You're Not One of Those Fags Who Smokes Fags...

...but even though a decade has passed since you quit, you still find yourself having smoking dreams and then wake up feeling horribly guilty. The only nice thing about these dreams is when you awaken and realize that it was just a dream. Usually you just heave a healthy full-lunged sigh and go back to your ashtray-less life, but on this particular Saturday morning you wake up rather jumpy and irritable, almost as if you're having a Nic-Fit. However your current irritability has more to do with the fact that it is now Saturday morning and you still haven't heard from Mr. Write about making weekend plans, even though he's the one who suggested getting together in the first place.

The last you heard from him was on Thursday when he dropped an email bomb, "i got a looooooong letter from the bad ex just moments ago, it's sent me into a bit of a tailspin that i haven't even started feeling yet. have to walk the dog first. ugh." You, of course, responded instantly, "Which one is the bad ex? The Sociopath? Does he even count as an ex? What did he want?" And that, my friend, is the last you ever heard from Mr. Write. You begin to wonder if maybe he's freaking out? Is he getting back together with The Sociopath? The unknown always plays a number on you as you begin to rifle through the multitude of possibilities that, thanks to that ancient episode of L.A. Law, usually include an open elevator shaft like the one that Rosalind Shays stumbled into and plunged to her very dramatic and much appreciated death. So even though Mr. Write has ruined your non-existent weekend plans, you give him the benefit of the doubt and respond (again) to his last email. This time you simply say, "Is everything ok?"

Moments later you get an instant response which is much less satisfying than any elevator shaft would have been: "yes yes, sorry to be out of pocket, i got overwhelmed with work yesterday on top of having my visitor from LA, she's great but all-consuming. and weekend plans through sunday got stacked up doubly and triply, i SWEAR i am rarely this social...all ok with you?" Doubly and triply booked? What the fuck is that? Obviously Mr. Write has forgotten that he is actually quadruply booked because he's the one that asked you to do something this weekend. Whatever. Although you are annoyed, you're not really surprised. Actually, you're pretty much over it. Mr. Write obviously needs a Re-Write before his words and his actions can actually cohesively combine in order to ultimately make up one unfortunate, yet extremely predictable plot line of a typical Boy Meets Boy Eighth Avenue Love Story that will surely open and close during Previews. If a boy is sooooo busy that he winds up triple booking with other boys, then not only is He Just Not That Into You, but he is obviously not ready to get into any sort of relationship with you either. And since, ultimately, that's what you want, it's easy to sort out Mr. Write's "doubly and triply booked" bullshit from your ultimate goal of finding Mr. Right and being his Numero Uno booking priority. So you write back, eventually, and decide to keep it short because a) Mr. Write really doesn't deserve much detail, and b) Your internet connection has been down for two days and you are sending it from your cell. You respond, “I’m fine. Sounds like you’re busy. Have fun with your friend.”

You, of course, never hear back, and although the silent treatment isn't entirely unexpected, it definitely sends you into a tailspin. Mr. Write was supposed to be your fucking Blonde Beard rebound! How dare he doubly and triply book his weekend plans and then disappear into thin air! And then, just to really feel bad, you begin searching Connexion profiles through all your silly (for lack of a better word) relationships, and none of these boys seem to be single! They're all listed as Dating or, get this, Exclusively Dating! One is even In a Relationship! It's almost as if your breaking up with these boys put them onto some Disney Express Lane directly to Happily Ever After. And you can't help but ask yourself the pitiful question that terrifies you and your perpetual singleness to the core: Could it be you?

You mope around the entire event-less day until your BFF sends you a text telling you to come meet him and his Gal Pal at The Ritz for a Gay Cocktail. Even though, *gasp* you're not feeling particularly social, you decide that getting out of your Home Sweet Hovel will do you good, so you swing up to Hell's Kitchen for a few cheer inducing Stoli O's. Your train connections are flawless and before you know it you've got a Gay Cocktail in hand and are leaping through the back patio door looking for your BFF so you can bitch all about lame ol' Mr. Write. And that's when you see it. You are absolutely shocked. Six months after he quit you catch eyes with your BFF just as he's taking one big ass drag from his cigarette. He looks up at you as if he's fifteen and you're his mother and then he says, "I don't wanna hear it." And, guess what? You don't wanna say it. You've said it before. Practically every six months when your BFF falls off the Wagon and hitches a ride from his buddy, Joe Camel. Needless to say, it disappoints you, but your BFF is a big boy and you are much too young and way too cute to be his middle-aged mother, so you shut your minty-fresh, smokeless trap. And that's when you get a fabulously exciting, spontaneous text from your Gal Pal: "Singing Karaoke at Lemongrass on 13th. In a huge private room! Bring whoever!" And when it comes to Karaoke, no matter what kind of foul mood you're in, you never need to be asked twice.

In fact, you are so excited for this well-deserved dose of Homeopathic Vocal Crack that you grab your BFF and his Gal Pal and hail a cab (without a moment of your usual cheap hesitation) and you head down to Greenwich Village. As the meter ticks away, your BFF's Gal Pal calls a few of her peeps to come join your Gal Pal and the rest of your Literary Lot of Writer Friends. However, while the three of you are squashed in the backseat of the taxi, you quickly become aware of an all too familiar clinking sound, and when you look over at your BFF you see that he has somehow smuggled his Pink Vodka Cran into the Yellow Checker Cab. You must give him another one of your Motherly looks of shock because he immediately gets defensive and says," What was I gonna do? Leave it?" But before you even get a chance to respond, your BFF brings up a very valid point, "If they didn't want me to take it then they shouldn't have served it in a Plastic To-Go Cup..." And then your BFF quickly turns into the Backseat Nazi and begins to yell at the Cabbie about how he's taking us the long way, and, since your BFF is always right when it comes to directions, you don't really mind until the Cabbie gets annoyed and hits the brakes. Hard. In fact you don't actually begin to mind until you feel the Vodka Cran and all the melting ice soaking your leg and absorbing quickly and coldly into your sock and shoe. You yelp from the Hypothermic Shock, and, of course, that's about when the Cabbie asks, "Did someone spill something back there?" And your BFF, who's now in absolute drunken hysterics, quickly quips back with a terse, "No, sir!" as he drops his now-empty To-Go cup onto the floor. And then, for some unknown reason, the Cabbie feels bad for taking you out of the way and actually turns off the meter as he heads across town in his soggy Yellow Submarine.

When you arrive at Karaoke, Lemongrass is packed, but after ordering a few drinks the Cocktail Waitress shows you back to the Lit Lot's private room. And it is a little slice of (as Belinda Carlisle would say) Heaven on Earth. Apparently the Lit Lot was getting annoyed that none of their songs were ever being played in the main room, so, surprise-surprise, one of the cranky writers complained and they offered up their most spacious private room at a huge discount. But thanks to the miracle of a recent text messaging blast, the large room has quickly filled up with cheap writers who should stick to writing words instead of singing them as they pop up on the monitor. And you use the word "singing" very cautiously (mostly because you're a bit too drunk to come up with a better, more accurately descriptive word). You're also a bit too drunk to answer the question, "Who are the Karaoke Nazis?" when your Home Schooled Hipster friend points out your BFF's Gal Pal and the friends she invited are hogging the microphone. They're also busy fast forwarding through all of the Lit Lot's songs since, being Karaoke Nazis, they have quickly figured out how to work the Karaoke Machine's remote control. But things quickly disintegrate when someone from the Lit Lot who actually paid for the room tries to reclaim the precious microphone and is, instead, greeted with a Karaoke Nazi's middle finger.

You're a bit embarrassed since you're the one who extended the invitation to the Karaoke Nazis, so you quickly look around to find your BFF to discuss the best way to handle the Current Karaoke Threat Level, which, just like her rising middle finger, has just been elevated to a Code Orange. But your BFF seems quite oblivious as he, uncharacteristically, puts down a full drink and heads outside. You ask aloud, very confused, "Where's he going without his Gay Cocktail?" until you realize that he is obviously going outside to smoke, and you roll your eyes because a) You don't want your BFF to smoke, and b) You are left all alone to diffuse the Book Burning campaign taken on by Karaoke Nazis' during their Invasion of the Lit Lot. And that's when you find yourself on the Front Line of this malodious Sondheim-ish Dance War between the Jets and the Sharks.

That's when your BFF's Karaoke Nazi Gal Pal looks directly at you and yells, "Don't you roll your eyes at him! He's a big boy and if he wants to smoke then that's his choice. He doesn't need you judging him to make him feel bad about himself!" And you are absolutely shocked. In fact, you would have actually preferred to get the finger from her because you are in no mood to argue with the Karaoke Nazi's righteous bullshit, especially when she is so utterly wrong-cious! But she doesn't stop. She just keeps going on and on and won't let you get a word in edgewise. And to top it off, she's got the damn microphone! You barely get out a sentence, "Why on earth would I be supportive of an addict who's fallen off the wagon? I'll save my support for when he quits again!" And that's it. You get no more words into this bullshit argument, yet you are quickly ripped a new asshole for being so judgmental. Yet during your lambasting you quickly realize that this argument (like most arguments) has nothing to do with what you're actually arguing about. The Karaoke Nazi has also obviously also started smoking again, she obviously also feels guilty about it, and instead of having this argument with her husband who hates that she smokes, the Karaoke Nazi is obviously taking her venom out on you.

But you ain't having it. Not tonight. You already feel bad enough about being dumped by both Blonde Beard as well as your God damned rebound, Mr. Write! And since you don't understand their reasons for dumping you, you certainly aren't about to be dumped on further for ridiculous reasons that you do understand, yet have absolutely nothing to do with you. So you very dramatically say, "Can I say something without being interrupted?" to which the Karaoke Nazi instantly interrupts you. So you repeat, very loudly (even without the Karaoke Microphone), "I'd really like to say something without being interrupted, if you don't mind!" And with your second request she actually shuts up, so you say, "I'd just like to take this opportunity to point out that you are pulling exactly the same kind of judgmental crap on me that you are accusing me of pulling on our Smoking Friend." And with that you throw your share of the bill down onto the table and immediately walk out of the bar.

Of course, once you make your way outside you find your BFF innocently smoking a cigarette and you just walk by, unable to even say goodbye. Moments later you receive a text from your BFF that says, "U left so suddenly?" to which you respond, "I was suddenly done." You're still steaming as you wait impatiently on the same subway platform that Blonde Beard recently dumped you on, wondering why on earth you should be happy when your friends start doing things that are bad for them? But that's when you realize that you will actually be absolutely thrilled when you officially learn that the Karaoke Nazi has started smoking her way to an early death again. Anyway...