Mr. Boston Does Himself

I have a problem!

I always want things that are bad for me. Doesn't matter if it is something that I've never thought about before, as soon as I know that it is detrimental to my well-being I have to have it. Perfect example: I have always hated milk, but now that I know I am lactose-intolerant, all I want to do is shove dairy products in my face.

It's a sickness!

I blame my parents.

This mental defect of mine especially comes into play when dealing with men. You've heard the expression "scrape the bottom of the barrel," well I prefer to search the crap underneath the barrel for my dates. If anyone knows, a guy who will stand me up on dates, not return phone calls, and/or steal my credit cards to pay for prostitutes please send him my way.

It's sad really, but like I said, it's a sickness.

My latest "prize" is currently sitting to my right having a very intense conversation with a wall. To be fair, we have been out drinking since 11am, but the fact that he is also holding up the wall's end of the conversation (in a different voice than his own) is slightly alarming.

We met a few months prior at a party and though he seemed quite normal at the time, it has since become apparent that I have discovered yet another Tool Academy reject. I know I should have stopped talking to him weeks ago, but he is soooo cute. Plus, I have a thing for Boston accents. It's like talking to an alien that does not realize the letter "R" is part of the alphabet.

I sip what is probably my fifteenth beer of the day and wonder how Mr. Boston could have gotten this drunk. I am starting to think that someone may have drugged him, when he suddenly bursts into hysterical fits of laughter. Apparently, the wall just said something hilarious.

Guess bricks have a sense of humor. Who knew?

"I think we should head back to your place soon," I tell him.

Mr. Boston turns to stare at me. "I'm having man time right now," he explains. "I don't want to leave yet." He then continues talking to the wall, apologizing to it for the interruption.

Man time, my ass! I want to go home...now!

I walk over to the bar and close out our tab. Figuring Mr. Boston will be okay for a few minutes, I quickly go to the restroom and splash cold water on my face. I need to sober up a bit since I will clearly be on babysitting duty tonight.

I return to find Mr. Boston dry heaving in a corner. I try to get him to stand up and go to the bathroom, but to no avail. Instead, he takes off his baseball cap and vomits into it.

Terrific.

Fighting the urge to now be sick myself, I try to take the hat from him and dispose of it. Mr. Boston, however, does not want to part with his favorite Red Sox hat. Instead he plops in back onto his head, vomit and all.

For a few moments, I am paralyzed. Did that really just happen?

He smiles happily at me, like a little boy who just won the school spelling bee. He is oblivious to the fact that he basically just threw up on his own head.

Realizing that I should get him home, I call my friend Mandy to pick us up. Somehow, I am able to get Mr. Boston out of the bar and into Mandy's car when she arrives. As we drive, I fill Mandy in on the events of the evening and explain to her why her car now smells slightly like vomit.

We are only a few blocks away from Mr. Boston's apartment building, when Mandy and I begin to hear grunting noises from the backseat. We both turn around to check on Mr. Boston and find him fondling himself (over his pants, thankfully) and moaning.

Really?! Why me?

Mandy explodes into laughter and I sink down into my seat, mortified. Thankfully, we have reached the apartment. I turn around to tell Mr. Boston to get out of the car. He responds by opening the door and tumbling out onto the pavement. I thank Mandy for the ride and exit the car, to find Mr. Boston on the sidewalk doing push-ups.

"Let's get upstairs," I tell him, hoping to put an end to his drunken workout. Instead, he hops up, crawls back into the car, and curls up into the fetal position. I briefly wonder what horrible things I did in my past life for God to punish me with such weirdos.

Mandy, to her credit, patiently coaxes him out of the car again. I tell her good night and guide Mr. Boston toward his building. We are almost to the front door, when Mr. Boston abruptly turns around and runs back to Mandy's car.

"Do you want to make out with me," he asks Mandy. Being the pal that she is, she politely declines, wishes him a good night, and drives away.

I finally succeed in getting him up to his apartment, but not before he passes out in the hallway for about ten minutes. Luckily, I have his keys and am able to let myself into the apartment while he bonds with the carpet.

Exhausted, I get ready for bed. I am almost asleep when I hear noise coming from the living room. I get up to investigate and find Mr. Boston dancing to Eminem's "Lose Yourself" ...completely naked aside from his vomit-filled Red Sox hat.

And guess what...I had sex with him that night anyhow.

Like I said, I have a sickness.