dylan the douchebag and other stories: part one.

since i last wrote, a lot has happened, namely that my program ended, i turned 21, missed one flight and was shut out of 5 more, and ended up in paris. some good, some not some not so much. but before i detail the actually ridiculous events of my 21st, where i ended up on a milan catwalk with two male models and a giant cobra on my shoulders, then drank champagne with christiano ronaldo, and then got an exclusive invite to george clooney's house in lake como, i must return way, way back, to the time where dylan the douchebag existed.

dylan the douchebag went to guifa, a bar near my house, the night of may 7th. it was clearly fate that i did too, as did four of my friends. the occasion: to celebrate both my 21st and the fact that our apartment was broken into. yes, we lauded those italian douchelords who took our stuff while we were sleeping with such intensity that i was drunk with happiness about cameras and wallets and computers being snatched long before i was drunk with rum and pears.

(really i was very angry about the stuff. duh. but anyway...)

dylan the douchebag was one of the only americans i ever met in siracusa. the others were two old couples from new york city who chose a table literally an inch from my shoulder blade at this restaurant i was at, and then proceeded to talk loudly about how my three friends and i were "four fearless females, away from the chains that males and parents set forth in society, and also what does pizza mean in italian?" after those four, i was certain that any other american i met could impress me simply by having even the most basic of social skillz.

dylan the douchebag did not. i was introduced to dylan the douchebag by my friend after he told her he was from columbus, ohio. since this is relatively close to wooster, i was immediately called upon to enter into the obligatory "where are you from" conversation full of more midwestern sap than a maple tree (do they grow maples in the midwest? dunno). it turns out that d-squared knows people who went to st. vincent high school in akron, where two of my close friends from school went to high school. COOL! a connection! i thought, dylan is not so bad.

then, he was still just dylan. however, his behavior in the immediate seconds (not minutes, people, but SECONDS) earned him the moniker that (i hoped) would haunt him for a lifetime (if one had 0.001 percent perception of people around one, they would give him this same label).
i said, "i go to school in ohio."
dylan the almost douchebag (i should mention he was wearing a white shirt with the collar popped. hence the almost): "really? that is T-I-T-S."
(disclaimer: i usually giggle when someone refers to something as "the tits". as in, this is not the bomb, but the tits. i mean, it can't be overused, and it certainly cannot be used in all situations. but i've been known to respond positively. however, dylan the definite douchebag had SPELLED the word "tits". this was a step no mortal had taken before. in fact, when he threw that down, it took me a second to register what he had said. what must have looked like my lack of spelling ability to him was in fact my lack of understanding that someone like this actually existed. and that someone like this, in all his popped-collar, tit-spelling glory, was from the state i like to call my home. so.)
me: (pause, like ARE YOU SERIOUS?)
dylan the incredibly evident douchebag: you can spell, right? HAHA! here, cheers with me!
i "cheersed" with him, wincing. then he said,
"why are you here?"
me: "it's my 21st birthday."
dylan the extraordinary douchebag: "HEH. it's like...cool man. it's like, cool, you can already drink here for three years, so like..yeah man, cool..."
me: (pondering...i think he was trying to attest to the fact that alcohol consumption is legal in italy when one turns 18. i mean, i think. this guy had the concentration of a toddler on speed. serious.)
when i didn't say anything, he said:
"let me take a picture of you and your friends!"
i thought this would be okay. lizzy handed him her camera.
he took the picture.
a second after he took the picture, literally a second, i heard him mumble something to his friend, who obediently stepped between us and the camera. i saw a flash, i thought, "this can't be..."
but it was.
dylan the actually incredibly creepy douchebag had taken the liberty of thrusting the camera down the front of his pants and displaying the extent of his douchebaggery to the general (and unwilling, i might add) public. thanks dylan! i always wanted a reminder of my 21st, and i think this is the picture that just really clenches it.
while we were busy trying to avoid being sought out and potentially molested by dylan the possible-sexual-offender douchebag, he put his arm around lizzy and demanded that she kiss his cheek while he took a picture of them, MySpace style, because dylan the douchebag, as most douchebags do, clearly has a MySpace. when lizzy refused, he began a wonderful little chant: "this girl sucks! this girl sucks!"
dylan the obnoxiously deafening douchebag was now desperate. of course nobody at the bar caught onto his chant. what was this, a fucking red sox game? dylan the disgrunted douchebag looked around suddenly as if the extent of his douchebaggery had suddenly hit him like a fist in the forehead (my fist? proverbially...) the only thing dylan the douchebag could think of to do next was to return to the bar and order another gin and tonic or whatever 25-year-old fake-tanned male douchebags drink. we left to go sit outside. and that was the end of dylan the douchebag.

stay tuned for "dylan the douchebag and other stories: part two: 21 actual things i did on my 21st birthday" (and the models were unfortunately all a lie).