You're Not One of Those Flower-Power Fags Who Believes in Karma...

...but something is seriously off kilter and the gay YOUniverse seems to be taking it out on you in the form of leaks. Perhaps you've been dating too many Astrological Water Signs lately? Anyway. You go to your Storage Facility in Long Island City to collect your gear for an upcoming ski trip, and while you're rummaging around you begin to notice a slight drizzle. You look up with dread and realize that there is a slow drip, coming from the ceiling, that has actually formed a puddle around all of your precious crap. You find yourself wondering about the odds of your leak-prone Hobosexual Roommate renting the Storage Space directly above yours as you head down to the main office to make such a big stink that they have no choice but to give your cheap, but loud ass a discount, or some other freebie, just to shut you up.

Unfortunately the Elementary School Drop Out manning the office that Sunday is much more interested in slurping her Frappuccino while playing Scrabulous on Facebook, than she is concerned with your damp Karmic dilemma. She informs you that you can either move your shit to another unit today, or you can schlep back to Queens sometime during the week, duke it out with the manager, and then, of course, move your shit into another unit then. Either way you've got to move your shit so you decide to minimize your time in Queens and just get it over with now.

So you go back upstairs to your leaky Storage Unit and begin to throw boxes of your old forgotten crap onto a large dolly. It's been years since you've seen some of this stuff; years since you and your Ex broke up; years since you left your privileged much fancier Manhattan life and traded it in for your first Home Sweet Hovel, in Queens, which was so minuscule that you needed to rent this damn 6' x 7' Leaky Cubicle in order to store your crap. You remember feeling exactly like Eva Gabor when she had to leave Manhattan for Hooterville, "New York is where I'd rather stay! I get allergic smelling hay! I just adore a penthouse view! Darling, I love you, but give me Park Avenue!"

But your old fancy stuff isn't half as distracting as your box of photos is. You get sucked in to glamour shots of yourself during exotic safaris to South Africa, to your gut renovation of a 3,500 sq/ft Union Square loft, to your three-star Michelin Guide culinary tour of France, to Madonna's 35th Birthday Party circling Manhattan on a fucking yacht that with the cast of A League of Their Own during Madge's lesbian period where she was making out with Ingrid all night! It's almost hard to believe that these photos are from your life. Hell, at this point it's hard to believe that you used to live in an elevator building. The photos make you sad, but not in a "green-with-envy-I-can't-believe-I-used-to-be-so-fabulous" kind of way. You don't feel jealous or bitter of yourself, because, after all, you were the one who chose to leave the fabulous life that you had become very accustomed to. However, the photos make you sad mostly because you realize that you don't have anyone to take photos with anymore. Now when you travel, most of your photos are of you, solo, standing in front of something touristy. All the shots are blurry, poorly composed and off-center, taken from an unflatteringly close distance because you have to take them yourself with one pathetic, extended arm.

Although you are way happier now than you were during the last few, sometimes suicidal years of your relationship, sometimes you wonder if you'll ever settle down again with someone who can take a more flattering photo during life's more memorable moments? That's when you get a text from the London Lush confirming your date later tonight at Bamboo 52. You have completely lost track of time so you start racing through your move, basically throwing all of your carefully organized shit from the leaky unit into a one big messy pile where you will never, ever be able to find a fucking thing again. You rush home, shower, and somehow make it to the bar on time, which is completely barren that you could almost here an echo when you kiss the London Lush's cheek. He's as super cute as you remember, but that's probably because he's sooooo much younger than you. When they're too young they always end up making you feel too old, and you definitely prefer being the young, cute one! You are typically much happier living in denial about your completely humorless laugh-lines and your, get this, graying chest hair.

Although the London Lush is super nice and the two of you seem to be enjoying each other's company while sipping your Gay Cocktails, you're pretty much completely aware that you are actually on a Revenge Date that has little or nothing to do with the London Lush. Right now you'd much rather be out with Blonde Beard, but since he's still actively pursuing other boys on Match.com, you are definitely not going to put all your eggs into the Blonde Beard basket so he can whisk them into a fluffy frenzy before scrambling them on Teflon over medium heat... As usual, you have too many Mandarin and Sodas while watching Tina Turner and Beyoncé steal the Grammy Awards with, "Better Be Good To Me." Although you have a lovely time throwing back a few with the London Lush, you can't help but be aware of the bad timing because there is only one person on your radar that Better Be Good To You: Blonde Beard. You're not sure if the two of you will last long enough to share a few Kodak Moments, but you know you'd definitely give him a big, dimpled grin if Blonde Beard ever asked you to say, "Cheese!" Anyway...