You're Not One of Those Fags Who Gets Depressed and Becomes a Hermit...

...but you are really bummed about the fact that Blonde Beard is a Crack Head. Or might be. Hell you don't know, but you had such high hopes for this one and now you are totally re-examining everything underneath a giant microscope, even though what you really need is one of those giant Drug Sniffing Dogs that like to hang out around JFK Customs.

You're working from home today even though the police called to let you know that they recovered your laptop from the Lazy Blackmailer's apartment. You told them you'd drop by the precinct and pick it up tomorrow partly because you don't feel like getting out of your pajamas, but mostly because you're enjoying wallowing in your own filth and self-pity. After whining to your BFF about your latest novel: "Crackheads and the Boys Who Love Them," he informs you that your dilemma is nothing that can't be solved by a few Gay Cocktails. So you two make a plan to meet at The Ritz for their extremely economical Half Priced Happy Hour.

After an unproductive day of work, somehow you pull it together to take a shower. While you're waiting for the hot water to meander its way up to your 6th Floor Walk-up, you end up staring at your mopey-fish-face mug in the mirror and decide that you need to shave off the damn beard you've been growing. You think of it as a symbolic shave that will somehow rid you of your disturbingly co-dependent feelings for Blonde Beard. Besides, yesterday someone told you that it made you look older, so good riddance and buh-bye to the beard. First you do some weed whacking with your manscaping clippers and then you hop in the hot shower to shave the fucker off.

Afterwards, even though it's only been a few weeks, you definitely do a double-take because you've already become accustomed to your fuzzy/furry look. You definitely look younger though. Gray hairs sprouting from your cheeks was definitely not your best look. So you get dressed to go out and meet your BFF, but when you go to leave your hovel, the bottom door lock just spins and spins, yet never unlocks. There's no click. You stare at the inside of your apartment door in disbelief as you begin to grasp the fact that you are actually locked inside your apartment. How is that even fucking possible? Did your Hobosexual roommate break the bottom lock when he went out for dinner? Do these sorts of ridiculous things happen to other people? Or specifically just to you?

You immediately call the Hobosexual and, of course, you get his voicemail. You leave a frantic message, partly because you want your message to seem a bit urgent, but mostly because you are totally Jonesing for your Gay Cocktail. Next you call your Super, even though he only answers to text messages, but you figure bombarding him with S.O.S.'s can't hurt. Then you call your BFF so that he doesn't wind up going to The Ritz, since it's pretty damn obvious that you won't be meeting him there anytime soon. When he answers you tell him, "Don't go to the bar." "Too late," he informs you, "I needed a cocktail. What's up?" You explain your ridiculous situation which he can't help but laugh at you, "You're locked inside your apartment?"

After lecturing you on your shitty-ass karma, your BFF pledges to come downtown and rescue you after he finishes his cocktail, of course. While you wait for your BFF to arrive, you end up playing sappy broken-heart love songs, and by the time he buzzes you, you're busy scanning the ceiling of your Hovel for something strong enough to hang a noose from while listening to Jennifer Hudson belt out "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going." Ten minutes after buzzing him in, your out-of-breath BFF reaches the final step of Mount EverShanty. You tell him that you're gonna slide the key under the door for him to see if he can unlock it from the outside. Luckily this works and you don't have to go to Plan B where you play Rapunzel and yell out the window pleading with Bad Samaritans on the sidewalk for help. Or the dreaded Plan C where you have to call, and pay, for a Locksmith that you will never be reimbursed for.

You let your BFF catch his breath before beginning the long descent to gayer pastures. By the time you reach the third floor, the two of you decide to go to Urge since it's close by. And as luck would have it (obviously your BFF's luck, as you are void in that department lately) it turns out that your BFF knows the bartender (which is the New York equivalent of winning Lotto). After a few extremely strong and desperately needed cocktails, you actually end up having a laugh about your latest dating debacle. Your BFF thinks that you should keep your plans with Blonde Beard for tomorrow night and just go out and have a good time. After all, you really like the guy, and you don't know for sure that he's a Crackhead. Maybe he's only a recreational Crackhead? Maybe he uses soap that smells like Mothballs? Maybe it was his roommate's Crystal Pipe? Since you don't have the answers to any of these questions, it's important not to presume that Blonde Beard is guilty until proven innocent. You should never judge a Crackhead by his Crack Den. Especially when the Crackhead is great in bed.

And then, after you are sufficiently cheered up (or, more likely, sufficiently liquored up), the cute London Lush without any facial hair (who you've been keeping tabs on from the corner of your wandering eye) begins to chat you up with his adorable accent. You ask him a few questions about nothing in particular, and, yadda yadda yadda, you're making out with the London Lush in the back corner of Urge, exchanging cell numbers. Blonde Beard who? Anyway...