---

Just in case you didn’t read the previous entry, I’m perched above a sleeping DL, wondering what to do and contrary to prior experiences, I decide to rely on my macho, hypreaggressive, red, white and blue side instead of the passive, tame and Japanese region.

I swoop down for the kill, disregarding all logic and not bothering to entertain the consequences (“Alex, I’d like to take every American foreign policy decision for 400.”). For the first time in my life, I’m powered by the core of American values…action, adventure, flying solo…

I can hear the Star Spangled Banner pounding my ears as I dive bomb for her lips and I close my eyes to make the reward that much sweeter (“Annnnnd the rocket’s red glarrrrre! The bombs burstin’ in aiiiiir!”)…

CRACK!

The sweet, sweet, sweet sound of ash hitting horsehide on a languid summer day as the ball rifles up the hole for a line drive single…the crowd roaring in jubilation…the band striking up in full force (“And the land of the freeeeeeee!”)…

I’m tearing up the basepath, the sun beating down on my face and I raise my arms in triumph as (“AND”) I (“THE”) finally (“HOME”) hit (“OF") first (“THE”) base!!!! (“BRAAAAAAAAVVVVEEE!!!”)

I mentally chant U-S-A for three repetitions with the crowd and then gradually open my eyes to my prize.

There is no crowd.

There is no sun.

There is no band.

And there certainly is no first base.

I’m laying on my single bed in -10 degree weather with shoddy Quebecois heating in a country of maple syrup and Mounties and the only auditory stimuli is my laptop whirring along to whatever virus hopped along with the last batch of porno videos I downloaded to keep me company in this frigid northern wasteland.

Coincidentally, the sound an ash bat makes when it connects with a high heat fastball is the sound two Asian heads make when they collide because one believed he was a hyper-Patriotic American fighter ace/baseball superstar hurtling towards first and the other figured it was time to wake up to pack her bags for Puerto Rico and pushed herself up.

And now my laboring laptop’s whines of distress were joined by two Asian college students groaning in agony.

---

My head felt like it was splitting open—not only had I smashed it into her head, all the remnants of sleep deprivation, drug aftereffects and drinking hangovers that I had momentarily ignored in my rush of adrenaline were filtering back. Oh, and don’t forget the complimentary bonus of “failure”, “embarrassment” and “humiliation” added to your order!

A cute girl groaning, moaning and rolling around on my bed is the goal for most nights, but it somehow seemed a little less exciting when she was clutching her head in anguish.

I made sure she was ok while dodging a string of obscenities launched my way. Well there goes any chance! Maybe you should try kissing her now, the little smarmy, sarcastic critic within me quipped.

But I’m an optimist so I took it in stride…Look at the bright side, at least you can tell everyone you “banged her” with a straight face. And you can point to the welt on your forehead as proof that “she was wild” while giving your fellow bros a knowing look that actually conveys nothing at all.

However long I stared at the “sunny side of life”, the looming, frightening problem still remained. You still haven’t told her your feelings…whether it be in the form of the meek Kokuhaku (a base on balls?) or the aggressive bunt single to first.

But now was not the time nor the place, and my mind was still addled from the headbutt. In a feat that rivals a miracle, we were able to locate our jackets, put them on the right way and walk the two blocks to her house without glancing at each other or talking.

I couldn’t look at her because I was utterly humiliated and judging from the staggering zigzag lines she took to her house, she could barely focus on the task at hand much less deign herself to make idle chit chat with me.

We somehow made it to her apartment where I found respite from the awkwardness dampening the evening by silently playing with her cute kitty. I’m serious, this kitty is really cute. Roughly the size of a softball, it found interest in everything I was doing (“Hey, someone loves you!”), was small and tiny (“But not yellow skinned!”) and attacked everything with gusto (“She can compensate for your meekness!”). However, I quickly came to the realization that she couldn’t cook nor perform third base maintenance and I quickly turned back to DL.

How would I tell her? Should I tell her?

There was no chance to tell her now. Not only was she flying around throwing clothes into a suitcase, her gait was still wobbly from the quadruple punch of sleep deprivation, alcohol hangover, drug hangover and headbutt—which I could’ve used to trick her into becoming my girlfriend, but even I have some morals (which is like saying Hitler was somewhat nice because he gave the Jews free transportation).

So it would have to be later. After she finished packing. Problem was, the rate at which she was throwing clothes into her suitcase was mitigated by her poor throwing arm (girls really can’t play sports) so she spent about half of her time collecting her own missed shots. To waste time, I spent time calculating her average from various locations and came up with this mental table:

From Bed: Par 2
From Closet: Par 3
From doorway/hallway: Par 3
From point blank range(middle of the room): Par 2

Leaning back in a chair, I kept score for the most interesting (and only) game of golf I’ve ever witnessed. Note to the PGA: having hot chicks in PJ’s throw stuff like bras and panties towards a suitcase will increase your popularity tenfold. It would also allow the PGA to finally break into the lucrative gambling market by having betters consider variables such as course hazards (the water hazard can be the collected drool of undersexed Asian males) and garmet size versus wind resistance in creating the over/under. Sluts would gain unfair advantages with their panties, as thongs have little surface area, but large bras would lessen this advantage. Prudes would have the opposite problem (small bras, large panties).

I shook my head, now was not the time to be wandering off into fantasyland. My lecherous thoughts weren’t helped by DL bending over to pick up her scattered clothes with a pair of pajama pants that had a stretched out elastic waist band. Too scared of the consequences telling her to pull up her pants might bring (“Eww, you creep!”), I once again turned back to her kitty and fooled around with the literal pussy bouncing in front of me rather than the other one bouncing around in my mind.

My forced concentration on her cat (and only her cat!) was jarred with the exploding of two horn blasts. We both jumped a little and her kitty raced for cover underneath the bed.

“Oh shit! My cab is here!”

She launched a few more articles of clothing, a toiletries bag and a towel towards her bag, rethrew them all in succesfully and then scurried around grabbing other random stuff.

I shouldered her duffel and shuffled down the stairs as she grabbed her money, passport and bookbag. I waited outside as she tripped over herself in her haste to come down the stairs as the cab blew two more blasts of the horn into the 4am air. She jumped the last few steps, barreling into me.

I easily caught her and she threw herself into a hug.

“Have fun in spring break! Enjoy New York!” she whispered into my ear.

Do I tell her? Do I kiss her? Do I do it now? What—

Two more successive horn blasts and she jerked the duffel bag form my hands, tossed it into the cab (first try!) and threw a “Bye!” over her shoulder as she slammed the door shut and the cab sped off.

I guess it can wait until after break…

As I watched the taillights of the cab disappear around the bend, I realized I hadn’t said a single word to her the whole night. I hadn't said anything.

I trudged home, smacking myself for not telling her, not kissing her, not doing anything...for being scared and pacifist and for being 100%!A(MISSING)sian.

So much for being aggressive.

---