You're Not One of Those Homeless Fags...

...yet. But when you wake up with a Pride hangover that is absolutely nothing to be proud about, you aren't even worried about your impending move nor the fact that you have no place to move. All you can think about is your Lovely Lady Mumps which are the lumps formerly known as Lymph Nodes. When you look in the mirror it's like you're just one giant Jabba the Neck. Even though you know your new beard is the only thing that is visually separating your chest from your chin, you decide to shave off your beard while you're taking a shower. Once the beard is gone you are both appalled and terrified. So you call your doctor for an emergency appointment, only to find out that he has retired and someone else has taken over his practice. Luckily she can fit you in before your movers show up.

Unfortunately, your new doctor seems more like an actor who only plays a doctor on TV. She giggles a lot. And plays with her hair. And she leaves her white coat open so you can see that she's probably spends more time shopping than she does prescribing. But she gives you a blood and urine test and writes you a few precautionary prescriptions since you're about to be homeless on Fire Guyland where the only doctors on the entire island are the ones who are self-medicating at Low Tea. Then you race home to finish packing your Home Sweet Hovel and meet the movers.

When you get back home you are kind of shocked to see that your Hobosexual Roommate has told his new victim (whoops, you meant roommate) that she can move in on the last day of your lease. While you are moving out. On the day before her lease begins. The whole situation is just so irritating and surreal that, when she begins to talk your ear off while you are frantically packing, you decide to actually tell her the truth when she asks you questions about the Hobosexual rather than sugar coating it. "He's filthy," quickly segues into, "He doesn't clean up after he manscapes," and before you know it, the conversation quickly dissolves into, "He doesn't use soap when he bathes." And with that your movers buzz your doorbell and you excuse yourself from the Hobosexual's new victim.

When the movers finally arrive in your Home Sweet Hovel, huffing and puffing from the six flights of stairs, they begin to freak out when they see the sorry ass state of your apartment. A vein in the Foreman's forehead actually begins to twitch as he looks around. However, the only thing the Ex-Con says to you, slowly and deliberately as if he's Dirty Harry, is "This was supposed to be a little move." And he says it in such a way that it seems like he might actually be considering murdering you just so he can go back to jail and not have to deal with carrying your shit down six flights of stairs. You quickly explain that, "Most of this crap is not mine," while glaring at the Hobosexual's New Victim who isn't paying any attention because she still seems to be stuck on her new living situation which is equally hopeless and soapless.

Since you and your Lovely Lady Mumps are extremely organized, your move actually goes rather quickly. And, since you're now officially homeless, once the Ex Cons finish loading their truck they just leave because, until your new place is ready for occupancy, all your shit will be kept in storage. Which means you actually have to pay for two moves plus one month of storage as you couch surf around Manhattan. Your first stop happens to be The Ex's apartment. Since he's in Los Angeles he has graciously offered up his apartment for you and your homeless tranny ass for the next three nights.

Between you, your roller bag, two back packs, a giant blue IKEA bag and a several bags full of groceries and frozen meat, your cheap ass decides that it's best to hail a cab. So you stand at the corner of Houston and Allen and you wait. And wait. And wait. During rush hour. With everything you own stuffed into Trader Joe's bags that are beginning to defrost and leak onto the busy summer sidewalk. You briefly consider hiking your baggy cargo shorts up and sticking your leg out into traffic with a sexy pose, but luckily a cab finally stops. After you load what's left of your life into the trunk, you explain to the cabbie (who not only doesn't speak a lick of English, but also is busy yapping away on a phone call which is obviously much more important than any of your directions) that you need to make two stops so you can first pick up The Ex's keys from a mutual friend's doorman.

Luckily everything works out and the keys are waiting for you so you hop back into the cab and head over to The Ex's brownstone apartment on a Sesame Street-esque, gorgeous tree-lined street in Chelsea. You swipe your credit card even though the Cabbie informs you that the machine is broken (funny how suddenly he speaks perfect English when his tip is involved), and you schlep your soggy groceries and various bags up the steps of the gorgeous brownstone. For a moment you feel like breaking into song and singing the theme to The Jeffersons', "Moving on Up!" until you attempt to put the key into the keyhole. Then suddenly it ain't nothin' but Good Times in the Projects, "Temporary lay offs! Good Times! Easy credit rip offs! Good Times!" That's when you look down at the keys and realize that they are for the old apartment that you and The Ex lived in together. The one he sold before he moved here. Two years ago. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who's Into Water Sports...

...but somehow during your quest for packing tape you wind up in the water sports section of K-mart. You immediately get sucked into all the fabulous kids toys which now seem so gay that you begin to wonder if they sell them at The Blue Store in Chelsea. Of course there's a trusty old Slip 'N Slide, but it's a very slippery slope after that. You're especially drawn to both the Disco and Rainbow Fountains. But think of the wonderful 8-some that you could have on Fire Guyland if you purchased the Octopus Fun Float for your pool? Anyway. Eventually some disgruntled employee directs you to the correct aisle where you finally find some packing tape and head over to Express check out which takes forever and seems to be making all local stops.

When you finally get back to your Home Sweet Hovel, you begin the daunting task of packing up your shit for your impending move. It's more than a bit distressing, however, because, although the movers are coming on Monday, not only is your new place not ready for you to move in, but nobody has any idea of when it will ever be ready. And the best part is that no one but you seems to care about your impending homelessness. Anyway. You choose an invigorating packing playlist on your iPhone and you sing along as you place everything you own into little Fresh Direct boxes that you've been hoarding like a hibernating Hampster ever since you decided to move. You are a packing fiend of the fudge packing variety (which means everything is packed extremely well).

Only, as you pack, you begin to wonder if you might be getting sick because your throat begins to feel swollen. Although it doesn't hurt, you can feel the glands around your neck as if you are not only a gay variety fruit, but a very ripe one at that. And when you go to the bathroom and get a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you are absolutely shocked. Even through your newly grown beard, you kind of look like a no-neck Barney Rubble. When he had the mumps. Of course your first thought is that you're dying. Of course. You always seem to be dying on a summer Saturday when all doctors are busy spending their hard earned co-pays on the golf course. All your recent whoring around has finally caught up to you and you are seroconverting from the neck down. You and your Lovely Lady Mumps will surely die homeless on the streets of New York (or perhaps a friend's uncomfortable, yet stylish couch), and you'll never get to enjoy the truly finer things in life, like decorating your new apartment. Nor will you ever know what it feels like to rule Eighth Avenue with a six-pack of washboard abs that you've always planned to locate some day beneath all of that Gay Fat that you've always intended to lose.

You do as much packing as you can handle, given your latest, dire prognosis, even though you know that tomorrow will be a lost day since it is Gay Pride and you and your Lovely Lady Mumps intend to be very proud. So you hop in the shower, neck first as your lymph nodes seem to be making all your Gland Entrances today, and you get ready to meet the BLC for some Pretoxication before a Pre-Pride Party. And honey, if you can somehow bring yourself to swallow, you definitely need a drink.

The Ritz is buzzing with lots of healthy-necked people, and your worst fears are realized when Half-Share asks, "What's wrong with you? You look awful." You explain about your mysteriously swollen jugular and after everybody touches your Lovely Lady Mumps they all have different diagnoses. Especially Fat Albert who assures you tenderly, "Of course you aren't seroconverting. You simply have some kind of aggressive throat cancer..."

Eventually you wind up at a friend-of-a-friend's Pre-Pride Party and you are Absolut(ly) thrilled to be self-medicating with some delicious Mandarin-flavored eliquzor. In fact you're feeling no pain as you're heading back to the bar until you find yourself literally bumping into a boy you dated last summer, but broke up with before Labor Day: White Pants. Although you have no hard feelings (actually you have no feelings at all) this boy is always so irritating and dramatic when you have the misfortune of running into him. At this point you'd much rather run over him, but you give him a big, dimpled smile and say, "Hey, how are you?" But White Pants is a TV reporter and he just stares at you so melodramatically that you feel like it's 9/11 and that your symmetrical neck lumps are the Twin Towers. There's this loooooooong, ridiculous pause which is so pregnant that you suddenly feel like you're at a Straight Pride party, and that's when White Pants eventually says, "I'm goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood," with about seven different syllables and five different irritating nuances. Then White Pants doesn't say another word. You briefly consider giving him a big infectious kiss on the lips, but ultimately decide that after all his weirdness, you have nothing more to say. So you just roll your eyes and head over to the bar where you, surprise-surprise, find a bunch of your closest friends. You quickly pour yourself a potent drink as you say a quick little prayer, "Are you there, Vodka? It's me, You!" Luckily Judy Blitz hears your plea and the Cranberry Sea parts so White Pants can model his summer wardrobe far away from you.

Unfortunately this is yet another party where everybody is just way too cute to commit to anything more than a schmoozy, yet vapid conversation, so you end up yapping with your friends all night. The highlight is when one of Half-Share's Fire Island housemates starts to bombard you with compliments like, "I used to hate you because you didn't have to have a real job, but now I'm very impressed with your blog. You're actually a very good writer." Even though it's been swollen shut for hours, somehow your jaw slackens and you are at a loss for words as the backhanded compliments start to pour in. "I actually liked you when we first met even though my boyfriend didn't at all. He thought you were shallow." Although you know that Backhand means well, it's perhaps the first time in your life that you are completely at a loss for words, so you actually just seek comfort in your Gay Cocktail as Backhand continues his barrage of friendly fire.

Eventually, when you can't take being on the Frontline anymore, Rice Queen rallies the troops and the Boy Luck Club hops into a cab and head downtown to the Meatpacking District for some dirty, Daniel Nardicio D-List Pride Party. Although the previously gay neighborhood has been overrun by Bridge & Tunnel Breeders, you are escorted from the street directly into a time-travelling elevator which quickly whisks you back to Village as it was during the sexual revolution of the '70s. Avec Meat, sans underwear. It becomes quickly obvious that you and your Lovely Lady Humps are no longer in Kansas. You actually see things that you've never seen before; even some things that you never wished to see. There's more Grade A meat in this building than back when they used to pack it here. Half of it is hanging out. Some of it's being sampled. Most of it is constantly being inspected. But all of it is completely shocking. In a good way. It makes the Fire Guyland Underwear Party seem more like a cute little Panty Party starring Doris Day. This party, however, features an entire cast of Whorish Gays. And you, of course, begin to make a Fruit Loop under the guise of looking for the bathroom. Only you never find the bathroom. Instead you wind up in some line which you assume is for the bathroom, only when you finally get a turn it's actually a pitch dark Janitor's Closet with no light and no window. As you pee in the dark you really, really hope that you're peeing in the sink and not on some dirty boy who has been rumored to be hiding amongst all the janitorial filth. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those "Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Sam" Type of Fags

...but that's pretty much how you left it with Baby Daddy after the whole "You want to fuck that Muscle Boy, don't you?" incident. Of course you ended up fucking that Muscle Boy, but even though you'd really like to date a funny boy, you kind of assumed that you'd be laughing with him, not at him. You and Baby Daddy texted back and forth a few times afterwards, but nothing ever came of it. In fact, Baby Daddy was the one who ultimately let the ball drop. Although you're not really sure why exactly he disappeared, you're definitely not worrying about it. Hell, it's summer and there are boys in Speedos to oggle!

Speaking of which, it's an absolutely gorgeous day so you and your BFF take the train to Jones Beach to work on your tan lines. And the boys are even more gorgeous than the weather. There's this one Hispanic boy in particular that has definitely caught your eye, and although your taste in men rarely overlaps, you and your BFF are literally about to wrestle over him. Luckily it's a moot point because the Hot Papi is there with his boyfriend and, get this, their two kids! Talk about a dick deflator. The kids, however, are extremely well behaved, and, you have to admit, it's pretty damn hot watching him be a Papi. You and your BFF spend the afternoon concocting an entire back-story for the two Gay Daddies. Since one of the boys is white and the other Latino, you decide that they must have each used the same white surrogate mother so that the boys are technically half-brothers. Your back-stories, of course, quickly morph into fantasies where the Hot Papi leaves his hubby after falling helplessly and hopelessly in love with either of you. Preferably you.

Both of you are still eyeing the Hot Papi when you are packing up your stuff to head back to the city, when suddenly, almost as if your fantasy has willed it to happen, Hot Papi walks over to you and says, "Hey, isn't your name [INSERT YOUR NAME HERE]?" and you are absolutely stunned because Hot Papi is right! You say, "Yeah," but it's obvious that you are confused and can't place him, even though you honestly can't imagine ever forgetting a face as sexy and handsome as his. However, Hot Papi goes on to explain that he met you at G the night you met Baby Daddy. You remember meeting a bunch of Baby Daddy's friends, but you were pretty hyper-focused on Baby Daddy that night so you cut yourself some slack for not remembering Hot Papi. You're also pretty sure that Hot Papi looks better in a skimpy Speedo than he did fully clothed that night at G. Anyway. You and Hot Papi quickly start yapping about Baby Daddy and so you ask how he's doing. Hot Papi informs you that Baby Daddy was actually supposed to be at the beach today, too, but that his daughter refused to go. You want to ask if all the Gay Daddies belong to some secret club but instead you say, "Tell Baby Daddy I said, 'Hi'," and Hot Papi promises you that he will indeed.

On the train back to the city, your BFF can't get over the fact that you had met the Hot Papi before and forgotten him, so he informs you that you have been disqualified, and he has won the the Hot Papi game of Fantasy Boyfriend by default. You reluctantly agree, but then decide to text Baby Daddy about the bizarre beach incident, just to see what will happen. You write, "You missed a beautiful day at the beach today. The weather wasn’t too bad either ;-)" and you get a response almost immediately, "I was supposed to go today but my daughter didn’t want to go. Next time I guess. Hope u had fun." Which is a lame blow-off and you know you should just let it go, but you decide to continue to taunt Baby Daddy with, "Your Hot Papi friend already told me. Too bad. It would’ve been nice to see you in a skimpy Speedo ;-) On my way back to the city now." He returns with a vague response full of zero questions, “LOL. Maybe go in a couple of weeks. Should be fun," so you decide to finally drop it. You really don't know why, but it's obvious that Baby Daddy is as just-not-that-into-you as you are just-not-that-into-him! But then you wind up receiving another post-blow-off text which really surprises you, but when you pull out your phone you realize that it's not actually from Baby Daddy. It's from the Portuguese Brazilian From London, who has, once again, commuted back to New York and is wondering if you'd like to get together tonight. Christ! Your Saturday night is starting to look like it's suddenly about to get redeemed.

Later on, after a few drinks at Duplex with the San Francisco Treat and Rice Queens I through III, you head up to Vlada to meet the Portuguese Brazilian From London. However, he's late, which is annoying since he picked the place and the time, but you kill some time yapping with Vlada's big bull dyke bouncer, aptly named Tonka until the Portuguese Brazilian From London shows up and, although it's been months since you've seen him, you quickly remember why you liked him so much. Hell, he's smart, funny and handsome! What's not to like? Oh yeah, the fact that he lives in London and has a New York boyfriend suddenly come to mind... However, the two of you end up having such a fun time flirting and chatting that you begin to get a bit melancholy. Why does it have to be so fucking hard to meet a great guy? And when you do finally meet one, why does he have to be so fucking unavailable? Your catches always turn out to be more like Catch 22's, and you almost decide to call it a night and head back to your Home-Sweet-Hovel to huddle over some Häagen-Sweet-Daz, but then something magical happens. The Portuguese Brazilian From London makes you laugh. The fact that he can make you giddy during your Pity Party ultimately pulls you out of your funk, and before you know it, the two of you are in a cab headed to your place.

You're a bit terrified that your Hobosexual roommate will be up watching Sex and the City reruns, but luckily the coast is clear and the two of you end up making your own lost episode of Sex in the City. You, of course, are playing Carrie, and, luckily, the Portuguese Brazilian From London, winds up playing a dual role of Mr. Big combined with dirty old Samantha. However, as soon as it's over, before you can even grab a Kleenex from the tissue box, the Portuguese Brazilian From London is literally pulling up his pants and tightening his belt. You feel ridiculous wiping cum off your chest while this man is, most likely, coming up with excuses to tell his New York boyfriend about why he's getting home so late. Even though the whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous, you walk the Portuguese Brazilian From London to the door, lock it, and then hop in the shower because you suddenly feel like that dirty old Kleenex you just used up and threw away. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Has Professional Headshots Taken for his Online Dating Profile...

...as if! Facebook-Schmacebook! When it comes to your blog, you don't even have a Face! But when Half-Share sends you a cute group photo from last weekend on Fire Guyland, you quickly crop out the entire group and post it on Connexion. You've found, for some unknown reason, that posting new photos seems to renew interest in your profile and attract new boys. And now that you've said, "Buh-Bye, Swedie Pi!" you could definitely use a new Milkshake to Bring All the Boys to the Yard. Even though you've got your fingers crossed for a New York Super Fudge Hunk, in the warming weather your Mojo definitely seems to be melting to the point where you'd happily take the Rocky Road and settle for something Half Baked. Moments after you post the cropped photo there's a knock on your bedroom door and you are surprised when your Hobosexual Roommate is standing there with an unidentified perky young girl who you've never even seen before. "I'm sorry," he lies. "I didn't know you'd be home so I scheduled a few potential roommates to come see your room." Although you want to say, If you wanted to know my schedule then maybe you could have... Oh I don't know? Asked? But you are moving out of the Home Sweet Hovel next month and the Hobosexual's next victim is smiling perkily and, although you know you should be screaming for her to, "Run Forrest! Ruuuuuuuuuun!!" you are also ruuuuuning late for an Out Magazine party to preview the Marc Ecko Summer Collection (yawn) but, more importantly, you are late for some free Three Olives Vodka!

While you're in the bathroom doing some vitally important last minute nose hair trimming, you can't help yourself from listening to the inane conversation going on in the living room of your Home Sweet Hovel. The trimmer buzzes away while buzz words like Fung Shui and Generational Discourse grab your attention to the point where you burst out laughing. Shouldn't the Perky Girl be asking more probing questions like, "Do you ever do your dishes?" or "What do you wipe yourself with during the weeks when you run out of toilet paper?" or possibly even a simple, "Do you ever use soap when you bathe?" But no! Instead these twentysomethings are yapping about the Fung Shui of a lumpy futon that was recently plagued by the Hobosexual's imaginary Bedbugs.

You escape and head over to Eighth Avenue & 17th Street in Chelsea to meet a bunch of your friends who have absolutely no idea why you told them to meet you at Marc Ecko, yet instantly dropped their interrogation when you said, "Free Vodka." Actually, you don't even know what this party is for! One of your Blah-Blah-Blog friends, the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy (aka NPBPB) was nice enough to forward you the invitation because he knows how partial you are to anything free and gay. You walk in off the avenue and when you find your friend Half-Share and you instantly know that something must be gravely wrong when you notice the grimace on his face. When he notices your deep concern, Half-Share shakes his head as he gives you the terrible news, "The vodka is either grape or cherry flavored." That's when Jet Blew takes a big gulp, finishing his glass before informing you expressionlessly, "It's absolutely vile."

Your friends, of course, ask you to pick them up some refills as race to the back of the store to get in the bar line so you can do your own taste test. That's when you recognize someone you know from the Ski Fags, and you quickly realize, now that it's warm and sunny outside, the two of you have absolutely nothing in common. So you wind up in one of those deep, "You look great! -- No, you look great!" Chelsea conversations until you feel an ominous tap on your shoulder. All the Ghosts of Your Dating Past start flashing through your head as you take a big breath of the grape and cherry scented air. However, when you turn around and see the Shoulder Tapper, you have absolutely no idea who the hell he is. Now, although you are terrible with names, you are pretty damn good with faces (unless of course you meet the Faces when you are drunk, which is mostly when you meet the Faces. Okay, okay. So you're terrible with names and faces.) But the Shoulder Tapper just stares at you for a loooooong moment with a big, shit eating grin on his Face. You, of course, don't say anything. You're pretty sure that you've never slept with him. Well, okay, possibly there's a slim fifty-fifty chance. So you smile, just in case. And that's when the Shoulder Tapper tells you his name (which does sound vaguely familiar, yet doesn't quite ring your Tinkerbell) and that's when he says, "You told me to say hi if I figured out who you were. So I'm saying hi this time." All you can do is gulp when he says, "I love your Blah-Blah-Blog."

You are absolutely stunned! You've been so diligent about remaining anonymous and are completely floored that the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy has somehow easily identified you from at least a hundred Chelsea Boys in what now feels like a Gay Police Line-Up (for the vodka bar, of course). Arrested doesn't even begin to describe the way you feel. Frozen is more like it. You are like a Deer caught in NPBPB's extremely natural-looking Highlights. And that's when he says, "Well, I've got to go now." And this twist in the conversation actually helps you untie the one in your tongue, "That's it? You're not even going to talk to me or ask me anything?" This is when NPBPB informs you exactly where you fall in his gay pecking order, "I've got tickets to see Patti Lupone in Gypsy tonight. Sorry." And with that, the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy disappears into the crowd, just as quickly as he appeared, and races off to his next Non-Party. Luckily, you have finally reached the bar and it is now your turn to order. And since you are a bit shaken from the Tap-and-Run outing, you tell the bartender (who you somehow recognize from G even though he has his shirt on) that you'd like one Cherry Soda and one Grape Soda, and you complete your own impartial taste test on your way back to your friends.

Half-Share and Jet Blew instantly see the look of horror on your face and they shake their heads in agreement while continuously sipping their flavored vodkas, "Isn't it absolutely vile?" But you explain that you've just been Outed! Half-Share quickly quips back, "Honey, did you really think people would think you were straight in that outfit?" "What?" you ask, "Is my T-shirt too tight?" To which Half-Share responds with a silent, yet dramatic eye-roll. You say, "Oh come on! It's more Straight-Tight than Gay-Tight." And then Half-Share says, "What do you expect when you shop from the Baby Gap clearance rack? But don't worry," he says. "It looks good on you." You laugh as Half-Share rolls his eyes again.

After a couple more trips to the bar, even though you have actually grown partial to the Welch's Wodka, your friends, who obviously have more mature palates (combined with more mature wallets), decide to go around the corner and head over to XES to pay for the privilege of not having to drink Cherry and Grape flavored Vodka. XES is absolutely packed to the gills with Sauced Sardines because they are apparently having a Genre Magazine party. You look around aimlessly for the Genre Gent you met over the winter (yet lost touch with), hoping you can, once again, hit him up for some freelance work. But the bar is way too crowded and you quickly give up your search when you run into your BFF and his co-worker, Pussy Galore, as they're ordering drinks at the bar.

At 8:30 Half-Share and Jet Blew decide to go grab a bite to eat at a restaurant you can't afford, so you all kiss goodbye and the next thing you know you are dancing on a platform, singing passionately along to the new Madonna vs. Justin Timberlake song as if you were the one who only had Four Minutes to save the world. That's when a Columbia Photographer from Colombia starts snapping his flash all around you. You, of course, camp it up for him as if he's your personal strobe light, and you are the Last Model Standing. Afterwards the Columbia Colombian actually says with a completely straight face, "I want to do a session with you." You instinctively roll your eyes and he says, "No, seriously! I need new shots for my website and I think you'd be perfect." You stare at him for a long time, waiting for Alan Funt to emerge from behind the wall and say, "You're on Candid Camera!" but he doesn't. After a beat or two you realize that the Columbia Colombian is being serious and not just feeding you a, for lack of a better word, line. You actually believe him when he says, "I just like your energy." And that's when you are immediately embarrassed by the situation which is simultaneously flattering yet equally objectifying to the point where you have no choice but to giggle and cover your mouth like a Japanese school girl wearing too much Hello Kitty. Although the Columbia Colombian is not typically your type, you find yourself drawn to his unexpected compliments in the form of a kiss. And it's absolutely amazing.

After what feels like a half hour, you look at your watch and feel like someone is playing a practical joke on you when you realize that it is now midnight and you have that awful realization that you still haven't had dinner. Although the Columbia Colombian asks you to come back to Astoria with him, you are feeling unsure. You tell him (and you actually believe yourself in the moment) that one night stands are no longer your thing. That's when the Columbia Colombian gives you his business card and says, with all seriousness, "I'm really serious about doing a photo shoot." You kiss him good night and put his card in your pocket. And when you wake up the next morning and find yourself thinking about the Columbia Colombian in some of your earliest hungover thoughts, you end up Facebooking him a message which says, "All right Mr. De Mille. Facebook is ready for my new close-up." Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Housewife Fags...

...anymore. But you used to be, and you were damn good at it! But after the Electile Dysfunction episode with Mr. Write, those good ol' days of making a home for someone you love seem even more elusive than ever. Sadness overtakes you after you say goodbye to Mr. Write and make your way to the subway. You're really kind of confused about the whole Mr. Write situation. His exuberant texts and abundant emails seem to be sending a completely opposite signal than his Bizarre Billary Behavior tonight. And you're still way too hung up over figuring out Blonde Beard's hasty retreat to put too much energy into figuring out Mr. Write's Mixed Messages. At least when things seemed promising in a rebound-ful way with Mr. Write it was a nice distraction to forget all about Blonde Beard. But honestly, when you really think about all this, none of it really matters. What matters is that you are still obviously, as Madonna would say, Hung Up over Blonde Beard ever since your Non-Breakup, and since then, "Time Goes By ... So Slowly." Especially when you're sober.

As you're descending the stairs into the 14th Street subway, you get a text which you are absolutely sure must be another Mixed (SMS) Message from Mr. Write, probably to apologize for choosing to have a nightcap with Billary instead of you. And even though this particular text message is barely decipherable, it's meaning is definitely crystal clear. At 11:15pm your Hobosexual Roommate informs you that, "my friend is dropping 4 d nite.” Although you sometimes have trouble translating IM's or Texts from twentysomething into thirtysomething, you've actually received this particular last-minute text from the Hobosexual at least five other times (this past year alone), and it means that his irritatingly loud college friend is going to be crashing in your apartment, taking over your living room, and generally making your whole apartment smell like his moldy feet. Which is fine. What's not fine is that, just like the other five times, you have been given zero notice. Obviously, even if this was an unplanned, impromptu visit (which you don't believe for a second since the Foul Footed Friend lives in Boston), it obviously was a spontaneous decision approximately four hours ago when the Foul Footed Friend decided to throw his Stick and Bindle over his shoulder and hop a freight train from Boston to New York to visit the Hobosexual. Not only are you over the Foul Footed Friend's visits, but you're in absolutely no mood for one tonight. So you reply with a terse, "That’s fine, although it would be nice if you gave me a little more notice next time," and then you descend underground to catch the F-U. Whoops, you meant to write F -V trains. Really you did.

After ascending the six flights to your Home-Sweet-Hovel, you are out of breath as well as patience, and you can hear the Bravo blaring from your TV before you can even fish the apartment key from your pocket. You walk in and, as predicted, the Foul Footed Friend is actually picking his toes while splayed out on your couch watching The Real Housewives of New York City on your TV with your volume blaring. And the best part is that he doesn't even say hello! Nor does he stop picking his non-athletic Athlete's Feet! Were these gay boys born in a barn? Aren't we supposed to be a bit more cultured and polite than our straight counterparts? Or have these inane (yet extremely enjoyable) Bravo shows completely melded our Queer Eyes with the Straight Guys? "Hey," you say, mostly because you can't stand being ignored by your own unwelcome guest. "Hey," he says back, without ever looking up from The Housewives.

Although the Foul Footed Friend drives you crazy, he is not the one you have a beef with. And Speak of the Devil, that's when the Hobosexual appears from behind his freight door, then immediately slams it shut so nobody will see how many decomposing bodies he's hiding in there. He's wearing a sweatband around his dry temple, which, incidentally, has never perspired inside any gym, nor gotten Physical since Olivia Newton John made headbands popular in the early '80s. The Hobosexual just stares at you, possibly with fear, probably with hatred (both of which you're okay with), but since you were not born in a barn, you decide not to make a big deal out of his surprise visitor directly in front of the surprise guest. So you just say, "Hey," to the Hobosexual and he actually doesn't say anything back, because he was obviously born in the same straw-floored barn as his Foul Footed Friend.

You retreat and hide away in the clean sanctuary of your bedroom, and after what seems like an eternity, Noah's Ark must finally be complete because the Dynamic Duo finally leave their barn and head out for an evening of Forty Lays with Forty Blights. Of course, since these Barn Fags are neither accustomed to paying electricity bills nor caring whether their roommate is busy having a pity party, they end up forgetting to turn off the blaring television. When you can't take it anymore, you emerge from your Homosexual Hermitage and spend twenty minutes looking for the remote amongst all the Foul Footed Footwear strewn around your living room. In fact there is so much luggage that you begin to wonder exactly how long your un-expected guest will out-stay his un-welcome?

This is just about when The Real Housewives of New York City suck you into their Upper East Side Reality, which at the moment is much more preferable than your own Lower East Side Brutality. So you plop down onto the lumpy futon couch and eat some Bon-Bons while you watch Cuntess LuAnn complain about the hardships of returning to the central air-conditioning woes of her twenty million dollar Manhattan townhouse after summering in East Hampton. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Political Fags...

...but the TSA Agent at the Palm Beach International Airport Security Check seems to think you might be some sort of Gay Terrorist. Okay, it's true, you do live on the Lower East Side, but if you were going to blow something up to make a political statement, your target would more likely be Splash than some random JetBlue flight filled with Snowbirds from Boca. You are not-so-politely asked to stand aside as he sends your backpack through the X-ray machine for another scan, and when it fails the second test you are asked to stand quietly behind a yellow line so you can watch helplessly as the Transportation Security Asshole rifles through your extremely well packed bag. Although being an Anal Retentive traveler makes you constipated, the silver lining is that your bags look as if they've been packed by a Professional Folder at The Gap.

The Transportation Security Asshole pulls so many things out of your little backpack that a small crowd of Breeders begins to form around you "Oohing" and "Aahing" as if the Clown Car at the Circus has just arrived. As the TSAsshole digs further, you begin to worry about what embarrassing thing might be uncovered, and that's when he starts inspecting your liquids. Now, being one of those Felix Unger Fags, you don't bother with one of those flimsy quart-sized Ziploc bags. You, my friend, spent hours in The Container Store looking for clever travel ideas that will enhance your vacations (mostly as a distraction from procrastinwriting), and you found this wonderful little, quart-sized Clear Zippered Cube that works wonderfully. Meanwhile, since it's not a silly Ziploc the TSAsshole starts to empty all of your liquids, including your measly three ounce allotment of Astroglide Lube, to see if it fits into a damn Ziploc. Now, you want to say, "A quarts a quart, right?" but you keep your trap shut as another chunky TSAsshole pulls you aside with his metal-detecting wand and tells you to, "Spread 'em," in a way that completely ruins an on-going arrest fantasy you've had since your very first foray into Gay Porn. You suddenly have the urge to tell them that if they're looking for your bomb that you packed that into your checked luggage, but, thankfully, you bite your tongue as the first TSAsshole finds the offending object and, ironically, pulls a stainless steel Tongue Scraper from your bag. You had no idea that good oral health was so important to Al Qaeda. But you digress.

After your Impromptu Strip Search, you repack your own bag (mostly because you can't bear to watch the TSAsshole attempt to amateurishly shove your professionally trained Ringling Brothers' Clowns back into your little VW Beetle backpack), you somehow still have time to wait at the gate and are absolutely thrilled to get a call from Mr. Write. Although you don't typically love talking on the phone with people you barely know, you are amazed at how easy it is to shoot the breeze with him. You tell the Non-Jewish Jew all about spending Passover with The Ex's family. He thinks it's funny that three and a half years after you and The Ex broke up, that you're the one flying down to Florida to celebrate Pesach with his Aunts and Uncles when The Ex is nowhere to be found! Well, The Ex did actually put in a phoner from LA, but you, my friend, were the one treated like Manna from Heaven since you actually showed up for the Matzoh Fest. You know The Ex's family all secretly want you two to get back together, but you have your sights set on spending your next Passover, not necessarily in Israel, but if everything goes well with your current ridiculous fantasy and it doesn't need a Mr. ReWrite, then perhaps you will be saying The Four Questions next year with Mr. Write's family?

Although you are literally surrounded by babies on the plane, they miraculously sleep during the your uneventful night flight back to JFK. In fact, they are such good babies that by the time you get back to your Home Sweet Hovel you find yourself willing to trade in your Hobosexual Roommate for a complete set of Screaming Septuptlets because at least they would be breast fed and wouldn't have left the kitchen literally overflowing with dirty fucking dishes. But the filth doesn't get to you because you have a cute tan and a date with your cute Playwright tomorrow. Anyway.

The day flies by and, uncharacteristically, you actually get a lot accomplished. Having a nice tan amongst millions of pasty New Yorkers seems to give you more energy, almost as if you've knocked back a bottle of Geritol. Luckily, summer (and your Summer Share in The Pines) is right around the corner and you'll have this kind of Vitamin D energy all the time! But you're getting way ahead of yourself. Right now you need to concentrate on looking cute for your dinner date with Mr. Write. He suggests getting drinks at the same place you had your first date, North Square, and although the repeated date doesn't seem all that inspired, you weren't offering him any better ideas so you happily agreed. At the very least you know it will be quiet and romantic.

When you arrive, Mr. Write is sitting at a table and, as if on cue, the waiter immediately comes over to take your drink order. The Absolut Vodka flows as smoothly as the Absolut-ly engaging conversation does. You like talking to Mr. Write almost as much as you like looking at him. The two of you discuss the reading of his most recent play and about how the Lead Actress made an unfortunate accent choice which Mr. Write mimics so perfectly that you can't help but expose your dimples along with a big hearty laugh. You quickly realize that he has just passed one of your five deal breaking tests: any boy that you're going to get serious with must be able to make you laugh. Seriously. You think back to Blonde Beard and although he definitely wrote some witty emails, in person he was somehow more reserved. Instead of guffaws, Blonde Beard seemed to produce more of an overall "awwww" quality. But right about now, as you are laughing heartily across the table you wonder what exactly was so awe inspiring about Blonde Beard's sense of humor?

After a few drinks, you both wind up being too lazy to leave the bar and decide to let the Cocktail Waitress carry your heavy beverages and your even heavier tab over into the dining room. You both order light fish dishes as you both, ironically, begin to fish into each other's past. Mr. Write tells you how he doesn't really do much dating. Especially online dating. And then he quickly begins to offer a little too much information about the Sociopath he dated during/after he left a four year (open) relationship. And then was promptly dumped. Since Mr. Write said he doesn't date much, you find yourself wondering if the Sociopath was actually a sociopath, or more likely just resided in Chelsea-opath? If there's one thing you've learned from three years of dating, it's that boys in New York are fickle, especially when they find themselves in any sort of an emotional pickle. However you aren't really too concerned about the Sociopath's particular details, since none of it really matters to you. What does matter is that it seems to matter to Mr. Write. A lot. Especially since, for some unknown reason, he is talking about it on your first "official" date. Your Ex-Cousin-In-Law once told you that everything you need to know about a boy you learn on the first date. What you are learning right now is that Mr. Write seems to be equally enthusiastic about you as he is for the Sociopath (notice the present tense). And you don't like to share. Hell, if you're going to end up in a three-way then you definitely want to get some emotionally detached sex out of it! Yet Mr. Write seems to be quite attached. Now, you know you're not completely over Blonde Beard. Far from it, actually. But you do know better than to be yapping about your baggage on a date! What really annoys you is that Mr. Write was supposed to be your rebound, and yet you are quickly realizing that you are more likely his rebound. Whatever. What is also obvious is that although Mr. Write obviously isn't going to be Mr. Right, does this mean that you can't get some sex out of Mr. Write? Right?

After paying the check you walk out the side door and seamlessly segue the conversation onto the lighter topic of politics as you shamelessly segue your trajectory toward Mr. Write's one bedroom apartment off Union Square. You offer to look up the Pennsylvania Primary Election Returns on your iPhone for Mr. Write because he is a fanatical Hillary fan, and he's absolutely thrilled when you tell him that Hillary has been declared the winner! Although you're still torn between Obama and Hillary, you definitely like the idea of having a lesbian in the White House. You also think Bubba will make a wonderfully charismatic First Lady. And you definitely like the idea that Bill will be the last one buzzing his agenda into his wife's ear each night before they retire to their separate bedrooms. And really, how bad could ol' Hillary be if she named her kid after a gay neighborhood?

However, when you finally arrive at Mr. Write's building he kind of just stops and stands there. Almost as if you're supposed to say goodbye. You're so confused that you actually say, "Am I not coming upstairs?" Because if this was the case you certainly wouldn't have walked ten blocks out of your way just to say au revoir on the street. Hell, he already invited you up for a make-out session the first time you went out so what could be different this time? That's when Mr. Write informs you that you are allowed to come up, if you'd like, but he is definitely going to watch the Pennsylvania Returns on CNN. You agree to his odd terms (especially since Hillary has already won), but whatever. At least Mr. Write is passionate about something, right?

So you go upstairs and Mr. Write immediately turns the TV on with the remote as you immediately attempt to turn Mr. Write on with a kiss. His breath is so fresh and minty, which is nice, but the kisses seem to be lacking all the passion that his politics seem to have inherited. But this is okay because you love a challenge. So you pull Mr. Write down onto the couch and start to grind your hips against his as your hands disappear up his shirt. Touching his tight little body definitely works faster for you than taking a fistful of Viagra, however, although you're definitely ready to play a nice little game of "Intern in the White House," Mr. Write turns out to be the one who could use that fistful of Viagra. Only when you open your eyes you realize exactly why Mister Softee is not into you. Although you were busy getting lost in the moment with your eyes closed, Mr. Write was busy watching ol' Hillary on CNN. Now it is common knowledge, especially to Mrs. Clinton's husband who has practically admitted, in a court of law during his impeachment trial, that his wife is a bit of a turn-off. You're about to turn-off the damn television when the secret of Mr. Write's minty fresh breath actually falls from his mouth and lands on your cheek! You scream, "Are you chewing gum and making out with me?" as Mr. Write plucks the offensive Wrigley chunk from your face and gets up to throw it away. Only when he returns he sits down on the other sofa.

Obviously you are no competition for Hillary, so you stand up and tell Mr. Write that it's getting late and you should go home. He offers to walk you downstairs because he has to walk his dog, and although you're surprised that he'll leave his precious Hillary, you kind of think it's sweet. So you take the elevator and head down 14th Street toward the Sixth Avenue F train. After crossing Fifth Avenue, you all take a pit-stop so that the pooch can take a pee, and Mr. Write asks you if you have plans for this weekend? Although you're not sure you want to have another sexless bi-sexual three-way with Mr. Write and Mrs. Clinton, you do tell him that you have plans Thursday and on Sunday, but that, so far, you are free both weekend nights. That's when the dog is finally done with marking his territory, only Mr. Write doesn't seem to notice. Or move. So while you stand there wondering whether you're missing an F train, you find yourself asking, "How far do you usually walk your dog?" and Mr. Write says, "Oh just to the corner," as if he's just done you some big favor by extending the nightly walk and taking you all the way across the street. You quickly take the hint that Mr. Write has no intention of walking neither you, nor his lethargic dog, an extra half block to the subway station because, just like Obama, both you and the pooch have just lost out to Hillary Clinton. So you say, "Okay, well I'm gonna go now." As you give Mr. Write a peck goodbye as you finally decide that you are now unquestionably going to vote for Obama. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who's Too Chicken to Discuss His Feelings...

...but, as you pull a frozen chicken breast out of your freezer, you realize that it has become glaringly obvious that Blonde Beard is definitely a Chicken shit. And it kind of blows your mind. How is it possible that he could be so undeniably intimate with you, for months, and then just run away like Chicken Little after the L-Word came falling from the Sky (after too many Skyy Vodkas, of course...) You truly don't understand his issue, but as far as you are concerned there are two scenarios: 1) Blonde Beard doesn't feel the same way about you as you feel about him, or 2) Blonde Beard does feel the same, but he's too scared to express it. Neither doomsday scenario is acceptable. At all. So there you have it. It's officially over. Buh-bye, Blonde Beard. Don't let the razor nick ya on the way out! Next!

You sit down on the Hobosexual's lumpy futon couch and rest the Zip-locked Frozen Chicken Breast on your swollen Balloon Balls when you realize that your revelation about Blonde Beard neither surprises, nor disappoints you. And honestly, when you think about the relationship in such broad terms, it doesn't even seem like that big of a loss. But here's what's making you dazed and confused, not to mention driving you slowly insane. If the loss is truly no big whoop, then why on earth were your feelings sooooooo intense for Blonde Beard? Was your tearful subway meltdown just an "in the moment" kind of drunken thing? Or were your intense feelings more like a fast-acting, yet short-lived drug? Perhaps after years of dating Flaky Fashionista Fags, maybe you confused Blonde Beard's promptness and politeness as something that was actually unique and special and worthy of your deepest emotion? Or perhaps it's just that the sex was just so damn good that you let your girlie emotions get the best of you? And meanwhile, if you truly feel so Non-Plussed about the end of your Non-Relationship with your Non-Boyfriend, then why on earth are you so obsessed with the fact that you don't feel worse? Let it go already! Hell, if you're just in denial about the whole damn thing then why can't you just enjoy it before the other designer shoe drops?! And that's when you stumble upon what's really bothering you: After years of being single in New York, has your concept of love become so superficial and Chelsea-fied that you've finally become one of those "out of sight, out of mind," emotionally compartmentalized fags? Anyway.

When your Boneless Balloon Balls are thoroughly numb, you put the Zip-Loc bag on the kitchen counter so it can continue to defrost, and then you pop a Pain Killer and hobble down the six flights of stairs in order to get your Gay Fat ass out of your Home-Sweet-Hovel. You head over to your writing space to do some procrastinwriting, however, by the time you schlep up the three flights of stairs and claim your second-favorite dark little cubicle, your Gay Fat ass is, ironically, feeling light headed. With all your Blonde Beard lollygagging this morning, you forgot to have a breakfast chaser with your one-calorie Pain Killer. However, your dizziness turns out to be a blessing in disguise when you check your email and see that Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger has sent you the results of your Scrotal Sonogram. Being single and sober would be a tragic combination to receive the lovely news that your aging Balloon Balls are actually suffering from a painful case of varicose veins that was obviously aggravated by your Hurtful Hernia Surgery. Varicose Fucking Veins?? How humiliating is that? Your Blue Balls are like the gay equivalent of some Blue Haired Lady in Boca! Do you even have testicles? Or is your scrotum actually holding a couple of over-sized Blue Haired Lady Ovaries? Oy Vey(arie)...

Luckily there's another email from the Portuguese Brazilian From London to help distract you from your Old Girl Troubles, and, even though it's a bit ridiculous, you are happy to set up a date with him when the old chap returns to New York for the weekend. After a busy, light-headed day of Procrastinwriting, you drag your Balloon Balls over to the Gay and Lesbian Center to see a Michael Cunningham interview because he's been one of your absolute favorite authors ever since you read A Homo at the End of the World. Only instead of listening to the old Literary PowerHouse's interview, you spend The Hours drinking the free wine and texting your new literary PowerBottom that you recently met on Connexion: Mr. Write. He definitely gives good text and you can't wait to meet him.

However, when your cell vibrates to alert you to what you assume to be another flirty text from Mr. Write, your butterfly-anxiousness is quickly replaced with rolling eyes when you notice that this particular SMS is from your Hobosexual Roommate. He informs you that he has put your chicken in a bowl of cold water because (get this) it has started to go bad. Now, you know this is not in the realm of possibility because, 1) It is April not August, and your Home-Sweet-Hovel is barely warm enough for your toes to defrost, and 2) Even if the frozen-solid chicken breast has defrosted and actually gone bad, that it couldn't smell because it is tightly sealed away in a Zip-Loc bag. So you text the Hobosexual back and ask him to put your poultry in the refrigerator for you, as you will be home soon to take care of it. He immediately writes you back and informs you, "i put it in the fridge but i wouldn't eat it cause it really smells." You know that this is preposterous because the Hobosexual would never eat any kind of non-processed food that didn't come in a package from Trader Joe's.

After the Michael Cunningham interview and an inappropriate amount of free wine, you head back to the Home-Sweet-Hovel and are surprised to find that the apartment really does smell. Bad. Kind of like rotting chicken. However your rotting chicken is sealed in a Zip-Loc bag, which has been put away in a sealed refrigerator. So like Toucan Sam, you follow your nose and open the sink cabinet where you find the offensive Specimen. Days it's been since the overflowing trash bin has been taken out. And it reeks. You want to kill the Hobosexual because, had he taken care of this smelly situation hours ago, then your apartment wouldn't smell like Flesh and Blood. So you tie up the garbage bag and place it in front of the door because, between your Blue Veined Balloon Balls and your Hurtful Hernia, there's no way you are doing another twelve flights (round trip) to bring out the trash. So you whip up a delicious chicken dish and go to bed early. Of course, when you wake up the next morning, even though the Hobosexual had to move the smelly trash bag in order to get through the door, he couldn't be bothered to take it downstairs on his way to work. God forbid he should do something around the house when he has his old, Varicose-Veined Gay Mommy to do it for him. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Carb-Free Fags Who Won't Eat Bread...

...but after your laparoscopic surgery to repair your Hurtful Hernia, you are absolutely shocked at the havoc it has caused on your abs. Hell, during the brief period you were lying on the operating table you somehow went from Gay Fat to Circus Fat (apparently skipping Straight Fat altogether). What the hell did Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger do while she was mucking around inside the crevices of your belly button? Did she accidentally misplace her Pocketbook in your abdomen? Regardless, you can absolutely forget about ever wearing your Skinny Jeans again since your Fat Jeans are actually, get this, too fucking tight! Not to mention the fact that you haven't eaten in days! Meanwhile, it's not only your belly that's expanded into Straight Fat territory; but sometimes bigger is better. The Silver Lining of this whole humiliating experience turns out to be that your balls have actually doubled in size. And honey, they weren't that small to begin with. However, between your Second Trimester-Sized Belly and the Square Patch of hair that was mysteriously shaved away from your Treasure Trail, it really ain't so pretty down there anymore. But you desperately want to look pretty tonight because you have a date with Blonde Beard at a restaurant in your neighborhood with the unfortunate name of, get this, Bread.

You limp down the six flights of your Home-Sweet-Hovel a bit early so you can go swing by The Bowery Ballroom to buy tickets for the Calvin Harris show, and then you slowly hobble your way over to Bread on Spring Street. You'd really like to pick up the pace in order to burn some extra calories, but, thanks to your gargantuan balls, it's a bit hard to move at a reasonable pace on a Manhattan sidewalk. Somehow you actually get to the restaurant on time even though Old Ladies with Walkers are actually lapping you. Ever prompt, Blonde Beard is there waiting for you outside of the restaurant and he hands you a cute little Get Well present which instantly warms your heart, until you realize that it is actually a Get Fat present full of *gasp* cookies. You attempt to smile and thank him for his thoughtlessness (oops, you meant to say thoughtfulness), but it's difficult for any actual expressions to squeeze past the fleshy folds of skin that used to resemble your face. You are really happy to finally see your boy for the first time in three days since your belly-button went under the laparoscopic robotic knife. You were kind of wishing that he'd swing by on his lunch hour, or pop in after his night class, just to say hi. Perhaps to check up on you. But you realize he's been super busy.

You end up ordering a Green Salad Appetizer and a Salmon with Root Vegetables Entrée even though you really should be ordering Liposuction with a Side of Anorexia-Nervosa. Since you're still not feeling quite like your normal self, you decide to order a glass of red wine, because, let's face it, your normal self is rarely this sober! The wine hits the spot and the salmon is nice until Blonde Beard offers you a ravioli from his plate. After the carb-tastic pasta goodness, your salmon simply sucks ass. And not in that OMG, rimming kind of way. But the conversation is nice. Nothing earth shattering, just a Post-Op Catch-Up. You talk a lot about Blonde Beard's upcoming Grad School projects which you try to seem interested in, even though you're feeling a bit uncomfortable and crabby. You're slightly surprised that Blonde Beard doesn't ask you much about the operation, nor about your recovery, but, between his surgical squeamishness and the fact that you've chatted on the phone the last two evenings, you wind up letting it go.

After three glasses of wine you are feeling so much better that cheap old you actually picks up the check! However, when you stand up and gravity pulls your expansive belly downward, you instantly feel extremely full. You assume that since everything is so swollen down there, that there's not much room left over for a tiny little salmon to swim downstream in your previously-herniated digestive system. Anyway. When you hit the street, Blonde Beard wants to wander around SoHo and look for a new Spring Jacket since it's still relatively early. Even though you're feeling much too Circus Fat to be shopping for anything that doesn't involve orthopedic flip-flops, for some reason you agree to tag along as long as Blonde Beard doesn't mind walking at your snail's pace. You hit Bloomingdale's, H&M and Uniqlo, but after those three pit-stops you find yourself as winded as a One-Lunged John Goodman on a Stairmaster. After that, Blonde Beard walks you home.

As you unlock the vestibule door to your Home-Sweet-Hovel, Blonde Beard makes a lame crack about not believing that your apartment actually existed. "What are you talking about?" you ask, and he explains that you've never invited him over before. You're annoyed because you have definitely invited him over several times. In fact, you've thought it was rather odd that the boy you've been seeing over the past (almost) three months has shown zero interest in seeing the poverty stricken conditions that you live under. You just assumed that Blonde Beard preferred hanging out in his neighborhood and sleeping in his own uncomfortable bed, but now that his Jealous Roommate has banished you from ever visiting their apartment again, he's decided to slum it over at your place. Although you actually find his wise crack to be a big deal, you decide to not make a big deal about it and instead concentrate on your endless ascension up the six flights of stairs.

You introduce Blonde Beard to your Hobosexual Roommate and they both grunt an unintelligible greeting to each other, which seems kind of strange to you. Even though Blonde Beard's Jealous Roommate hates your guts (which was inevitable since he's obviously in love with Blonde Beard), you definitely went out of your way to be polite and friendly to him since, after all, you were a guest in his overly renovated home. Obviously Blonde Beard doesn't seem to care to give The Hobosexual the same kind of investment. Anyway. Eventually you excuse yourself into your bedroom and ease yourself into the least painful Post-Op position where you can still enjoy making out with your hairy-faced boy. As usual you get lost in his eyes, and then, yadda-yadda-yadda, you are amazed at how far your spunk can shoot even though you feel like you've practically been neutered. Thank God for Laparoscopic Silver Linings!

And that's when Blonde Beard gets out of bed and starts getting dressed. Although sleeping is still extremely difficult, and you were wondering about how exactly you were going to share a bed with him, you are kind of shocked when spending the night together isn't even going to be an uncomfortable option. "It's after midnight," you inform him. "Are you really going home now?" Blonde Beard explains that he has tons of work to do on a school project which is due next week, and he wants to be done before his Birthday on Sunday so he can actually have a few cocktails and enjoy his big day. All of this is, of course, true, but you begin to wonder where his head is really. All along you've felt like you were on the same page, but something seems to have shifted recently. Perhaps it was the ridiculous fight you had with his Jealous Roommate? Or maybe he's just disgusted by the way you look in your Circus Fat Jeans? But he's got to realize that all of that is just temporary, right? But as his hairy face pops up through his V-Neck sweater, you begin to wonder about what isn't temporary? Suddenly almost everything seems to feel a bit ephemeral. Is it possible to be in a successful relationship with someone who is so fundamentally different than you? Are you getting too old to compromise? Or even worse, is Blonde Beard? You walk him to the front door and kiss him goodbye before you instinctively dive head first into the bag of carbolicious Get Well cookies that Blonde Beard gave you earlier. Except, after eating absolutely all of them, you don't feel any better. At all. Anyway...