Rave a few years back and succumbed to a dare.
But there is no excuse for the Japanese character for friendship, love, happiness, or whatever could be accurately described by a well placed emoticon, surrounded by two dolphins leaping over a peace sign. I mean, I love Dolphins just as much as the next guy, they are mystically divine creatures from my early days playing Sega Genesis. But I’m pretty sure Echo the Dolphin wouldn’t plow you if you were knee deep in kelp begging for a life-saving frolic in fuckville.

You have questionable decision making skills.

Your business is certainly your business. I don't need to pry, and while I am not threatened in the least by the knowledge that you have had sex and dated other guys before me, I'm not exactly about to question you about the details.

For future reference, though, a month after we have been sleeping together is way too late to casually mention that you don't take birth control. Looks like my casual "no, I really don't mind wearing a condom" was a monumentally awesome decision. Apparently, so was my decision to "accept" your breakup with little to no hard feelings or arguments, as I found out later you were dating my roommate/pot dealer inside of a week.

On a side note, I now immediately dislike anyone who looks like you. Thanks for that. And thanks for the C in Audio Engineering because I skipped the mid-term for a hasty doctor's appointment. Looks like both my tests were negative that day. Slut.

You don't know when to stop talking.

You used to come to my dorm all the time because you were friends with my neighbors, and I thought you were really cute. I liked how you surfed and you always had pot for me.

One night you came over and got a nose bleed. I guess that happens sometimes, no biggie.

But then you said it reminded you of this one time in high school when a girl who sat in front of you in class got her period and didn’t know it, and when she finally stood up it was everywhere, and it smelled funny. Sort of like rust. And you just couldn't get the smell out of your mind. Why did you have to say that?

You had one beer.

I met you at the bar for some loud blues music and a drink, but it got late and I wanted to hit the hay. I hate driving, and you knew how to drive stick, so when we left the bar I asked you to take the wheel for the ride home. I handed you the keys and slid into the passenger seat, only after you swore you only had one drink. I must be a pretty trusting person, because I believed you, even after you were exchanging information with the guy whose parked car you hit.

Maybe you should have mentioned the half dozen benzodiazepines you took before I got there.

You've "done" drugs.

I agreed to go on a date with you because I was trying to get over my ex-boyfriend and you told me that you had a rent controlled apartment on the Upper East Side.
On the subway you said that your dad was a cop in the narcotics division so you had never done illegal drugs.
I know I must have had an odd look on my face. So you quickly mentioned that you once tried to smoke an ounce of oregano in college and it was OMG SO FUNNY! You couldn’t feel your left arm! You fell asleep in the bathtub!
We went to a hookah bar and you couldn’t figure out how to use the hookah even though you had assured me that you'd done it before.
You got mad when I wouldn’t kiss you, and angrier when I ignored your calls. When I ran into you at a festival in Baltimore, I told you I could get you into the afterparty.

I can lie too.

You are my cousin.

People change over the years. I got glasses, you got a lot taller. And I know when you saw me at that wedding that it had been quite a while. But did you really not remember me? From Thanksgiving? You told me all about your large bank account, bought me a drink and talked about your souped up car, all after I explained that your cousin was my cousin. Do you know what that makes us? Cousins. I know we aren't technically related, but we used to sit at the same kid's table, and played Sega together.

I will not be the Tails to your Sonic.