You’re Not the Type of Fag Who Cries Himself to Sleep...

...but you do whole-heartedly believe in the medicinal powers of an old fashioned sleeping pill. Forget about all this Ambien and Xanex crap, you, my friend, prefer to follow in the footsteps of the Ghosts of Divas Past. After coming home, alone, after the dramatic subway platform ending of your three month relationship with Blonde Beard, you decide to treat yourself to thirty milligrams of forty-winks and you knock yourself out (like Judy and Marilyn would have) with one of your left over Restorils prescribed to help you survive a Red Eye on your recent ski trip to Chamonix.

The next day you wake up, extremely groggy, and you’re kind of thrilled about the gorgeous warm weather. You don’t have any plans, so, as you lay in the comfort of your comforting comforter, you start to think about how best to spend your Sunday. And that’s when it hits you. You suddenly remember last night. You remember Blonde Beard’s fortieth birthday dinner at Supper. Drinks at The Ritz. More drinks at Barrage. Then you remember that sentence. The one that caused you to forget everything else that was said before or after. Blonde Beard’s sentence that suddenly put everything into perspective for you and your three month relationship: “I just feel that, between work and school, that I’m spreading myself too thin.” You are shocked, but not because of Blonde Beard’s irritatingly lame break-up sentence. You are shocked, but not because that sentence ultimately caused you to confess your love on the West 4th Subway Platform before walking away and bursting into tears. You feel like you've done everything you could in this relationship, and somehow you don't feel like too much of an idiot. Expressing your feelings to someone you love is not a bad thing. And the one thing you know for sure is that when you do express your love for a boy, you definitely expect it to be a good thing. Actually, more like a great thing. But none of these Post-Mortem realizations are all that surprising. What you find to be completely shocking today is that you're not really all that sad. At all. And shouldn’t you be? After all, you told the damn guy you loved him and then he let you walk away. Could you have possibly made a mistake? Well, obviously you were wrong for falling in love with Blonde Beard in the first place, but is it possible that you were never actually in love with him at all?

You remember your first break-up with your first love. You cried for weeks. An entire summer, in fact. And after you broke up with your second love you remember breaking into sudden tears almost daily in the shower, where nobody, not even you, could see your tears even though they were undeniably present on a daily basis. And the third boy you’ve ever said, “I love you” to is Blonde Beard. Shouldn’t you feel worse? Shouldn’t you be crying? After years of being single in Manhattan, is it possible that you’ve gotten too old and jaded to properly experience love and heartbreak? Your existential angst actually pulls you out of bed and keeps you busy sifting through your innermost superficiality for some hint of denied sorrow as you make yourself some (actually rather delicious) scrambled eggs and hop in the shower and sing along the poppy new British Import you bought on eBay, Now That’s What I Call Music 69, specifically to some song called Be Mine! by Robyn, “But you never were, and you never will be mine!” And, get this, even though the silly song makes you instantly think of Blonde Beard, it actually puts you in an even better mood.

So after getting dressed you decide exactly what you are going to do today. You are going to finish making that ridiculously romantic Shutterfly photo book that documents all of the dates you went on with Blonde Beard. And you’re not doing it to be spiteful. Well, you don’t think you are. Anyway. Instead of considering it as a birthday present, you decide that now it will work much better as a Lovely Parting Gift. So the Martha in you hobbles her Hurtful Hernia over to the restaurant that you took Blonde Beard to last night for his birthday dinner. Originally you had wanted to get the waitress to take a photo of the two of you for the last page in the book, but after Blonde Beard poo-poo’d that you decide that you still want to document your Last Supper with Blonde Beard which, ironically, took place at Supper.

And then you go home and spend the day in front of your computer, uploading photos, cropping them, putting them in chronological order, while you wait for Blonde Beard not to call. You title it “Forty Dates With a Thirty-Nine Year Old.” And you end it with a simple, “Happy 40th, xoxo You!” because the x’s and o’s seem to represent the way you feel now much better than the word “love” does. When you finish you actually feel kind of relieved that it’s over. You no longer have to live in fear of Blonde Beard finding out about your Blah-Blah-Blog. You don’t have to worry about him hating you for writing about your relationship and publishing it on the internet. The fact that he doesn’t love you seems somehow preferable to him finding out and hating your Gay Fat guts. And that’s when it hits you. It’s not that you’re too old to experience love and heartbreak, perhaps you’re just too scared to experience it publicly. Anyway...

Click here to view this photo book.