Editor’s note: The following is a continuing journal of a fictional college student. It is intended to be a humorous and enjoyable feature about an average Joe. It runs weekly, on Fridays. Though written by Iowa State’s own Scott Jacobson, a Daily staff writer, people, places and events detailed below are not analogous to a real student.

October 16, 1998

So there I was, inhaling a gyro on Welch Avenue Saturday night when Eddie’s cousin Walt stumbled up, grabbed my butt, spilled his chili dog on my shirt and kissed my forehead.

And people say guys can’t show affection.

Walt was up for Homecoming and had been looking for Eddie and I since Thursday afternoon. After a few minutes of mumbling about how he had slept under a lawn display one night and next to Lake LaVerne the next, he asked if I’d seen his girlfriend lately.

When I shrugged my shoulders in confusion, he said the last time he’d seen her was when they woke up Friday morning under the makeshift campanile. She had said she was going to Perkins for breakfast and was never seen again.

Then he asked me where my girlfriend was.

“Well, Walt, she broke up with me.”

“Awww, man, I’m sorry. When did this happen? Are you OK with it? Was there another guy involved? You gonna eat the rest of that gyro?”

As I forfeited the remnants of my late-night snack, I told him about that fateful weekend when Monica gave me the heave-ho. It’s been over a year since she threw me away like a parking ticket, so I’m pretty open with my feelings about the wench.

I told him about making the trip to Minneapolis to visit her and her parents to celebrate Thanksgiving as well as our nine-month anniversary. The family meal was delightful, her parents welcomed me with open arms and for the first time, I felt totally secure with a relationship.

Then as I was kissing her goodbye to seal an amazing weekend, she told me not to call her anymore or write her anymore or think about her anymore.

“Is something wrong?” I asked perceptively.

She told me it just wasn’t working out.

“Is it me?” I asked, knowing that the answer would pertain to it not being me, but it being her. She’s got things she has to work out. She’s confused. Stuff like that.

“Yes,” she said bluntly. “You’ve been a good boyfriend and all, but I’ve just come to realize that I don’t really like you in that way.”

Then I messed up. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I think when we started out, I had a crush on you. But then as time went on, I realized that I wasn’t really attracted to you.”

Nine months this revelation took — and I didn’t see it coming. That would be like nominating “Cop Rock” for an Emmy, then canceling it the day before awards night. It just didn’t make sense.

But it was over. And I haven’t called her or written to her since.

So there I was, exhausted from reliving the horror story, when I noticed that Walt was fast asleep on the bench near the gyro guy with tomatoes and white sauce smeared across his cheek.

He had camped out comfortably for a couple nights, he could survive the three-peat. So I went home.

When I told this story to Eddie and his cousin Chet, they decided that I need to reengage in the dating scene. When I went to grab a bite to eat, Chet had his living-in-sin girlfriend Sydney call up a friend from class and they set up a foursome for Saturday night’s Dazy Head Mazy show.

I found out about the date when I got home. I’ve never met this girl, I know nothing about this girl and I don’t know why I’m going out with this girl, but it’s a date.

I hate blind dates.

The way I see it, it’s an all-or-nothing thing.

If we like each other, we’re dating. If we don’t, it’s going to be a long night with an awkward ending.

And if I meet someone else at the show that I hit it off with, well, then the fit hits the shan and I’ve got two extremely hostile roommates.

But I’ll play along.

I’ll give her some of my funny fun. I’ll buy her some drinks, but not get her drunk. I’ll sing along to the Dazy Heads, but not enough to bug the hell out of her. And I’ll give her a quick kiss at the end of the night without looking like I’m trying to get some.

And if by chance we get along, I’ll ask her out again. And if, by some act of God, the second date goes well, I’ll try the budding-relationship thing.

But no matter how well it goes, I’m not eating Thanksgiving dinner with her folks or snuggling with her under a campus landmark made of chicken wire and paper mache.