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

...but you do tend to naturally gravitate toward the finer things in life, like, for instance, Hot Water or Cottonelle Flushable Moist Wipes. Yet when your bowels wake you up on this particular jet-fagged morning, you are extremely irritated to realize that you are out of both. However there is a small Post-It Note on top of an unrecognizable white tub that is now sitting in the same space where your Cottonelle Flushable Moist Wipe Dispenser used to live. The note reads, "Sorry. I used your Cottonelle wipes while you were away but couldn't find any when I tried to replace them." And this note is sitting on top of, get this, a lifetime supply of Huggies Baby Wipes. Which aren't even septic-safe. And they have little Bears imprinted on them. And these Bears aren't hairy nor do they have anything to do with The Eagle. To top it off they smell like fucking babies. And you hate babies. Ugh.

The hot water in your Home Sweet Hovel never seems to emerge and there's absolutely no way that you're going to take a cold shower, so you end up getting down on your knees in order to wash your hair and face under the cold bathtub faucet. You figure you can shower later on at the gym. So you end up spending your day in fear of emitting offensive body odors while obsessively sniffing your armpits. You also spend an inordinate amount of energy avoiding inane conversations with outraged women about Eliot Spitzer and his trusty Ho. After all, the only one who should be outraged is Mrs. Spitzer, and for whatever reason she seems to be happily entrenched in a Tammy-Wynette-Stand-By-Your-Man state of denial, albeit with deep, dark Tammy Faye-esque circles beneath her eyes. You could really give a shit about a Politician's boring-ass sex life, however you do find yourself wondering if Spitzer's Ho voted for him or John Faso?

Around 5pm you start getting emails from the Boy Luck Club about meeting at Zanzibar for some random Gay Networking Thing for The Men Event. It sounds rather imposing since you're a starving writer, but you quickly realize that it's actually just another way of saying "Gay Cocktailing Thing," with an emphasis on the cock. So of course you skip the gym and take your smelly, unbathed armpits uptown to meet the Boy Luck Club. You find your Rice Queen friend almost immediately, and, surprise-surprise, he is surrounded by an array of Asian Take-Out with names that you'll never bother to remember because the next time there will surely be an entirely different exotic buffet surrounding him. Rice Queen informs you that your anorexic friend, Fat Albert, is on his "Way, way, way!" That's when Half-Share (who upgraded to a Full-Share in The Pines next summer, only in a less glamorous house) begins to berate you both about finding a Fire Island Share for the summer. Rice Queen informs you that he's been chatting with a Realtor about a Quarter Share that will cost over $4,000 per person for once a month privileges. Your eyes pop out as if you were just bonked on the head by a cartoon mallet, and you realize that this is exactly the problem with having such fancy friends. Although you love them to death, you just can't keep up financially with the Grace Joneses and all of their fabulous, yet costly, shenanigans. And, as if on cue, that's when Fat Albert appears out of thin, anorectic-like air, in a handmade suit he purchased on Savile Road in London. He looks absolutely gorgeous until you realize that he probably spent more on that one suit than you spend on booze. In a year. You briefly consider knocking off your friend and pawning his suit in order to pay for your Fire Island Share, until you realize that the only person thin enough to wear it is the one who had it commissioned in the first place. Ugh.

After a few more cocktails you find yourself teetering along that fine line of either having dinner or staying out all night and drinking yourself into oblivion, but when Fat Albert offers to take his out his favorite charity case out to sushi at Kanoyama, you gracefully agree with a not so subtle, "Hey, Hey, Hey!" The two of you haven't hung out alone in a while, so you catch him up on the whole Blonde Beard situation. You tell him how much you really like this guy even though you do have a slight hesitation over falling in love with a possible Crackhead. Since Fat Albert's been in a stable relationship for over twelve years and always gives excellent advice, you ask him what he thinks is the best way to broach the subject of "Are you or are you not a Crackhead?" Fat Albert suggests that if you really like Blonde Beard and don't want to scare him away, then you shouldn't ask him about it at all. And you find your overly-loquacious self especially intrigued, "Don't say anything?" Fat Albert explains that if you start badgering him with drug-related questions then he will either resent you or retreat into lies. However if you don't ask him anything, and your relationship ends up blossoming into something more long-term, then all the answers to your questions will eventually present themselves on their own. More specifically, if Blonde Beard is a Crackhead then eventually this information will present itself because, as you get closer, he won't be able to hide it from you, "Unless, of course, you're in total denial like Spitzer's wife..."

Even though you leave the Sushi dinner with food for thought, you end up making a pit-stop at Pommes Frites Authentic Belgian Fries because you're already hungry again. You think about Fat Albert's advice while munching on your yummy Frites as you walk down Second Avenue toward your Home Sweet Hovel. But eventually your wine-drenched bladder starts to demand that you pick up the pace and by the time you race up the six flights of stairs you are practically holding your crotch like a seven year old in order to avoid an embarrassing accident. Luckily you make it to the toilet in time, and while you are relieving yourself you notice that the little Post-It Note is missing from the damn Huggies Baby Wipes. You also notice that the little dispenser lid has been left open. And this is when you realize that your Hobosexual Roommate is actually using the damn Baby Wipes that he bought to replace the Cottonelle Flushable Moist Wipes that he wasn't supposed to use in the first place! And suddenly you begin to wonder if living with a Crackhead could possibly be any worse than your current living situation? Anyway...