You're Not One of Those Drama Queen Fags...

...but you are dramatic. Especially when it comes to your love life. Lately you've been all over the place emotionally. The littlest thing can set you off and make or break your entire day. Like the other night when you were publicly judged by the Karaoke Nazi and then made a big scene by throwing down a wad of money to pay the check before storming out and almost getting run over in a crosswalk by some Jersey Hyundai Hag. Apparently her left-hand turn was more important than your life, so you smacked her driver's side window so hard that you actually hurt your hand. But if you look hard enough there's always a silver lining to these dramatic outbursts. For instance, since you left Karaoke early you never got a chance to publicly embarrass yourself after drunkenly requesting Christina Aguilera's Ain't No Other Man when a) You have no right nor any vocal range to sing that song, and b) There ain't no man in your life. And to top it off, since you hurt your hand, c) You were unable to write the Karaoke Nazi any sort of formal apology for your dramatic outburst.

You were, however, able to hunt and peck a one handed iPhone note to Mr. Write since you felt like your last short dismissive email may have come off a bit too dismissive. And you are not one to dismiss an opportunity to have sex, no matter how remote the possibility. So when you wake up the next morning you reply (again) to Mr. Write's ridiculous email about how he couldn't see you because he was "Doubly and Triply" booked over the weekend that he initially asked you out for! Now that it's Monday you realize that it might be nice to keep the potential open for a possible date next weekend, so you write: "how'd your weekend go? sorry for the short reply before. my home internet has been down since Friday and i only had my phone. i kind of had a shitty weekend, but am feeling better now."

Although you don't immediately hear back from Mr. Write, the Gay Gods must have heard your plea and accepted your offering because your phone rings almost instantaneously as you receive a call from the Portuguese Brazilian From London, who, according to his message, has commuted back to New York for a few days. Again. You only met him once (met = kissed) immediately after your Hurtful Hernia Surgery when you went all Judy Garland and accidentally mixed Absolut and Oxycodone (oops), which made for one Absolut(ly) Oxy(moronic) Memorable Blackout. But, as usual, you digress.

After an unproductive day of procrastinwriting, you call back the Portuguese Brazilian From London during your walk home. Although you have recently been feeling completely un-dateable, feeling somewhat desirable by someone turns out to be a wonderful distraction from your depression even though the man is completely unavailable, lives across the Atlantic, and has a twentysomething boyfriend in New York. Unfortunately, between the incessant street noise and the horrible cell-to-cell connection, coupled with the Portuguese Brazilian From London's indecipherable accent, you honestly have no idea what the hell he actually says to you. But it's all good because it was nice of him to get in touch and that simple fact has instantly put you in a much better mood even though, in actuality, he very well may have called to tell you that he has Herpes Simplex One and had an oozing cold sore when he kissed you during the night of your Memorable Blackout.

But none of this matters because tonight you and your BFF have tickets to go see your boy Calvin Harris at Bowery Ballroom! Since you live right down the street from the venue, you tell your BFF to meet you at your place and he surprises you with a nice sized bottle of designer vodka that he swiped during his company's xxx-mas party. Your Hobosexual Roommate stays put in his room busy doing something typical like not-cleaning, and your BFF thinks it is very odd that he's never even met the Hobosexual even though you've lived with him for almost a year. But you just shrug and mix a couple of drinks that are so strong that hopefully they'll take the hair off your chest. Especially that gray one you recently plucked. What's up with that? Anyway.

Eventually you are sufficiently liquored up and head down to the Bowery Ballroom just as the opening band is, thankfully, packing up, which makes it an Absolut(ly) perfect time to go to the Bowery Ballroom's Bar Room and order a much needed Gay Cocktail. Only, as you look around you, you are kind of shocked to realize that you two are the only gay boys in the entire place! Everybody is either *gasp* a Straight Slackster from Billyburg, or they're currently dating one. And this, my friend, is not your typical demographic. Toto, I don't think we're in Ken's Ass anymore. But it's all good because eventually Calvin Harris's Ass storms the small stage at the Sold Out show. Calvin is, as expected, fantastic. His fans, however, not so much. By the time Calvin sings "The Girls" you are about to start bludgeoning The Girls surrounding you with their giant leather shoulder bags. How much makeup do they really need to lug around to a dark concert? And to top it off, The Girls keep squeezing past you to sneak closer to the stage, or The Girls need to push past you to buy another Cosmopolitan, or, more likely, to go buy some more giant fake Prada Bags in Chinatown. Whatever they're doing, The Girls' movement is both constant as well as constantly annoying. Luckily you are taller than them and your big feet have a habit of stomp dancing onto their Jimmy Choos if they get too close. Oh so sorry. Unlike Calvin, at this particular moment you are not loving The Girls.

After the concert it's raining again, and you and your BFF just stand there trying to figure out your next umbrella-less move, which, please God, will hopefully be a Gay one. But that's when Calvin Harris himself walks out onto the sidewalk and begins to wave all of the stragglers to a little bar just south of Bowery Ballroom down by Broome Street. So, of course, you and your BFF tag along and at the bar you have a lovely conversation with Calvin that he couldn't be less interested in! Whatever. If Calvin ever decided to Come Out and write a song called "The Boys" you are sure that you would rank higher on his currently non-existent Gaydar.

On the way home you decide to stop for a Gay Nightcap at Urge and are Pleased as Planter's Punch to realize that your favorite Thursday Therapy DJ also plays at Urge on Mondays. So you give him a big double Euro Kiss and sit down to enjoy the fact that you have Absolut(ly) salvaged what could have been a terrible day, and have ultimately turned that frown upside down! You check your iPhone while waiting for the bartender to concoct your Gay Nightcap, and your heart skips a beat when you realize that you have finally received a response from Mr. Write. You quickly burst into hysterics and read it aloud, dramatically, to your BFF:

“finally writing back. yes, your response seemed terse, i tried not to read anything into it. sorry your weekend was so bad.

but i'm not much better. i have been like a canary in a cage since yesterday, running from one dean to another. i finally ended the day SCREAMING like a hag, like a crazy crazy hag, into the voicemail of the senior dean and i may have committed job suicide. no joke. and i mean SCREAMING. i never get like this, so i am now going to lie down on my sofa, and probably cry. i'm supposed to see my ex tonight for a movie but i am thinking of canceling and drinking a lot of wine.

sorry about my friend from LA coming, and then to collide with you when all this job crap AND the bad/sociopathic ex is sending me letters and leaving me sobbing voicemails. i wish this wasn't happening in my life now; it has derailed getting to know you. i have little energy for US and i'm not sure how to proceed.”

And yes, Mr. Write actually capitalized US as if you and he were on the cover of the Weekly! OMG! His email is so insanely crazy that you actually think that Mr. Write may have actually fabricated it just to scare you away! After all, he is a Playwright who moonlights as a Professor in, surprise-surprise, the Drama Department. But if Mr. Write just wanted to blow you off, wouldn't it have been a lot easier to just not return your damn email? Regardless, you are now absolutely sure that Mr. Write is indeed Mr. Wrong and you and your BFF giggle-sip your cocktails while you re-read the insane monologue again as if you were William Shatner performing William Shakespeare. Anyway...