"Whose tits do you like better, mine or his?" She thrust her chest forward while pulling her shoulder blades together.

It was an easy question, really.

Whenever a girl asks you to choose between her boobs and your guy friend's man pecs, any answer between, "Yours" and "Let me motorboat the pointy orb thingies" is acceptable. Hell, even "His" is fine if you say it jokingly. What is not acceptable is looking as though she asked if you like being anally fisted while sucking on a horse penis. "Uhhhhh..." is not the right answer.

"Hey, I have chest hair." Nick said, trying to sway me. While he made a good point, my answer still laid resoundingly beneath the female's shirt. But I was unable to say anything. My mind was blank. It was only for a few seconds, but it seemed like hours. Her smiling at me, me staring back like a retard at a disco ball. I saw Nick waiting for me to speak out of the corner of my eye. Neurons fired signals from my brain to my mouth telling it to move. My mouth fired neurons back to my brain requesting something to say. Signals were crossed, messages not delivered and nothing happened. For those few seconds of eternity, all functionality was paralyzed.

Even after the moment passed, I continued to dwell on it. Everyone around me talked and socialized, but I couldn't participate. I didn't know how. I'm not in those situations enough to know. It's not something that you can learn by reading about it, and, believe me, I have. It's like a sport, you can read about how to throw a pitch or run a route all you want, but you'll never be able to do it until you go out and practice it a hundred times, and you'll never master it until your practice it thousands of times.

That's one excuse: I haven't been in social situations enough. But sometimes I can't help but think that I'm broken somehow, fundamentally flawed. I mean, I had friends when I was little and I did fine then. What happened to me between then and now? I think I lost touch. All the surgeries and problems... But it may have started before that. In 7th grade I was told that I came across as snobby and stuck up. I was just very quiet. No one said anything in previous years, so what happened then? Why couldn't I make friends after I lost the ones I had? This isn't a rhetorical question. I don't know the answer and I wish I did.

Did I never have that ability?

It's official. I'm now a full-fledged writer for Rudius Media. I even have a cool little Love on Wheelz button on the blogroll to the right. To celebrate the occasion, Dr. Rob and I collaborated on a little Q & A. I guess you could call him the welcome wagon. I just wish he had boobs and a vagina. Then we could record and post an amateur porno for the loyal readers, but alas, biology is against us. The following conversation will have to do, at least until someone springs for a sex change. Either way, here it is. Enjoy, and stayed tuned to Shrinktalk for Part 2.

Dr. Rob: At a young age I developed a knack for poking fun at myself without sacrificing dignity. I was lucky enough to know that I'm inherently flawed in many, many ways, so I thought by acknowledging my imperfections and having fun with them I could take away their potency. Ironically I think it helps my self-esteem. I always grapple with people who are elitists and narcissists because I'm constantly thinking, "everyone, except you of course, knows that you're just as fucked up as the rest of us. Why can't you see that?"

When I sat down to write ShrinkTalk.Net, I kept in mind a few golden rules about writing: write about what you know and be emotionally honest. And what I know most is that life tends to be a series of mildly good times and minor hassles. There aren't all that many colossally high points or catastrophes. So if things are kept in perspective you can strive to find more good times while making it difficult to be depressed.

Some might argue that your situation doesn't fit the model I describe. And yet you manage to bring humor and a very light-hearted take on your life to your writing. How do you do it?

Hotwheelz: I agree that my situation doesn't quite fit the model you've laid out. Obviously the stakes are much higher on a day to day basis, but I also cherish the excitement in life. I don't have to look that far for inspiration, even in house we have Bunny, Philalawyer, Tucker Max. Their philosophy seems to place emphasis on the exciting times. It may be good exciting, or bad exciting, but it's exciting nonetheless (can I say exciting any more?).

I see this in my own life as well. Sure, it has its fair share of dull moments like any one else's, but the highs and lows are much more pronounced. The weird thing is, contrary to what you might expect, my highs and lows are almost always caused by my own thoughts rather than life-altering events. For example, my most recent low was when I was reduced to tears due to sexual frustration. I felt hopeless in my state of forced chastity, and powerless to change it. I teetered over the emotional edge and I had to hang on by my fingertips, lest I fell into the chasm. In contrast, one of the happiest days was going on a road trip to LA. Whenever I have the lows I have to remember that there will be better times. So I let the emotion overwhelm me, and, keeping things in perspective, I let it fill me. Then I let it go, move on, and try to fix the cause. After that, I write about it and post it for the world to see - because, hey, you might as well profit from your suffering.

As for how do I write about it? I just mash the keyboard until coherent sentences appear on the pretty glowing box. Truth is I try to be as honest as possible. I throw in a joke if I think that the story is getting too heavy. I also never take myself too seriously and work to be as objective as possible. My biggest secret is watching Buffy while writing. She and Allison Hannigan are my sexy, beautiful muses.

I'm curious, do you get many disabled patients?

Dr. Rob: I will definitely agree with you about Buffy. She can do a guest piece on my site any day. She really blew it when she picked that Prinze Jr. dude over me. But make no mistake: one day she'll regret it.

You bring up a fair point about life, but I think George Costanza said it best: you get up, you go to work, you eat, you read, you eat some more, you read. Or something to that effect. If you break down the day into coherent units there's a lot of mundane qualities to it for most. Many can relate to Bunny and Tucker because of similar experiences - and anyone who has hated their job knows how spot-on Philalawyer is - but their non-blog lives have a similar element of "a bunch of kind of mundane stuff happened today."

I have seen a number of disabled people in my practice. Some of them have conditions that can be treated through surgery but not all. Those people, without realizing it, help other people in my practice. When they come into the office, clients who see them often re-evaluate their problems once they sit down with me. I very often hear, "I can't believe I'm bitching about my wife when your next person has real problems." This is not to say that people shouldn't be validated for whatever it is they are experiencing, but for better or worse, my disabled clients unwittingly act as what I call Unplanned Therapists.

Does that phenomenon ever apply to you? If so what do you think about having that role in your life?

Hotwheelz: You'll get Buffy the day I walk. And, let's face it, if that happens she'll come running into my arms.

That phenomenon does apply to me, and frankly, I don't like it. For two reasons: One, it can sometimes make friends hesitant to tell me about their problems. They tell me that they feel bad telling me about their problems because they seem insignificant compared to mine. Then they feel worse. Just because mine are... different doesn't make theirs any less significant.

Second, I don't like it when I receive special treatment because of my condition. It does have its advantages (for example, no girl ever suspects I'm undressing them with my eyes), but I could do without them. It often affects my social life. Not only because of other people's thinking, but because their thinking, or at least my perception of it, fucks with my head. I freeze around new people because I try to say the perfect thing in order to impress them. That's the source of a lot of my social anxiety and related problems.

Part 2 coming soon to a website near you...

I don't understand what about me attracts the crazy nurses. Maybe my quirky personality drives away the sane ones (if there are any) or maybe Christian companies don't attract many sane people in the first place. A company founded on an ideology can't be run by very sane people. For example, what would you think about a Republican company? Poop flinging crazy. Scientology company? They probably masturbate in a pool of their own vomit and then fingerpaint on the walls with the mix. My point is, bitches be crazy.

This story is about one particular bitch who be very crazy.

Her name was Jasmin. She was the morning nurse who took me to school every day. She wore the kind of clothes high-class women who care too much about appearance wear - Coach scarf, Gucci trenchcoat and other atrociously expensive clothing. And always with the fucking blue-tooth. By always, I mean that I don't ever remember seeing her take it off regardless as to whether she was talking on it or not, which, admittedly, wasn't very often.

Her face was sneaky and weird. There wasn't any particular feature I could point to that was sneaky, it was just intrinsically sneaky. Kind of like how circles are inherently round or how cheese is inherently evil. She wasn't fat, but she had a big double chin that made her look like a frog. So imagine a Filipina frog who wears nothing but high-end clothing and never takes off her Bluetooth, and you have an approximate mental picture of her.

She also had a large collection of purses. I asked her about them one day.

"How many purses do you have, anyway?"

"About thirty."

"THIRTY?! WHY THE HELL DOES ANYONE NEED THAT MANY DEAD COWS?"

"Some people collect stamps, I collect purses." She said matter-of-factly.

"How much are they?!"

"Let's see... the most expensive one is..." she squinted her already squinty eyes upward, "$30,000 another $25, 000..."

"THIRTY-THOUSAND FUCKING DOLLARS?!"

"Overall, I probably have $100,000 in purses." she said in that non-chalant-I'm-pretending-I-don't-care-to-look-cool kind of way.

The only way to describe my facial expression was like if I were to walk in on my parents having sex with a goat and a midget while chanting Gregorian hymns.

"What?" she asked as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

"You have two college educations worth in dead fucking cow!"

"So?" she shrugged.

"You could feed an entire African village for a year!"

"We give to charity."

"Yeah, bu-"

"It's my money, I can use it however I want."

Fair enough, I thought. It wouldn't be so ridiculous if she didn't complain about her $100,000 dollar debt while using her iPod touch to shop on Amazon. I'm not talking shopping once in a while, this was every day. To say she was frugal with her spending is the equivalent of saying that Hitler disliked the jews.

She also could not take a joke to save her life. She's "not that kind of girl" which is another way of saying she's a humorless bitch. Apparently teasing people is not nice. Whatever, like any normal human being, it's the only way I communicate affection.

All this was forgiven because she was a competent nurse and treated me well. At least for a while...

The first sign of trouble was when she would leave me in the classroom to go use the bathroom. Meanwhile there was no one that knew what to do should I stop breathing. She would leave for two or three minutes at a time apparently oblivious that it only takes 45 seconds for me to lose consciousness.

Then she started getting an attitude. My requests to have my chair reclined were met with big passive-aggressive sighs. The sighs soon turned into, "Why can't you do it yourself?" (because I physically couldn't). When I had trouble controlling my chair due to the cold and she had to readjust my hand she would mutter under her breath and roll her eyes.

On one such occasion, I was barely able to make it into my house before my hand got too cold to drive. Once inside, I asked her to push me the rest of the way.

"Are you serious?"

"Uh... yeah. I can't drive for a minute. My hand is too cold."

"Really?" she asked in disbelief.

"Yes! We're in the house, it's all flat and smooth."

"This is ridiculous. I can't believe this," she croaked and rolled her frog eyes making sure it was crystal clear that she was not happy about it while she pushed me.

After a while of her snide remarks, passive-aggressiveness and generally bitchy attitude I decided that I'd had enough. So I told my mom that I wanted to sit down and talk with her.

"Um... you'll have to wait." my mom whispered.

"Why?"

"I think she's stealing from us."

"Tell me you're kidding" I said wearily.

"No"

"Why?"

"Because ever since she got here stuff has started to go missing. We're going to put in cameras to try and catch her in the act. Until then, you have to act like nothing is wrong."

"So I have to trust someone who may be stealing from us with my life?"

"They're not related, but yes. We're putting the cameras in next Wednesday and I need you to distract her until after we put them in."

"So I have to trust someone who may be stealing from us with my life AND be a secret agent man?"

"Yes."

"Sold."

So for the next week I was undercover. I have to say, my covert skills are not to be underestimated. I still teased her and she never suspected a thing. On the day they installed the cameras, I successfully distracted her by making up places I had to go to. James Bond doesn't have shit on me. The only reason it's not being made into a movie is because I didn't end up having hot steamy sex with her. And that's only because she was a pudgy amphibian

We caught her a week later and summarily fired her. She said that she'd had that "problem" since she was a little kid. Problem my ass. She knew exactly what she was doing and had complete control over it. She was only sorry because she got caught. Though, to her credit, she did turn herself in.

The fact remains, she came into our house and stole $4,000 dollars in stuff. She betrayed the sacred trust between nurse and patient, so fuck her. She didn't only steal from my parents, but from my little brother. Fuck. Her. She's a horrible fucking cunt and deserves her time in jail.

I'm beginning to think that a cute well adjusted nurse is much like Bigfoot - an urban legend to make the world seem more exciting than it actually is. I see no evidence for the Hot Nurse's existence, but I will keep searching for her. My elusive bigfoot, except preferably with less hair.

Sometimes I question the effectiveness of nursing schools. The "nurses" that slip through the cracks are wildly incompetent and in no way capable of caring for newborn puppies, much less medically dependent people. It's understandable that unqualified employees sneak passed filters in most professions, but nursing deals with human lives. It should be held to a higher standard.

That said, Bobby wasn't incompetent - at least not completely.

Bobby stood about 5'11 with frizzled natural spiky hair that was steadily retreating from his forehead. He wore thick glasses, blue jeans and was a big fan of Spongebob Squarepants, Macbooks, computers in general and (most importantly) Jesus Christ of Nazareth. In his late-thirties, he lived with two roommates. Overall though, he was a nice guy and I liked him.

He played Wolfenstein and introduced me to 3D modeling by bringing me a humongous Lightwave tutorial book. I stayed up late at night while he read aloud step-by-step instructions on how to build a set of stairs.

His downfall was not his nursing skills, despite them being average at best. Instead, it was his memory that failed him. He often forgot to do the simple tasks -- non-essential stuff like giving my brother his medicine or cleaning the tracheotomy site. But those were the little things.

"Bobby." It was late and I needed assistance. He was on the couch with the macbook on his lap surfing the internet. The screen reflected off his glasses making it so I couldn't see his eyes.

"Bobby!" still no response.

"Booooooobbbbbbbyyyyyy!" he was asleep again. He didn't seem to understand the concept of alertness, or he just couldn't stay awake. I suspect it was the latter. I don't think he was intentionally negligent; he didn't have much malice in him, if at all. He was a childish nerd in a middle-aged man's body.

Another time before leaving he asked me, "Do you mind if I borrow the first season of Spongebob?"

"Uh... ask my brother. It's his."

He turned to him expectantly. Much like when one of your little cousins asks you to borrow a video game, "Oh, uh, sure." my brother said confused

"Thank you," he smiled, "I'll bring it back soon."

He also talked about the future of computers a lot. "One day, man," his eyes bulged in his head, "instead of the operating systems we have now, we'll only have a screen with a cube and you'll be able to rotate it," he gestured rotating a cube with his hands and made an O shape with his mouth, "and you'll just click on the different sides to work it." He chuckled nervously, "I've seen some cool stuff, man."

Ultimately what forced my parents to fire him was what I like to call the Heater Incident. I actually just made that up, but we'll go with it because it sounds cool.

It was around 6:30 in the morning when I woke up because I needed to turn or be repositioned or something. Bobby was sleeping on a couch in the room. After I managed to wake him, he got up and turned me. He then noticed that the heater didn't have any water. Wiping off his glasses and rubbing his eyes, he shuffled over to the pantry.

Now, there's something you need to know about where we buy our supplies. Things are cheaper in Mexico. Our gallons of water look just like gallons of vinegar except for one difference: the water has a big blue label and vinegar has a red label. An alert person would notice that.

"What's that smell?" I asked after he poured it in. The smell got stronger by the second and pretty soon I started gagging. If you've ever smelled vinegar you'll know that it's awful. Now imagine that smell permeating every oxygen molecule you inhale. Bobby knocked on my mom's door.

"Uh... I need help. I need someone to bag him while I clean out the heater."

"What happened?" my mom stumbled out of her room.

"I seem to have uh..." he looked at the floor, "...put vinegar in the heater."

"What?! How?" she asked, annoyed at his exceptional incompetence.

"I, uh,..." he scratched his head. As if he wasn't sure himself, "Heh. Wasn't paying attention." he trailed off. My mom rolled her eyes behind his back and went right back to bed after he fixed it.

"Sorry about that." he told me.

"It's okay." I lied. I could tell by my mom's reaction that she'd had enough. He wasn't lasting another day. And he didn't. My mom called the agency in the morning and asked them to find someone else.

I miss his nerdiness. I miss playing video games late at night and building 3d models of houses. What I don't miss is worrying that he wouldn't wake up if I got unplugged. There's nothing more nerve-racking than wondering if you'll make it until morning. It's not exactly conducive to a good nights sleep. As much as I liked him, it wasn't enough to place my life in his hands.

We later found out that the company fired him because he was working with an expired license. You'd think they would check for that kind of stuff. It'd be like working for Google with your computer science degree from 1998 after not having kept up with any of the new languages. It doesn't exactly inspire confidence in the company's hiring practices.

If these are the people that run the nursing schools then it's no wonder nurses like Bobby end up bumbling their way from one life and death situation to the next.

My friend Nick over at Life As Nick wrote a really nice story about me. You can read it here. Check out his site, too. He makes funnies.

Part of having little to no social life means that I don't interact much with girls my own age. Over the years, I've watched other guys flirt and talk to them, but I never learned how to do it myself. I mean, I understand on an intellectual level what to do, but I'm incapable of following through in practice. I'm like a brainy QB with none of the necessary physical talents. I know what to do and how to do it, but on the field I can't perform.

My emotions take over. I lock up because I have to say the perfect thing. There is pressure to be incredibly funny, entertaining and smart at every moment to compensate for every one of my physical shortcomings. I know it's unreasonable, but no one ever said feelings were reasonable.

I can't compete with regular guys. I can't hug a girl, can't kiss or caress her. I'm not able to do any of that without her doing it to me. How am I supposed to keep a girl satisfied? I see guys come up behind girls and grab them by the waist or pick them up to make them giggle and laugh. I will never be able to do that. I'm missing out on a significant part of being human and it affects me in a big way.

I just got done messaging twelve girls on a dating website. Then I went on Craigslist Casual Encounters and e-mailed three "girls". Unsurprisingly, they were all fake. I've hit rock bottom and can't take it anymore. I'm at the end of the line. I cried. It has never gotten to the point of crying before.
I've never had sex and I've never had an orgasm. I can't masturbate. Sexual frustration is a perpetual state that cannot be fixed in the ways other people fix it. The littlest things tend to piss me off, like people asking me if I'm mad or poking me. The truth is, I don't know if my irritability is a symptom of my frustrations or if it really is a part of my persona.

I can't tell my angst from the real me -- whether my creativity comes from this or if it's an intrinsic trait. I've wondered lately if I'd lose my edge if I had a... umm... release. Would my essence be permanently altered? Like those natives who believe that you lose a little part of your soul every time you have your picture taken, except the picture is jizz.

At the same time, I can't keep on like this. It's not normal or natural. Most boys are molesting themselves by 6th grade, some even before that. I remember starting to realize that certain things felt better than others, but not to the extent where I did something about it. Partly because I lost the strength to do it and partly because I was a little distracted trying to survive.

When my friends were jerking it to their dad's porn stash, I was having life saving surgery. When they were going to parties and talking to girls, I was having life saving surgery.

I can't even enjoy porn anymore. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy seeing the naked women, but after a few seconds it gets painful. Not physically painful mind you, but more a tormenting desperate feeling. Resisting the biological urge to jerk off in order to release pent-up stress, now that's traumatic.

I have this growing reservoir of frustration and energy with no way to relieve it. I often feel the desire to scream or run or punch people. I imagine that if I could walk I would be into MMA or boxing. It's not fair that everyone has ways of dealing with their anger and I don't. Writing helps, but it's not the immediate release I need.

So it's come to this. I want a girlfriend and I'm turning to the internet. I realize this may not be the best idea. And I'm pretty sure I will regret it, but fuck it. There are well over six billion people on the planet, and over 300 million in the US alone. The odds are in my favor. I can't be the only person that's looking for companionship. I still have a little bit of hope that there's a girl who'll look past the chair.

Any female readers that would be interested in meeting me, I have a winning personality, gorgeous blue eyes and rocking body. Plus, I'm in touch with my feelings. My mom says I'm a catch. I can also stop and start my pee mid-stream, my penis is quite strong. If you're single, interested and have a vagina then e-mail me. To quote The Beatles, I just want someone to love.

The one non-family member who's always been there for me, no matter what, has been Rodrigo. Actually, calling him non-family is an insult. He is family. He's my brother. He only lived nearby for about a year, but the bond we formed turned out to be unbreakable. He moved thousands of miles away, but still visits and stays with us for at least one month out of the year. He will come during the summer, for the new year, or both.

We met in religion class while rehearsing for a play. Our entire kindergarten class was sitting on the floor and he was sitting next to me, legs crossed and hands dutifully intertwined on top of his legs.

He leaned over, looking to make sure the teacher wasn't watching and whispered, "Hey, I'm Rodrigo."

"Rodrigo, how many times have I told you? Be quiet and pay attention!" The teacher said as he went over Noah and the Flood again, doing his best job to pretend that knowing the details of how an 800 year old man built a huge boat in a few months was serious business.

Rodrigo snapped back to attention, waited a few moments and whispered again, "What's your name?"

"I'm Raul"

"Cool"

We met at recess that day and practically every day after that. We quickly became friends and we were completely inseparable before long. That was, until his dad got offered a great job in Mexico City. He went away thousands of miles, but it didn't hurt our relationship. It only made it stronger.

Our friendship may have reached its highest point last summer when we took a road trip to LA. He wanted to take me to school, but when we got there I suggested something more fun.

"Let's go to LA instead. Your uncle is there and you wanted to see him, right?"

"Yeah, but we'd have to let your mom know. And we'd have to take a nurse and we'd have to plan all the other details. Let's just do it on the weekend."

"No, man. Let's go now. We'll pick up some of my food from home and head out."

"But your mom will get mad."

"Nah."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, we'll call her on the way."

He thought about it, and he knew I had him. "Fine, okay." he said.

I'm a bad influence. Everyone thinks that my friends are bad influences on me, but I'm the one doing the corrupting. I'm the one with the bad ideas that get everyone in trouble. It's a power I enjoy and exploit often.

So we stopped by my house and picked up my food. Before anyone knew, we were barreling down the I-5 and well on our way to Los Angeles. Then the phone rang. It was my mom, he put her on speaker.

"Hey, what's up?" he said non-chalantly.

"Where are you guys going?"

"Los Angeles," he winced.

"Oh, okay. Have fun!"

"Uh... okay. Bye."

"See? I told you. No problem." A triumphant smile spread over my face.

"Uh... I guess."

"No, seriously. Where are you guys going?" the phone chirped right before Rodrigo hung up.

"Oh, shit." I whispered.

"LA, seriously, mom." He calls her mom. After years and years of knowing her she's become a second mom to him.

"Come on, don't play with me." There was a hint of annoyance in her voice.

"We're not playing. We're going to see my uncle." he said, half-pleading, half-scared.

"WHAT?! NO YOU ARE NOT! TURN AROUND RIGHT NOW!"

"But, we'll be fine!" I yelled loud enough for her to hear.

"No! You need a nurse and proper planning and you don't have either! Rodrigo can't drive all the way there and take care of you at the same time!"

I turned to him and whispered, "Can you?" He nodded.

"Yes I can. I'll be fine"

"B-b-but you have to plan!"

"Mom, we'll be fine." We both reassured her. And she cracked

"Fine, but I'm not happy about this. And be back early."

Rodrigo kept on driving and I napped on the way. We got lost looking for his uncle's house and ended up wandering all over Ventura. Eventually we found it and Rodrigo had a conversation with his uncle about whether he should obey his parents and go straight to college or whether he should take a year off to go to London. Afterwards we went to have dinner. He ate his fries, burger and milkshake while we talked about music. Then I got hungry. I ate my food and drank too much water.

There were no nurses, no authority figures and no one worrying about what time I had to take my medicine. Just two guys on a roadtrip. I felt normal for once.

Afterwards we dropped off his uncle back at his house. It was all well and good until that water came back to bite me.

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I really need to pee."

"Can't you hold it 'till we get back home?" he pleaded.

"I've been holding it for half an hour. There's no way I can hold it through LA rush hour."

"What am I supposed to do?!"

"I would appreciate it if you put my penis in the urinal... please?"

"B-b-but... I... it's..." I looked at him and started bouncing up and down like when little kids need to pee. He sighed, "You will owe me big for this."

"I know."

"I hate you."

I think you really haven't experienced true friendship until your friend has touched you in the special place. It really fosters an unbreakable bond between the two people. Some would argue that the situation had clear homosexual undertones, I would respond maybe so, but I really needed to fucking pee, and I didn't fucking care.

We drove back home. He was scared that my mom would freak out on us, but she saw that we were okay and just told us to ask for permission next time.

Since then he decided to backpack through Europe and then live in London for a year. He found a job as a waiter and rented an apartment with a roommate with very little help from his parents. That's where he is today.

Across the pond, 3000 miles away. He gives us updates and calls us drunk often. Here's to you, you soccer loving drunken bastard. I'd have it no other way.

Things did change after I transferred high schools. Pedro tried to integrate me into his circle of friends. They were okay, but we didn't quite mesh. I hung out with them and all, but never really considered them my friends. I guess it was because I never chilled with them just one-on-one. If Pedro wasn't there, I didn't see them. We didn't have meaningful conversations or a lot in common. They were his friends, not mine. He was my window to the normal world. So I shadowed him around like a lost little boy. I was a lost little boy. I pestered him every day. I always waited for him at lunch. He would come by after 15 or so minutes and hang out.

Pedro and I spent a lot of time together - almost every weekend and during the week too. He had problems with his parents and when he couldn't stay at his parents' house anymore, he ran away and my family took him in. Eventually, my parents let him live with us. They fed him and even gave him my sister's old room. He became family. He spent Christmas with us. My parents bought him presents and treated him like a son.

He hosted parties at the house that twice ended with me driving in circles, pissing myself and then passing out. We had good times together. We were brothers.

Then something weird happened. Maybe he got tired of us, I don't know. I never really found out. The reason he gave me afterwards was ridiculous. It involved the Mexican mob threatening him, but I didn't believe him. I suspect that he was (and is) bipolar. It's the only explanation I can come up with.

He started to become distant. Increasingly, he slept over at other peoples' houses for extended periods of time. Then his parents called. They wanted to reconcile. They invited him back to the house for a few days. He was supposed to come back after that, but every time I asked him when he was coming back he always dodged the question. I started to doubt whether he was coming back at all. I was right.

He avoided phone calls, avoided me and gradually cut-off contact. I noticed it and did the same. By graduation we lost all contact.

That was the summer I had my scoliosis surgery. He knew how big the surgery was and how nervous I was about it. But he never visited. He never checked with anyone else to see whether, you know, I survived the surgery. If Rodrigo could fly down from Mexico and spend his whole summer here to help out my family then I don't see why he couldn't have picked up the phone and asked how I was doing. A bad friend would have at least done that.

I got out of the hospital and started college in September. He re-appeared in October and that's when he dropped that ridiculous Mexican mob excuse as to why he disappeared. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and another chance. I was stupid. I thought that I would have my friend back. I had been lonely for too long. Rodrigo is my best friend, but he doesn't live here.

I gave him another chance and I got burned again. He disappeared and re-re-appeared once more this time with a new crazy excuse. He'd broken up with his girlfriend and gone on a three month binge where he fucked at least three models. Then he disappeared again for six months. He came a final time, and this time just admitted he'd been a bad friend. I was ready to accept the apology until he said that he wasn't a homophobe or racist, he just hated obnoxious niggers and fags. I couldn't be friends with him after that and I told him so.

And so, with a whimper and after nearly a decade, a friend was gone. Friendships come and go in life, bending and changing to circumstances in and out of our control. Yet, the one constant that should always remain is trust. Along with trust comes honesty, and Pedro failed me on both these counts in the end. He'd not only lied to me and disappeared when it mattered, but he was no longer the same person that I'd known growing up.

In the long run, I think it was a good idea to cut ties with him. I had been using him as a crutch and excuse not to meet new people. Maybe now I can work up the courage to make new friends. It wasn't healthy, that relationship. I wish him the best in life, but our paths no longer intersect. Perhaps they will in the future, but I'm not forcing it anymore. I realize now that friendship is a two way street.

I was telling FundieNurse my theory on the swine flu. That is, it is the harbinger of the zombie apocalypse. This is only the first stage.

"It's gonna kill you and make you eat brains!"

"No. My GOD is powerful. My GOD will protect me."

"..." I looked around uncomfortably.

"My GOD is a powerful God. In Jesus' name, my family, my children will not get sick. My GOD will protect us." It was almost like she was trying to reassure herself. "My GOD is more powerful than the swine flu. Okay?"

"Uh... okay." she scares me sometimes. But hey, she knows how to prevent the swine flu. Pray really hard. Someone get the CDC on the phone!

By the end of 7th grade I could no longer swallow. I was living on a diet of disgusting Ensure shakes. I probably weighed less than 60 pounds. I had the feeding tube put in and started using a breathing machine with a mask that fit over my nose while I slept (called a bi-pap). My dependency on the bi-pap went from using it when I slept, to using it whenever I felt it would help, to using it all day. Going out for an hour exhausted me; going to school was next to impossible.

My whole 8th grade year was spent on my parents' bed recovering from my feeding tube surgery. Sally would come over and teach me whatever subject we decided on. Truth is, I probably didn't learn much that year. If I was disconnected from my peers before, I was practically non-existent now. Of course I was - what did I expect? They almost never saw me, and when they did, I was wearing a mask over my nose that made me look much like Hannibal Lecter in the scene right before he ate the security guard's face. I wasn't very approachable, especially among 12-14 year olds who were busy going through their own issues.

I finished middle-school without friends (Rodrigo was my friend back then, but he hasn't lived here since we were 7) and physically exhausted. I say finished, but I don't think I should have graduated. I wasn't nearly at the required levels, but I looked like I was dying. They probably didn't hold me back out of pity. When I couldn't participate in the ceremony my family threw a party and some big whig from the school system came to "present" me with my diploma. Even then I knew it was a joke.

Pedro came to the party. He came in all smiles and congratulations and oh isn't it great we're going to high school. We we we we, like he was around the whole time. Don't get me wrong, I don't resent him for that now, but I did then. We played Gran Turismo and hung out, but it was awkward and not the same as before. He stayed for a little bit then left. We were going to different high schools and we wouldn't see each other for a while.

*****
I started high school with renewed hopes. A new school meant fresh opportunities to build friendships among an older, wiser crowd. It was going to be different this time. Their maturity would surely allow them to see beyond my exterior. After all, they were FIFTEEN now. But it wasn't different. I was healthier and could go to school, but I had no energy. I would only attend classes once or twice a week and when I did there was a good chance I'd fall asleep from exhaustion. As a result, I didn't interact with many of my peers. It wasn't much better than middle school and any hope I had for that to change was shattered when I had the trache incident.

I was following the Broncos on-line and everyone was in the kitchen shopping for my birthday present. My bi-pap got disconnected and no one heard the alarm. Thinking you're going to die is a horrifying feeling. You feel like you didn't do enough - scared and angry that you're being taken away. You are confronted with your own mortality. You never really understand what mortality means until you face it. All those things you hear about a white light, a tunnel, or your life flashing before your eyes, none of that happened to me. It was just... nothingness,
unconsciousness.

My brother found me passed out, blue and with my eyes rolled back in my head.

Next thing I remember I was in the hospital. My parents thought I had brain damage because I kept asking if the Broncos won. The doctor who had been telling us for years that I needed a tracheotomy gave us an ultimatum: get the trache or he would stop being my doctor. It worked. I spent my 14th birthday in the hospital with few visitors. Pedro was one of them. I hadn't seen him since graduation. He brought me Halo and a card with hot women in bikinis. Maybe it was the fact that I hadn't talked to someone my age in a while, or that the hospital didn't provide much in the way of entertainment, but it felt less awkward. It felt more like old times.

I got out after a month in the hospital and we started hanging out more. I didn't go to school much (again), but we'd get together every weekend. We played video games or went out. He was my gateway to normalcy. I was like a lost puppy who had been shown compassion for the first time, and I followed him around as such. I eventually transferred to the same school as him, hoping he could introduce me to new people. Maybe I would have a social life and be... a teenager. I hoped.

To Be Continued...

Here's the interview. I come in around 1:04:00

Live TV : Ustream

I'm gonna be interviewed tomorrow (Thursday, March 5th) on Zedalza Radio. Come check it out at around 9:30 PM EST. I BE GROWIN' UP!

You can also follow me on Twitter here, if you're into that.

Anyway, I'll be back with part 4 as soon as possible.

Everyone was making friends but me. Derek played basketball with other kids, Oscar hung out with the Mexican socialites and Pedro bounced around between groups, always the social butterfly. But I never learned. Any friendships I've ever made have been initiated by the other person, a fluke or we were introduced. It's not that I don't know how, at least on an intellectual level, I do. It's that I can't. My brain calls the plays, but my body can't execute it. It goes through all the options and throws a left-handed pass into triple coverage.

We were drifting further and further apart and I knew it. I tried to keep the group together, but middle-school drift was too much. That, combined with growing tensions in the group and a fight between Derek me put us over the edge.

Our group dispersed and only Pedro and me still hung out. It was a loose connection, though. I chased after him a lot, he didn't reciprocate. I'd tell him to meet me at this table or in the cafeteria at lunch. I'd go there and eat my chips and drink my soda. The only company I had was Sally. I'd talk with her and watch my classmates socialize.

They make it seem so fucking easy. I'm 19 now, everyone my age is so... tall, independent, composed, autonomous. The guys have fucking beards for chrisakes. I'm still having my nose blown and my drool sucked out by my fucking parents. How... how the hell am I supposed to be one of the guys? Protect a girl? I still don't belong. Somewhere along the line I missed some important lesson, I got left behind, and that was what I felt like back then.

"Friendship is a two-way street," Sally would say.

"What?"

"You can't have a friendship where only one person does all the work."

I'd roll my eyes and go look for Pedro after waiting for half an hour out of a 45-minute lunch. I'd go look for him all over the school and find him in front of the lunch line. Not IN the lunch line, in front of it. Talking with people and trying to get someone to buy him lunch.

"Hey man, I was just about to go over there."

I would nod along and smile and pretend everything was okay. This went on for a few months, with each time that it happened bringing with it a small realization of what was happening. Our friendship was no longer a two-way street.

I gradually stopped seeing or chasing him. I started having lunch alone. I learned to be entertained by just eating. Sally tried to get other kids to hang out with me, but I never knew what to say and I came across as a spoiled rich kid (what I was told). I eventually had to be home-schooled due to the beginnings of breathing and eating problems. I didn't go to middle school again.

To Be Continueed...

I don't like asking for stuff, but this is an exception. Extreme Chairing has posted letter requesting that Obama allow federal funding for stemcell research:

Attached is a copy of the letter we just sent to President Obama urging him to act quickly and issue an Executive Order that lifts the federal restrictions on funding for embryonic stem cell research.

While we have no information causing us to believe that the commitment to reverse the restrictive Bush policy will not be kept, the delay in action from President Obama is beginning to cause us concern. There have been recent press reports that suggest that he may be considering linking an Executive Order with legislative action. We believe that such a delay is unnecessary and could complicate the issue. Please contact the White House with the following message. We are so close and we need your strength in numbers now more than ever to urge President Obama to treat this as the priority that we know it is.

To send email messages to the White House go to the website www. whitehouse. gov and select the "contact us" tab in the top right corner. Fill out the email form to send a message.

Call the White House comment line at: 202-456-1111

Message to President Obama: This message contains less than 500 characters and has been written to comply with the strict limit imposed on emails to the White House. If you add comments, your complete message may not be received. Cut and paste this message into the comment box.

MESSAGE to CUT and PASTE:

I ask you to immediately issue an Executive Order to reverse the federal restriction on funding for human embryonic stem cell research.
Progress has been stalled long enough. The 100 million patients who suffer from cancer, Alzheimer's, diabetes, Parkinson's, spinal cord injuries, heart disease, ALS, and others diseases look to you to allow embryonic stem cell research to move forward.
Research cannot wait for legislation. An Executive Order from you today could offer hope for so many.

If you could take two minutes of your time to send the letter, I would appreciate it.

Learn more about stem cell research here.

FundieNurse was repositioning when I saw a soccer ad on TV. Because I hate soccer and know she's very gaycist, I brought up the fact that soccer players have gay orgies in the shower (it's been proven), just to fuck with her.

"No they don't"

"Yep. They make chains, dick-ass-dick-ass-dick-ass-dick-ass."

"Do you think gay sex is bad?"

"Not really. They enjoy it."

Then she paused for a moment and pondered this. She looked up and said, "You know, those people smell like poop"

"What people?" I wanted to make sure she wasn't talking about something else, like brown people.

"Gay people"

You hear that gays? Take a shower.