You're Not One of Those Church Going Fags...

...but you don't mind putting on your Sunday Best and making your way over to Port Authority to catch the free Ikea bus to celebrate Easter by getting some colorful ideas for your new apartment, which you can neither afford to buy nor furnish. But when your hangover wakes you up at the completely unreasonable hour of high noon (perhaps Daylight Savings happened again?) you wind up being held hostage in your bedroom because you hear your Hobosexual Roommate rummaging around your Home Sweet Hovel doing something noisy that probably involves imaginary Bedbugs. After last night's Twilight Zone incident, you have absolutely no interest in having another insane conversation about drycleaning your underwear or wrapping your mattress in one of those plastic wee-wee pads that are much more popular with Watersport fags then Imaginary Bedbugs.

Eventually you hear the click of the lock which indicates the Hobosexual's departure (hopefully to go to Mass to pray for the safe return of his sanity) and your bladder is about to explode from all the Gay Cocktails you had last night. Only you're way too tired even to relieve yourself standing, so you end up sitting down to pee, and that's when you notice that the Huggies Baby Wipe dispenser (which is designed to function like a box of wet tissues) has been opened and thrown into the corner because it is empty. The fact that the Hobosexual bought you a life supply of these unflushable wipes a mere two weeks ago, in order to replace your Cottonelle Flushable Moist Wipes that he used while you were on vacation. And now the family size box is completely empty! The fact that he's obviously using them isn't even the issue anymore. Is he using them to swat imaginary Bedbugs? Or is he just a Power Bottom? You wonder how many of these wipes the Hobosexual could possibly use to clean his bum, and then you begin to worry about the effect that the unflushable Huggie Wipes will have on the ailing pipes that make up Lower Manhattan's infrastructure? You shudder to think about it, but decide against pulling out the Cottonelle refill pack you have hidden under the sink, because surely the Hobosexual will use all seventy-eight of them up on his next B.M.

You attempt to have breakfast after your shower, but unfortunately you are out of milk and eggs. You briefly consider wetting your CherriO's with Stoli O', but decide against it in favor of holding off for the yummy Ikea Buffet where you can fill up on a delicious Easter Brunch of Swedish Meatballs. Only when you get to Port Authority you are surprised by the amount of fellow Heathens lined up for the Ikea Bus; somehow you thought all the boys would be busy showing off their Easter Bonnets and saying their Hail Mary's over Bloody Marys at the All-You-Can-Drink Brunch at Intermezzo. But as fate would have it, all the gay boys had the same exact sacrilegious Ikea Idea as you did.

You decide to return a $10 Coat Hook rack that you bought but, surprise-surprise, never got around to installing. The idea of expending one more drop of energy or dropping one more dime into your Home Sweet Hovel makes standing in an endless Customer Service line seem completely worthwhile. You pull the number "01" from the dispenser, yet your heart sinks when you look up to the "Now Serving 51" sign. Didn't anybody go to fucking church today?? When you look back down you immediately recognize a very familiar face walk into the store, only you can't seem to produce a name, partly because you're in New Jersey so everything is definitely way out of context in that "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore" kind of way, not to mention the fact that your head is still too busy throbbing from all the Stoli O's to think properly. Luckily your familiar friend seems to be suffering from the same familiar Sunday affliction.

After a few friendly "hey-how-are-you's" followed by some obligatory "what-are-you-doing-here's," your synapses emerge from their early retirement long enough to realize that your familiar friend is actually Half-Share's (who recently upgraded to a Full-Share only in a less glamorous house) Fire Island Housemate's Boyfriend (does it get any gayer than that?) You were actually had your own share the summer that these two boys met, and you remember their relationship going from Zero-to-Sixty faster than two fags in a Saab Convertible (with the top down and the windows up as to not muss their hair). You distinctly remember one of their earliest discussions was whether or not they should buy their summer home in East Hampton or The Pines. Anyway.

When you turn around you see his boyfriend's prematurely white hair (a bit fussy and, of course, un-mussed) and Andy Warhol stomps his way over to you and Holly Woodlawn. You offer Andy Warhol a big smile because, really, what are the chances that you would run into the Zero-to-Sixty Couple so physically and seasonally far away from a Low Tea at The Blue Whale? Only when Andy Warhol finally notices you, he returns your dimpled greeting with nothing but a big ol' Stank Eye. You are in shock! Does he hate you? Did you do something nasty to him when you were drunk and then accidentally blacked it out? Eventually Andy Warhol musters up a meek and extremely hesitant, "Hello," as if he is completely sick of saying it to you in particular. Then he informs Holly Woodlawn in a huff that he's going to go search The Factory for some random replacement Ikea part. When Andy Warhol disappears without bothering to say goodbye, Holly Woodlawn rolls her eyes and informs you, "I'm about to fucking kick him in the head!" You immediately conjure up Lily Taylor's character in that indie film, I Shot Andy Warhol, and honestly, given Andy's bitchy attitude, you really couldn't blame Holly Woodlawn for her actions. But you digress.

You instantly realize that you've run into the Happy Go Lucky Zero-to-Sixty Couple smack in the middle of a horrendous, knock-down fight. Although Andy's bad attitude is obviously not directed at you, it definitely gets you thinking as you make your way around Ikea. And you must have misplaced your Beaujolais colored glasses because all of the Happy Gay Couples shopping for cheap European Knock-Offs seem to be a little bit snippier than usual. Although their couple's euphoria usually makes you slightly ill, today all you seem to notice is their couple's discord. And suddenly you are reminded of all the fights you used to have when you were in your Endless Relationship That Eventually Ended, and yet, for some unknown reason, you still find yourself wanting to get into another one. Specifically with Blonde Beard. But will you boys end up fighting like Zero-to-Sixty? Of course you will. And even though the thought of pulling out your claws and having a cat fight with your bearded boy makes you slightly nauseous, you still want it. Somehow the highs and the lows of a relationship still seem preferential to the mediocre consistency of waking up to the reflection of your own clean shaven face every day. And that's when you decide to text Blonde Beard. Just to say hi. Just to say you're thinking about him. Just to see if he might need any kisses. Just to not feel so alone amongst all the bickering couples while you shop for inexpensive things that you can't afford.

But you don't get a response from Blonde Beard. Not while you're shopping. Not while you're checking out. Not even while you're waiting in a forty-five minute line for the free Ikea Bus. He doesn't even respond during your trip back to the city, even though you get caught in a half-hour of tunnel traffic. You're sure that he'll respond by the time you emerge from the signal-less subway, but he doesn't. And you begin to get annoyed. And sad. And scared. Are you having your first fight? Perhaps you upset him in some way shape or form? Perhaps he wants to "fucking kick you in the head" for some silly reason like perhaps he's realized that you're writing about him in your Blah-Blah-Blog? Or perhaps he went to Sunday Mass? By the time you ascend the six flights to you Home Sweet Hovel, you are totally grasping at straws and completely freaking out. You want to know the exact time that you sent the text so you know exactly how long he's had to respond. Only when you finish sifting through your sent texts you realize that your message was never actually sent. And that's when you realize that you've just won your very first fight with Blonde Beard even though he wasn't aware you were having one. Anyway...