Ok, I will admit that I was semi-intrigued/sorta-bored with this thread at first…I felt bad for you, cause you sounded rather geeky and lame, but, had to applaud your honesty and the fact that you shared your feelings with us total strangers.
Now, I am on the edge of my seat…I can hardly wait for the “next installment” of your life.
You should be impressed with me…I am a cynic. Maybe you should instead be impressed with your talent as a writer, cause you have a cynic saying “awwwwww…that is so sweet!”
And, as for those of you wanting to spoil it for the rest of us:
“MOVE ON…THERE’S NOTHING HERE FOR YOU TO SEE”
About two months into the school year, I and some friends were hanging out in the bar on a Friday. CSWG (Lou) came in, with a huge smile on her face. And when she smiles, the most dingy, dirty, smoky bar in the world (and this one was close) would look like the Taj Mahal. Considering this was one of the toughest weeks in school, however, the smile wasn’t just odd, it was other-worldly. She went to the bar, bought shots for the crew, and came back. I know, I know, a woman who buys shots. I told you she was cool. Anyway, as we raised our glasses in toast, we found out why she was so happy, Her boyfriend was coming to visit!!
As I choked down my Jamieson’s, I was surprised by my reaction. On the outside, I was all smiles and “Wow, that’s great.” Even on the inside, I was glad I would get to meet him, and happy that she was happy. But there was something else too. Way down there. Something I wasn’t sure I knew was there, and certainly wasn’t going to admit. A tiny, quiet, nagging little thing. As the women clucked about the visit and all the great things they were going to do, I excused myself to play pool with a married friend of ours, Steve, and drank more heavily than normal. After the second game was finished in silence, Steve simply said: “Dude, get over it.” Now, I was a little fuzzy at that moment, so I politely asked “To what are you referring, my jocular friend?” or maybe it was “Wha’ the f*** are you talking about, sh**-for-brains”. Like I said, I was fuzzy.
Steve looked me in the eyes and said “Look, Hamlet, I know you like her a lot, but you gotta let this little crush go.”
“But, I don’t like her like that. We’re …” I stammered.
“Just friends. Yeah, sure. Whatever. All I’m saying is you have to let it go.” Steve responded, as we walked back to the booth.
Bastard. What does he know anyway. Idiot.
Huh, maybe someone should have told me that. Here I am, engaged to be married, and I haven’t had to be a dick to her.
Now that you’ve figured out the story and let us know that it’s lame, there’s no reason for you to continue to interrupt, right?
Hamlet, please continue. 
Damn, I was hoping she would ask you if you wanted to go up to makeout point, and smoke up in her SUV. 
Ah, to be in university again.
Lovely story. I have a couple of those myself. Some with more results than yours, some with significantly less.
Enjoy your youth, son. It only happens once.
[sub]I turn 30 on Sunday, can you tell?[/sub]
I like this story. Give me more. I warn you though, this better not be one of those “unrecquited love” type stories. You and sweatshirt girl need to get down to some serious recquiting.
I bet the boyfriend has a pony tail, gets drunk and treats her like a jerk. She sees how great you are in comparison and is confused. Unfortunately, being young, noble, idealistic and not as bright as you might be, you don’t take advantage of the situation and ummm… press your claim. So to speak.
Next day though, Jerko thinks you did because sweatshirt girl talks about how great you are. Jerko picks a fight, you kick his ass, he goes back to Albany or wherever, and you and sweatshirt girl get down to recquiting some monkey sex, and like good lawyers in love you raise kids and drive BMWS into the sunset.
This is what I’m hoping
So the I finally got the chance to tell my precious sweatshirt girl exactly how I felt. We were both alone, nearing midnight in the basically empty pizza shop that we frequented so often. One pitcher led to another, and I found myself reaching under the table and brushing my hand on her leg “on accident.” She immediately responded with a quick glance follwed by a wry smile. I knew that this could very well be my only chance. I had to go for it or regret it for the rest of my life.
So what do I say? I had the benefit of a few beers in me, so I just winged it. I let the words come out on their own.
“I remeber the first time I saw you . . .” She looked away briefly, still smiling, obviously with a good idea of where this was going. " . . .you were wearing a G**** sweatshirt. You were sitting on a bench studying on the first day of school." She turned and looked at me. The smile faded.
“I remember, too . . .” she said. “I really didn’t care for you!” She laughed out loud. Not a mocking laugh, but a gentle laugh, which in itself proved that she still didn’t feel that way. “I though you were pretty cute, though.”
My heart raced. She thought I was cute! Things were going so well, I just knew that I had to screw it up somehow. But then, this confidence brewed inside, a confidence that I had never felt before. Somehow, the words were coming out as naturally as they ever have in my_life. It was as if somebody had written a computer program for my conversation and typed in the command, “RUN.”
I could feel the blush warm face, but I was not afraid. She had to know how I felt about her. “Sweatshirt girl . . .”
“What was that?”
“You were my sweatshirt girl. From the moment I first laid eyes on you. You’ve always been my sweatshirt girl.”
She batted her eyes; a smile from ear to ear. “I think that is one of the sweetest things anyone has ever said to me!”
“I always dreamt of taking you home with me, my sweatshirt girl, and making passionate love to you for eternity.”
Her smile vanished. “What?”
"What I’m trying to say is that I want to have sex with you, like we were two beasts in the wild, our animal instincts in control of our gyrations . . "
She got up and left, and I have never spoken to her again.
To prove Steve wrong, and to keep that little part of me quiet. I spent the time I wasn’t studying for finals, talking with Lou about preparations for Friday. Granted that was maybe an hour (I studied ALOT), but damn if I wasn’t going to show everybody that Steve waswrong. Lou and I decided that, in order to make a good impression for her boyfriend, we would change the meeting place for Friday from ourusual hangout, to a nice, Irish Pub. People were invited, plans were made. I couldn’t wait until Friday! Hijinks and fun are sure to ensue!
Friday arrived, and class was optional because finals were right around the corner. Lou and I traded telephone calls about what she should wear(she thought I was kidding when the little voice inside me took over and recommended a suit of armor and a chastity belt) and when Dave would arrive. That’s what friends do, call and chat about their lives. And damn if I wasn’t the friendliest, friend who ever friended a friend!
At about three, while she was telling me about the rose petals she had strewn around her apartment, she quickly said; “Oh, he’s here. I’ll see you at five. 'Bye.” Just like that, I had been dismissed. But it wasn’t a problem, because I was going to meet up with some friends for a couple drinks before going over to the Irish pub. No problem at all.
By 6:00 p.m., a good sized group of people were sitting around the table at the Irish Pub. Although the guests of honor had not yet arrived, I was having a fine time. We had some appetizers, some beers and the Simpson’s quotes were flying. We were discussing the drinking
games of our youths, when sweatshirt girl, errr woman, and her boyfriend arrived. Just as in Cheers, a loud cry of “Lou” went up around the table, more beers were poured, and toasts to the boyfriend were made. I was introduced to the boyfriend, shook hands, and smiled. No problem. The two of them quickly joined in the conversation about drinking games, and I came to discover that Lou was absolutely amazing at Quarters. Of course, beers were cleared out of the way, and a game started. It ended a scant half hour later, with me and most of our friends, extremely well lit, and Lou racking up a streak of 45 straight makes.
At that point, Lou was declared the winner. In my inebriated state, that quiet, nagging, little part of me found solace in the fact that Lou singled me out to drink a hefty number of times, while she only made her boyfriend drink twice. “Perhaps she does have an interest in me,” that little part of me (which was also quite well lit) rationalized, “She seemed more interested in getting me drunk than in her boyfriend.” And I wasn’t the only one to notice. One of her girl friends asked, “Well, why didn’t you make boyfriend drink all those times, but Hamlet had to drink plenty?”
Upon hearing that, the little voice inside me flew to attention. The sirens went off. All of my attention turned to her answer.
“Because I need my boyfriend for some special … things I need him to do later.” Sweatshirt girl said, with a knowing wink to her boyfriend.
Special things? Clean the apartment? Spackle the ceiling? Make a nice macrame plant holder? Yeah, I’m sure that’s what she meant!, my little voice claimed loudly, and not the least bit convincingly.
“And speaking of that, we’re going to take off, and head back to the apartment.” Sweatshirt girl said. And, after a chorus of hoots, innuendos, and catcalls, they left.
And that little thing, deep inside me quickly, and quietly began to wither. I proceeded to calmly set about the task of crushing whatever was left of it, in alcohol. It took a lot longer than I thought.
Oh, man, Hamlet, that’s just harsh. If I were you I’d drown my sorrows.
Actually, that doesn’t sound like such a bad idea anyway. <sound of gin bottle being opened>
“drown my sorrows too,” meant I.
It doesn’t end here, does it? 
If this doesn’t have a happy ending, I’m gonna be seriously pissed.
Haj
Yeah. I’m gonna have to drown my sorrows too.
But, come on. Of course it has a happy ending. Look what day it is. And our Hamlet’s nothing if not a romantic.
I’m with Scylla on this. There’s no way in hell that guy isn’t from Albany.
I used to live in Albany. Well, outside. Rensselaer. I see there are a few Dopers around that area.
Dammit, Hamlet…
I would wnat the person who is to spackle my ceiling to be sober too.
Macrame could be lethal if performed with too much booze.
Oh, I get it, Hamlet is going to fake a suicide as a macrame incident!
I would want the person who is to spackle my ceiling to be sober too.
Macrame could be lethal if performed with too much booze.
Oh, I get it, Hamlet is going to fake a suicide as a macrame incident!
Ummm…Labor? Doesn’t this (these) belong in the “DejaVu” thread???
As you can see by my member information, I have been a LOOOOOOONG time “lurker,” and now, finally, a first-time poster!
Every time I check the boards I wonder if “today will be the day” I post, but usually others (or 50 others) have already expressed what I would have added, and so I read on in silence.
But this is truly worthy of comment! Like Auntnut said, I was on the edge of my seat, waiting to see what happened next! And reaching the end of the “installments” was a letdown!
And as luck will probably have it, my timing will be such that I post this right AFTER Hamlet has delivered the final installment that renders my entire post obsolete.
So then what happened?
Hamlet, this chick is playing you for the fool that you’re being! I’m not saying that one shouldn’t have a plutonic relationship with someone of the opposite sex, however, regardless of how sly you think that you’re being, she knows you want her, and she’s getting the best of both worlds. Have lots of fun with “the gang, especially my BUDDY Hamlet” at school, then let everyone know she’s specifically NOT getting her beau drunk so he can get it up when they are boning later? Not only is she being cruel, she’s tacky and lame. It sounds to me like she’s the kind of gal that always gets what she wants because she is good looking - guys will dismiss her lameness because they are jonesing to get her in the sack. Lame, lame, lame I tell you.
P.S. (And she’s going to be a lawyer, remember that! She’s crafty and manipulative. Don’t trust her.)