It’s been a rough November, folks. Highlights include second-round prelims, GRE subject exams, failed immune systems, stalled health care legislation and Mayan prophecies of doom. And to top it all off: boy drama.

I’ve dated exactly once in my life. Risa and I were sworn enemies in the second and third grade, but our unadulterated hatred eventually settled into a life-long friendship. In sixth grade, I asked her out on the set of “Happy Valley High,” a cheap, g-rated, made-for-middle-school version of “Grease.” Our first date consisted of pizza in the back of the auditorium one Saturday afternoon. We broke up a few hours later.

I was closeted throughout high school, so sexual encounters began in college. If you’re not super religious or from the state of Utah, your undergraduate years typically prove the best time to handle this important step in a gay man’s life.

It begins with confessions to some choice freshman hall mates. Next, an awkward bit of floor-cest gets leaked to the public at large. And then a subtle change of Facebook info. seals the deal for all the friends back home.

Once out of the closet, the Fairy-Fairy (get it?) arrives one night with a welcome package. Inside you find herbal tea, scented soaps, a gay-dar device and lube. You fire up the device and immediately identify hundreds of candidate boyfriends. The device describes their personalities based on 29 dimensions of compatibility and soon you’re in a healthy college relationship.

Except that’s not how it works. If he’s easy to spot, he’s a flamer. If his signals confuse you, he himself is confused and popping the question just bought him five more years of therapy. And if he’s comfortably out, sane and handsome then he’s in a rock-solid relationship that will probably last until graduation.

Lucky for me, I have many friends who love to play matchmaker. They name the one other gay guy they know, tell you “you guys are like a perfect match,” and then the blind date ensues. On a Friday night sophomore year, I found myself answering a phone call an hour after one of these planned dates was supposed to commence.

“I’m sorry, but our frat just got this new dog and he’s so adorable. I’ve been playing with him for the last three hours.”

I really wish I were kidding.

When left to my own devices, things are not much better. I approach guy. Guy seems clearly uninterested. I persist.

“Would you like to hear a joke?”

“Not really.”

“Kay ... So why was Heisenberg’s wife unsatisfied with their sex life?”

“Oh God, please no.”

“Because when he had the time, he didn’t have the energy. And when he had the position, he didn’t have the momentum!”

“I’m going to get another beer ...”

Like many modern straight people, I have subscribed to a “try before you buy” philosophy. Blame it on problems with emotional intimacy, or new-fangled values, or whatever. An enjoyable experience usually spawns multiple encounters, but I’ve never really “made a connection” with this sort of activity.

One such affair took place a few weekends ago. He was a triple threat: out, sane and handsome. Please don’t mock my standards; we’re dealing with five percent of the male population here. He’d just come out of the closet — poised to settle into a stable, diatomic state. And halfway through the dirty deed I realized this could spell relationship for me.

Play it cool, Salem, said I. Don’t say anything you’re going to regret.

“You know, this sort of feels right.”

Goddammit! You idiot! What was that!?

When you’ve spent adolescence in the closet, you learn life lessons a bit late. One of those life lessons is how to handle the follow up to a hook-up. My girlfriends were in wide agreement on this one: send one signal — just one — and let it be. If he responds, great. If not, don’t do anything stupid, like trying again.

I Faceboo-friended him. Julie told me that was my signal, but I decided it didn’t really count, since it took him a week to confirm. A deft young Casanova might conclude that was a “hi, I don’t want to completely embarrass you, but I’m just not that into you” move. But I tend to over-think things. I concluded that the boy must not use Facebook very often, so I’d try another technology. If this is beginning to sound like a clichéd romance movie …

So I texted him a weekend ago. But I noticed that the text message had a funny arrow next to the letter symbol, whereas all the others had a check mark. Deborah told me he probably got it, and that the check mark was just an idiosyncrasy of my phone. But I decided to re-send the message, just in case. I Googled the symbol thing the next day and Deborah was right — it just meant he had a non-Verizon phone. Epic fail.

So I talked to Leigha. You wouldn’t know it from her columns (“I think Cornellians are all dumbasses!”), but Leigha is quite an optimist. Plus, I might have left out a detail or two on the whole text message debacle. Whatever the case, Leigha said to call him, because “Phone calls are more personal.”

“Now?” I asked.

“No silly, it’s late. Try tomorrow.”

So the next day between classes I gave him a call. No answer. Reeva told me that when this occurs, it usually means he’s not interested. Reeva had also advocated giving up after the Facebook friending fiasco. But I left a voicemail. An awkward, pathetic voicemail. No reply.

“Sorry babe,” said Reeva. “We live in a mean, cold place.”

On Halloween people’s costumes are secretly telling you their life goals. For instance, look outside Johnny O’s that night and you'll find a gaggle of playboy bunnies and Gordon Geckos. This Halloween I was straight. I wore track shorts and a free tee-shirt from O-week.

And that’s my solution to life: become straight. There are so many fabulous women in my life, and at least three of them have told me that they’d date me in a heartbeat if I were straight.

“You’re so romantic,” said Kristine, as we sat on the roof of an undisclosed academic building with a bottle of hard cider at sunset. “I would so date you.”

So I’ve bought flashcards and filled them with sports trivia, and I’m training myself to enjoy Keystone. This is going to work. I swear. Watch out world, Idina Menzel has left the iPod …

Munier Salem is a former Sun Assistant Design Editor and founded the Science section. He is a senior in the College of Engineering. He may be reached at msalem@cornellsun.com. Critical Mass appears alternate Mondays this semester.