Whenever I visit my family in New York, I always regret not bringing a form-concealing trench coat and oversized Channel glasses. This disguise would come in handy when visiting the mall or driving through the pub-lined streets of my "quaint" suburban hometown. I just really hate running into people from my high school, especially since such encounters serve only as a reminder of how lame I was four years ago. (But I thoroughly enjoyed being recognized on the Amtrak train by a random reader. Hi, Will!)

Anyway, given my fear of former classmates (Alumniphobia?), you can imagine my reservations about going to a townie bar Thursday night. Lots of people from my high school would be there, and from the moment my friends and I strolled in, I'd be judged with a self-conscious indignation typically reserved for the jaded queens at Cobalt. Whereas a drunk fag can judge me solely upon physical appearance, a former classmate has a lot more ammo at his disposal. ("Hey, remember that loser Toby, who'd carry around a dictionary with him at all times and would act like he's better than everyone else? He's at the bar! Let's get him!")

Of course, little did I know that when I walked into that bar (slightly buzzed from four Bud Light longnecks), the hottest guy from my high school class would walk up to me, shake my hand and say, "Look at you, Toby. You've become a man!" That night, we drank until 3 a.m., chatting and laughing like we were the best of friends. It was like a bizarre remake of "The Breakfast Club," except with less Molly Ringwald and more alcohol.

After downing my last beer, I stumbled out of the bar and journeyed home, feeling like one of those moronic participants on that show where former high school crushes are awkwardly reunited 30 years after graduation. My God, I've fallen in love with the high school quarterback. He's all I think about. Damn it, why can't my life be like a gay coming-of-age novel where the high school hunk inevitably turns out to be a fag?

Addendum: Sorry, I put no effort into this entry. I'm burned out from last night, when we were kicked out of a house party by a bunch of 17-year-olds. Can you believe it?