A Bad Idea I'm About to Do by Chris Gethard

“You’re bleeding.”
    â€œOh,” she said, her smile fading.
    â€œDid you know that?” I asked. “You’re bleeding. I can tell, because when I took off the condom, there was blood, and—”
    â€œChris,” she interrupted me, sternly. “Stop talking. I’ll take care of it.” She shook her head and then laughed. It was the first time I realized that in order to date me, you have to find social awkwardness funny. To this day, I have never had a relationship work if that rule wasn’t quickly realized and understood.
    When she got up and went to the bathroom to check on herself, I sat down on the couch. I was still holding the used condom in my hand. I picked up the wrapper it came in. I balled up the condom and its foil sheath, and walked over to the garbage can. I shoved all of the evidence of my entrance into manhood into the hole of a discarded can of Diet Dr. Pepper.
    There, I knew, my mother would never find it.

A Bad Idea I’m About to Do
    J ust after I left for my first year of college, my parents sold our house and I was faced with the reality that I could never go home again. Weeks after I arrived on campus, three deaths—one of a high school classmate, one of a family friend, one of a childhood playmate—followed in quick succession. On top of this, I was slowly discovering I was next in line to continue the family tradition of being bipolar, and was not dealing with it well.
    Nothing delivered a bigger blow to my mental and emotional state, however, than my incredibly foolish decision to attend Rutgers University. As the premier state university of New Jersey, Rutgers has a proud history. It is one of nine colleges that existed in the United States during the colonial era. Among its alumni are Paul Robeson, Milton Friedman, and the dude who discovered antibiotics. But walking around campus after my arrival there, I soon came to realize that 1998 was a low point for the school. The crumbling buildings were a sign that the school wasn’t the academic stalwart it once was, and the mind-boggling
amount of construction sites pointed toward a rebuilt future that I would unfortunately not be around to enjoy.
    Rutgers during my stay was both overcrowded and filthy. My dorm was perched up against the Raritan River, so that light-brown malaria pit was the view from my room. My roommate was an Estonian nationalist known as “the Russian Bear.” The very best thing Rutgers had going for it, as far as I was concerned, was a group of trailers called “the Grease Trucks.” They sold sandwiches, including one called a “Fat Bitch” that contained a cheesesteak, fries, mozzarella sticks, and chicken fingers. Let me reiterate—this was the best thing the place had going for it . Not that I had a right to be choosy. My main reason for going to Rutgers was that they didn’t make me write an essay as part of the application.
    Looking back on it now, I realize Rutgers and I had a lot in common: in a few years we would turn out fine, but back then we were both feeling pretty beat up. In the midst of that first semester, however, it was hard for me to see the bright side. In truth, I was miserable.
    I tried to explain to my mom how unhappy I was.
    â€œYou’ve only been there five weeks,” she replied, her voice devoid of sympathy.
    â€œI mean, Mom,” I said, “last night, a fat Asian guy threw up spaghetti in the showers and then tried to make out with me.”
    I registered the pause as my mother attempted to process the fact that homosexuals not only existed but also talked to her son. “I don’t think you should tell me that, Chris,” she said quietly.
    My father, Johnny Education, was no help either. He went to Montclair State, near our house, and he would often tell stories about his time there.
    â€œI worked every day stocking shelves,” he’d say. “Then, at the end of my shift,