This is something that I wrote thirteen years ago.  It was originally printed on thermal paper, from a portable word processor I once owned ("typewriter," for you government-schooled kiddies).

*Ahem*

I signed up for this stupid writing class, in the fall of 1992.  The class was called "Creative Writing," and I really wasn't looking forward to it.  It was a gimp class that I took because none of the classes that I was into were being offered that semester.  I remember hoping for one of those easy instructors that only graded on the tests, and didn't really care about attendance too much.

To satisfy the curiosity of my audience, I'll say that I slept through most of my classes.  Aside from that kick-ass Criminal Justice class, the others were just run-of-the-mill, reading straight from the book, bullshit.  Teachers suck.

My "Creative Writing" instructor was this monotone guy, sporting a Freddie Mercury mustache.  He would call on a few drowsy students for some stupid question and would get back a groan or something.  Regardless of how much he was into the class, he seemed not to care (I ended up getting a "B" in the class, but that's not important here).

On the first day of class, I got there early.  You gotta get there early, to scope the class for chicks, and to get one of the desks in the back of the room.  Basically, the trick is to stand around the front of the classroom door, scoping out your prey.  When a babe walks by, you "unintentionally" decide to head into the room, behind her, to be assured a seat next to her.  Meanwhile, your hormones have already undressed her, and bent her over the desk in front of you.  The only catch is that you gotta get in your chair, in case "Joey" starts making his presence known in your pants.  That's a real drag.  Trust me girls, you don't have a clue.

So I'm there early, and I'm in the hallway.  No one is around.  I find this odd, since class is to start in a few minutes.  Giving up the "scoping game," I decided to head into class, once Freddie Mercury shows up.

There are four whole people in class, aside from me.  Great.

Person #1 is this guy that looks like Charley Manson.  Not "prison" Charley.  This is "wild and free" Charley, with the crazy eyes and hippie hair.  The difference here is that this guy is more cleaned up, and is wearing hipper clothes.  Person #2 is this bohemian-wannabe guy.  He's wearing thrift-store clothes, a ponytail, and little wire-rimmed John Lennon glasses.  Person #3 is a fat goth chick.

...and then there was person #4.  Person #4 is a tall, skinny weird chick.  Right off the bat, I notice that she's wearing tight jeans (always a plus), a long-sleeved shirt (like what you'd see beatniks wear), lots of beads and rings and such...and those goddamn John Lennon glasses!  What the hell is so popular with the goddamn John Lennon glasses??  But I digress...

So now, the instructor begins.  His name is Frederick.  Not Fred.  Not Rick.  Not Freddie.  It's "Frederick."  The painful class begins...but that's not the topic of this story, is it?

Two days later is the next class.  When I enter the room, now I see that the desks are all arranged in a circle, like what you would expect in a kindergarten class.  It seems that Frederick likes it this way. 

So, here comes the wierd girl.  She's wearing a skirt.  She made it.  I know this, because she's told damn near everyone in the room.  It's made out of neckties.  NECKTIES!  Dozens of her father's old 70's hippy-dippy, earth-tone neckties that she's sewn together into some goddamn technicolor hula skirt!  What the hell is wrong with this girl!  Does she hit the bong, regularly?  Of course, all the beads, the rings, and those goddamn John Lennon glasses are all there again.  I begin imagining that this girl is an alien from Planet Bong.  Why is she here?  Is mankind in danger?  Is she rounding up all the bad neckties, to take back to her world?  If so, I've got a few to donate, as well.

Ok...now let's talk "guys" here, for a minute.  The "man brain" is surely a weak tool.  It's not our fault.  Eat, sleep, screw.  That's really it.  They say that a man thinks about sex, once every seven seconds.  What they don't tell you, is that in those other six seconds, not much else is going on.  To justify such blatant idiocy, we become deeply entrenched in the "macho" thing.  However, sometimes, we crawl out of that macho fantasy, and find out something about ourselves.  We come to the realization that sometimes, the very thing we make fun of, is the very thing we tend to be attracted to.

...You can see where this is going.

I catch myself noticing that the alien spends a lot of time around campus, after class.  Why?  Because shy, sexually frustrated males notice shit like that.  Well that, and the fact that technicolor hula skirts tend to scream out at you, even in a big crowd.

The next week, I happen to see her sitting, reading in one of the quads, after class.  She's not wearing her beatnik clothes, or that freakin' hula skirt.  She's actually kinda plain looking, today.  Without warning, my weak-tool brain concocts the idea that I should risk social rejection, and go talk to her.

"Hey, I really like your poetry," I say.  Girls, this is what guys call, "the 'get it over with' opening line."

She looks up.  "Thanks."  Then goes back to reading her book.

Uh oh...think of something, dude!  "Can I read some more of your stuff?"

"Sure," she says without looking up from her book.  One hand goes into her bag, pulls out a handful of pages, and hands them to me.

I take the papers, without really caring what's on them.  I looked at them for a bit.  Lots of dark, gothic shit.  Not very interesting, unless you're a fan of The Cure, or Morrissey.

Eventually, I contort the sparse conversation into inviting her out to go miniature golfing with some friends (whom I never really intended on inviting, anyway).  I forget how I did it, and I'm sure if I thought about it too much, I'd remember what an asshole I sounded like.

Regardless, she looked up from her book, and just said, "Alright."

I "float" home, with her phone number written on a scrap of paper.  I couldn't tell you what happened between that time, and that weekend.  None of it really mattered, at that point.

Let me stop here, and remind my readers that I had just scored a "date" with an alien.  A beaded, ringed, John Lennon glassed, technicolor hula skirt wearing alien.  I guess us guys are stupid that way.  I could have been in grave danger of being abducted and anally probed, but being male, that really didn't matter either.

On Saturday, I call the number she's written down, half expecting it to be for "Tiny's Repair Shop," or something.  Nope, she picks up.  I float above my chair, as I write down the directions to the apartment she lives in.

Now, in my euphoria, I failed to prepare myself, until it was too late, for the other factor awaiting me that evening.  The Spanish Inquisition.  That evening, my mother sprung her attack...

"Where are you going?"

(Fellas, what's the universal answer to this question?)  "Out."

She called my bluff.  "With who?"

"No one, really."

Here's where she attempts to out-flank me, like a good general does.  "What," she smirked, "You gotta date, or something?"

So I charge from my personal fortifications with a bold, "Yes, I do!"  I really hoped she'd just blow off, and let me be.  I had enough to worry about, at that point.

"Really!  Who is she?"  My mother was now beaming.  Her nerdy kid had a date.  There's nothing more embarrasing than a mother grilling her shy, sexually-frustrated young male offspring about a first date.  Even worse, I knew she'd stay up all night, so she could give me the Chuck Woolery shit as soon as I got home.

"You're going to have to tell me everything that happens!" She said.

"In 'two and two,' right mom?" I thought to myself

I did get back at her though.  I told her that I had to stop off at the ATM, so I could get some cash for rubbers, in case I got lucky enough to get her back to her place, for a little "push action."  She didn't go for that real well.  I considered our little mind game, a draw.

Now, you're probably wondering what exactly went on, during the "first date."  Did we go miniature golfing?  Did she wear her technicolor hula skirt?  Did I get lucky?  Why she prefers silk panties, instead of cotton ones? (Ok...I made up the last one)

Actually, I drove out to "West Jesus" to pick her up.  We went to, of all the stupid places, the mall.  That's where the miniature golf course was.  A stupid little indoor course for all the la-di-da kids to go when "Mother" won't give up the charge card.  Screw that.

Ironically, the rest of the night was,

"What do you want to do?"

"I don't care, whatever you want to do."

"Well, how about [insert stupid activity]?"

"I don't care."

"Well, how about [insert second stupid activity]?"

"That's fine."

"Well, pick one."

"Oh, I don't know.  Whichever you want."

We drove around in circles for hours, with this shit.  One big fat empty conversation.  I dropped her off at about 11:00pm.  For the entire 40-minute drive home, I cursed myself for being such a massive bore.  It made me queasy.  I started thinking that I would forever be a nerd.  She'd never speak to me again.  Especially since all she could talk about was Mr. Bohemian guy who sat next to her in Creative Writing class.

You wouldn't believe how I felt the next time we went out.

EDIT:  16 years later...I have been informed that she did NOT make the "technicolor hula skirt."  DAMMIT!

We're not even married for three months, and I can never trust the girl again!