Hello all,
Yeah, I changed my picture.......what's it to you? No, really though, the old picture was in Fuckhead's old apartment with the couch of ours that he gave away and all the DVD's that apparently weren't mine at all and I looked happy. So naturally, that needed to go.
I don't know if you heard this, but I think he's dead.....yeah I heard that too, interesting, isn't it? Fuck with me and you wind up dead. I didn't do it though.........but yeah, he's dead. Dead. Probably from being such a giant douche. I heard that happens to people. Douchebags and Fuckheads just BAM!- dead. It's like an epidemic or something. Can't say what did it, just happened. It was probably from sucking the life out of me...I can only assume. Dead. Straight up dead.
ANYWAYS, I'm sitting here at a Panera, wasting time between work and dance class, pretending to look for a new job, or look into grad school, but definitely not doing anything productive. I could tell you about all of the awkward compliments I've been getting in dance classes, but it's not a full story. I could tell you about the dates I've gone on with a farm boy engineer, but even though I am my mother's son, I'm not a gossip....... I could even tell you about how I am talking to said farm boy engineer right now on facebook while I manically rip out my crazy thick eyebrows, but I won't.
I just have one question for you: What are grape nuts? I had a bowl last night and it's driving me crazy. Grapes don't have nuts, they have seeds. So what the hell is that cereal.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
J(udgment) A(bstaining) G(uilt)
Hello all,
A couple of weeks ago I was sitting in a bar waiting for someone and was approached by a tall, thin, tan man. He had a very nice smile and asked me if he had seen me before. That line was just a little older than him; my guess is late 40’s, early 50’s. He asked if he could buy me a drink and when I said I wanted a Diet Coke I ‘m pretty sure I gave him a heart attack wondering if I was old enough to be there.
Through our conversation I learned that his name was Don, he was Lutheran, lived up in Lafayette, has a son and daughter, is a marathon runner, enjoyed Russian and German films, and was a JAG lawyer who recently became a judge for the armed forces. He also told many stories where he referenced his “wife”, who is a woman, he; I assumed that they stayed close friends after he came out. He even still wore his wedding ring. Soon after all of that I had to leave so I wished him a good night and said that I hoped to see him out.
The next weekend I saw Don out again, but he didn’t give me the same amount of attention because now I was not the only cute young thing in the bar. He was hitting on every 10 under 30 and ethnic twink that came in the door. By the end of the evening I saw him at a club with his arms draped around a little brown-skinned boy who rode Don’s hip like a bull rider.
Last weekend I was in the same bar around 8, it was not very crowded. The only people in the bar were over 50, waiting for the social tidal wave to bring in some eye candy so they could get home and in bed by 9. I was waiting for a date before we headed out on our actual plans and Don waked in again.
He chatted me up in the same fashion- foreign films, marathon running, son and daughter, but my eyes still fell upon his wedding ring, so I asked him why he still wore it.
Don: “I’m a happily married man…..haha, happily married.”
Me: “Uh, yeah………clearly.”
“No, no, it’s not like that.”
“Really. What’s it like then.”
“No, no you know? My wife is out of town and I wanted to come out. You’re judging me based something you don’t know. You don’t know what I’ve been doing.”
“No, I guess I don’t. For all I know you bought me a drink because you’re a very generous person. You ogle young muscle studs in hopes that you can be track buddies. You freak dance with ethnic twinks because….because…..well, you just must love having a good time and you can’t find any fun people in a straight bar.”
“Now, now. You’re judging me unfairly. I’m a judge and I hear people’s stories everyday and I’ve done nothing wrong. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“No, no I don’t. You’re probably right. You have a lot more people that are going to be affected by your choices. Wife, kids, that’s a lot. You don’t want to change their lives by your choices and it’s good that you’re not doing that now. I’ve been a cheater and I’ve been cheated on and I’m glad to see that what you’re doing here in this bar has no intention or potential of repercussions in you’re family life”
“This is my personal life, my PRIVATE LIFE and what I do is my choice. I got married because I love my wife and I do love her. When I was young it wasn’t as easy to be like this. It wasn’t like it is for you.”
“You know what? You’re right. I’m sorry that you didn’t have the foresight to be who you wanted to be. But you know what? I bet those older men in the corner didn’t have gay role models either, but there they are confident, happy, and gayer than a three dollar bill. But when you’re private, personal life comes into affect other people who are not your wife and kids, well that’s when it becomes a problem. What about all these guys you talk to? You don’t think that they aren’t getting mixed messages from that wedding ring? Yes, you have a family. So what. I don’t have much sympathy for a man who trolls the bars looking for a release from his wife. Being gay isn’t what’s going ruin you’re family’s lives, but lying to you them is.”
“Well, I feel like I’m being a little attacked.”
“Yes, yes you are being attacked.”
It was then that my date showed up and not a minute too soon. I kissed my date hello and when I turned around Don was gone. He not only left his seat, but he left the bar.
A couple of weeks ago I was sitting in a bar waiting for someone and was approached by a tall, thin, tan man. He had a very nice smile and asked me if he had seen me before. That line was just a little older than him; my guess is late 40’s, early 50’s. He asked if he could buy me a drink and when I said I wanted a Diet Coke I ‘m pretty sure I gave him a heart attack wondering if I was old enough to be there.
Through our conversation I learned that his name was Don, he was Lutheran, lived up in Lafayette, has a son and daughter, is a marathon runner, enjoyed Russian and German films, and was a JAG lawyer who recently became a judge for the armed forces. He also told many stories where he referenced his “wife”, who is a woman, he; I assumed that they stayed close friends after he came out. He even still wore his wedding ring. Soon after all of that I had to leave so I wished him a good night and said that I hoped to see him out.
The next weekend I saw Don out again, but he didn’t give me the same amount of attention because now I was not the only cute young thing in the bar. He was hitting on every 10 under 30 and ethnic twink that came in the door. By the end of the evening I saw him at a club with his arms draped around a little brown-skinned boy who rode Don’s hip like a bull rider.
Last weekend I was in the same bar around 8, it was not very crowded. The only people in the bar were over 50, waiting for the social tidal wave to bring in some eye candy so they could get home and in bed by 9. I was waiting for a date before we headed out on our actual plans and Don waked in again.
He chatted me up in the same fashion- foreign films, marathon running, son and daughter, but my eyes still fell upon his wedding ring, so I asked him why he still wore it.
Don: “I’m a happily married man…..haha, happily married.”
Me: “Uh, yeah………clearly.”
“No, no, it’s not like that.”
“Really. What’s it like then.”
“No, no you know? My wife is out of town and I wanted to come out. You’re judging me based something you don’t know. You don’t know what I’ve been doing.”
“No, I guess I don’t. For all I know you bought me a drink because you’re a very generous person. You ogle young muscle studs in hopes that you can be track buddies. You freak dance with ethnic twinks because….because…..well, you just must love having a good time and you can’t find any fun people in a straight bar.”
“Now, now. You’re judging me unfairly. I’m a judge and I hear people’s stories everyday and I’ve done nothing wrong. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“No, no I don’t. You’re probably right. You have a lot more people that are going to be affected by your choices. Wife, kids, that’s a lot. You don’t want to change their lives by your choices and it’s good that you’re not doing that now. I’ve been a cheater and I’ve been cheated on and I’m glad to see that what you’re doing here in this bar has no intention or potential of repercussions in you’re family life”
“This is my personal life, my PRIVATE LIFE and what I do is my choice. I got married because I love my wife and I do love her. When I was young it wasn’t as easy to be like this. It wasn’t like it is for you.”
“You know what? You’re right. I’m sorry that you didn’t have the foresight to be who you wanted to be. But you know what? I bet those older men in the corner didn’t have gay role models either, but there they are confident, happy, and gayer than a three dollar bill. But when you’re private, personal life comes into affect other people who are not your wife and kids, well that’s when it becomes a problem. What about all these guys you talk to? You don’t think that they aren’t getting mixed messages from that wedding ring? Yes, you have a family. So what. I don’t have much sympathy for a man who trolls the bars looking for a release from his wife. Being gay isn’t what’s going ruin you’re family’s lives, but lying to you them is.”
“Well, I feel like I’m being a little attacked.”
“Yes, yes you are being attacked.”
It was then that my date showed up and not a minute too soon. I kissed my date hello and when I turned around Don was gone. He not only left his seat, but he left the bar.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Riddler Part 2
Hello all,
Did my "date" with the Riddler go well?...........DID MY "DATE" WITH THE RIDDLER GO WELL???? Hmmmm.....how to answer that.
1. I got home at 10
2. The half hug at the end was the same type that I give my grandpa, whom I don't hug.
3. He tried setting me up with people he already knew, or that I am currently dating.
4. I ate my leftovers in the car on the way home.
5. We made no plans to ever see eachother again.
No. No, it did not go well. But in the light of day I got to see how his hair is a little thin, and at his age, it's not getting any thicker. Also, he was a very dry and uninviting person. If he had some flippant quality under all that dryness it could have been interesting but, no. He also told me to my face that he would never want to date anyone who lived with his parents.
Wha... Uh.... Oh..... I'm sorry, you mother fucker. When life bitch-slaps the shit out of you I hope that you have your parents for support. The hot ones are always a case. At least the ones with personalities try harder. Ug.
Did my "date" with the Riddler go well?...........DID MY "DATE" WITH THE RIDDLER GO WELL???? Hmmmm.....how to answer that.
1. I got home at 10
2. The half hug at the end was the same type that I give my grandpa, whom I don't hug.
3. He tried setting me up with people he already knew, or that I am currently dating.
4. I ate my leftovers in the car on the way home.
5. We made no plans to ever see eachother again.
No. No, it did not go well. But in the light of day I got to see how his hair is a little thin, and at his age, it's not getting any thicker. Also, he was a very dry and uninviting person. If he had some flippant quality under all that dryness it could have been interesting but, no. He also told me to my face that he would never want to date anyone who lived with his parents.
Wha... Uh.... Oh..... I'm sorry, you mother fucker. When life bitch-slaps the shit out of you I hope that you have your parents for support. The hot ones are always a case. At least the ones with personalities try harder. Ug.
The Riddler
Hello all,
I love dating. The anticipation, pretty new clothes, actually being interested in someone because you want to get laid, it’s what drams are made of.
I hate dating. The ambiguity, the body and man-scaping upkeep, wasting money to go out with someone who ends up being a bad kisser, it’s like waking up from a weird dream with the taste of last night’s dinner still in you mouth. I don’t care how good your grandma’s spaghetti is you don’t want that taste in your mouth come morning.
A week ago I was out with a friend and I saw a very cute guy at a casual restaurant downtown. He had an amazing body-arms the size of my thighs, a very handsome face, and cute silver glasses to boot. We smiled and stared, I left, but I came back to see if he was still there, and he was gone. Luckily enough when I was out for pride last weekend I saw him out and seized the opportunity to make an introduction.
He was out with friends and remembered me very well. As the evening went on one of his friends came into the foreground of the landscape and while the object of my affection was away I needed to get some things clear. The guy, who was not unlike me, cute, young looking, impeccably dressed, informed me that they were there together and it was their first outing. That was fine by me, so I went and told the guy that I would let him enjoy his evening with his twink and I would see him around.
He said that the twink was confused and this was not a date and he had been trying to shake him all night, asked for my phone number and kissed me on the cheek. I call this man the Riddler. The Riddler then told me that he hoped we could get together again without all of the drama, hugged and kissed me some more and left for the evening.
Later on in the week I called the Riddler to ask him out and he answered that he and his friend were just talking about me. I asked him out again and he said that I was very attractive and charming, but he had a birthday coming up and he usually didn’t date guys more than 5 years younger than him. I asked him out again and he said that I gave him a very great first impression. Yes, to the casual observer it may look like he was trying to brush me off nicely, but he was cute and I was persistent.
I asked him out again and he said dinner at 7.
Today is the day we’re going out and he texted me to inform me that he is wearing shorts. I find that very cute, we can coordinate, but not match. Thoughtful, no? I responded that I had already changed my outfit twice and I was looking forward to this evening. He said not to worry because this was not a date. (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
Mother Fucker says, “What?”
Let’s relay the facts:
1. I’m cute.
2. He’s cute.
3. He told me I’m cute.
4. I told him he’s cute.
5. We scheduled dinner together.
6. He informed me of the appropriate attire.
Bitches, that’s called a date!!!!!!!!
My friend (SSS) was right; the cute ones have all of this mental baggage and holdups and the nice ones……well, aren’t the cute ones. I told him that I was going to treat this like a night out with a guy that I’m interested in and he could call it whatever he wanted. All I can say is that I’m wearing cute underwear tonight and someone, except for me, doesn’t see it, I’m gonna be pissed!
Oh, and whenever there is a miscommunication (like, all the time) with the Riddler, he starts off the text with “Ha….”. Fair readers, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t “Ha” supposed to be directed towards something that’s funny? You know what’s not funny? A pathetic 36 year old dancing homo who didn’t find anyone 10 years ago to spend the rest of his life with and now he’s face down in a pint of Eddy’s Samoa girl scout ice cream while his partially judgmental and infinitely more desirable Scottie hides from the gurgling sounds from my stomach because I turned lactose intolerant 11 years ago when everything took a turn for the worse. Christ on a stick!
I’ll tell you how my non-date, but clearly a date-you S.O.B., goes later.
I love dating. The anticipation, pretty new clothes, actually being interested in someone because you want to get laid, it’s what drams are made of.
I hate dating. The ambiguity, the body and man-scaping upkeep, wasting money to go out with someone who ends up being a bad kisser, it’s like waking up from a weird dream with the taste of last night’s dinner still in you mouth. I don’t care how good your grandma’s spaghetti is you don’t want that taste in your mouth come morning.
A week ago I was out with a friend and I saw a very cute guy at a casual restaurant downtown. He had an amazing body-arms the size of my thighs, a very handsome face, and cute silver glasses to boot. We smiled and stared, I left, but I came back to see if he was still there, and he was gone. Luckily enough when I was out for pride last weekend I saw him out and seized the opportunity to make an introduction.
He was out with friends and remembered me very well. As the evening went on one of his friends came into the foreground of the landscape and while the object of my affection was away I needed to get some things clear. The guy, who was not unlike me, cute, young looking, impeccably dressed, informed me that they were there together and it was their first outing. That was fine by me, so I went and told the guy that I would let him enjoy his evening with his twink and I would see him around.
He said that the twink was confused and this was not a date and he had been trying to shake him all night, asked for my phone number and kissed me on the cheek. I call this man the Riddler. The Riddler then told me that he hoped we could get together again without all of the drama, hugged and kissed me some more and left for the evening.
Later on in the week I called the Riddler to ask him out and he answered that he and his friend were just talking about me. I asked him out again and he said that I was very attractive and charming, but he had a birthday coming up and he usually didn’t date guys more than 5 years younger than him. I asked him out again and he said that I gave him a very great first impression. Yes, to the casual observer it may look like he was trying to brush me off nicely, but he was cute and I was persistent.
I asked him out again and he said dinner at 7.
Today is the day we’re going out and he texted me to inform me that he is wearing shorts. I find that very cute, we can coordinate, but not match. Thoughtful, no? I responded that I had already changed my outfit twice and I was looking forward to this evening. He said not to worry because this was not a date. (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
Mother Fucker says, “What?”
Let’s relay the facts:
1. I’m cute.
2. He’s cute.
3. He told me I’m cute.
4. I told him he’s cute.
5. We scheduled dinner together.
6. He informed me of the appropriate attire.
Bitches, that’s called a date!!!!!!!!
My friend (SSS) was right; the cute ones have all of this mental baggage and holdups and the nice ones……well, aren’t the cute ones. I told him that I was going to treat this like a night out with a guy that I’m interested in and he could call it whatever he wanted. All I can say is that I’m wearing cute underwear tonight and someone, except for me, doesn’t see it, I’m gonna be pissed!
Oh, and whenever there is a miscommunication (like, all the time) with the Riddler, he starts off the text with “Ha….”. Fair readers, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t “Ha” supposed to be directed towards something that’s funny? You know what’s not funny? A pathetic 36 year old dancing homo who didn’t find anyone 10 years ago to spend the rest of his life with and now he’s face down in a pint of Eddy’s Samoa girl scout ice cream while his partially judgmental and infinitely more desirable Scottie hides from the gurgling sounds from my stomach because I turned lactose intolerant 11 years ago when everything took a turn for the worse. Christ on a stick!
I’ll tell you how my non-date, but clearly a date-you S.O.B., goes later.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Degrees of Awkward
Hello all,
Life has been pretty even lately, so I have had some difficulty thinking of blog worthy things. Luckily enough I keep a pen and paper around me at all times so can remember notable instances.
There has been a bit of boy drama, Fuckhead included-but not the center of, but I’ll say more about that when I get some perspective on the whole thing. I will say one thing about the pharmaceutical sales rep from the last entry; let’s call him Mr. Likes-Me-But, for 2 reasons: he really likes me, but I’m lukewarm about him and he REALLY admires my ASSets.
I’ve known him since January, we’ve gone out a few times, had non-sleeping sleepovers, but I can not remember his face. That’s a bad thing, right? I don’t know what it is, but for the life of me, his face is just a blank when I try to recall the evening’s happenings. Even worse when I do see his face I do know that I’m always let down with what I’ve been dealt with. In my head I have replaced his face with the face of half of this charming gay couple that comes into my store 2 or more times a week.
Mr. Likes-Me-But and the one half of this couple share many similar qualities, many of them being centered on being a gay version of Mr. Clean. Not my usual type, but it’s like trying on outfits; you really need to see it on to see if it’s going to work. Last week I decided to tell the Mr. Clean of the couple about my brain lapse and that when ever I think of Mr. Likes-Me-But’s face I see his instead. He was very flattered and perplexed. I have no idea why I told him this, I mean, he’s an attractive guy and all, but I thought it’d be funny-funnier than what it was.
The next day he came back into my store with his partner who resembles a very tan and good looking elf. They are quite a site, Mr. Clean and a very tan elf. Somehow it works.
The Elf: “So, Mr. Clean tells me that you can’t remember the face of the guy you’re seeing, so you picture Mr. Clean’s instead.”
Me: “……………………………….uh.” (awkward non-breathing silence)
The Elf: “That is so funny; we’re going to have to hook you up with one of our friends with a much more memorable face.”
I was finally able to breathe after he said this. I don’t steal guy’s boyfriends…..anymore. That all could have gone terribly bad, but they were very cool about it. I even gave Mr. Clean my number the next day so we all could hang out sometime soon.
That I would consider “Awkward Medium”, I receive a daily dose of “Awkward Mild” every day. For instance, Graham has been very particular about eating recently. If it’s too hot, the wrong time of day, or the wrong room he will not eat his food. The trick I have figured out is that if my parent’s dog, Spike, is around Graham will eat his food because Spike stares at him like a little starving match girl. Last week Spike pushed Graham out of the way and Spike ate his food. It’s no big deal, it’s just dog food. Dad found out and yelled at Spike, “You git on! Git! You’re just a chow hound! CHOW HOUND!! You know better than that!” Spike doesn’t know better than that, he’s a dog. Like many members of my family, he can still exist here without the most outstanding of SAT scores.
Another example of “Awkward Mild” occurred the same day as the “Chow Hound” incident. I was passing through the living room as my parents were channel surfing. Because of our new cable, this activity which used to take only 10 minutes can now replace a whole evening of actually watching an entire television program. For no reason what so ever my parents landed upon MTV and more specifically Paris Hilton’s My New BFF Season 2. After they had absorbed a few minutes, Mom looked at Dad and said, “I don’t know what they’re going to prove by petting that hungry tiger. I mean, how much can you learn by being with a tiger.” I was actually impressed by the observation until they proceeded to watch the entire episode.
Now I will tell you about the “Awkward Spicy”. It is uncomfortable, lingering, and you can’t wash the image out of your brain even if you try. I try to buy groceries we all can use, just so I feel like I’m contributing to the house, so last week I saw toilet paper on the list so I picked some up while I was out. I got the economy pack, it was so big, that as a promotion, they gave you a little travel size pouch of moist adult wipes. Now as much as I like feeling fresh, I’m not to the point in my life where I need moist toilets for my personal up keep. But apparently I knew someone who did. Mom!
I came home with my grocery gifts and after I put them away I presented my mom with an overly thoughtful gift.
“Here you go. I thought you could use these…….they were attached to the toilet paper……… You can use them at the fair or something…….You know, to stay fresh and what not.”
There is no appropriate way to present your mother with moist adult wipes. Could she use them? Yes. Should they be a gift from her son? No. As I was talking it was like the part of the Roadrunner cartoons when the coyote falls off the cliff and it takes forever until the little “pfff” as he hits the dust. Mom simply said, “Oh…. yes, mmm-hmm.” Super-duper, freakin’-fragin’ awkward.
Life has been pretty even lately, so I have had some difficulty thinking of blog worthy things. Luckily enough I keep a pen and paper around me at all times so can remember notable instances.
There has been a bit of boy drama, Fuckhead included-but not the center of, but I’ll say more about that when I get some perspective on the whole thing. I will say one thing about the pharmaceutical sales rep from the last entry; let’s call him Mr. Likes-Me-But, for 2 reasons: he really likes me, but I’m lukewarm about him and he REALLY admires my ASSets.
I’ve known him since January, we’ve gone out a few times, had non-sleeping sleepovers, but I can not remember his face. That’s a bad thing, right? I don’t know what it is, but for the life of me, his face is just a blank when I try to recall the evening’s happenings. Even worse when I do see his face I do know that I’m always let down with what I’ve been dealt with. In my head I have replaced his face with the face of half of this charming gay couple that comes into my store 2 or more times a week.
Mr. Likes-Me-But and the one half of this couple share many similar qualities, many of them being centered on being a gay version of Mr. Clean. Not my usual type, but it’s like trying on outfits; you really need to see it on to see if it’s going to work. Last week I decided to tell the Mr. Clean of the couple about my brain lapse and that when ever I think of Mr. Likes-Me-But’s face I see his instead. He was very flattered and perplexed. I have no idea why I told him this, I mean, he’s an attractive guy and all, but I thought it’d be funny-funnier than what it was.
The next day he came back into my store with his partner who resembles a very tan and good looking elf. They are quite a site, Mr. Clean and a very tan elf. Somehow it works.
The Elf: “So, Mr. Clean tells me that you can’t remember the face of the guy you’re seeing, so you picture Mr. Clean’s instead.”
Me: “……………………………….uh.” (awkward non-breathing silence)
The Elf: “That is so funny; we’re going to have to hook you up with one of our friends with a much more memorable face.”
I was finally able to breathe after he said this. I don’t steal guy’s boyfriends…..anymore. That all could have gone terribly bad, but they were very cool about it. I even gave Mr. Clean my number the next day so we all could hang out sometime soon.
That I would consider “Awkward Medium”, I receive a daily dose of “Awkward Mild” every day. For instance, Graham has been very particular about eating recently. If it’s too hot, the wrong time of day, or the wrong room he will not eat his food. The trick I have figured out is that if my parent’s dog, Spike, is around Graham will eat his food because Spike stares at him like a little starving match girl. Last week Spike pushed Graham out of the way and Spike ate his food. It’s no big deal, it’s just dog food. Dad found out and yelled at Spike, “You git on! Git! You’re just a chow hound! CHOW HOUND!! You know better than that!” Spike doesn’t know better than that, he’s a dog. Like many members of my family, he can still exist here without the most outstanding of SAT scores.
Another example of “Awkward Mild” occurred the same day as the “Chow Hound” incident. I was passing through the living room as my parents were channel surfing. Because of our new cable, this activity which used to take only 10 minutes can now replace a whole evening of actually watching an entire television program. For no reason what so ever my parents landed upon MTV and more specifically Paris Hilton’s My New BFF Season 2. After they had absorbed a few minutes, Mom looked at Dad and said, “I don’t know what they’re going to prove by petting that hungry tiger. I mean, how much can you learn by being with a tiger.” I was actually impressed by the observation until they proceeded to watch the entire episode.
Now I will tell you about the “Awkward Spicy”. It is uncomfortable, lingering, and you can’t wash the image out of your brain even if you try. I try to buy groceries we all can use, just so I feel like I’m contributing to the house, so last week I saw toilet paper on the list so I picked some up while I was out. I got the economy pack, it was so big, that as a promotion, they gave you a little travel size pouch of moist adult wipes. Now as much as I like feeling fresh, I’m not to the point in my life where I need moist toilets for my personal up keep. But apparently I knew someone who did. Mom!
I came home with my grocery gifts and after I put them away I presented my mom with an overly thoughtful gift.
“Here you go. I thought you could use these…….they were attached to the toilet paper……… You can use them at the fair or something…….You know, to stay fresh and what not.”
There is no appropriate way to present your mother with moist adult wipes. Could she use them? Yes. Should they be a gift from her son? No. As I was talking it was like the part of the Roadrunner cartoons when the coyote falls off the cliff and it takes forever until the little “pfff” as he hits the dust. Mom simply said, “Oh…. yes, mmm-hmm.” Super-duper, freakin’-fragin’ awkward.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Parlor Tricks
Hello all,
Sorry for the long break in between posts, I’ve been living life. Also, the whole ordeal with the letter has just been exhausting. He’s not sending it. He’s not going to send it and it drives me crazy. Every day I think about Fuckhead. I think about where he is, what he’s doing, what I’m doing now without him, and if he cares. He used to care. Does that all go away, all of those thoughts? I have to make myself not call or text him numerous times a day. Today, for instance, I was in World Market, a place where we always loved to go. He always loved frivolous crap you could live without, so that store is like an emotional mine field. I mean, he was going to send the letter; he even said he was sending it. Arg. I swear, all these thoughts are really troublesome to deal with; it’s all been a very sobering experience.
For instance, today my grandparents came over for dinner and while walking around the yard I had an an awkward conversation with Grandma.
Grandma: "How is Fuckhead?" (She said his actual name)
Me: "What?"
Grandma: "Fuckhead, your friend who lives in New York. I was just thinking about him and was wondering how he was doing."
Me: "I think he's dead."
Grandma: "Oh."
Me: "Yeah, I'm pretty sure he's dead, I think I heard that. I mean with swine flu and ramped crime, the odds are he's dead."
Grandma: "Well, I just wanted you to know that I was interested."
Me: "Oh no, that's fine, there's no need for interest. He's dead."
Grandma: "Well, alright."
Speaking of sobering experiences, I’ve been sober for almost 4 months! Yay! I know it may not sound like much, but it seems like a night and day experience. The world is brighter and much less complicated, it’s also way cheaper. We are in a recession, after all.
I’ve been in a wide range of “drinking” settings and have not even been tempted by a single drop. Honestly, the thought of drinking makes me want to vomit and now I have learned to deal with the crappy days with a deep breath instead of a big ol’ drink. When I would drink, I would get CRAZY, giving the illusion of having a good time, retrospectively, I think of how crappy outings probably were and I was just too ambitious of a drunk. Being sober is great. Now, if people are boring and parties suck, I can just leave and not worry about how I’ll get home or what was crammed down my pants by any number of fat, ugly, and desperate older gay gentlemen.
Between not drinking, becoming lactose intolerant, taking dance classes, adding Thera-Band training to my daily stretches, and not having another meal and a half after my parents go to bed, I am developing quite a hot little bod. This has resulted in me getting asked out by a pharmaceutical sales representative with shining white teeth, a lovely downtown apartment, and a brand new BMW. He’s a very popular and social guy, so when we go out we are always the focus of a big group of people. In my sobriety, things that I would normally take for granted become amazing parlor tricks that make me the most desirable gay in Indy.
I am obsessed with Jeopardy!, and the fun facts that obsess my thoughts are the perfect things to direct the tangent of a conversation away from underwear fetishes and toothy blow jobs. During the day, when I say these facts, people think they are mildly entertaining, but at night, surrounded by my adoring, drunken, limp-wristed fans, they think I am the smartest, 21 (WHAT? You can’t be 26) year old EVER. This makes me exponentially more desirable. Also, because of my new-found acuity, I have the ability to remember names, be polite without being slutty, and refuse advances from the “Uglies” that I would go home with because they got to me first.
Because of my ballet training and tense torso, I think symptomatic of my small bladder; I have actually received many compliments to my posture. How odd is that? Usually I would be slumped over the bar or propped up by a wall, but I actually have guys coming up to me and saying, “You have great posture! Mmm, that is so hot!” I mean that’s nice and all, but a little specifically peculiar. Subsequently, after I am hit on due to my posture, I tell them that I have been awarded this posture because I am a dancer (gay code for flexible slut) and I am yet again infinitely more desirable.
It’s interesting that having a clear, confident conversation with someone would be reason enough to be wanted, but it actually is. I feel sorry for all those tanned, over-processed twinks that can’t string a few enticing ideas together. Who knew that with how slutty and visual my peers are that these qualities would qualify as parlor tricks and elevate me from being just some young trick in a parlor?
Sorry for the long break in between posts, I’ve been living life. Also, the whole ordeal with the letter has just been exhausting. He’s not sending it. He’s not going to send it and it drives me crazy. Every day I think about Fuckhead. I think about where he is, what he’s doing, what I’m doing now without him, and if he cares. He used to care. Does that all go away, all of those thoughts? I have to make myself not call or text him numerous times a day. Today, for instance, I was in World Market, a place where we always loved to go. He always loved frivolous crap you could live without, so that store is like an emotional mine field. I mean, he was going to send the letter; he even said he was sending it. Arg. I swear, all these thoughts are really troublesome to deal with; it’s all been a very sobering experience.
For instance, today my grandparents came over for dinner and while walking around the yard I had an an awkward conversation with Grandma.
Grandma: "How is Fuckhead?" (She said his actual name)
Me: "What?"
Grandma: "Fuckhead, your friend who lives in New York. I was just thinking about him and was wondering how he was doing."
Me: "I think he's dead."
Grandma: "Oh."
Me: "Yeah, I'm pretty sure he's dead, I think I heard that. I mean with swine flu and ramped crime, the odds are he's dead."
Grandma: "Well, I just wanted you to know that I was interested."
Me: "Oh no, that's fine, there's no need for interest. He's dead."
Grandma: "Well, alright."
Speaking of sobering experiences, I’ve been sober for almost 4 months! Yay! I know it may not sound like much, but it seems like a night and day experience. The world is brighter and much less complicated, it’s also way cheaper. We are in a recession, after all.
I’ve been in a wide range of “drinking” settings and have not even been tempted by a single drop. Honestly, the thought of drinking makes me want to vomit and now I have learned to deal with the crappy days with a deep breath instead of a big ol’ drink. When I would drink, I would get CRAZY, giving the illusion of having a good time, retrospectively, I think of how crappy outings probably were and I was just too ambitious of a drunk. Being sober is great. Now, if people are boring and parties suck, I can just leave and not worry about how I’ll get home or what was crammed down my pants by any number of fat, ugly, and desperate older gay gentlemen.
Between not drinking, becoming lactose intolerant, taking dance classes, adding Thera-Band training to my daily stretches, and not having another meal and a half after my parents go to bed, I am developing quite a hot little bod. This has resulted in me getting asked out by a pharmaceutical sales representative with shining white teeth, a lovely downtown apartment, and a brand new BMW. He’s a very popular and social guy, so when we go out we are always the focus of a big group of people. In my sobriety, things that I would normally take for granted become amazing parlor tricks that make me the most desirable gay in Indy.
I am obsessed with Jeopardy!, and the fun facts that obsess my thoughts are the perfect things to direct the tangent of a conversation away from underwear fetishes and toothy blow jobs. During the day, when I say these facts, people think they are mildly entertaining, but at night, surrounded by my adoring, drunken, limp-wristed fans, they think I am the smartest, 21 (WHAT? You can’t be 26) year old EVER. This makes me exponentially more desirable. Also, because of my new-found acuity, I have the ability to remember names, be polite without being slutty, and refuse advances from the “Uglies” that I would go home with because they got to me first.
Because of my ballet training and tense torso, I think symptomatic of my small bladder; I have actually received many compliments to my posture. How odd is that? Usually I would be slumped over the bar or propped up by a wall, but I actually have guys coming up to me and saying, “You have great posture! Mmm, that is so hot!” I mean that’s nice and all, but a little specifically peculiar. Subsequently, after I am hit on due to my posture, I tell them that I have been awarded this posture because I am a dancer (gay code for flexible slut) and I am yet again infinitely more desirable.
It’s interesting that having a clear, confident conversation with someone would be reason enough to be wanted, but it actually is. I feel sorry for all those tanned, over-processed twinks that can’t string a few enticing ideas together. Who knew that with how slutty and visual my peers are that these qualities would qualify as parlor tricks and elevate me from being just some young trick in a parlor?
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