One average Saturday a couple of weeks ago I got a text from a friend saying that he got me in the mail. What? For one, I was 100 percent positive I was not in his mailbox at any point in the day, or my life, for that matter. For two, I highly doubt that being in a mailbox is physically possible, that is, unless you’re an 11 year old Chinese gymnast. He then verified it for me via picture message, and there I was, smiling back up at myself.

Shocked at the discovery, I brushed it off as a mere figment of my imagination, but over the next week at school I had countless people come up to me and tell me that I was in their mailboxes too.

The location patterns didn’t even make sense: how could I be in Shakopee, Minneapolis, Edina, and Eden Prairie at the same time? I vaguely wondered if I was capable of such Jack Frost-esque feats in NREM sleep…

Later I came to find out that all these people were telling me the truth. There are thousands of little 4X6 size doppelgangers of mine running around the Metro area and appearing in people’s mailboxes. I guess they inherited some of my ninja skills.

Now I see myself as a girl with superpowers, to be used only for good, which the little guys are merely a manifestation of, since they’ve only just recently matured within the last two years: the power of persuasion.

I have yet to get myself in the mail, but I think that would violate some space-time continuum law or other. I’m content to let my comrades in arms continue their admirable mission to Raise the Red without my interference; I trust that they’ll do well.

But all good things must come to an end.  Drake and I were over sooner than we had began.  Text messages and wall posts slowed down, and I found that this was because he would rather be having these conversations with my best friend, Morgan.

Leading up to the Olympics, I just shrugged this glorious series of events off. At first I kept up this “oh, I don’t really care… I’ll just watch the figure skating” persona, sleeping through the opening ceremony.

However, somewhere between men’s moguls and the men’s first short track speed skating final, I had a change of heart. In fact, I became seriously addicted.

By the end, I’m pretty sure I had seen every pivotal or memorable moment in these games. Ohno winning silver due to the Koreans wiping out in speed-skating? Saw it live. The Canadians winning their first gold on home soil? Saw it. The American four-man bobsled team winning gold? Saw it. I had Olympic-cred. I could come to school and talk about any event, any day–an impressive accomplishment that I was quite proud of.

Watching the Olympics inspires us all to become athletes competing in cool sports for a chance at gold and glory (even bronze would do). My sport of choice? Figure skating. Admittedly, there may have been times that I tried to pull off a triple-axel in my living room, or planned my routine and picked my music for the 2014 games. (By the way, triple-axel in the living room… probably not the best idea. I had pretended to be a gymnast during the 1996 summer games and ended up with broken bones).

Looking back, I realize that the winter Olympics are indeed the best: a nice highlight in the middle of a dreary month. I realized this desperation and boredom as even Apolo Ohno and his soul patch and buck teeth were beginning to seem quite attractive (at least he doesn’t wear feathers– there is a reported obsession with figure skater Evan Lysacek among sophomore girls).

Wow, I may need to get a life. Maybe it’s good the Olympics are ending. I have to say, I may have gotten a little teary-eyed as NBC replayed memorable moments from the games to the “Remember the Titans” soundtrack on the final night. But until the next Olympics, I will hold on to these precious memories and train for my big break as a figure skater, with the Olympic march and NBC promotional music forever playing in my heart.

“hey…I’m supr bord…I hate skool.”

I live for this garbage. Call it an addiction, call it stupid, call it the truth.

Text messages continue to be the only things keeping my overly inflated ego so voluminous.

I got my ACT score back today, and I am a bit ashamed to admit it. Twenty-seven is a cool number if you’re a dead rock star, but that’s about it. Whenever I feel down about something like this, I cheer myself up by poring over my contacts list, which is sorted as follows.

Group 1) I contact these people on the rare occasions when I’m in a good mood. It’s made up of my two best friends, that’s it.

Group 2) For a day that’s just alright I text it up with some of my less intelligible friends.

Group 3) Most days I spend in communication with these people, it’s meant for every school day of the week.

Group 4) When I flunk three tests in a row, it’s time for me to dig up these numbers. It’s small group that’s made up of acquaintances from out of state and the occasional desperate freshman.

With such a vast array of possibilities I have a texting buddy to suit my every daily need, whether I did well on a test or got in an argument, it will all be reflected in who I decide to text.

The smiley-faced “skool” misspeller is a friend of a friend of a friend who lives half-way across the country and is (the best part) an under-educated tenth grade girl. Needless to say, I only talk to her when I need to get some real self-loathing out of the way.

This girl is a real winner. Most of our conversations involve the use of the word “hey” roughly twenty times, and I can text her from a time zone away. I pray that (for her feelings) she understands the type of relationship we have. I take her over-zealous congeniality and turn it into some kind of protein that codes for my innate ability to bounce moods back and forth.

Homework piling up? Winter got you down? I will give you this girl’s number. If you’re really stressed, call her. In fact I can see the advertisement for this type of service already.

A young man sits down to write his college dissertation. He freezes rock solid in the limbo of writers block, but no worries! He just pulls out his phone and (for a small fee) is consulted by one of my many under-paid operators. They hand-pick the person right for his situation…and…BANG! He’s right on the line with some toothless redneck who only knows how to read the differences on beer cans.

So here i am, sitting in my yellow pajamas, catching up with a dozen things all at once. What’s the only thing that makes it tolerable? A girl––texting my pain away.

Sleepovers with my best friend soon became invitations to sleepovers with my best friend…and her boyfriend. Dancing with my best friend at Holiday Ball became dancing with my best friend…and her boyfriend. Don’t get me wrong, the boy is cool, but it’s that ‘if I’m with her in the hallway and he comes near I start walking faster so that I don’t have to walk with them’ type of cool.

After I got used to the thought of these two together, I realized that maybe third-wheeling could have its perks…and maybe I could have a little fun. I’ve discovered that the best of these perks is the ability to test peoples’ infidelity from a distance. Really, I’m doing her a favor too, because I’ve come to learn that he is undoubtedly faithful to her. This knowledge came to me after countless attempts to jokingly hit on him (or attempt to grind with him), and his response by either staring straightfaced at me or just walking away.

Somewhere along the way of seeing them makeout in front of me and being bailed on Friday night after Friday night, I learned a lot about the refined craft that is third-wheeling. Part of me wishes that I could be single forever so that I could master it.

Robby Sutherland
When little kids learn to ride a bike, they start with training wheels. These three wheels allow children to learn the art of balance so they can learn how to ride freely with just two wheels. I believe the same goes for relationships.

In every early relationship, there is a third wheel. Tricycles have them, little kids need them, I’m one of them. I’ve been a part of “balancing” out three relationships so far. Two of which are still going strong. The obvious thought is to think “I am never going to be ‘that guy’”. Well you will and let me prepare you with possible situations.

This holiday ball is a prime example in my early years of third wheeling. I love after parties… even if it involves me being with three other couples. Alone. That’s right, I was the seventh wheel and I’m proud of it.

Also, pre-homecoming this year was, in my opinion, my greatest masterpiece. Not only did I take pictures with only my friend and his girlfriend (strike one) but I felt obligated to be in at least one picture with them (strike two). My clutch performance included me sitting on my friends lap and resting my feet on his dates dress. Strike three, I’m out.

However, being a third wheel is not always fun. Be prepared for the infamous time when your friend wants you to be his wingman and hangout with him and his girlfriend the night it was supposed to be just you two. Don’t get me wrong, I like my friend’s girlfriends. However, when a guys night turns into a date in disguise, that’s where I draw the line.

After about five minutes, a rather corpulent woman walked into the room, sat down, and pulled out her knitting. A couple of minutes later, I was startled by something that sounded similar to a werewolf with a hairball. I looked up, unaware that there was a full moon tonight, only to find that it was not a werewolf, but the corpulent woman. She had been clearing her throat––something she continued to do every thirty seconds.

All this time there is a woman who paces back and forth behind me until she finally grabs a chair, pulls it out, sits down and begins to interrogate me. She demanded answers to questions such as why I was here, accusing me of getting into an accident when the reality was that I only needed an oil change.

She then asked me how long I had been driving, and the conversation then turned to how old I was — the lady, assuming I was nineteen, was surprised to hear that I hadn’t even had my license for a year. After a momentary spaz attack she began showering me with compliments. “Oh, well I thought you were at least nineteen – you are the prettiest girl I have ever met – you’re just gorgeous,” she said.

Stunned by the all around awkwardness of this situation, I sat there in silence. The knitting werewolf cleared her throat quickly three times in rapid succession.

After that she proceeded to argue with a salesman about the price offered for her car. After five minutes of heated argument she finally settled for $500. Expecting her to leave I continued working on my homework, when suddenly she turned to me and began to complain about her unsatisfactory transaction.

“Those people are just so stingy, all they care about is their money. In fact I bought the car from these people — I knew this guy because I was dating his niece…anyway I just had to do it — I’m in a hurry to move to a different state,” she said. Then suddenly she shoved her chair back and started smelling her shirt. “I’m sorry, I smell really bad,” she said. Then she picked up her stuff and left.

Well I’m not exactly sure what to make of the encounter. I don’t know if she was hitting on me or just trying to find a new look so that the authorities can’t find her in her new life in her new state. The one thing that I learned is to never get your oil changed at night––you don’t know what lurks in the depths of the service station, whether it be werewolves or a crazy fugitive woman.

Back then, Valentine’s Day was a time one looked forward to, and with good reason. Free chocolate, all of your classmates giving you cards telling you how much they liked you and, if you were lucky, a slightly bigger and less generic valentine from someone of the opposite sex.

Every year I scoured through the Disney Princess cards given by the girls, the Star Wars ones given by the boys, the Dove chocolates and boxes of heart-shaped candy to try to find one specific card which was never there. Throughout my tenure as a pre-school student I unsuccessfully vied for the affections of a certain little French girl whose name escapes me at the moment.

She was the picture of pre-school perfection. Blond hair, a cute little accent, and, best of all, she seemed strangely devoid of cooties. It was love at its purest form: one creepy pre-schooler admiring a classmate from afar. I spoke to her from time to time, but I never mustered up the courage to ask her out for a play date or to go get some apple slices with me.

At the ripe age of four or five, my understanding of women was even more rudimentary than it is now, and due to this fact, I was optimistic and thought that maybe I could win her over by just being myself (this was probably a result of early exposure to 80s teen romantic comedies).

I let her win at duck duck goose, I rode my trike next to her as often as possible, I even shared my dessert with her (for the record, food sharing was strictly prohibited at the time). Still, nothing worked. Never was my failure to woo her more obvious, however, than on Valentine’s Day. All I got from her was a roll of Pez and the same Eiffel Tower valentine that everybody else got. If it were not for the copious amounts of candy that I could eat my feelings into every year, I may have gone mad. Too many sweets may be a leading cause for childhood obesity, but it’s also a great way to alleviate pre-pubescent depression.

Undeterred by the lack of reciprocation in our relationship, I pressed forward hoping that things would take a turn for the better in my love life. Eventually I turned to the advice of a fellow pre-schooler who was just slightly more lady-savvy than I. “I know what you should do! Make her a mud pie! Girls love it when you make things for them.” Somehow I doubted it. At this innocent time in my life, I wasn’t aware of the French people’s fascination with dirt, and maybe if I had been, things would have ended differently than they did.

After the last Valentine’s Day I ever spent in pre-school, she moved back to France. My five-year-old heart was broken. But at least back then I had hope. And candy.

“Morp” students at Anoka high school were subjected to this concept junior year. Morp (being the back-words translation of prom) was best explained to me by my cousin when I was nine, “when a girl asks a guy to go to a school dance.” It sounds simple enough, but to me this idea was as foreign as astrophycisism. I could not possibly fathom this concept, that is until last week.

“I know who’s asking you to holiday ball!”

“Who?”

“I can’t tell!”

Little did she know it, but the person who teased me with this information caused me eight sleepless nights. At first I figured this to be false, but as time went on it became more and more apparent that my paranoia was valid.

Pancakes. Innocuous. Pancakes with “HB?” written on them with chocolate chips. Well that couldn’t be. I ate them quickly, and even though I was overjoyed to be asked, I felt that it gave up just a bit of my dignity as a man. More-so than my Uggs.

Is it common for a girlfriend to propose to her man? Surely not, but it has been done, leading to much un-success.

So would a girl asking a guy to a dance throw off their whole relationship? Possibly. I’m pretty feminine as it is so I can imagine what a macho man might feel like if a girl asked him to Sadie Hawkins.

After pondering this for several hours I discovered something. Holiday Ball is a chance for the girls of our school to strike the kind of fear into us that they feel twice a year at homecoming and prom.

I now have a lot more respect for the kind of things the girls at our school go through. Going through high schools easy, going through it paranoid as hell is something entirely different.

Now, to be fair, I myself have never personally used the social networking game, but I have witnessed as many of my friends have been sucked in by the––as far as I can tell––pointless and completely idiotic game. They spend their valuable time harvesting cyber-vegetables and cyber-trees. If they make enough cyber-money, eventually they can buy some cyber-horses and maybe a cyber-cow or two.

From what I have observed, the game obviously has an addictive quality: participants will go on every few hours (or minutes for the hopelessly obsessed) to see if their crop is any closer to being “100%” harvestable. It’s all just a way for Facebook to ensure that its users will log on more often.

Nevertheless, FarmVille has exploded with great success on the scene. As of November, it had over 60 million users, and it’s only been around since June. Users can invite their real-life friends to become their online neighbors; they can even help each other water their crops or shoo pesky gophers out of each other’s farms. It’s some really exciting stuff.

Like I said, I don’t understand FarmVille–or the appeal it holds for teenagers and adults–but I will say this: at least it’s a game that does’t reward people for shooting someone. Maybe, FarmVille will single-handedly turn America’s youth into a nurturing, nature-loving generation. Or maybe not.