The Virgin pwns newbs

#40 Never Have I Ever: Called someone out (who I know personally) on Facebook

Foreplay: I loathe the "Suggestions" feature on Facebook. It has never been kind to me. It's alerted former employers, random schoolmates, and, most recently, inquisitive family members to my profile. And with my plethora of morally questionable photos, status updates, and wall postings I am not exactly the profile you want to bring home to mom.

However, this particular case centers around this one bastard who went to high school with me. We weren't friends. I don't think we spoke more than 10 words to each other. But we shared a couple classes during our four years in hormonal Hell.

This dude friended me on Facebook a few months ago. I barely remembered him but Facebook told me that we had 54 friends in common. Well, shit. I guess I have to accept his friend request when it gets into the double-digits.

His profile picture was a self-portrait of him releasing a mouthful of skunky smoke. Classy. He'd post trite, misspelled musings and rants every now and then on his status that would then show up on my News Feed, most of which went ignored.

But just a few months ago, he started throwing out the word "faggot" and taunting the men of the rock/indie/hipster fashion genre. He even went as far as to give himself the middle name "Mendontwearskinnyjeans" on Facebook. Riiiight...

I've been meaning to defriend him this whole time but never really set about it since... well, I never thought about him.

Until today.

The Down and Dirty: Shoveling food into my gaping maw at my desk (read: lunch), I took a few minutes to mill about the Internet at my leisure -- something I hadn't done recently. It was like emerging from a dank cave after a decade and rediscovering sunlight -- so much stimulation that it almost hurt. Oh, it hurt so good!

Until your corneas burn off or something.

While opening Facebook, the bastard's status update was at the top of the list. This, like Camus' sun, was a sign. I'll let the photo below do the rest of the talking.

The Afterglow: Comment. Defriend. Cackle loudly. Done and done.

It was like he was asking for an ass whopping. Or should I say ass "whoopen".

Welcome to the Pwned Shop where the special of the day is a brand spankin' new can of Whoop-Ass. Prepare to be served.

The Virgin goes looking for trouble

#35 Never Have I Ever: Hunted for Easter eggs

Foreplay: I am neither of the following: religious, overly competitive, under the age of 10. So there would really be no reason for me to celebrate Easter.

To be honest, I hate competing. I'm either belligerently cutthroat or apathetically uncombative, neither of which has ever helped me win anything athletic. Basically, I shouldn't participate in a competition that involves anything physical cause it can get ugly.

The Down and Dirty: Hermosa invited me to an Easter egg hunt on Sunday -- "Survivor style," he added.

In the Survivor style hunt, a few less number of eggs than hunters are hidden. Those who don't find one are out. The losers, bitter and vindictive now, then hide a lesser number of eggs in the next round for the survivors. This continues until there is only one winner.

We gathered at a nearby park and 14 of us lined up, taking our marks. The hiders stashed away 12 eggs and at the shout of "Go!" we were all sprinting up the hill in a desperate search. I'm sure it was a sight to see: over a dozen people -- who are clearly adults -- making a mad dash to find Easter eggs.

In the first round, I can't say I was very motivated. I mean, I looked for eggs but I wasn't hunting them. But alas, just as I resigned myself to being out, I stumbled across one. Huzzah!

The sheer glee of not losing completely took over. And this is what I mean when I say I shouldn't compete. Because, dude, it was on now.

During the next few rounds, I was described by Hermosa as being one of the first sprinters out of the group -- this is while wearing my highly inappropriate pointy-toed kitten heels. I hurdled over a couple dogs; I threw myself into arachnid-adorned bushes; at one point I raced with another girl to clamber up a chain-linked fence to grab the last egg teetering at the top.

It was finally down to 7 of us in search of 4 eggs. Suddenly, there was only one egg left out there. I had been burying myself in a mysteriously sticky (ew) bush for 10 minutes, positive that the egg was in there somewhere when another player on the other side of the foliage screamed in victory -- blast! And so ended my mid-game winning streak.

However, the fun was just beginning -- I started hiding the eggs back at the house. A normal person would hide it somewhere like a bush or in the tomato planters. But when you get 3 vindictive girls together who just lost the last round to 4 guys, we get a little creative... like, oh say... in the gated gutter 2 feet below the ground or in a large bag of oysters and ice.

The Afterglow: I think I had more fun hiding the eggs and watching people scrambling to find them like crack-addicted dogs sniffing out their next fix than being a druggie dog myself.

I guess I can compete without throwing elbows or rolling my eyes. But hey, when it involves zombie Jesus eggs, it comes down to the good, the bad, and the ugly.

The Virgin pinches a pretty penny

#34 Never Have I Ever: Haggled (in North America)

Foreplay: I'm horribly shy when talking to strangers, and even worse when I'm demanding something from them.

However, last year I spent 18 days in China where I skipped around the entire country, never staying in one city for more than 3 days. It was an amazing adventure where I ate tons of food (and will never want hot & sour sauce ever again), learned a few key phrases in Mandarin (bu, bu shi wo nanpengyou, shi wo gege = no, he is not my boyfriend, he is my older brother), and haggled for the first time in my life.

Since I was almost positive that Barnes & Noble wouldn't appreciate my mad bargaining skills, they dropped by the wayside.

The Down and Dirty: The sales team asked that I research and book a limo for their trip to the MI6 Awards in San Francisco 2 days from then. The west coast rep, although a fabulous man with a snotty but cute Schnauzer, is very neurotic and particular with his specific requests. I had to do a fair amount of Yelping and calling around for oh about 4 hours before I managed to find one company who fit the requirements: a white Lincoln stretch limo that can seat 12 and was available in 2 days.

When I called him with this news, the rep enthusiastically said great! -- and can I talk the price down?

Um. What? I spent 4 hours with the phone glued to my ear, calling half of San Francisco, and you want me to ask the dude to knock a few dollars off the only vehicle in the Bay Area that fits your requests? Yes. Yes, he did.

And so back on the phone I went with the limo guy.

Daily Virgin: Hi, I just called about the stretch limo. What did you say the price was again? (because playing dumb totally works?)
Limo Guy: It's $110 each hour. Tax and tip are not included. (he had actually knocked down the price from $135 without my having to ask earlier)
Daily Virgin: OK. Well, see... my company is looking to contract a limo service in San Francisco in the upcoming months since we are starting to get clients there. Is there any discount?
Limo Guy: -silence for a few moments- I can give it to you for $110 out the door.
Daily Virgin: (because I am dumb, not playing anymore) Out the door?
Limo Guy: Yes, $110 tax and tip included in that price.

After further conversation, I was somehow able to talk him into giving me a discount on a 16-seater party bus for $135/hour. And then got a 18-seater party bus for that price as well.

When I called the rep back with the news, there was stunned silence on the other line and then, "Wow. You are amazing." I heard him murmur to his assistant, "Can we get her to come up here and work with us?"

High fiiiiive!

The Afterglow: Apparently after my haggling session, there's now some talk about moving me into the marketing department. I was already going to change positions due to my promotion, but I'm not really sure where I am ending up now.

Maybe I do have a way with words that can do more than criticize bad-dressers and tell inappropriate jokes. Woot!

The Virgin is a sweet talker

#31 Never Have I Ever: Talked my way in

Foreplay: I often wonder if my mother and I would be friends if she were my age because I am by no means my mother's daughter. She's brash, embarrassingly outgoing, and often demanding. She's not afraid to ask for a discount at a department store or tell a waiter that something is wrong with her order.

Me? Well, I spent the first 5 minutes of dinner picking out fried onion garnish off my plate on Friday night. Although I'm not particularly pleased with being patient and letting things run its course, I'm not about to pipe up and make a fuss either.

The Down and Dirty: Over the weekend, a group of friends and I hit up a bar. However, us girls are antsy and this bar doesn't have any semblance of a dance floor. A quick peek out the door reveals a relatively busy club down the street, thumping music and all. Two girlfriends and I say brb to the boys high tail it over.

Now, we didn't plan to go clubbing. Although I'm wearing a dress, it's a floral mini dress that would better fit a Sunday brunch than a Saturday night club. However, I'm the most dressed of the group. One girl is wearing chucks and the other Uggs; both are in jeans and somewhat dressy tank tops. Thus, I'm sacrificed to the club promoter.

As we make our way to the venue, I see a line of girls donned in skin-tight dresses and sky high heels waiting to get into the club. It's almost 11pm at this point and although I feel nervous about trying to talk my way in, I'd much rather do that than stand in line and pay a cover charge.

I march up to an obvious club promoter in a suit at the entrance. "Hi," I chirp, "Is there a cover charge?" I inquire while trying to ignore the long line of dolled up girls watching me.

"Yeah, it's $10," he replies like a robot.

"Oh." I grimace at my girls.

"Wait," he calls before we walk away, "How many people do you have with you?"

I tell him it's just us 3 girls and smile, stepping in front of them to cover their obvious non-club footwear. He smiles back and says he'll take care of us then. In less than a minute, we're strutting through the entrance, past the long line of sparkly dresses.

The Afterglow: We only stayed for 45 minutes before meeting back up with the boys so paying $10 to dance for that long would've been absurd.

I'm not used to demanding what I want from strangers. I'm a freakin' pro with friends and family -- probably overstepping my bounds on occasion -- but for some reason I can't make a fuss with strangers. It's awkward and embarrassing. There are definitely times I will speak up -- like when a waiter moved my party's heat lamp to another table without asking or when some wanker at a bar overcharged me during Happy Hour -- but unless I'm actually put out by it, it's not a big deal to me. I'd rather grumble to myself than be that person causing a raucous.

I'm a bitch, but I'm not rude.

The Virgin cleans up well

#30 Never Have I Ever: Gone out of my way to dress up nicely for an ordinary day

Foreplay: I love fashion and clothes. Unfortunately, my wardrobe has a price limit (well hello Forever 21 and H&M!). However, my laziness knows no bounds.

Although I have my own personal fashion rules [some of which include: no sweatpants in public; leggings are not an acceptable substitute for pants unless both ass cheeks are completely covered; by pairing a denim jacket with jeans or a jean skirt you are giving me full permission to mock you, etc.], there are days where I will throw on a pair of black jeans and a hoodie and... that's it. No bra, no shirt underneath. When you're an A-cup, you can pull off shit like that. You can also use bandaids as ghetto pasties when you can't wear a bra.

But anyway, my general outfit usually consists of straight-leg pants, a nice blouse, pointy-toed flats, and maybe a cardigan or blazer. My hair is worn down and straight, and my make up is unfussy. All of which takes about 20-30 minutes in my murderous morning haze. I'm put together but I'm definitely not Sartorialist material.

The Down and Dirty: I had a meeting with my boss for my freelance design job in the morning. He's only ever seen me in jeans and quirky t-shirts so I decided to doll it up a bit. I throw on my striped cream shirt, a black knee-length skirt, and red kitten peep-toes. On a whim, I slap on some red lipstick for good measure. I am 20 minutes late for my meeting.

"Where are you going so dressed up?" he asks when I finally arrive. Nowhere, I puff still out of breath from running into the office, just felt like wearing something besides jeans.

All is going well until I notice that my desk is getting higher. No wait. I'm slowly sinking in my seat. What the hell? The luxurious material of my skirt keeps slipping in the leather chair, forcing me to clamber back up every 10 minutes.

But generally, things were great. My ego was thoroughly stroked when I stopped by a mall to make an exchange and felt the linger of eyes. This is freakin' awesome, I thought. Until, of course - of course! - things took a turn for the worse.

Later that night, Hermosa comes to pick me up for a concert at The Echo. However, I'm running behind. Way behind. This was a reoccurring theme throughout the day.

Earlier, I had decided that I needed a "night look" as Cosmo and Glamour often suggest -- something drastic and different but still stylish. So I showered, shaved, and wrestled my way into a vintage floral mini dress and heels. My makeup was painstakingly precise and I was determined to curl my naturally straight hair. After a ton of hairspray, a few burns followed by some carefully chosen expletives, and a 15 minute delay, I was finally out the door juggling my purse, cardigan, keys, and phone while frantically rubbing lotion on my legs as I scampered to Hermosa's awaiting car.

Parking in Echo Park is atrocious. We circled Sunset Blvd and nearby neighborhoods for a good 15 minutes before Hermosa questioned whether or not we should try sneaking into the Walgreen's lot. I don't know, I interjected, You might get a ticket. He decided a $70 ticket wouldn't be the end of the world and we rolled into a space. Despite the not-yet-Spring weather, I left my cardigan in the car since concert venue was only 2 blocks down.

Dressed to the nines and nursing my whiskey while standing next to homeless-looking hipsters and Urban Outfitter rejects clutching PBR made me feel so snazzy. To be honest, whenever I had to walk -- whether to the bathroom or up to the bar (my staple destinations) -- I was struttin' my stuff like it was a catwalk.

The whiskey was wearing off quickly and thus so was my drunk jacket on the walk back to the car. All I wanted to do was hop in the warm car and throw on my soft cardigan. I had had enough of freezing for the sake of fashion by that point.

Um... where's the car? Why is the parking lot completely empty? It was like some hipster version of Dude, Where's My Car? except with more hairspray and whiskey. Fuck.

Hermosa's car had been towed and we had the next hour to get to the tow yard before they closed for the night. We hailed a cab relatively easily (thanks to my short skirt?) and high tailed it there. The taxi took us down a dusty dead-end street with no street lights. Hermosa and I crawled out of the cab apprehensively. As we slowly approached the 15 ft. spiked metal gate, a flood light burst on and a rather large dog came charging at us from the distance.

I did not get dolled up to get mauled by a German Shepherd in goddamn rape alley.

Needless to say, we were in the car and out of there in less than 30 minutes.

The Afterglow: The German Shepherd turned out to be an absolute sweetheart but she was filthy. The sketchy tow yard owner asked if I wanted to wash my hands after our transaction. He unlocked a door in the back of the dingy office and then pointed at a doorway at the end of a unlit hallway. "Okay, she goes down there. You," he addressed Hermosa, "can go out there." He gestured at the garage outside of the office. Oh heeeeell no.

I mean, I appreciated all the compliments and extra attention but I was so frazzled by being late to everything. I don't think I have it in me to keep it up every single day. Dude, it takes a lot of time and effort to look good. Not to mention the pain of using a curling iron. Looks can kill -- or at least really, really hurt.

P.S. I wore the exact same outfit the next night (curled hair and all) and actually caused a saxophonist to stop playing mid song as I walked by. Ego, consider yourself boosted.

The Virgin blocks a cock

#29 Never Have I Ever: Intentionally acted as a cock-block

Foreplay: I am usually the cock-blockee, rather than the cock-blocker. I don't know what about my disposition that screams to men, "Hey! HEY! Over here! Come spew some god awful line about how hot you think I am while trying to hump me! No, that grimace just means hump me harder!"

Somehow, the sketchiest wankers always find me. Even when I took my newly out and proud girl friend to Truck Stop Friday at Here Lounge aka the hottest lesbian club in LA. Some pudgy, balding excuse for a man decided that girl-at-a-lesbian-bar = fair game for Mr. McHappy Hands.

The Down and Dirty: Kamikaze and I have a list of favorite bars to get shibliterated and attempt to charm the crowd with our outspoken antics. Barney's Beanery in Old Town Pasadena is one of these places.

Barney's may not be the best bar, but it's a ray of freakin' sunshine during weekends in Old Town. As you're bypassing spandex dresses scampering to Villa Sorriso or gangs of pinstriped bros loitering in front of Menage, you'll be thankful for the cool glass of Hoegaarden when you enter Barney's (even if the bartender never ever remembers to squeeze a slice of lemon in said Hoegaarden).

The crowd is usually friendly. Perhaps a little too friendly. As Kamikaze and I danced and sang along to drunken karaoke enthusiasts, a short and smarmy pig with thinning hair slid in front of us and planted his leathery hooves on each our shoulders. "Hey, do I know you?"

I stepped out of his reach and glared. Hard. He paid me no mind and concentrated his efforts on Kamikaze, planting his now free hand on her other shoulder. Kamikaze is usually a feisty little thing -- often being the one who tells guys to get lost on friends' behalves -- but this time she simply squirmed and looked uncomfortable.

I quickly stepped in and knocked his hands away from her. "Don't touch her," I warned, practically shooting daggers with my eyes.

"Hey hey hey," the pig protested, throwing up his hands but still standing unbearably close, "I thought I recognized you guys. You look familiar."

My daggers turned into acid-laced shrapnel. "No. We don't. Don't ever touch her again."

He quickly scurried away but not fast enough. That was the first I had ever been so forward with a rejection. However, the night was not going to let me get away so easily.

An hour later at the bar, Kamikaze and I waited for our drinks when another loser in an ugly pinstriped shirt sidled up between us, laying his hairy arms across our shoulders. "Hey ladies, how are we doing tonight?" he wheezed, smelling of cheap cologne and Rogaine.

At that point, I assumed his physical contact permitted me to touch him as well. I grabbed his shirt and gave a his chest a solid push, not hard enough to start an unnecessary fight but sending him stumbling back a step away from us. I then demanded, "Where the hell do you get off touching a girl you don't know?"

His response? "I'm from New York! I guess things are different here in California."

Uh. Yeah, buddy. Us Californians don't particularly like being sexually harassed. It's up there with kicking puppies and non-ironically listing Twilight as your favorite movie.

The Afterglow: Fuck hurting people's feelings. I will be polite and patient if you decide to spit game at me, but I will not tolerate invasion into my personal space. By rubbing my back with your greasy paw, you give me the right to touch you back. With my fist.

When the hell did men become pigs? C'mon, I'm not that old and I still remember when guys tried to hold your hand rather than fondle your ass.

Batting for the other team never looked so good. Consider your cock blocked.

The Virgin wines and dines... herself?

#28 Never Have I Ever: Eaten alone at a restaurant

Foreplay: One of my favorite things in college were sit down meals in the dining hall. Growing up, my parents were always working late and my brothers were scattered amongst their friends so mealtime came and went individually without anything fancy like china or dinner table conversation. So when I got to college and witnessed people actually sitting at a goddamn wooden table with other humans rather than in front of a TV with The Simpsons, I was completely enamored with this habit.

However, I am not in college anymore and have since resorted to eating my dinner in front of my laptop while catching up to episodes of United States of Tara or Project Runway. Why no, it's not as sad and pathetic as you think, Tim Gunn is a great dinner buddy. Oh, excuse me as I down half a chocolate cake.

The Down and Dirty: Tonight I was hungry and hankering for a hatch burger from Umami Burger so I grabbed my book bag and trekked down the street.

I've never eaten alone before because I feel that when I pay for a meal, I'm not just buying the food but the service and the atmosphere -- most of which, in the latter, is highly influenced by my choice of dining partner(s). Plus, being so obviously alone at such a social place seriously makes me want to flip my skin inside out just so patrons are too distracted to notice that I don't have any friends.

I get to Umami and it's surprisingly packed for 8pm. I put my name down on the list and then hesitantly add a tiny "1" next to it. A bald, burly bartender calls at me from behind the counter, "How many?"

Just me, I say. He pauses to assess me, probably wondering what the hell I did to repel my social circle from joining me for dinner. He offers me a seat at the bar. I didn't plan on sitting at the bar but during such a rush, I'd hate to be that pathetic yet annoying girl claiming a 4-top for herself. I took my place between a couple who was waaaay too into PDA and a pair of sexually questionable yuppies.

After I ordered a Hoegaarden (a repeating occurrence recently), a hatch burger, and cheesy tator tots (there's melted cheese INSIDE the tots, people! If I'm going to be eating alone, I'm going to do it right), I broke out my borrowed copy of Water for Elephants. However, I didn't realize it was the ADD/geriatric version where each chapter is accompanied by a picture and it's printed in size 24 font. As if the only way to convince a person to read was to give them an incentive: Ooh, I'm turning a page! Ooh, I'm turning another page! PICTURE!! So not only was I alone, but now I appeared to be blind and mentally deficient.

My food arrived, smelling like pepper and cheese and naked angels, and I enjoyed it thoroughly while flipping through my book. That is until I came upon a chapter describing a corpse. Doesn't mean I slowed down on showing that burger who's boss. I'm just saying my rare beef took on a whole new appearance.

One of the possibly gay men beside me finally turned and asked what was in my burger but before I could answer, the charismatically acerbic bartender replied and then proceeded to emasculate the men for ordering wine with their barely touched meals.

"Don't tap out now! I mean, look at her -- she already finished her burger and beer," he goaded, gesturing at me. Alright, so add "fatty" onto the lonely-blind-and-ADD list.

Ok, so it wasn't as horrible as I'm making it out to be since it got us talking and joking around. I didn't put my book down, but it felt nice to finally be acknowledged.

The Afterglow: It really wasn't bad at all. I had a decent time and the bartender kept stopping by to crack jokes and make sure I was alright.

I would probably do it again but on a smaller budget. I still believe that I'm paying for more than food and although the bartender was quite entertaining and my book was captivating, neither can replace familiar human interaction.

This is one of the most difficult parts of post grad life though: all your friends are spread out and even though all you want to do is call them to ask if they want to grab a bite to eat right now, it's just not possible without some forethought. I appreciate it when we're able to get together for some soon tofu or doner kebabs though -- however, with becoming an adult comes a job that forces you to plan your meals together and usually on the weekend.

I guess my laptop is my comida comrade these days. Tim Gunn isn't the best replacement for dining partners, but you can't have your cake and eat it, too.

The Virgin rolls VIP

#24 Never Have I Ever: Been VIP

Foreplay: I am by no means wealthy or well connected into any industry. The idea of my name being on one of those purported lists baffles me as it has never happened before. For heaven's sake, I was giddy when I got my own parking spot at work -- never mind getting my name on a VIP list.

The Down and Dirty: One night, I got a call from Boston, a friend with family ties to the food industry, asking for my last minute accompaniment to the StarChefs Gala in Santa Monica that week. "I need to schmooze a little for the business but all you need to do is wear a dress," he says.

Alright. Arm candy. I can do that. But with a quick look into my closet, I realized that the fanciest frock I owned was my college graduation dress: a short, white strapless number that I paired with bright yellow heels. It'd have to do. However, I was utterly delighted when Boston picked me up donning a canary tie with his suit. I haven't had a date match with me since high school prom.

The event was held at a hoity-toity hotel in Santa Monica. After valeting the car and checking in, I was beyond impressed by the spread: live music, beautiful food, and free flowing booze.


Boston and I spent the entire night sampling and savoring top chefs' dishes and their paired alcohol. Never have I put something so good in my mouth: Herb roasted veal ribeye with crispy sweetbreads, celery, and sauce peigouine; serrano-wrapped monkfish with eltuce, maitake mushrooms and mustard sabayon; compressed native strawberries, beet, cacao fruit, elderflower, and violets. I don't know what any of those words mean but you don't need literacy when you're orgasming over the food.

Needless to say, we were probably way more intoxicated than acceptable for such a fancy event. They paired the dishes with top notch wines, whiskeys, and beers. Can you really blame us?

And then we took a cab to the VIP afterparty at Umami Burger. Now you can blame us.

We hadn't RSVPed for the afterparty but all it took was for Boston to mention the business name and we were immediately ushered inside. Score! Unlimited Umami burgers and Hoegaarden... I think I found heaven on Earth. Adam Fleischman, founder and chef of Umami Burger, even personally delivered a plate of mini burgers to our table himself. Let me tell you, those were the best burgers I've ever had.


I savored them with a glass of wine. Soon one turned into two. And then I snagged a Hoegaarden. And then... well, I don't quite remember but I woke up 10 hours later with smeared make up and my mouth tasting like ass.

The Afterglow: It was magical in that surreal, swirling, slightly bloated sort of way.

Boston keeps claiming that he owes me for coming to the event since his invitation was so last minute but uh... ARE YOU INSANE?! I got to be arm candy while thoroughly stuffing my face! I can't think of a better job that's not actually gold digging.

The Virgin comes this close to cyber sex

#23 Never Have I Ever: Cyberchatted

Foreplay: It's a Tuesday night and I'm exhausted from work. My eyes are about to spiral out of their sockets from staring at a computer screen for hours on end. I'm snacking on dry kibbles of Cap'n Crunch as a substitute for dinner. I haven't done my D.V. task for the day yet -- hell, I haven't even peeled off my work attire yet. All I want to do is take a hot shower, catch up with friends via GChat for a couple hours, and then curl up with some Murakami.

"Have you ever read Murakami before?" Gemini asked, "THAT COULD BE YOUR BLOG!"

"Eh, too boring. I could do that to everything: 'never have I ever watched The Mummy before' or 'never have I ever read Family Circle Magazine.' That's the easy way out."

But you know what's not the easy way out? Subjecting yourself to a plethora of penises via webcam.

The Down and Dirty: Chatroulette is a social site that pairs up random strangers in webcam conversations. Either party may move onto the next stranger at any given time.

I'm both intrigued and intimidated by this concept. You get to watch and interact with someone at random from anywhere in the world -- but so do they. The idea of having your identify exposed to any Harry, Dick, and John makes me feel uncomfortably naked and vulnerable even when I'm staring at their penises.

An enabled webcam isn't necessary to participate but you're pretty much guaranteed to be "nexted" by lacking one. Dude, you get what you give. Also, there's such a weird power dynamic ruling over which one of you pushes the "next" button.

There are tons of off-shoot websites and online collections of chatroulette gems. Celebrities such as Michael Cera and Ashton Kutcher have allegedly been spotted. Needless to say, it's the latest rage these days and so I hopped on the cyber band wagon.

At 1am I logged on, enabled my camera, and waited for my first camera companion. A man with clear blue eyes popped up on the upper left hand corner.

Stranger: hi
Me: hello
Stranger: where are you from?
Me: the States
Me: you?
Stranger: france

At this, he grabbed his off-screen cigarette and took a light drag. I smiled and he returned the sentiment.

Stranger: you are very beautiful
Me: thank you
Stranger: show hot?????
Me: um. what?
Stranger: sorry, my english is not so good
Stranger: show sexy??

Your English is coming across loud and clear there, Pepe Le Pew. Next!

Blond girl in glasses. She nexts me without a bat of an eye.
Penis. In fact, a very small one. Next!
Dude in a visor who gives me a slimy smile and a thumbs up. Vomit. Next!
Two teenage girls in HelloGoodbye t-shirts. Their asymmetrical bangs are getting in the way of their heavily-lined eyes. They next me.
Another penis. From what I can see the guy is wearing a red sweater vest and nothing else. Next!
Disabled camera. Stranger: Tits? Next!

I finally stumbled upon Antonio, a rather dashing 23 year old from Sevilla, Spain who was spending St. Patrick's Day in Boston. He held a pleasant conversation without a single request to take my shirt off! Impressive! ...Oh man, standards have plummeted if that's what it takes to charm a girl online. My eyes felt like they were going to burst so I finally bid adieu. He hurriedly gave me his email address (which I didn't end up saving) and in exchange I sent him the link to my blog. [Antonio, if you're reading this: I hope you got around to partaking in an Irish Car Bomb today.]

The Afterglow: In the 15 minutes I was on chatroulette, I've gathered the following:

• Girls don't want to talk to other girls
• Guys are pretty smarmy. Generally, they think cyber chat = cyber sex
• You have a 25% chance of landing on a penis
• If you're lucky, you'll find a decent stranger who won't ask to see your genitals and really, that's all you can ask for on chatroulette

Initially, I was really nervous to actually have people SEE me but in all honesty, it's so much more addictive than I could have ever imagined. It's kind of like platonic speed dating... but on crack. And with more quirky costumes and genitals... so yeah, kind of like it's on crack.

Whiskey Sour even offered a chatroulette drinking game: Take a sip for every penis you see. Finish your drink if you see boobs.

Family Circle is definitely for sissies.

The Virgin grows a ball

#18 Never Have I Ever: Let a Magic 8 Ball make my decisions

Foreplay: I wasn't expecting to do this particular D.V. task today but it was apparent when I found myself badgering Whiskey Sour about Blackjacket.

I had texted Blackjacket a noncommittal message the day after thanking him for helping me cross something off my list, not expecting a response. But less than 5 minutes later he answered: Of course! We'll have to work on some other things on that list. Dude, he used an exclamation point! Just like this one! My god, just look at it!

I responded with something aggressively witty. He dorkily LOLed. The conversation eventually died off soon after he suggested we get together another time to discuss the Oscars. But OMG!

I told myself I'd hold out until Wednesday to contact him again but I've never been one for patience. And if I was going to concede, I might as well go all in and ask him out, right? I incessantly pestered Whiskey Sour all morning. Is it too soon to text him today? What time should I do it? What's a good date idea? Oh god, am I putting too much thought behind this? Will he think I'm crazy?!

"Alright," Whiskey Sour sighed, "Now I understand why guys do the asking. Girls are way too analytical."

The Down and Dirty: In my time of need, I turned to the Magic 8 Ball. Alright, so it isn't an official Magic 8 Ball if you want to get technical about it.

I'm sort of embarrassed to use it, not because I'm letting a toy make my decisions, but because it's a Magic Date Ball. I'm not even fucking kidding. It's pink with "Date Ball" swirled across the top and comes equipped with valley-girl accented answers. It'll do only because I found it at work and am not willing to shell out money for this experiment.

As I gave it a hearty shake, I asked the appropriately named Date Ball, "Should I ask Blackjacket out today?"

It coyly responded with: I'm cool with that! ♥

Yes, with heart and all. Oh Jesus. It was like asking for words of wisdom from a Hooter's waitress. Maybe trusting a pink ball filled with glitter wasn't the best idea after all.

But then my coworker asked what I was doing shaking the ball so violently. I explained and he said I shouldn't base my life off of an inanimate object. I reminded him that he was the one who inspired this D.V. task.

"Why did I do that?" he asked while giving the ball a good rattle.

"That wasn't a yes or no question."

"I know. I just wanted to show you how -- Whoa!" I peered into the dark abyss of answers: No question! ♥

"Dude! It knew that wasn't a question! This Magic 8 Ball is omnipotent!"

For the rest of the day I got it to perkily answer a medley of questions such as: Is 6:24 a good time to text Blackjacket [sidebar: I'm neurotic with numbers, ok!]? (♥ It's lookin' good!) Should I eat these chips? (Sounds good to me! ♥) Should I go for a run after work? (Yeah, right!)

Man, this ball is good.


The Afterglow: This was actually a really fun experiment. It helped take a load of my mind and showed me that I tend to over-analyze most situations -- or just that I feel more confident making decisions when I can blame something/someone else. But I'll go with the more mature answer in this case.

The Virgin gets yo numba

#17 Never Have I Ever: Asked for a guy's number

Foreplay: Alright, so I'll be honest here. Part of the reason I started this blog was so that I could grow a pair when going out and meeting people. I was in a fantastic relationship for almost 3 years and when we amicably split, I simply forgot how to be single. And by "forgot how to be single" I really mean that I lack any sort of social grace when it comes to engaging with attractive strangers. What, Jesus jokes aren't appropriate?

I was self-deprecatingly ranting to Whiskey Sour on one occasion like I so often do: Why can't I be more confident when I go out? I'd like to be able to walk up to a guy and strike up a conversation. But what if he doesn't think I'm attractive or interesting? How about if I get rejected?! I was practically hyperventilating by this point.

But Whiskey Sour put things in a very blunt perspective as he so often does: Look, if a girl hits on a guy at a bar and she's cute, then that's great. If he doesn't find her attractive, then she's still a cool girl. Either way, he'll think she's awesome for having the balls to do that. 'Cause c'mon -- how often are we hit on?

That makes sense. But then a lot of things sound reasonable before they're put to the test... like girdles and lobotomies.

The Down and Dirty: It's a rain-soaked Saturday night in Hollywood but Kamikaze, Gemini, Daywalker, and I decide to brave the weather for a preposterous version of a girls' night out at my favorite neighborhood bar, The Woods. A table of four ladies seems like an impenetrable fortress of ego bruising so we were determined to take matters into our own hands.

A pair strolled through the door that caught my attention as they took their seats at the bar. My eyes passed right by the young Seth Rogan look alike and landed on his companion in a stylish black jacket. Now, I wouldn't say I have a type -- more like characteristics I favor over others. Tall, brunette, clean cut, a devastatingly defined jaw line... guh -- don't know what his type was but I was favoring it hardcore.

Daywalker relentlessly insisted that I march up to Blackjacket and charm his pants off but he was far too cute to even be talking to me and I wasn't on my game that night. Was this guy out of my league? Yes. Was I going to let that stop me? ...possibly. It wasn't like me to go up and -- hey, uh... where did Daywalker go?

I scanned the bar to find her chatting up Blackjacket. Oh god. A cold prickly sensation washed over me. What is she doing?! Don't tell me she's talking to him on my behalf! Oh god, he's coming over. I pretended to be intensely interested in whatever Kamikaze had to say as I downed the rest of my glass.

"Hi," I peered up with my best please-don't-think-I'm-some-hideous-nervous-wreck half-smile as Blackjacket and friend stood at our table, "I'm Blackjacket."

We all introduced ourselves before Blackjacket slid into the seat next to me and struck up a conversation. I was impressed by his cognizant rejection of religion. He knew his Oscar trivia and favored Katherine Bigelow. AND when I quipped that I loved the song that was playing he responded with, "Oh yeah, 'Crown of Love'. Arcade Fire's great." Um. Swoooooon.

But dudes -- when I said that I wasn't on game that night, I wasn't kidding. He mentioned that he was here for his friend's 31st birthday. I said that was a... respectable age and then asked how old he was.

"A respectable age."

Oh. Damn it.

My embarrassment finally subsided as the alcohol rushed through my veins like adrenaline, making me uh, bolder than usual. I made him list his favorite bands under a time limit. I interrogated him about Portuguese sex talk after learning he had lived in Brazil. I might have even ranted too... passionately about my bout with the psychic. I had finished an entire drink during the course of our initial conversation when I noticed that he not touched his at all. "So what are you having tonight?"

"Oh, I'm the DD. I'm not drinking."

Wait. So he's been stone cold sober this whole time that I've practically been making an ass of myself? Fueled by what was left of my liquid courage and my desperation to save face, I tried bullying him into getting a drink and even offered to buy him one. No dice. Ouch, my poor ego.

Blackjacket excused himself to answer a call and I went to grab another drink but when I returned to the table, he was talking to a friend at the bar. Bummer. I sighed and resigned myself to the fact that the intoxicated girl who asked how to correctly say, "I'm coming" in Portuguese probably wasn't his type. By the way, I just cringed hardcore while typing that sentence. 'scuse me while I go die a little in the corner.

Just as Gemini handed me another drink, I heard a familiar voice ask, "So what's that you're drinking now?"

Blackjacket had sauntered back and we resumed talking as if we had never stopped. Conversation was in full swing when I pulled the biggest blogging taboo ever: I told him the premise of my blog and showed him my D.V. task list on my Droid. As we strolled through my list I innocently asked, "Hmm... so what can you help me cross off tonight?"

After scanning the page for a few moments, he silently and deliberately pointed to my screen:

• Ask for a guy's number

I nervously scoffed. He didn't laugh. I snorted back the rest of my Screwdriver. "Alright. So what's your number?"

The Afterglow: Holy shit, I did it! I asked for a guy's number! And not just any guy but a devastatingly cute guy.

I'm still petrified of rejection and am currently trying to convince myself that he wouldn't have given me his number if he wasn't interested. But this is what this blog is partly about: to not fear failure or rejection and to take action. If I text him and he doesn't respond, it's okay. He was nice enough to hang out with me for a good portion of the night and helped me cross something off my list. And if he does... I'm probably going to burst with giddiness.

The night ended up being a complete success for our intrepid group. Daywalker, the only one of us with a significant other, managed to attract a steady stream of admirers despite announcing her relationship status. A friendly fellow offered to buy Gemini a drink but she asked him if she could buy him one; his mind was totally blown.

Kamikaze, my favorite partner in crime, eyed a spectacular specimen but two girls engaged him before she could get a chance to make a move. She stewed in regret until she saw the girls walking away. She immediately sashayed over to him, "Hey, do you come here often?"

They immediately hit it off. Kamikaze admitted five minutes later, "Actually, I just wanted an excuse to talk to you." He laughed and told her he had been hoping she would come over.

I've got to hand it to Whiskey Sour. Ladies, take risks! I'm not saying to go get a girdle or lobotomy rather than to not fear rejection. After all, I'm sure men love to be hit on by women with curves and a brain.

The Virgin will make you her bitch

#16 Never Have I Ever: Been propositioned

Foreplay: First of all, I'd like to make it clear that I have NEVER wanted to be propositioned. Sure, I've joked about it a plethora of times, you know: College tuition is costing a freakin' fortune. Well, time to turn some tricks. Maybe even be a mail order bride (this statement was usually followed by the response of "Uh... we're already in America, dude").

But going with my set parameters, this was just a spontaneous experience I just couldn't not include.

The Down and Dirty: We're gathered at Speed Racer's abode in celebration of Hezekiah's brief visit to L.A. I don't know half the party but the free flowing booze quickly fixed that. A group of Speed Racer's hometown friends were in attendance and they seemed like generally awesome guys. One fed me drinks for most of the night. Another got low with me during a Flo Rida song. There was even a guy who looked exactly like Chris Martin from Coldplay. After a homoerotic dance party, an epic game of King's Cup, and taking shots of Deep Throat sans hands, the 10 or so of us settled down for a movie in Speed Racer's home theater.

During the movie I originally sat next to the makeshift bartender but when he went to grab a drink his seat was quickly swooped by another attendee who I will refer to as Skeezy Motherfucker from here on out -- you'll understand that moniker very soon. Now, Skeezy Motherfucker and I had been distantly cordial all night; he was a dry humor type and I was drawn to his more comical counterparts. So I thought it was odd but not out of bounds for drunk behavior when he started leaning over his seat to show me innocuous text messages he was going to send to his girlfriend during the movie.

That is until he slowly and deliberately typed out a text and glanced at me a few times before leaning over to let me read the screen. Meet me outside

Do you know the saying "to wear your heart of your sleeve"? Well, I wear my emotions on my face. And I'm pretty sure my face conveyed a convincing feeling of ?!

He gave me a pointed look with his bleary eyes and nudged my arm suggestively. All I could do was frantically shake my head and excuse myself to bathroom to collect my thoughts. Who the hell does this guy think he is? Who the hell does he think I am?! Okay, I thought, maybe he's drunker than I thought or maybe this is just a joke.

I washed my hands, flicked off the light, and exited the bathroom. But something didn't feel right. While my eyes were adjusting in the pitch dark hallway, I felt like someone's presence. "Hey," came a deep voice 6 inches to my left.

GAH!! I wanted to tell him that I wasn't interested or to get away from me or to insult his style of seduction but nothing I could say could have stopped the onslaught of what-the-fuckery that was about to spew from his mouth.

"Can I kiss your feet?"

Um. Excuse me? But there was no hesitation in his question.

"You're very beautiful and I just want to kiss your feet."

WHAT. As I stood there dumbstruck by his request, he grabbed my hand and pulled me into the nearest room. At this point, I was ready to scream bloody murder and deliver a swift kick to his manly region but he sat down on the floor and gestured at a nearby seat. I gingerly perched on the edge of the bed, prepared to bolt if necessary.

"Can I please kiss your feet? And could you be mean to me while I do it?" Before I could stammer out an answer or even quirk a judgmental eyebrow, he reached for my foot and placed a chaste kiss on it. GAAAAAHHHHH!!

I recoiled in pure shock and all but ran back to the home theater. I began chugging water in an effort to sober up and get the fuck out of there. This was probably one of the handful of times I've ever regretted my last drink.

Skeezy Motherfucker slinked back to the room. Oh, maybe he's embarrassed and we can pretend that never happened. But no. Dude kept looking at me -- not sly, sideways glances but bonafide lean-over-his-seat-and-into-mine-full-on-stare-for-30-seconds-at-a-time looking. I wondered if it would be a party foul to scream, "Dude, get the fuck away from me!" in the middle of the movie.

He then poked my arm and leaned over to whisper, "Can I pay you to beat me?"

This emoticon best describes my face at the time: o_O

At that point his girlfriend called and after quietly chatting for a minute, he passed it off to my dance partner who happened to be her flatmate. As soon as the phone left his hand, he was back at my side, whispering dirty nonsense in my ear. Skeezy Motherfucker was growing increasingly desperate. Name your price. I just really want you to beat me. Seriously, I'll pay you.

Finally, Speed Racer turned around at all the whispering. I mouthed SAVE ME and he quirked an eyebrow but quickly gestured for me to follow him. He locked us in his bedroom and only then did I let out a strangled scream of horror.

The Afterglow: I cried sanctuary in Speed Racer's bedroom for a good 15 minutes, ranting about my potential career as a dominatrix, before feeling safe enough to venture back outside. We discovered Skeezy Motherfucker passed out on a couch, snoring like a storm was coming. Having sobered up, I hightailed it out of there while I still had a chance.

Part of me wishes I would've handled it differently but I honestly wonder what else could I have said.

Yes, I want to kick you in the balls but I'm afraid you'll like it.

The Virgin is ridin' dirty

#13 Never Have I Ever: Ridden a mechanical bull

Foreplay: I don't think anything sticks out like a sore cowboy thumb in fabulously flamboyant West Hollywood more than Saddle Ranch Chop House. If Hell has an afterlife tailored to me, this is probably it.

It's a gimmicky magnet for every goateed tourist wearing Ed Hardy and local parties of women either christening a newly 21 year old or mourning for a future bride. They present Adios Motherfuckers in milk jugs, serve beach ball sized helpings of cotton candy, and have a resident mechanical bull to flaunt machismo and/or mammaries. Need I paint a more detailed picture?

The Down and Dirty: Watching tables of bros demolishing beer towers and listening to late 90s alt rock wasn't exactly how I expected to spend my Monday night but here I was, parked on a wooden bench and munching on corn bread. I had a mission: To mount that mechanical bull and ride it for all it's worth (its worth turned out to be $4 per ride).

All was quiet on the Western front until 10pm and then it turned into National Lampoon. Busty boozer after busty boozer mounted the machine only to grind with the motions for a few seconds before the operator compelled the bull to vibrate wildly. The rider would squawk as her bosom shook like seismisms and futilely place a hand over in false modesty. The operator would take this opportunity to toss her lumbering form onto the mats below.

I quickly noticed that women who lacked disclosed cleavage would be spared from the humiliating vibrations but were bucked off quicker than their exposed companions. I looked down at my own outfit: gray jeans, black tank top, slim-fit tuxedo jacket. Aw hell. There's nothing that screams I have A-cups! more than men's wear for women.

I nursed a couple of Blue Moons to treat my performance anxiety before finally stepping up to the gate. I kicked off my shoes and mounted the machine. The operator wasn't as skeezy as I thought and advised me to grip with my thighs before letting 'er go.

Clutching with my left hand and balancing with my right, I rode that sucker like Annie freakin' Oakley. At that point I was thankful for the miracle pelvis-relaxer that is alcohol. The operator refrained from any unnecessary vibrations but cranked up the level once I managed to stay put for more than 10 seconds. An iPhone video of my spin documented that I lasted 32 seconds before finally sliding off.

The Afterglow: I WANT TO DO IT AGAIN!! Yes, my thighs were sore and I ended up with my legs in the air, but MAN that was the most fun I could have with my pants on in that sort of situation.

My next mission: To stay on the bull for the entire ride. I guess Hell isn't so bad after all -- at least they serve beer.

Giddy up, cowboy!

The Virgin apparently does not look like a troll

#10 Never Have I Ever: Joined an online dating site

Foreplay: I'm convinced online dating is suited for: weirdos, pedos, perverts, hermits, freaks, losers, emotional train wrecks, and the occasional attention whore with self-esteem issues.

Sure, there are perfectly decent people out there in cyberland (just like there are perfectly decent people in prison) who simply don't have time to date in the real world but c'mon! Like I commented to my brother on the practice of matchmaking in China: If you can't find a mate in a country with 1.3 billion people, you've got problems, man.

I had met my last two serious boyfriends spontaneously and severely -- the sort of encounter where you just knew that you were meant to know this person in one way or another. In addition, I have great anecdotes to share about the respective original exchanges: I pushed one former flame in front of an oncoming bus but pulled him back to safety in the nick of time; I accidentally grabbed the other's man parts within hours of our initial handshake when he was still a minor at 17 (don't call Chris Hansen just yet; he became legal 5 days later and I was exactly one year older).

I wouldn't trade those memories for all the Warcraft experience points in the whole world wide web. Although I would never label myself a romantic, I'm a firm believer that chemistry is important and if you don't feel butterflies the first time 'round they're not going to come out of left field.

Laden with stories like that, I simply don't do online dating.

The Down and Dirty: So then why the hell did I decide to join an online dating site?! The short answer: Because I'm a glutton for pain.

The long answer: Because I read an article last month about a popular online dating website that had expelled members for holiday weight gain. BeautifulPeople.com is an exclusive community where members of the opposite gender vote whether or not candidates are "beautiful" enough to join the site based on their photos.

The masochist in me was practically writhing for a proper thrashing. I just couldn't not do it. It's like trying to drunkenly break into a zoo -- you know you're in for a world of pain but damn it'd be a blast if you could just make it past the tigers!

I established a profile and uploaded a nice albeit boring photo of myself. Yes, my lips curl skyward but Tyra would chastise me for not smiling with my eyes. I chalk it up to my lack of photogenicness (...that's not a word, is it?). Personally, I prefer quirky pictures of myself, ya know the ones where I'm making faces next to a bust of Bill Cosby or posing romantically with a Harlan's ground sloth.

Then I waited for the 48 grueling rating hours. It was absolutely torturous. Keeping my mind occupied wasn't working as I must have checked on my ratings every few hours. I'm a total coward when it comes to rejection but my crippling case of train wreck syndrome kept me coming back for more. I tried not to take it personally but dayum -- the internet is some serious butthurt business.

But lo and behold...

BeautifulPeople Network is pleased to inform you that the majority of members on BeautifulPeople.com found your application very attractive and granted you membership. Welcome to the BeautifulPeople community!

Well, great! I've been deemed not ugly enough by random dudes from all over the world that joined a site catered to narcissists who feed off approval from the opposite sex. Greeeaaaat.... After all the hoopla I might as well peruse the joint, right? I browsed the profiles on the site as one would poke around a dark, exclusive night club.

Hmm... didn't know receding hairlines were so common. Are ab shots a prerequisite? Wow, those are some bad nose jobs. Oh, well that's an interesting -- DEAR GOD! I guess they don't take their domain name that seriously after all...

The Afterglow: The concept of BeautifulPeople is one big circle jerk. A kinda-sorta-ish pretty one, but a circle jerk nonetheless. So far it's much less offensive than other dating sites but then again I have nothing of which to base it. Most of the comments are about how "nice" or "cute" another member's picture is. Their info sections are rarely referenced in emoticon-charged comments. And some random dude -- who I'm almost positive misspelled his own name -- just "kissed" me. I'll be damned if I know what that's supposed to entail.

This simply cannot be the future of dating. Feeling a warm, tingly sensation in your nether regions when you click on a profile picture does not equate to chemistry. An online profile is an overwrought, hyper-real representation. What good is a false sense of superficial utopia?

Why not log off, go out, and find something real? Yeah, it may be demanding but that's what life and love are -- hard. Life isn't effortless and if it is, then you're not living it.

Also, do you really want to one day relay a budding relationship in terms of, "Oh, it's a funny story! We both rated each other 9.5! Can you believe it? It was totally meant to be!"?

Me neither.

The Virgin twitters, tweets, twats

# 9 Never Have I Ever: Tweeted a celebrity and received a response

Foreplay: While I think technology has overstepped its boundaries (no, I don't care if your dog's new haircut makes him look like an old lesbian; yes, I'd like those precious seconds of my life back), Twitter is awfully resourceful when you're trying to stalk a celebrity's whereabouts.

And while I don't get particularly star struck -- although I did quietly spazz out when I met the editor of Star Wars Episode IV at work -- I hold a special place in my heart for a select few.

I follow a limited amount of so-called celebrities on Twitter -- 5 tops. I mostly lurk in the shadows of the world wide web and read their tweets like a sketchy, voiceless voyeur. But every so often when I come across responses to fans, an ugly part of me jerks with slight jealously. I'm not envious of the personalized message, but of the fan's guts to actually interact with one of their idols.

The Down and Dirty: After mulling over my literal handful of celebrity twitters, I decided to go with Alex Kapranos, lead singer and guitarist of Franz Ferdinand. He seems down to Earth, friendly, and truth be told, my 17 year old heart still goes atwitter whenever I hear a Franz song.

I carefully type @alkapranos in my Twitter box. And then stop. Herein is where the problem lies: I have nothing to say. I'm not so witty as to attract the attention of a celeb by way of my sharp tongue (or fingers in this case) and charm their cyberpants off like a pro online predator.

But after some time, I decide to go with: "I once accidentally insulted some dude at a Franz show. Two months later I found out it was Zac Efron..."

Side story: Friends and I went to see Franz Ferdinand perform as a musical guest on Jimmy Kimmel Live when I was 18. Zac Efron happened to be a guest as well. High School Musical had just premiered on the Disney Channel and seriously no one knew who this kid was. After thoroughly rocking out, we try to meet the band in the alley behind the El Capitan Theater. We had been waiting for a good 45 minutes when this pretty boy came out to sign autographs for his meager amount of fans.

I was at one end of the barricade and he was making his way down the line when I leaned back to a friend and joked, "Who the hell is this kid? Can we just tell him to send Franz out?"

When I turned back around, I came face to face with Zac Efron himself. His expression can be best described by this emoticon: :-/
while I looked more like: :S

And then -- AND THEN -- I greeted him with a, "Heeeeeyyyyyy" not unlike the Fonz. Ugh...

Anyway, I waited for a reply. And waited. It's been a day and I've yet to hear anything back. But then again, he hasn't tweeted (twat?) during the time I tagged him in my message. I wasn't really expecting a reply, but I can't help but to be somewhat bummed out by it.

The Afterglow: Trying to talk to a celebrity via the internet won't kill me. My self esteem is just as healthy and humbly low as it was before I squawked without receiving a comeback. Oh well, back to slinking around the shady crevices of online social networking for me.

However, I do wish I would've given Zachary Quinto the Vulcan salute outside a gay bar when I had the chance a couple weeks ago.