Seth Baumgartner's Love Manifesto Read Online Free

radio properly, my cell phone chimes.
    I glance at the text.
    Dimitri.
    It says: You are soooo beautiful, baby boy!

CHAPTER FOUR
    W hump!
    Dimitri’s driver scoops into the tee box and sends a divot flopping through the air like a giant end-over-end loogie. His ball sizzles across the ground, skitters over the women’s tee box, and trickles down into the deep grass.
    â€œMuffed it again!”
    â€œKeep your head down,” I say. “I’ll watch where the ball goes.”
    Dimitri shovels seed from the plastic bin and sprinkles it over the foot-long trench he carved with his club. “At least it’s not a D.O.”
    D.O. stands for “Dick Out.” It’s an unwritten rule that if you don’t hit your ball past the ladies’ tee, you have to unzip your shorts and hit your next shot with your wanger swinging in the breeze. Even though I’ve seen plenty of shots go short, I’ve never known anyone who’s actually unzipped.
    â€œStinks about your job,” Dimitri says, stroking his lame attempt at a goatee. He’s been experimenting with his facial hair for months. Every time I see him, he’s sporting something different. “You should work here at the club with me. Audrey got a job here this spring, and she loves it.”
    Audrey is Dimitri’s sister. She’s two years younger than us, just going into sophomore year. She’s bony, all angles, like someone drew her with a protractor and a sharp pencil. And annoying as anything. Constantly butting in.
    â€œEmployees play free on Mondays,” Dimitri adds. “And Audrey works in catering. That means free grub, too.”
    â€œI already do play for nothing,” I say. “My parents are members here. Anyhow, I used to get all the free Belgian fries I wanted. After two days, I was sick of every sauce on the menu.”
    â€œCome on. How many freakin’ fries can you eat? I’m talking burgers, dogs, wings—the whole enchilada.”
    â€œEnchiladas? I hate Mexican.”
    â€œYou know what I mean.”
    Dimitri is not what I’d call fat, but he’s definitely carrying around some spare pounds. Let’s just say that if there were a sudden famine, he wouldn’t be the first to go—that is, unless all the skinny people got together and ate him.
    I tee up my ball. “There’s no way I’m working at the club.”
    â€œWhy? Too good for it or something?”
    â€œIt’s not that. Shut up while I hit.” I waggle my club head a few times, draw it back, and swing.
    Ping!
    There are few sounds more satisfying than the ping of a golf ball as it rockets off the face of a steel-headed driver. Although the sound is perfect, my shot sucks nuts. My ball goes hard right and punches through the leaves of some low-hanging branches. “Did you see where it went?” I ask.
    â€œIt ain’t on the fairway. I can tell you that.”
    We grab our bags and make our way to Dimitri’s ball. “So what’s the deal?” he asks. “What’s wrong with working at the club?”
    â€œFirst of all, I need to start my college apps.”
    â€œHow much time could you possibly spend on that? Crank out an essay about how you’ve overcome some tragedy. Make up something about how you were in a bad car accident and learned that life is precious. No biggie. What’s the second reason?”
    â€œI want to work on my podcasting this summer.”
    â€œPodcasting?” Dimitri says.
    â€œYeah. If I want to have any shot at getting on the radio in college, I’ve got to work out all my kinks. I got a new soundboard last week. That same guy at my mom’s station—the sound engineer I told you about—gave me his old one. Once I learn to use it, I’ll be able to put together a decent-quality show.”
    â€œCome on, Seth. Podcasting is for geeks, wannabes, and never-haves. Podcasting isn’t going to get you