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?