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“Write about marshmallows.”

That’s what she told me.

We were sitting in lawn chairs, squinting and blinking against the smoke from the fire as we made s’mores, and she told me to write about marshmallows. I cocked my head and furrowed my brows. And then I nodded. I told her I could make that work.

When it comes to cooking marshmallows, I like mine pretty much charred, with a gooey lump of sugary goodness on the inside. I let it catch on fire until it’s nothing but a sticky wad of marshmallow wearing a jacket of ashes. That’s my perfect marshmallow. And considering my ideal marshmallow is what most people so often think of as an accident that happens in pursuit of their own ideal, I’m not difficult to please when it comes to toasting the little buggers. But as much as I love my fireside treats well-done, there are far more people who prefer theirs a different way entirely: golden brown.

Golden brown. It’s the color of everything delicious. Cookies, French fries, biscuits, and marshmallows. If it’s not golden brown, it’s not even worth your time. Golden brown is the standard of heat-related perfection. It takes skill. It takes patience. It takes a lot of mistakes. But if you ever get that golden brown marshmallow, that’s a little piece of heaven on the end of your skewer.

If you’re too timid with your roasting, you wind up undercooking it. It’s still cool in the middle, and the outside is barely flame-kissed. If you’re too bold and always say “Just one more second… One more second and it’ll be perfect,” you typically char the life out of it (and then you give it to me, and I eat it with gusto). Meeting the Golden Brown Standard is something most spend their lives trying to do, but not many actually succeed at.

…And that last sentence was where I stopped talking about marshmallows.

The trials and tribulations that surround roasting the perfect s’mores component go far beyond the campfire. The quest for Golden Brownness is something we work toward in our daily lives, whether we realize it or not.

Some of us are scared to push things too far. When the going gets tough, we get going. We do what’s good enough, and that’s good enough for us. Our marshmallows are always cold and barely cooked at all. But we eat them anyway because we made them.

Then there are others of us who seem to always take it too far. We don’t know when to stop. We get so caught up in “go big or go home” that we miss the chance to rein things in and do something great. We jump the shark. And our marshmallows are charred all to hell. And I eat them because I like ‘em that way, but most people just chuck it into the flames and start fresh.

But then there are those of us who watch, wait, and plan, always aware that there’s a delicate balance between tenacity and timidity. We don’t think ourselves out of great ideas because they require a lot of work, but nor do we go balls to the walls when it comes to taking on a project. We’re adventurous and cautious. We’re leaders who follow. We take initiative and let others storm ahead. We learn from our mistakes, both from undercooking and charring our marshmallows. And when we think we’re onto something, we slow down. We keep an eye on things. Because ain’t no way we’re gonna miss our chance at some Golden Brown perfection.

More often than not, we just barely miss it. The edge caught on fire, perhaps. But it’s ruined as far as we’re concerned. And it’s kind of sad. We can turn it around, inspect it from every angle, and see its only one flaw. Aside from that, it’s a thing to behold, our nearly-perfect marshmallow. But we saw what it could’ve been. It was almost ours. But we missed it. We eat it with a sigh. We say “Wow, that was so close.” And maybe we start to think that it’s not worth the fight. And some of us stop trying.

But those of us that don’t stop never will. Because even though none of us are guaranteed our Golden Brown perfection in our lifetime, we know that if we don’t keep going, it’s guaranteed that we’ll never get it. And that’s not something we can accept. So we stick our faces back in the smoke, carefully turn our skewers, making sure not to get too close to the flames, and give it another shot. And sometimes, if we’re fortunate enough, our hard work is rewarded when we slowly draw our marshmallow from the fire and see that it is a delicious, wonderful, and perfect Golden Brown. We sit looking at it for a moment, in awe that we finally did it, and pop it into our mouth. It tastes like victory.

When it comes to roasting non-metaphorical marshmallows, my ideal is considered to be an error by most people. I love the burnt ones and dislike all things lightly toasted. But once you get me away from the campfire, I’m all about that Golden Brown Standard.

My stomach is full of slightly-burnt marshmallows that were so close. I’ve got a little bit of a tummyache.

But since I love marshmallows, I think I’m going to buy another bag of Jet Puffed, throw another log on the fire, and keep on trying.

Over the past few years, I’ve watched enough NatGeo to know that when it comes to sex, pretty much anything goes. But truth be told, the sex really isn’t what makes things interesting– although seeing a male giraffe trying to mount a female at the zoo was good for a chuckle.

It’s more about what goes on before sex. How is it that two individuals wind up in the sack together? What exactly took place to get them there? My education on mating rituals has been twofold: the detached viewing of wild animals searching for a mate courtesy of National Geographic, and the up-close and personal exposure to the randy desperation of pub crawlers lookin’ to get laid. It was through participating in a pub crawl myself that I observed the rituals that comprise an average night’s partner hunt.

For the purpose of this piece, I will give a pseudonym to the friends I accompanied to the various bars on our journey. Cola is a rather quiet guy, and Iron was more extroverted. They had both been out to the same couple of places recently, so they had a pretty good idea of what the hot-spots would be. While Cola didn’t explicitly state his intentions, Iron made it clear he was looking to get some action. They had observed a trend in the patrons of a certain sports bar nearby, which goes a little something like this:

A sports bar seems like the type of place a bunch of men would frequent. These men might sit at the bar, suck down a pitcher or two of cheap domestic macrobrew, and watch whatever games were on TV. Women, who are out looking to hook up with men, are aware that a sports bar would probably have a higher concentration of men and visit in the hopes that the male/female proportion will be in their favor. Therefore, the concentration of women looking specifically for men will be higher in a sports bar, because that’s where women think the men will be.

Based on this hypothesis, it was decided that the drinking and cavorting would be best done at the sports bar that had a dance club upstairs.

So we went.

Once we were in the bar, we made our way to the dance floor to put the guys in closer proximity to potential hookup partners. While making use of the ever-popular dance sensation, the Caucasian Lunge/Retreat (AKA the default “I can’t dance” dance), I watched as my friends positioned themselves behind or next to a woman. Without openly hitting on her, Cola and Iron worked to get the attention of their targets by dancing wildly or accidentally bumping into her.

After about thirty minutes of vigorous “dancing” and watching as my friends tried to work their subtle charm, I decided to be bolder and grab the focus of a guy by slyly placing my hand on his buttocks. My boldness was rewarded with a few minutes of good-humored dancing before he turned back to his own target.

Now this was a crucial realization for me: by not caring if I left the club alone or had to buy my own drinks, I was free to act however I wanted. Because I wasn’t out to impress someone, I could brazenly pinch asses and hump-dance with whoever was interested. So pinch asses and hump-dance I did.

As my friends and I situated ourselves more in the middle of the throbbing mob of people, we found ourselves face-to-face with a guy Cola and I had met as we entered the bar. I’ll call this specimen Dolittle.

Dolittle originally thought Cola and I were together. He developed an irrationally mounting interest in me once I divulged that not only were Cola I not Chitty-Chitty Bang-Banging, but that I had siphoned males from my dating pool entirely. Dolittle’s reaction was typical of men of his caliber, and I politely declined when he offered me his cock if I ever found myself needing it in the future. What a generous, selfless guy.

When retrospectively making judgments on Dolittle’s behavior, I came to the following possible conclusions:

A) He went to the bar without intending to find some adequately-intoxicated female to hook up with.
B) He was interested in hooking up if it happened, but would be just as content to have fun where he was.
C) He figured he could rile me up enough to forget how I’m oriented.

[In reference to C, I commented to Cola that it was common for men to hit on really unavailable women because they think that with enough effort, they can be that guy to straighten her out. I likened this approach to pushing on a door marked "pull." It's an amusing use of bravado, but ultimately a waste of effort.]

Regardless of what his  intentions had been before we serendipitously met, he seemed to quite driven to pursue Option C’s course of action. And in true player fashion, I led the headstrong hetero along like a desperate and dreamy little puppy.

Dolittle, eager to be so close to a woman who seemed to be having fun with him, began to get a little grabby-handed toward the end of the night. And this is where lack of interest was in my favor. I traded a grope for a drink. Gin and tonic. I thought it was pretty fair.

So I drank his drink, said goodnight, declined his multiple offers to go home with him, and disappeared from his life forever. Did I use him? Perhaps. But do I mind? Not one bit. Because it’s use or be used in this club-scene jungle. And it’s play or be played. And with the right attitude, anybody can turn themselves from being prey to being predator.

For me, that attitude just happens to be apathy. Armed with apathy, boldness, charisma, and a d-z’s worth of other helpful character traits, I can be the ultimate hunter.

And so can you.

[This post is dedicated to the memory and tenacity of Iron, without whom this crawl might have never taken place.]

Some people consider themselves to be “lovers” and not “fighters”. Some people are just downright aggressive and seem to lack the capacity to be calm and caring at all. As for me, I think that because I’m a lover, I’m also a fighter, and vice versa. Although loving and fighting might appear to be a world apart from each other, they’re actually more like different points of interest along the same meridian. If you head due-north from Anger, you’d see how the climate would change on your way to Love. Maybe things would mellow out as you get closer to the Equator (indifference, perhaps? Contentment?), but as you closed in on your second destination, things would have spiced back up again. Probably because they both involve a good deal of passion.

And they both take up a lot of energy. I typically save up my urge to debate, argue, and occasionally erupt for people I also enjoy talking, cuddling, partying, or relaxing with. Why? Because I can’t be bothered to grow a whole field of flowers and I’d rather just nurture the few kinds that I really like to look at. It’s laziness transformed into efficiency. Odds are good that if I like having you around, I’m going to find something to debate about at some point. It’s just because I think you’re interesting (most of the time) and I’m curious to see where the conversation is going to end up. It’s like dragging a child along in a sled when she is more than capable of moving herself; she just wants you to bring her someplace fun. Don’t begrudge a kid her adventure.

One of the people I watch from my Livejournal page said something that more or less kicked my brain into gear for this subject. He said:

“You’re family,” I said. “I might get pissed at you, but I’m never going to stop loving you.”(http://theferrett.livejournal.com).

And that certainly rang true with me, especially when it comes to people I consider my best friends. In fact, I usually don’t bother to get pissed with people I don’t care about. That’s not to say I don’t hate those assholes on the road who cut me off or go really slow, but that anger is more of a stationary angry cloud that dissipates rather quickly, not unlike a lingering fart smell that you walk through, crinkle your nose at, and then keep on moving. But being pissed at someone often means that they (the offender, possibly a friend) did something that hurt you (something you care about) and you feel strongly enough to be affected by it. I wouldn’t really be bothered if some random jerk online called me a foul name, but coming from a friend that would hurt. I’d pro’y call them on it and work it out, and we could continue being friends after repairing our relationship.

But just because I love someone doesn’t mean I’m gonna pick fights with them all the time. I have a few friends I’d probably never really get into it with, but that’s only because I know them well enough to realize they’re pretty submissive or sensitive and wouldn’t do well with me pokin’ at them. My general rule is to know I’m gonna get hit back before I put my gloves on. Even if it’s just one of those hit-and-hide things, as long as I’m sure I’ll get swiped at in return I’m comfortable stepping into the ring. I’m not trying to clobber our differences to death, I’m just getting them riled up a bit so I can enjoy them (most of the time. Sometimes I’ll lay into someone for being an ass, and that’s something I’m trying to smack out of ‘em). I don’t think there’s a person out there who would have the same opinions and ideals as me, but if there was, I wouldn’t be friends with them. It’d be boring as all hell! If I had this conversation: “Man I really hate it when those weird guys on the street ask me for money. I don’t give them a dime.” “Totally! I mean, get a job!”  “Right… Exactly.” I’d probably swap to an opposing opinion just to have some fun. If I just chatted with another Me all day long, it would be like getting locked into a sensory deprivation chamber. I love when my friends have other views, even if they (the views) annoy the crap out of me.

On second thougt, one advantage to having another Me to hang out with would be that she would get all the obscure references I make that go unnoticed by other people (and usually wind up making me look like an ass when I was, in reality, being hilarious. Bummer). For instance, I could pronounce Coup de Grâce like “coupe de gracie” and have her laugh at my impression of the grandpa from Rugrats. Yeah… that would be nice.

You know how in a movie (uh, and also in real life) you think a character is one way and then something happens and they’re completely different? Like you thought someone was really smart until she walked up the stairs to explore despite repeated armchair warnings and the appearance of ominous music? And then you realize she’s not smart at all; she’s just the token idiot hot chick whose death will make her friends more wary of splitting up to search for crap.

But my point is that disasters truly test people. Do they keep cool? Do they get all suicidal? Do they have a plan? Are they willing to go to great lengths to help others? Will they refuse to shoot the zombie because it used to be their friend? These are all very important pieces of information when choosing the company you keep. This is why I think it would be neat to have a zombie outbreak.

Now in all seriousness, I know that I would probably die a horrible death in the event of a situation like that. But I’d like to think I went down knowing a bit more about my friends and family. It would be like the Joker said in The Dark Knight– something about ‘I killed many of your friends; do you want to know which ones were cowards?’. Yes, I would like to know. I’d like to know if I had a friend who would chain up his baby mama and help her give birth to a little zombie just because he couldn’t get a grip and realize she would kill him if he was ever within neck-biting range. I’d like to know if my friend would risk undeath to try to save a stray dog since she needed to latch onto anything that would give affection because she was so fucked up from knowing her dad got shot in the head after he became a zombie. I’m not sure I’d like to know if a friend thought the only way to bounce back from all the undeath and destruction was to rape and impregnate healthy women so we could start rebuilding the world, but I suppose the truth would still be preferable to lies.

I can already think of some people that would perform well under the pressure of getting eaten, which is promising. I’d like to think I would be level-headed enough to not jeopardize the group by hiding a small bite I received from a chomping brain-eater (and that I’d be terrifically accurate with a sniper rifle on the roof, but I would hate for you to find out I can’t shoot for shit when zombies started to swarm). I can also think of a few friends I’d accidentally forget to invite to the fortified shelter, but I guess there would be no time like crunch time for them to figure out I didn’t like them that much anyway.