This semester, I took one final class at George Washington University, a school for retards. My college counselor told me that it would look better on my transfer apps if I continued to display my “commitment to life-long learning” for one more semester as I tried to go somewhere I could actually stomach. I guess it worked, so no hard feelings, G-Dubs.

Anyway, in this class, I sat next to one of the most objectively attractive people I have ever met. His face was just so perfectly symmetrical. One day, we both accidentally came to a class that had been cancelled. It turned out neither of us had found out because we were both non-degree students, which meant that we weren’t attached to our GW email accounts. I had to go to the library for something, and he wanted to check out one of the books of reserve on our syllabus.

I said I’d show him where the reserve desk was, since I was headed to the library anyway. We walked over. He told me that he had been trying to make it as an actor and model in New York, but it was just too hard, so he decided to go back for a college degree. He was the kind of beautiful that looks great in a headshot, so I believed it. We walked into the library, I pointed out the reserve desk, and I figured things would end there.

“What do I do?” he said.

“Just go over there.”

“But what do I do?”

I walked him over to the reserve desk.

“Hi,” I said, “we want to check out a book on reserve.”

The woman asked if we had the call number. I told her we would go find it.

“What’s a call number?” he asked.

I had no idea how I was going to try to explain a call number. It’s how you find a book in the stacks? There was no way he knew what stacks were. I wound up mentioning the Dewey Decimal System, and he had heard of that, so I figured I got close enough.

Anyway, we looked up the call number in the catalog, and he went off to the reserve desk to find it.

Apparently, when you’re beautiful, you don’t need to know about things like books or libraries or call numbers. And he was so beautiful. I just couldn’t take my eyes off that perfect face the entire time we were talking. It wasn’t even that I wanted to sleep with him (I didn’t), but just that he was a piece of artwork that I could not help but stare at.

We stayed friendly after that educational journey. We would talk while we were waiting for class to start.

One day he asked me what I wanted to do with my life. I said that I wanted to teach public high school in cities. I asked him the same question.

“Well, I want to be an actor,” he said, “but obviously that didn’t work out. I know I need something more practical. So, I’d like to be a novelist. Or a rock and roll writer.”

Good for you, beautiful man. Forget practical dreams or career plans. Apparently they don’t matter when you look that good.

Later, he told me that he had gotten a job (his first ever) working as a host in a restaurant. He hated it.

“Why?” I asked.

“They always want me to be there, even when I don’t want to,” he said. “It was my friend’s birthday, and I wanted to leave, but they made me stay all the way til 10.”

“Well, that’s kind of what work is,” I said. “They pay you, so they expect you to be there.”

He shrugged. Two weeks later he told me he had quit.

“It’s ok,” he said. “I just found out that I had some back pay waiting for me from one of my modeling gigs in New York.”

Sigh. If only we could all be tall and handsome enough for people to just pay us to look pretty. Fuck all the jobs in the world. Especially the low-paying restaurant jobs that are universally miserable. But really, why spend your nights working when you could be out drinking with your buds? Fair point, beautiful man. Fair point.

 

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