Last time I checked, you couldn’t carry around a gay man in a little bag with a ventilation screen like you would a tiny lapdog.

My e-mail in-box is holding up rather poorly in the sudden onslaught of e-mails I’ve recently received.

There I was, sipping my beverage, surveying the scene that lay before me: The grinding, the pelvic thrustage, the lack of rhythm ““ it was enough to make me outwardly cringe.

It started out innocently enough ““ a student wanted to be free. And by free, I really mean clothes-free.
So he turned his back on societal propriety and ran around the streets in his underwear.

“I’ve come to accept the fact that someone is going to cheat on me at least once,” said my 16-year-old sister, in a painfully matter-of-fact way.

From scaling fences to slipping down an ivy-covered hill to
walking home barefoot ““ I’ve heard some absurd
stories.
Ah, the Walk of Shame.
The nuances of leaving without waking anybody up, the acrobatics
of getting out of a building unnoticed, and ““ let’s be
honest here ““ no one really wants to dwell on a
person’s physical appearance during all this.

You and your best friend are the epitome of BFF (Best Friends
Forever, for those of you who weren’t in on the middle school
lingo).
You live together and you drunk-dial each other proclaiming your
love.

“And they lived happily ever after. …”
Let’s face it: We’re not kids anymore. It’s
the unfortunate truth. Not all relationships are going to end well.