Monday Night Popularity

The cell hasn’t stopped ringing since I arrived home exhausted from the aftermath of a demanding Monday. The good part, which isn’t often the case, was that all the calls received have been of the female persuasion. Roxie was the first.
Roxie hates me for all the crazy and creative Bashes I’ve attended lately, because her Thousand Oaks obligations have unfortunately had priority. I promised her a copy of my ultimate Christmas CD, which everyone I know receives and cherishes, the greatest holiday mix ever created, loved by all who stumble upon it. I’ll probably even throw in the best of 2006, a recent addition to my pantheon. I’m meeting her for cocktails on Thursday. I love that girl.

Then I got a random call, one from Hayley, asking for advice on matters of the heart. I’ve earned quite a reputation for being a superior source of logic and reasoning, able to give straight talk with rational thought in assisting those with unresolved issues or issues in need of sorting. Trust like that is built by always keeping your mouth shut.
She came away from our 22 minute conversation with a resolute outlook, a more positive one for sure. Sometimes good advice isn’t the complete solution, many times it’s just being able to freely air your grievances (like Festivus eh).

About 10 minutes later UCLA blows up my phone, the phonebook moniker of the lovely Lara.

I guess The Hoff is having yet another Bash to end all Bashes on Friday down in the LBC, the invitation always being, “Bring your bathing suit, bring your records.” The last few visits down there have caused permanent damage to my brain and body, although resisting the temptation to play DJ, rock the Jacuzzi, and drink heavily is regrettable in every sense. I confirmed my soul.

I just finished speaking to Stefanie, a girl I met on Halloween.
She’s a former college volleyball player who wants to put together a team, misses the feel of the court and the euphoria of hammering balls and dishing nectar. Ever since playing college ball I’ve resigned myself to strictly playing co-ed, for the days of ultra-testosterone psychosis have passed me by, bores me, plus I enjoy the sight of sweaty women in terrific shape. I’m going to make inquiries on putting together a team, may even see her Friday night for fun.

I now find myself looking at the numbers Ashley gave me Friday, not with resignation, but with wonder as to where the conversation leads after getting Disneyland out of the way. She’s an attractive girl, good personality, instantly qualified by her associations. I’ll call her tomorrow just to say, “Here I am.”

Of late, the plight I’ve been enduring can best be described as constant obligations piling up, the kind that leave you tired and exhausted, the kind you find difficulty in refusing. I should learn to say “No” more, screen my calls more stringently, lay to rest my obsession with the opposite sex. That way I’d probably have more acceptable sleeping patterns, no dark circles under the eyes, maybe even gain a stronger grasp of the surrounding beauty I often neglect.