2002-04-20 - 4:34 a.m.

Got My S. a 3D mini-purse with race cars zooming 'cross the finish line, and checkered flagg�ed officials in the mix too, and overhead. Pretty neat, and I did a good job.

And I also gave her a t-shirt. Black, and with a blazing red A-K (gun) on the front, along with the morbid and punk words DEFEND ALLSTON.

I think that she liked my gifts, but I can never be sure with anyone.

I know this because I'm the biggest faker in the world when I get a present I don't like.

It's very easy to tell when I'm lying, except when I lie about loving a present that someone gave me.

'Cause I'm not actually lying. I might not like the present. I may even be disappointed. But I'm so psyched that someone actually got me something that I can't help but be glad.

So My S. probably liked her presents.

I met her in Downtown Crossing, and took her back to Foley's where C.(from work) and Molly were waiting.

And we hung out there for an hour or so. The idea was to go to the Glass Slipper, but My S. suggested that we go back to her place in lieu of a very expensive evening.

To drink wine and eat cheese, I guess. Just us four, and to have a good time.

And we were all relieved. Nobody had a problem with going to the strip club in principle, but none of us really wanted to part with the money either.

And it's Friday night, and the night is still young, and so are we, and we are going to pick up some alcohol, and we will drink some alcohol at My S.' place, and we will have a good time there.

And we make the packie just in time, like Cinderella would have done, and hop onto our redline pumpkin.

And the clock strikes midnight, and we're at My S.' place, and it's just not happening.

And we're in the middle of Dorchester, and the night has gone from young to blown.

Light bulbs blazing, and it's My S.' friggin birthday, and we're all hanging out in the kitchen.

Molly asks a question, and My S. shouts the question down the hallway to He-Man, and he doesn't reply.

Is he asleep? Did he go away?

She shouts again, and again, now curious like myself.

I only talk to people I can see. was his reply.

Asshole. It sucks, cause I really want to like him. Why do I really want to like a jackass? I dunno. Maybe for the same reasons why My S. likes the same jackass?

His house, I guess, and he was sitting reading a book with his chick, and maybe we were bothering him, or maybe one of us said something that really irked or offended him, maybe, I don't know.

I think that he was just being He-Man. Buzzkill. Asshole.

He nit-picked C. (from work) over her use of "bicycle riding" as a verb. I don't know who he was trying to impress with his first chapter of the Chicago Manual of Style mastery of the English language.

Not me.

He also reminded us many, many malicious times that the last train was leaving right now.

This was the same dude that I had invited into my house just days before, and to whom I had given a couple of beers.

Hope my grammar is correct.

Fuk gramer.

And fuck that Oh, I created my own look by writing something clever that I probably swiped from someone else or maybe from some obscure website asshole.

You know what? I've met people with Jesus Christ complexes. You know what? They can get away with Jesus Christ complexes because they can back it up.

And you know what? He-man is a fucking poser and a limp dick pussy who couldn't Jesus Christ his way out of a soggy paper bag.

And you know what? I'm done with being a pussy. Next time that sensitive wife beater so much as dours his way into getting me into a bad mood, I'm gonna punch that spineless lightweight into a coma.

A coma where all the zombies he has so eloquently put down over the years rise up from the dead and take revenge on that David Spade wannabe.

And you know what? It's My S.' freakin' birthday, and all I wanna do is spend some time with her, and all He-man wants is to send C. (from work) and Molly and I away.

And he made his point.

And we were well on our way.

But before we could clear the place, She-man had to fire off one last salvo, to make sure that no one could escape.

We were friggin' leaving, he got what he wanted, and he still had to insult.

So, Molly, is that tattoo on your arm real? Cause it looks fake to me. I have a box of Crayola markers, and I could do just as good of a job.

We were so out. Sorry My S.

On the train ride home, all we could talk about was how much of a jackass He-Man had been.

And from now on, he is not a person.

He is She-man. And he is nothing. This is the last time I�m going to waste time giving him what he wants. He is fucking dead, and with him I bury any impulses to get along with some poof minor Dickensian character in my life just appease My S. I just have no use for him, and I�m surprised that anyone else does. And I�m in the middle of Dorchester, and the night has gone from young to blown.

We were so out. Sorry My S. Sorry you had to stay.

On the train ride home, all we could talk about was how much of a jackass He-Man had been.

And from now on, he is not a person. To me.

He is She-man, and he is also nothing. Parts make up a sum, and he is no part of any sum. Done. Naught.

A cypher in the snow.

And if My S. wants to hang out with him, that's fine.

He was rude to my friends, he's been rude to me, and I want nothing to do with him.

Ever again.

Fucking ever.

And I'm not done.

There are no apologies here. There's no oh, but he's misunderstood here.

And you know what? There's no oh, let's see how much of a jackass He-man can be anymore.

That's a game I used to enjoy. I shall indulge no longer.

And you know what? I wanted to make something. Or be a part of it.

But not when I gotta sit on a long-ass train ride the hell outta Dorchester, feeling bad that I was partially responsible for subjecting my friends to a waste of a Friday night.

And feeling worse that My S. willingly subjects herself to that kind of abuse on a daily basis.

Fuck you, He-Man.

And that's the last word.