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Once upon a time I was an active club hopper. Ok that's not really true – I could only handle clubbing once or twice a month because even on the best days, when you leave with one or two other people, you still end up feeling sick with yourself afterwards. Then the inevitable post-club experience depression sets in and you're a cranky bitch for two or three days. It only makes matters worse when you don't leave with someone though.

While talking to a friend of mine who wants my almost-sex, a boy came up in conversation that I had met at one of the clubs. It's a well known fact that while it's occasionally hard to have a relationship with someone you've met on the internet, it's almost damn near impossible to have a relationship with someone you've met at a club. Let me rephrase that: a decent relationship with potential to last into the future.

I however happen to be a glutton for suffering, so when a boy in a club came along that didn't look too sketched out on letters of the alphabet I pounced. Well not literally, although that would have made for quite a scene. The friend I was with when I decided to do something totally called me on it. Boy did I learn my lesson. It was an interesting transition to watch though.

I caught a boy right at the beginning of club life. So it was cute outfit, cute hair, and cute face. Try some drugs, and have a good time. That was the philosophy. It worked well enough for me to want to stick around - at least for two weeks.

By the end of the two weeks I was more than frustrated with everything involving the relationship and the boy, and just life in general. So I pulled out – nothing like a New Kid to really mess things up.

I still see him around sometimes. I watched a really sharp downward spiral into the scene. It always puts things in perspective when you see someone turn to drugs, and then clothes, and then makeup to make them seem like they're in control of their life. I never recognize him when I see him anymore, although I do hear from mutual acquaintances that he's hitting the drugs hard and not talking to them. This is normally while I'm out trying to have a good time, and he's off doing god knows what with god knows who because he doesn't want to be with the people he made come usually due to the fact that they worry about him.

So, when I started this story I thought that I would some how make it as amusing to read as it is for me to retell. However now I think it might just be really depressing. So, I'll leave you with something to make you laugh. A picture of us falling to our doom. Or at least a lot of pain on a blue mat.

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Mike Haddad. That's me, for the not so astute Mike Haddad Show lover. It may or may not be a well known fact that I didn't enjoy high school. More than not enjoying high school, I didn't enjoy Loyola. I dealt with Holy Trinity. Loyola is a paradise for the straight gino with bad style and horrible b.o. Not exactly the kind of place I'd want to be, but I knew better than to go to White Oaks. So I stuck it out and made it out alive.

This shouldn't be taken as an affront to my friends from Loyola. I love you and probably always will. I just didn't love Loyola. So it shouldn't come as a surprise that I've blocked out most of high school, and it was only made easier by the fact that I have a bad memory. I can still tell you what classes I had, with which teacher Ready? Go.

Grade 9: Geog. Kling, Gym Arsenault, Lunch, Science van Kooten, Music Harkin; English Lopresti, French Hlebko, Math Sluski, Lunch, Religion Berlingeri.

Grade 10: Math Latin, History Commisso, Lunch, English Possoco, Civics/Careers Campenelli/Culina; Science McCallion, CS Di Bennedetto, Lunch, Drama Smith, Religion Berlingeri.

If you ask me on the spot, I'll have trouble with Hlebko because she gave me nightmares. Seriously. I still had nightmares about it when I was at UWaterloo first term. That's how bad it was. So, it came as a surprise to me tonight when my high school life was suddenly thrust back into the forefront of my mind.

It all started innocently enough, I went to Karaoke with Nancy because I love Nancy as much as I love my exfoliator and that's a lot. We sat with her friends, some girls, and watched people sing. I didn't sing – I don't do that in public unless I'm drunk. I have much better ways to humiliate myself normally. So when I look up from the song book there is a boy sitting at our table out of the blue. Gay, but nobody introduced me so I sat silently in the corner.

During one of the songs I realized that I hadn't be introduced and decided that Nancy has horrible manners and that I should totally point that out in a blog after I introduce myself. Small talk is always awesome, really. It's hard to talk to someone without worrying that they think you just want sex. Or maybe I've just hung around the wrong people for far too long.

Later in the conversation I get asked how old I was. 19, duh, but he didn't know that so I answered which is what any sane person would have done minus the duh in the internal monologue – that was only because I really have been hanging out with the wrong people for far too long. Intrigued by the sudden change in conversation, we come to the conclusion that we're the same age. Apparently I look really young or something, go figure. The boy, who's name was Louie asks me what high school I went to.

"Ugh, highschool," goes my internal monologue again. I really need to learn how to turn that thing off. "Loyola and Holy Trinity after it opened." Much to my surprise, he says he went to Loyola too before he moved to New Brunswick. "Pity, Loyola is like the worst place for a gay boy to be." Fucking internal monologue. If I was to just say things I'm sure I'd be so much more interesting; interesting, and much more offensive than I already am. Ok so I remember why I keep it internal.
Turns out he went to Loyola, and the conversation suddenly gets even more interesting. Grade nine, we both suffered through Loyola. More over, we had the same gym class and quite possibly the same music class. Suddenly, I feel like an ass for not remembering and it takes the rationalization of my inner monologue on the car ride home to realize it's not my fault I blocked most of it out. I wasn't fat and awkward, but I was just awkward. So it all makes sense.

After everyone goes home, I head to my room and bust out the good old Hawks Yearbook. I don't remember Louie, but he clearly remembers the traumatic experience that was Grade Nine Gym. So I'm looking through the year book for a Louie because how many Louie's can there be? Well I'll tell you.

There is only one Louie. One Louie that I had the BIGGEST high school crush on ever. Irony is totally getting me back for that time I told her those pants made her look fat.