You're Not One of Those Fags Who's Too Chicken to Discuss His Feelings...

...but, as you pull a frozen chicken breast out of your freezer, you realize that it has become glaringly obvious that Blonde Beard is definitely a Chicken shit. And it kind of blows your mind. How is it possible that he could be so undeniably intimate with you, for months, and then just run away like Chicken Little after the L-Word came falling from the Sky (after too many Skyy Vodkas, of course...) You truly don't understand his issue, but as far as you are concerned there are two scenarios: 1) Blonde Beard doesn't feel the same way about you as you feel about him, or 2) Blonde Beard does feel the same, but he's too scared to express it. Neither doomsday scenario is acceptable. At all. So there you have it. It's officially over. Buh-bye, Blonde Beard. Don't let the razor nick ya on the way out! Next!

You sit down on the Hobosexual's lumpy futon couch and rest the Zip-locked Frozen Chicken Breast on your swollen Balloon Balls when you realize that your revelation about Blonde Beard neither surprises, nor disappoints you. And honestly, when you think about the relationship in such broad terms, it doesn't even seem like that big of a loss. But here's what's making you dazed and confused, not to mention driving you slowly insane. If the loss is truly no big whoop, then why on earth were your feelings sooooooo intense for Blonde Beard? Was your tearful subway meltdown just an "in the moment" kind of drunken thing? Or were your intense feelings more like a fast-acting, yet short-lived drug? Perhaps after years of dating Flaky Fashionista Fags, maybe you confused Blonde Beard's promptness and politeness as something that was actually unique and special and worthy of your deepest emotion? Or perhaps it's just that the sex was just so damn good that you let your girlie emotions get the best of you? And meanwhile, if you truly feel so Non-Plussed about the end of your Non-Relationship with your Non-Boyfriend, then why on earth are you so obsessed with the fact that you don't feel worse? Let it go already! Hell, if you're just in denial about the whole damn thing then why can't you just enjoy it before the other designer shoe drops?! And that's when you stumble upon what's really bothering you: After years of being single in New York, has your concept of love become so superficial and Chelsea-fied that you've finally become one of those "out of sight, out of mind," emotionally compartmentalized fags? Anyway.

When your Boneless Balloon Balls are thoroughly numb, you put the Zip-Loc bag on the kitchen counter so it can continue to defrost, and then you pop a Pain Killer and hobble down the six flights of stairs in order to get your Gay Fat ass out of your Home-Sweet-Hovel. You head over to your writing space to do some procrastinwriting, however, by the time you schlep up the three flights of stairs and claim your second-favorite dark little cubicle, your Gay Fat ass is, ironically, feeling light headed. With all your Blonde Beard lollygagging this morning, you forgot to have a breakfast chaser with your one-calorie Pain Killer. However, your dizziness turns out to be a blessing in disguise when you check your email and see that Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger has sent you the results of your Scrotal Sonogram. Being single and sober would be a tragic combination to receive the lovely news that your aging Balloon Balls are actually suffering from a painful case of varicose veins that was obviously aggravated by your Hurtful Hernia Surgery. Varicose Fucking Veins?? How humiliating is that? Your Blue Balls are like the gay equivalent of some Blue Haired Lady in Boca! Do you even have testicles? Or is your scrotum actually holding a couple of over-sized Blue Haired Lady Ovaries? Oy Vey(arie)...

Luckily there's another email from the Portuguese Brazilian From London to help distract you from your Old Girl Troubles, and, even though it's a bit ridiculous, you are happy to set up a date with him when the old chap returns to New York for the weekend. After a busy, light-headed day of Procrastinwriting, you drag your Balloon Balls over to the Gay and Lesbian Center to see a Michael Cunningham interview because he's been one of your absolute favorite authors ever since you read A Homo at the End of the World. Only instead of listening to the old Literary PowerHouse's interview, you spend The Hours drinking the free wine and texting your new literary PowerBottom that you recently met on Connexion: Mr. Write. He definitely gives good text and you can't wait to meet him.

However, when your cell vibrates to alert you to what you assume to be another flirty text from Mr. Write, your butterfly-anxiousness is quickly replaced with rolling eyes when you notice that this particular SMS is from your Hobosexual Roommate. He informs you that he has put your chicken in a bowl of cold water because (get this) it has started to go bad. Now, you know this is not in the realm of possibility because, 1) It is April not August, and your Home-Sweet-Hovel is barely warm enough for your toes to defrost, and 2) Even if the frozen-solid chicken breast has defrosted and actually gone bad, that it couldn't smell because it is tightly sealed away in a Zip-Loc bag. So you text the Hobosexual back and ask him to put your poultry in the refrigerator for you, as you will be home soon to take care of it. He immediately writes you back and informs you, "i put it in the fridge but i wouldn't eat it cause it really smells." You know that this is preposterous because the Hobosexual would never eat any kind of non-processed food that didn't come in a package from Trader Joe's.

After the Michael Cunningham interview and an inappropriate amount of free wine, you head back to the Home-Sweet-Hovel and are surprised to find that the apartment really does smell. Bad. Kind of like rotting chicken. However your rotting chicken is sealed in a Zip-Loc bag, which has been put away in a sealed refrigerator. So like Toucan Sam, you follow your nose and open the sink cabinet where you find the offensive Specimen. Days it's been since the overflowing trash bin has been taken out. And it reeks. You want to kill the Hobosexual because, had he taken care of this smelly situation hours ago, then your apartment wouldn't smell like Flesh and Blood. So you tie up the garbage bag and place it in front of the door because, between your Blue Veined Balloon Balls and your Hurtful Hernia, there's no way you are doing another twelve flights (round trip) to bring out the trash. So you whip up a delicious chicken dish and go to bed early. Of course, when you wake up the next morning, even though the Hobosexual had to move the smelly trash bag in order to get through the door, he couldn't be bothered to take it downstairs on his way to work. God forbid he should do something around the house when he has his old, Varicose-Veined Gay Mommy to do it for him. Anyway...