You're Not the Type of Fag Who Can't Make a Decision...

...but you do tend to waffle back and forth on your way toward anything conclusive. Your Ex liked to call you "contrary," and you liked to call him "asshole," especially since you knew he was right. After all, you're a Libra and you like to endlessly weigh all sides of any argument before deciding anything. Especially when good sex is involved. Correction: great sex. So before your date with Blonde Beard you actually make out a list of Pros and Cons. You need to see it on paper because your heart and your head are telling you completely different things. And you're not talking about your penis head because that head is telling you exactly the same thing that your heart is: Crack-schmack... Go for it.

You call your Ex-Cousin-In-Law, the Dating Guru who has published several books on the topic, but has yet to settle down herself (or perhaps you should simply say, "has yet to settle"). Although she's a successful writer now, she still sees everything from an Actresses point of view as acting was always her first love. So when you tell her all about your Blonde Beard "Is-he-or-isn't-he-a-Crackhead" dilemma--about how you are considering confronting him on this particular issue on your next date--the Ex-Cousin-In-Law instantly starts shaking her head before turning all Stella Adler on you. She explains that you are seeing your upcoming date with Blonde Beard like a writer would. You're seeing the entire beginning, middle and the untimely, tragic end before you ever go out on the damn date. And then she has the audacity to tell you, "And that's a boring scene. Yawn. Can I get my money back please?" You are a bit dumbfounded (not to mention mildly humiliated) until she explains further, "If you start the scene without knowing where it'll end, then you're taking the audience on a journey. Wouldn't you rather go on a journey?" And you've got to hand it to her; a journey sounds like a much more appealing date than a fucking drug intervention. When she presses you, you have to admit that you could've canceled the date if you wanted to, but, for some reason, you chose not to. And that's when she explains to you, "That's because you want to go on this journey. Because you want like him." And you know she's right. You decide that you'll begin tonight's date with Blonde Beard without any assumptions of how it will ultimately end, because, after all, you don't have any idea what will happen.

So you meet Blonde Beard at the new Vynl on 15th and Eighth and you try to begin the scene like an actor instead of a writer. You're practically doing voice exercises by the time Blonde Beard arrives, and you try to cover your embarrassing tracks by kissing him. But Blonde Beard shifts his head to offer you a hairy cheek because he thinks he might be getting sick. You wonder to yourself, "Would a Crackhead really care about getting someone sick?" And then, of course, the Libra in you considers the alternative, "How did he get sick? Has he been doing too much Crack lately?" Your list of Pros and Cons grows as the evening progresses, but honestly, even though you are actively looking for any kind of sign, you really aren't adding too many Cons to this inane, imaginary roster. In fact, the Pros continue to grow to the point where you have to shake your imaginary pen because you're worried that it has actually run out of imaginary ink.

After dinner you go back to his place. You pretend to feign interest in the Prom Dress rerun of Project Runway while yapping with Blonde Beard's Jealous Roommate while, in actuality you are scanning the supposed Crack Den for drug paraphernalia. But you notice nothing out of the ordinary. Nada. Rien! And after enough face time with the Jealous Roommate, the two of you happily retire to Blonde Beard's bedroom and lie on the bed as he shows you an article in Dwell magazine about his new boss. You ask yourself, could a Crackhead really pull an impressive job like that out of his Crack Pipe? You think not. But then he puts on some Cocteau Twins, which he has already told you is his all-time favorite band, yet when the song "Sugar Hiccup" begins to play, he informs you that it had to have been written while they were on Heroin... Your antennae instantly go up and you're about to add another Con to your imaginary list until you realize that the lead singer of Depeche Mode, your favorite band, was definitely a notorious junkie who almost killed himself. You realize that you are really grabbing at straws now.

But then the kissing starts. Or actually the non-kissing since Blonde Beard doesn't want to get you sick. So you sniff him head-to-toe in search of his Mothball Crackhead Pheromone, but beyond his super sexy, manly odor, there is nothing. Yet somehow when you look deep into his eyes during the moments when neither of you are speaking, there is something. It's at this moment that you realize that your Ex-Cousin-In-Law was right. You are glad you went into this date as an Actress would, instead of a Writer; you are glad you didn't begin the date at the end by making unsubstantiated accusations; you are glad because this non-kissing is a much better ending than the one you would had already written in your head. Are you sure Blonde Beard doesn't have a drug problem? No. Are you willing to give him the benefit of the doubt? Well, until any actual hardcore, Betty Ford-like evidence is uncovered, that answer will have to remain an undisputed, the-Pros-outweigh-the-Cons, yes. Anyway...