You're Not One of Those Lip Syncing Fags...

...no matter how inappropriate the song is, you're the type of boy who'll sing your little heart out in the shower as if you were trying out for American Idol. When you're done, you and your boombox prance across the living room wrapped up in a towel as your Hobosexual roommate looks up from his Sex and the City rerun to scowl at you. He is definitely Simon to your Kelly Clarkson. But you're not letting him bother you today. Hell, you're not even letting your Lovely Lady Mumps rain on your parade today. Especially since it's the Gay Pride and you're running late for the parade! The party you wind up at ends up being at a fabulous Fifth Avenue apartment, with a balcony! While catching up with a Medical Student friend of yours, you decide to ask him about the lumps in your neck that feel as if a mother Robin has laid a couple of eggs and decided to hatch them in your throat. He feels them and is visibly shocked. But not as shocked as you when the Mockter Doctor asks, "Have you had a lot of sexual partners lately?" You gulp as you say, "Not really," even though of course you have. Whore. The whole thing just freaks you into having another cocktail or three and you and your ice clink your way out to the sheltered balcony and watch it pour on the poor gays because of some freak thunderstorm.

After the Parade Party, you and the Boy Luck Club head over to the West Village for a Pre-Pier Party on Greenwich that one of your Kinsey 8 Fire Guyland roommates is throwing. This place is also gorgeous, and although his first floor loft has no balcony to the outside, his ceilings are so high that it actually has a balcony on the inside! Unlike the last few parties you've attended, everybody is super chatty and friendly and you wonder if perhaps that has something to do with the fact that you're at a daytime party? You follow Fat Albert's footsteps as he seems to be a magnet for the cute boys, and since he's already got a boyfriend, you don't mind chumming for his sloppy seconds. However there is nothing at all sloppy about the Emergency Room doctor that Fat Albert introduces you to. And unlike Fat Albert, you actually have an emergency! You apologize profusely in the same breath that you begin to describe the symptoms of your Lovely Lady Mumps. And then something wonderful happens. Your temperature rises as Dr. McSteamy reaches out to examine your neck. Softly. Thoroughly. Even though you're so swollen you can't help but swallow a bit of anxious excitement as Dr. McSteamy lifts your shirt to feel what appears to be your kidney as he asks you if it hurts. You reply with a simple, "No," as right now it is impossible to feel pain. Dr. McSteamy instantly informs you with authority that you have nothing to worry about. He's sure that your Lovely Lady Mumps are stress related due to your impending move. The two of you continue your chat and everything in the background seems to fade away. Without all the static it suddenly seems easy to spot the one simple truth that you've known all along: This is how it's supposed to feel when you meet someone special. Although you've been hung up on Blonde Beard for months now, he never made you feel this comfortable. Conversation was never this easy. Dr. McSteamy is exactly the type of guy you could fall for. That is, if you haven't fallen already. He's laughing at your jokes. But more importantly, you're laughing at his.

You begin to fantasize about how you'll finish each other's sentences whenever someone asks the two of you, "How did you guys meet?" You'll both say, "Gay Pride," in unison as you beam with pride and continue your Happily Ever After story with lots and lots of wonderful "We's." Things are about as splendid as they could possibly be when Dr. McSteamy starts chatting with Fat Albert about what a catch you are! So cute, so funny, etc. Yes, you actually hear him say this! And then it's suddenly like someone scratches a record player needle across your fantasy with one horrible screeching word that comes out of Dr. McSteamy's mouth: "We." And, unlike your daydreams, this "we" isn't referring to you. You immediately interrupt their conversation and say with extreme disappointment, "Who's 'we'?" That's exactly when you have your Alanis Morris Ironic moment as Dr. McSteamy introduces you to his beautiful wife. Or busted husband. Whatever.

The Busted Husband immediately takes his cue and swoops into the conversation. Your conversation. You want to say, "Shut up, I will wreck your happy home!" but instead you just smile as you swallow a bit of throw up as the Busted Husband tells you his nauseating "Love at first sight" story. Of course your mind wanders as you try to find the silver lining of this extremely disappointing experience. Ultimately, however, you realize that there are boys out there that you can have a magical moment with. And hopefully one of these days one of them will be single.

Between your Lovely Lady Mumps and your imaginary break up with Dr. McSteamy, the Pier Dance ends up being mildly annoying yet extremely sweaty. Surprisingly, you don't recognize anybody. And honey, you know a lot of New York boys. Hell, you've dated most of them. But the pier seems like it must be full of Circuit Queens who have flown in for the "Event," which everybody seems to think will be either Madonna or Jennifer Hudson. But as the evening wears on, the DJ seems to be having a Madonnathon with all the songs from her new album. And since Madge needs to promote it, and since she's living in New York since she filed for divorce, and since she has never ever done the pier dance before, it seems perfectly viable to you that tonight will be the night! So you squeeze past the Tweekers and push your way as close to the stage as you can physically muster! You are sooooooo excited, not to mention convinced that Madonna is about to pop onto the stage when the MC comes out to introduce this year's surprise guest! Your heart palpitates and your Lovely Lady Mumps throb to the drum-roll as he finally introduces..........Jennifer (I just swallowed the) Hudson. And if this isn't enough of a buzz-kill, the American Idol bitch actually has the gall to lip-sync. Needless to say, you are less than impressed. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Has a Laundry List of Boyfriend Qualifications...

...but you do have five things on a very short list that you absolutely must have. At first glance they seem rather simple, however, when taking into account your dismally unsuccessful dating history over the past four years, they actually seem rather elusive:

1. Must make you laugh.
2. Must have great sex.
3. Must like to cuddle.
4. Must like the beach.
5. Must like to drink. (Okay perhaps this qualification should hold a more coveted position on your list...)

But nothing else is negotiable! This, of course, is your first thought when you wake up in Bald Boy's arms (#3) with a bit of a hangover (#5) after a night of great sex (#2) at Bald Boy's beach house (#4). Bald Boy is a very rare species. He's a four out of five. Unfortunately (for you), Bald Boy is missing your number one requirement and, after a romantic weekend of no laughs, this is something that even you can't deny. Although you've had a magical beach weekend in Ocean Grove, you can't help but wonder if today will actually be the end of your Three-Night-Stand?

You and Bald Boy explore Asbury Park and the day flies by. Later on you have a pleasant, yet humorless drive back to the city so you can meet the Boy Luck Club for dinner and, surprise-surprise, drinks. You and Bald Boy say your goodbyes on a West Village sidewalk and Bald Boy asks you about your plans this week before you head to California. Since you don't really have any plans (Loser, party of one!), Bald Boy tells you that he'll call to make a date which seems perfect. You're actually curious to have some alone time so you can sort out how exactly how you feel about Bald Boy. Either you'll keep thinking about him or it'll be yet another case of "Out of Sight, Out of Hind..." Only time will tell.

You race home to drop off your stuff and shower, and then meet the Boy Luck Club at Elmo where you order the world's weakest, yet most expensive mocktail masquerading as a Mandarin and Soda. In fact, the drink is so weak that the taste of lime actually over-powers the non-existent hint of mandarin (even though you haven't even squeezed the lime!) But you and the boys have lots of laughs during a nice, sober dinner sitting outside on Seventh Avenue before deciding to swing by G for some drinks that actually contain liquor. You wait at the bar for your your favorite Red Headed Bartender who makes drinks the way they were supposed to be made (strong!) while a very hot muscle boy (stronger!) standing next to you crushes a wet napkin and throws it over the bar into a trash can. Without a moment of hesitation, you actually forfeit your turn to order from the Red Headed Bartender in order to say, "Two points," to the cute muscle boy who chuckles, but walks away.

But then he walks back. So you say in a snarky, yet somewhat confused tone, "You're back." To which he responds, "I realized that I should've stayed." And the two of you begin to sip your drinks (#5 -- Check!) while chatting about how jealous he is about your beach weekend (#4 -- Check!). Before you can get through the rest of your check list, the muscle boy throws you for a loop and tells you that he has two kids? He used to be married (to a girl no less!) and has a five and ten year old. You, of course, start imagining yourself making his children's lives a living hell as their Evil Stepmonster, ordering them to polish your Pradas as you yell "Make them shine like the top of the Chrysler Building!" and, of course, beating them with wire hangers if they fail to deliver. Your fantasy of free slave labor gets you kind of hot and it isn't long before you and your Baby Daddy are making out in the back of the bar. It gets pretty intense, so when Baby Daddy asks you to come back to his place you begin to have a moral dilemma. Actually it's more of a whore-al dilemma. For someone who recently proclaimed to be too old and mature to have one night stands anymore, you ironically find yourself in the precarious and slightly slutty position of not having slept in your own bed for the past three nights. But the big question is: Will you try for four, Whore?

Of course you will! As you are hailing a taxi you decide to check out the Guinness Book of World Records first thing when you wake up tomorrow just to see if you've actually broken some Homeless Hooker's record. For now, however, you settle for another Guinness when Baby Daddy offers you a drink. Although Baby Daddy's apartment is a bit messy and dirty laundry is scattered about the floor, you, my friend, are much more interested in seeing how many more qualifications you can check off your laundry list. It doesn't take long before you are both naked in bed and you're a bit shocked because Baby Daddy's upper body is so big and bulky that you begin to wonder if he's on steroids? However, the balls never lie and there ain't no shrunken junk downstairs. In fact, everything seems to be extra-large which is actually somewhat shocking after spending your wee-weekend with Bald Boy (and no, you are not st-st-stuttering).

The sex is pretty fucking amazing (#2 -- Check!), and afterwards you are so exhausted that you actually fall asleep in Baby Daddy's arms for god knows how long (#3 -- Check!), but when you wake up you decide that you have to go back to your Home-Sweet-Hovel, partly because you feel like you are somehow desecrating Bald Boy who you haven't actually thought about until right now because, just like Bald Boy, Baby Daddy has yet to make you laugh (#1). Anyway...

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

...but the Boy Luck Club seems to feel differently after you relay the Blonde Beard "Best" email story to them over an impromptu sushi lunch at Kodama (45th Street near Eighth). You are in absolute shock as Rice Queen informs you that he gets desperate emails like the one you sent to Blonde Beard all the time. "But," you attempt to defend yourself, "I was just trying to be nice! I didn't want him to think that I was the one who gave him Herpes!" But Rice Queen isn't having it, "It doesn't matter," he says. "About six weeks after I check out of a relationship, I will inevitably get an email like yours and it's obvious the boy is wondering what happened and, I'm sorry, but it just comes off as totally desperate."

Desperate? As in des�per�ate (dspr-t) ADJECTIVE: 1. Having lost all hope; despairing? Could that possibly be how Blonde Beard perceived you? Perhaps that's why Blonde Beard wrote you back and used "Best" as his final closing word to you? Perhaps he thought you were just being desperate and didn't want to lead you on with an overly affecionate "Sincerely" or get really racy with an "XOXO"? Typically you would just look at this ridiculous Best situation and tell yourself that obviously Blonde Beard is scared to show any kind of true emotion. That Blonde Beard has obviously become so jaded and fucked up from years of gay dating in New York that he has decided that the Best way protect himself is by emotionally dibesting from a relationship instead of actually having a conversation that could actually expose a true feeling. And here you are actually expecting the Boy Luck Club to back you up on this issue while comforting you with enlightened mantras they learned on Oprah or Dr. Phil. That's when Half-Share chimes in with his two cents, and since he was the only White Boy ever to date Rice Queen, you are desperately sure that Half Share will come to your rescue. But he actually agrees with Rice Queen about your email coming off as some desperate need to find closure. You look to your anorexic friend, Fat Albert, but he is too busy shuffling his food around his plate to make it appear as if it were actually eaten, and obviously he doesn't notice your visual plea for emotional support when he, too, sides with Rice Queen and Half Share on this particular Gay Dating Conundrum. Fat Albert even goes as far as telling you that you obviously scared Blonde Beard away by prematurely expressing your love for him. You are in shock! "Even after dating someone for three months?" you ponder aloud as your friends all nod their heads in agreement that three months is much, much too soon to express love. They explain that exposing your love for a boy is the kiss of death. Someone even goes as far to describe the whole experience as, "A real dick deflator."

You leave lunch with all these new ideas floating around your head, haunting you. You actually give the situation some real thought since these are your good friends and you know in your heart that, unlike the emotionally unavailable Blonde Beard, these boys actually have your Best interest at heart and definitely have no agenda (besides, of course, finding you a boyfriend so you'll stop yapping about your endless gay dating dilemmas.) But it's all good. You live and you learn, and perhaps next time you will play your cards a little closer to your chest instead of letting all these silly gay boys play Slap Jack every time you reveal your (Jack of) Hearts. And these are the thoughts swirling around your head as you tear through various outfits in your closet in order to cuten yourself up for your date with the Swedish Engineer that you've been chatting with on Connexion.

That's when you remember a comment that Swedie Pi made about how he had a thing for men in suits. About how he liked to think of them as special gifts that he got to unwrap. And with that, your wardrobe woes are solved as you pull out a blazer to wear over a form fitting Lacoste shirt, which, although not a suit, is about as dressed up as you've ever gotten for one of these silly internet Meet n' Greets. You worry that his time you may have let your expectations get the best of you. Usually you like to meet these boys right away without putting a lot of time and energy into excessive emails and playful phone calls, however, Swedie Pi has been busy working in Sweden and so you've gotten yourself worked up to the point where you are definitely one Desperate Fag.

You're really looking forward to meeting your Swedie Pi, and the date seems promising and unique since he's invited you to an Gallery Opening in Little Italy for a Multimedia Artist named Bill Shannon. You really have no idea what to expect, but when you arrive at the Douz and Mille gallery you are rather surprised to find a Buxom Blonde with a clipboard, looming from the preferable side of her velvet rope, and you and your Brunette Blazer gulp as she searches her list for your name and then promptly removes the velvet barrier and grants you access to an elevator which whisks you quickly up to the fifth floor. When the door opens again, you are instantly blinded by a giant, blinking Motel-like sign, which upon closer inspection actual reads "MURDER," which is exactly what you plan to do to your heart if it finds itself desperately creeping down onto your sleeve during this date which you've been looking forward to for weeks. You promise yourself that you will play it cool tonight. You will not come off as desperate. You will not Deflate Dicks. You, my friend, are not desperate! And, luckily for you, your forearms are sleeved with a form fitting cotton American Eagle blazer that is way too tight for anything to slip out beyond your emotionally stable, yet somewhat limp wrist.

You make your way through the maze-like gallery, passing several video installations that make absolutely no sense to you, as you scan the various rooms for your Swedie Pi. Your eye quickly spots an open vodka bar, and although everything else in your focus begins to fade as your liver begins to salivate in a classic Pavlovian response. However, somehow during the ten steps that separate you from your sober sal(i)vation, somehow you take your eyes off of your 80 proof prize as 100% of your attention segues away from the dark blue lettering on the Svedka bottle and settles quickly upon the dark blue eyes of the Swede who is smiling at you. "Hello!" he says in an accent that is sexier in person than it was over the expensive international phone call, and your heart actually skips a beat as it begins its descent down your tight sleeve. Swedie Pi introduces you to the Gallery Owner and several other VIP's that irritate you mostly because you have to feign interest in them when you really want to be concentrating solely on your Swedie Pi. The whole experience is surreal because a documentary film crew quickly surrounds you as if you are Michael Moore's next docuventary victim. You stare directly into the camera as the Cameraman attempts to document your first few words with your Swedie Pi, however, everybody is surprised when your first words turn out to be the Cameraman's full name. The cameraman's full face emerges from his viewfinder as he says, "Oh my God," and gives you a warm, welcoming straight man hug which is more like a quick pat on the shoulder while his crotch seems to retreat so far across town that it may have actually have to pay a toll when it eventually decides to make its way back across the Hudson River.

You haven't seen the Cameraman since you shot the series finale of the sitcom you both used to work on and you are in shock. Partly because it's been years since you've seen him, but mostly because this handsome boy that you used to lust over has actually gotten a bit Straight Fat during these past few years of Reruns. You instantly ask your TV friend, Rerun, "What's Happening?" and Rerun explains that he has been shooting a documentary on Bill Shannon ever since the sitcom ended. You are happy to have a little bit of Artist Street Cred as you introduce your Swedie Pi to Rerun. But Rerun is busy working so he runs off to film something that is, surprisingly, somehow more interesting than your date with Swedie Pi (which is, surprisingly, even better than you expected.) You order a drink as you peruse the exhibit and attempt to fathom how on earth a video installation artist who films himself bopping around the city on makeshift crutches can actually make money? Or warrant a documentary film crew? You and your Swedie Pi discuss these and other issues as your first date goes along swimmingly until you make your way back to the bar. You, of course, order another Svedka, but are surprised when your Swede orders a Sveven-Up... "You're not drinking?" you ask, confused as to why anyone would order a Soft Drink at an Hard Bar? Swedie Pi explains that he is very Jet Lagged and that alcohol would just put him to sleep. You feel a little funny about drinking alone, and you worry that the liquor might act as your Emotional Truth Serum but you quickly get over it as the bartender hands you your free Svedka & Soda.

Afterwards you are both hungry, and although you live steadfast by the rule of No Food on a Meet n' Greet, you have already broken all your other Gay Dating Rules with Swedie Pi, so you are certainly not about to let this Jet Lagged Fag go to bed anytime soon. You wind up sitting at the counter at Café Gitane because the place is packed and the woman behind the counter takes a shine to you as she tries to plop a big basket of bread in front of you and you say, "We're Gay so we don't eat bread." In fact she likes you so much that she makes you forgo a table when it becomes available just so she can chat with you boys. The conversation just flows. The two of you have so much fun talking that the Waitress refuses to believe that you are actually on a first date. And to her credit, it doesn't feel at all like a first date. In fact, although you are sitting together for the very first time, somehow it feels like you two are an old established couple, bickering about directions as you drive through Stockholm in the Volvo that your Swedie Pi bought for you after you sold your first book.

Your desperate fantasy continues as Swedie Pi tells you all about a Bed and Breakfast in Madrid that he bought for his Mother to run. Then he goes on to explain how it's his dream to open a small hotel in New York one day. You instantly imagine yourself sitting beneath a rainbow flag at the Front Desk of the Hellsea-Clinton B&B in a beautiful Brownstone that the two of you renovated shortly after trading in the Volvo for a pair of matching Metrocards and abandoning The Netherlands for New Amsterdam. But as the clock strikes midnight, your Metrocards expire as your Cinderfella Fantasy quickly turns back into a delicious Pumpkin flavored dessert that is quickly turning you into a Gay Plumpkin.

So you split the check and walk your Swedie Pi up to Houston Street where you hail him a taxi because he is much too tired (and rich) to bother with the subway. You hold the cab's door open for him as you attempt to break your very last dating rule and lean in to give your Swedie Pi a goodnight kiss. You are practically patting yourself on the back at this point for somehow keeping all your desperate B&B redecorating fantasies all to yourself instead of pulling out an Ikea Catalog and exposing all your fabric swatches and color schemes to your Swedie Pi. However, even though your mouth somehow seems to cooperate this evening and doesn't reveal your innermost Dick Deflating Interior Decorative feelings to your Swedie Pi, you find yourself quite surprised when your welcoming lips receive nothing but a little peck. After such a great date the bizarre goodbye actually feels more like the Kiss of Death as Swedie Pi hops in the cab and leaves you and your Deflating Dick standing alone like Hand Solo on the sidewalk. You're actually so surprised by the quick turn of events that, instead of walking home, you find yourself hurrying back to Café Gitane because, although you have no intentions to bear your gay soul to your Swedie Pi, you decide that it is somehow okay to run your desperate gay ass back to ask the cute Waitress what she thought about your date. She's actually just as shocked as you are when she sees you return, alone. However the only thing she really tells you is that, surprise-surprise, she thought that Swedie Pi seemed a bit more reserved than you, but she does remind you that he was suffering from Jet Lag. As you walk home you begin to go over the entire five hour first date, replaying the whole thing in your head while desperately worrying whether or not the new and improved, non-desperate you may have been so desperate to not come off as desperate that you may have actually come off as aloof and uninterested? Anyway...

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

...but lately you have been living in complete fear of being "outed" for writing your Blah-Blah-Blog. In fact, last night at your Gal Pal's Pot Luck was the closest call you've had yet. Since your Gal Pal had generously offered to collect what's left of you after your Hurtful Hernia surgery, you decided to return the favor so you offered to come early and help her set up before her Pot Luck. The fact that your Gal Pal would actually accept your disingenuous offer never actually crossed your mind, but you made the best of it and dragged Blonde Beard along with you. Since you were the first two boys there, you made yourself useful by gaying up the place, keeping her Four Legged Vacuum away from the food, and answering the door when an irritatingly early guest buzzed. There were only a handful of your Literary Lot of friends at the party when the your friend Shaggy arrived. As usual, his Mystery Machine was hidden deep within his baggy pants (rumor has it that the Mystery Machine is so big that Shaggy needs to order his latex Scooby Snacks online). Meanwhile, a big smile took over your face when you saw your allegedly endowed friend through the glass door. Although it took you a while to let him in, somehow you unlocked it one handed without spilling a drop of wine. God forbid you should put down the glass! Only when you open the door the first thing Shaggy says is (actually it's more of an ear piercing shriek), "So I finally read your blog!"

Your face turns ghostly white (as if you're a Guest Ghost Star on Scooby Doo) and your index finger raises to cross your lips violently in order to immediately silence this Meddling Kid! Then you whisper indignantly using the Royal "we" as if you are Queen Fucking Elizabeth, "We don't talk about that in public." And then you fearfully turn back toward the party, wondering nervously whether Blonde Beard overheard or not. Meanwhile, although you may once have off-handedly mentioned that you write a secret Blah-Blah-Blog to Shaggy, you definitely never mentioned it's Na-Na-Name. Somehow the damn thing has gotten on the radar and your friends are starting to talk about it. Even your straight friends. What's up with that? Why the hell is Straight Shaggy reading your Gay Blah-Blah-Blog? Do Breeders really lead such boring lives that they need to live vicariously through your gay shenanigans? Ugh. Although you have been very careful about who you've divulged your secret URL to, your friends have obviously been less discerning. It's like that fucking Faberge Shampoo commercial, "If you tell two friends about 2nd Person with wheat germ oil and honey, they'll tell two friends. And so on... And so on... And so on..." You, of course, always preferred Body On Tap shampoo which was, for some unknown reason, made with real beer, "But don't drink it!"

Meanwhile, the only good part about Blonde Beard's hasty, 9:30pm retreat is that you don't have to worry about one drunken Lit Lot writer spilling the beans about your secret Blah-Blah-Blog. However, after Blonde Beard is gone you are so miserable that even this silver lining doesn't make you feel any better. Neither does the text he sends you soon after he gets home, "Sorry things are so weird right now. Thanks for taking me to your Gal Pal's. Have fun the rest of the night." The message leaves you uneasy. Why are things so weird right now? You decide not to respond, mostly because you have no idea how to respond. But ten minutes later you receive another guilt-ridden text, "PS-You looked very cute tonight," which you also choose not to respond to, mostly because you are depressed. Who knew that it was actually possible for you to make a wise decision under the influence of an entire gaggle of Grey Geese?

The next morning you wake up and feel awful. And for once this is not (solely) due to your hangover. You tossed and turned sleeplessly all night while analyzing Blonde Beard's hasty departure. All you can really come up with is that he is just the most shy person you have ever encountered. Actually, he reminds you of your lame Oh Brother, who is completely socially retarded and only communicates with monosyllabic grunts, yet somehow received his Doctorate from Harvard. Could your intense attraction to Blonde Beard somehow be tied to some bizarre need to work out your troubled relationship with your Oh Brother? And more importantly, is it even possible for someone as socially (look at you-you-you!) extroverted as you to be in a relationship with someone who can't seem to handle the harried social pressure of a Brooklyn Pot-Luck? Meanwhile, you decide that it's time to answer Blonde Beard's text, but you let your fingers do the talking since you're still wrapped up tightly in your warm winter comforter and don't feel like talking. You tap out the message, "I'm confused and don't understand why things are weird. I was really sad last night after you left. Still sad now, actually. Or maybe just hungover." Even though you're not (really) hungover, you add that last part mostly to lighten up the mood of your depressing text so you don't seem like such a clingy sad-sack. Blonde Beard responds immediately: "Sorry you are feeling bad, whatever the source. Sounds like you had some fun if you're hungover." Whatever the source? Is he kidding? Does he really not realize that he's the fucking source? Not to mention the fact that the only reason you over-indulged last night was because you were so fucking depressed that the boy you are falling in love with couldn't stick around the party long enough to meet a few of your friends?

You don't respond to the last text because you really don't have anything to say. Well, nothing that's not snarky. Anyway. You mope around all morning feeling sorry for yourself until your friends begin to badger you about coming to a mutual friend's brunch that you decided to blow off for your extremely unsatisfying pity party. Eventually you concede to the barrage of texts and voicemails and you drag yourself out of bed and head over to the Brunch which happens to be pretty much the same guest list from the Pot Luck. The Lit Lot seems to berate you with questions about why you look so Mopey Fish Face, so you re-hash the story about your Socially Inept Non-Boyfriend over and over while plying yourself with some Hair-of-the-Dog Mimosas. Each time you repeat the story you find yourself saying that you are not willing to have a relationship where you must walk on eggshells everytime you are in a social situation with Blonde Beard, nor are you willing to give up your friendships for a reclusive relationship. And everytime you finish the sad story you always come to the dramatic conclusion, "I think we're just too different to be in a relationship."

However during your fifth re-telling or perhaps your fifth mimosa, Blonde Beard actually calls your cell. You excuse yourself to the Apartment's cinder-block Stairwell as you echo your concerns to your hairy-lipped boy about the so-called "weirdness" in your "relationship." Only you quickly realize that the two of you are not on the same page about what is actually "weird." Blonde Beard explains that he has been on edge lately because he has been worried that his Jealous Roommate was going to kick him out of their apartment. Apparently the psychopath was so up-in-arms about your recent innocuous "renovation" comment that the Jealous Roommate has not only banned you from visiting, but he has also gotten Blonde Beard worried that he will have to choose between his Rent Controlled Apartment and his new Non-Boyfriend. This scenario obviously never crossed your mind, mostly because it is insane, but it does help make sense of why Blonde Beard has seemed so distant lately. So you decide to meet and grab some Thai food at Sea so you can talk in person.

Only your meal in constantly interrupted by all the members of the Boy Luck Club. Nonstop. Apparently your friend, Fat Albert (whose photographs always seem to add 150 pounds to his skeletal frame as if he's some anorexic vampire) has some bizarre need for you to get your ass over to his apartment, right now. Probably so you can watch him not eat the Chinese food that he has apparently just ordered. And then, as if free food wasn't enough of a lure, Fat Albert informs you that he has a present that he wants to give you before he leaves for Europe tomorrow. You are completely torn because you'd love to go over for food and presents, but you really don't want to have another repeat of last night where Blonde Beard goes all Ted Kaczynski and runs away to live off the grid where he can send preemptive Unabomber packages to anybody who dares to invite you to a party.

But the texts are relentless, so eventually you timidly ask Blonde Beard if he'd mind stopping by Fat Albert's apartment for a little while since it's only a few blocks away. Blonde Beard agrees and you get more and more anxious with each footstep that brings you closer to your impending doom. When the doorman announces your arrival to Fat Albert, you hear your photographically challenged friend shout over the intercom, "Send him away!" Although the Doorman knows to ignore Fat Albert's fictitious orders, Blonde Beard takes them at face value and looks around nervously, almost backing out to the street before you can coax him into the elevator. However, to your elation, when you arrive to the Lions' Den Blonde Beard is given a very warm welcome. The Boy Luck Club is definitely on their best behavior and not only are they extremely nice and inviting, but they definitely include Blonde Beard in the various conversations that are typically "Boy Luck Club Only" topics. Although you almost cringe every time a question is directed toward Blonde Beard, you quickly realize that he seems to be holding his own. Quite impressively, actually. Not only does he get the jokes, but he actually tries to crack a few of his own. You begin to wonder why he's so much more comfortable and confident amongst your tighter, bitchier group of friends? Until you realize that this time he's surrounded by a group of four compared to last night's group of forty.

Eventually you are lulled into a false sense of security after receiving an extremely generous pre-birthday gift of a free Frequent Flyer ticket to L.A. (for an upcoming Atlantis Cruise that you can't afford), the Boy Luck Club starts to tease you by discussing very specific details that you only write about in your Blah-Blah-Blog. They use terms that you'd only ever used online, for instance, your face turns bright red when the Rice Queen asks with a wink, "How are the Hobosexual's Bedbugs?" This is quickly followed up with knowing laughter and further interrogation from Half-Share, "Meanwhile when are you moving out of your Home-Sweet-Hovel?" Of course all of this flies right over Blonde Beard's head, but you are left feeling more than a bit uneasy. In fact, this time it is you that flees the impromptu party uncomfortably early. You grab Blonde Beard and inform the Boy Luck Club that you must get going because you have to wake up unreasonably early for your hernia surgery in the morning. As you walk down Fourth Avenue you begin to wonder how much longer you will be able to keep up the closeted blog charade? The one thing you have become certain of, however, is that when Blonde Beard does find out about your Blah-Blah-Blog, that this intensely shy and private boy will probably never be able to forgive you for the hole that you have unknowingly dug yourself into. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Extreme Makeover Home Improvement Fags...

...although your body could certainly use a few nips and tucks from Ty Pennington. Not to mention a good screw. However, you are a bit shocked when the wholesome, practically pigtailed Surgeon that your Primary Physician recommended turns out to be named Mary-Ann. Couldn't you at least be discussing your crotch related issues with a Ginger? Anyway. You find yourself standing in her office answering questions about your Hurtful Hernia when Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger reaches down into your cutest, tightest pair of Diesel underwear (which incidentally you got on sale for 50% off), and becomes the first woman *ever* to touch your Junk (which, of course, instantly shrivels into insignificant nothingness). After Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger asks you to cough, she says, "Oh my! You definitely have a hernia!" and then she retrieves her hand from your Never-Netherlands and removes her glove with a snap while you are totally freaking out about going to Third Base with a Girl. However, the fact that you she was wearing latex gives you some sort of safe-sex comfort.

Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger schedules you for Laparoscopic Surgery next week and explains all about how she's going to take your Straight Virginity by entering you through your belly button, yadda-yadda-yadda. She keeps yapping but somehow you're too busy shuddering from her girl cooties to pay much attention. For some reason Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger laughs when you ask her about killing two birds with one stone and giving you a Tummy Tuck while she's fumbling around down there, even though you are definitely not joking. You are well beyond Gay Fat at this point and Swimsuit Season is right around the corner! Meanwhile, since you've gotten this damn hernia, you haven't been able to go to the gym (which, ironically, is where you got the damn hernia in the first place).

You are completely shell-shocked after your doctor's appointment so you get on the Bat iPhone to call an Emergency Meeting with the Boy Luck Club. You definitely need a Gay Cocktail to help you black out those skinny manicured girl fingers going down on your Junk but, unfortunately, G is already packed and, thanks to your Hurtful Hernia, you can't stand for more than two minutes at a time. Luckily the Boy Luck Club accommodates you and you all end up sitting on the banquette in the back corner which is, unfortunately, located directly next to the doorless bathroom. Your waiter quickly fills your shaky, detoxing hands with a few Stoli O' and Sodas, and the next thing you know you have agreed to go on an Atlantis Cruise to Mexico next October, which, of course, you can't afford. But, after all, isn't that why they invented Credit Cards? However, somehow G Lounge hasn't yet heard of this new-fangled invention they call Visa, so when your wallet runs out of Williams (which apparently some people refer to as Bills, but only by those who are much more familiar with them than you are), you decide that it's time to stumble home.

Only when you hit the street you realize that you have a text from Blonde Beard who is apparently skipping his class because he isn't feeling well. Somehow your index finger texts back something sickening like, "Do you need some healing kisses?" without somehow jamming itself down your throat in order to make you gag. Have you really become that sappy guy? Hopefully it's just the liquor talking... Meanwhile, Blonde Beard writes you right back and tells you that he's just ordered way too much Chinese so you should to come over to his place. You stumble your way toward the West Village and Blonde Beard buzzes you up to his place which he has all to himself because his Jealous Roommate is apparently out for the evening. After a simple peck on his hairy lips, Blonde Beard says, "Someone had a cocktail," to which you immediately lie, "Only one..." but you smirk so he knows you're lying. Then you immediately make a bathroom run and attempt to push your bulging intestines back into your body with your free hand while you pee. You cringe when you hear Blonde Beard's Jealous Roommate come back home while you're busy spiking the New York City Sewage System with your Vodka infused waste, but you put on your big fake happy smile when you and your over-worked liver come out to join the sober people.

Now, at this particular point in the story, it is important to point out that this little two bedroom, rent-controlled apartment has been completely renovated by the Jealous Roommate. Several times over. Although there are certain original details that have been left in place (like the Clawfoot Tub and the Black & White Hex Tiled Floor), practically everything else has been replaced or re-engineered to the point where the place feels more like an Ikea Showroom than some Slum Lord's neglected Cash Cow. Not an inch of space is wasted and the thought that has gone into this Pre-War Walk-Up is mind boggling. It definitely feels like the After version of an episode of Queer Eye. The Jealous Roommate is like Martha on Meth, and every time you come over for a visit you always notice something that has been rearranged or redecorated or renovated in some extremely practical, yet (usually) tasteful way. Several times during your over-nighters you have lulled yourself to sleep over the hum of Power Tools which never seem to get a rest. Capiche?

Now where were we? Oh yes. So you press your small intestines back into the bulging hole emanating from your groin and rejoin the sober people. You sit down and try to follow the conversation while munching on some Chicken Chow Fun. But you all look around in surprise when the most awful screech comes through the recently re-plastered walls which sounds vaguely like a number from A Chorus Line, even though the talent behind the wall sounds much more more like he should stick to his day job of hanging wet garments on A Clothes Line. This is when you open your big mouth and tell the boys that if they want to put a stop to their Karaogay Singing Neighbor, then they should just go bang on his door. That's when the Jealous Roommate informs you, "We can't do that! At least not until I'm finished renovating the apartment. Because if he starts a war and tells the landlord that I've been doing work in a rental apartment then I'm the one who will get kicked out."

This makes you laugh. Not because it's particularly funny, but the idea of the Jealous Roommate ever being satisfied with These New Cabinets or with Those New Towel Racks to the point where he puts down his Power Tools seems highly unlikely. So you laugh. Out loud. Perhaps some would even describe it as a guffaw. And that's when your drunken lips end up slurring, "Oh come on! That'll never happen because you'll be renovating this place forever!" And then, as if on cue, the Karao-gay singing comes to a grinding halt and the crickets begin to chirp. It is dead silent long enough for Barbra Streisand to make a complete costume change which includes a Mani-Pedi and a facial. And then the Jealous Roommate gives you the Evil Eye while he gathers together his Take-Out and says, "Excuse me, I'm going to go into my room now because I really can't take you anymore tonight..."

You are shocked and dumbfounded. Although you know you were being a bit snarky it's not like you said something like, "I know you're really in love with your roommate but he's too busy having phenomenal sex with me to give a shit about you and your new cabinets." The Jealous Roommate gets up and stomps into his bedroom like a big Nelly Olsen having a tantrum over being nothing but a recurring character in Blonde Beard's life when all he really wants is to be re-cast as Laura Ingalls so he can have Almonzo all to himself. But you digress. Even though this was not your intention, you have obviously touched upon something deeper than the Grand Canyon and since you're not The Brady Bunch you don't have the time to make your way all the way down to the Colorado River traveling on the back of a stubborn Mule. So you actually find yourself trying to Stop The Insanity by, get this, apologizing. However, instead of forgiveness, your kind words are actually met with a slamming door by a man who's acting like he's pushing fifteen instead of fifty.

You stand there in absolute shock. You haven't been treated so inappropriately since you were in Junior High School. And that was obviously a long time ago since they abandoned the term "Junior High" sometime during the first Evil George Bush's Presidency and began to call it Middle School. Your jaw is still ajar when Blonde Beard begins to explain that you just touched upon all of his Jealous Roommate's Emotional Tissues. Apparently the idea of living above the Olsen's Mercantile in a Two Bedroom Rent Controlled Apartment on one of the best blocks in the West Village is somehow irksome to Nelly Oldsen since she obviously feels like she deserves better than everybody else in living in Walnut Grove.

At first you think the whole situation is just plain silly, but after it actually sinks in you realize how awful it really was. You haven't been treated this insanely badly by anybody since long before you had pubic hair and it really begins to shake you up. So you and Blonde Beard retire into his bedroom to lie down. You keep waiting for your Non-Boyfriend to comfort you in some way. To touch you in a reassuring way while he informs you that his Jealous Roommate is insane. But he doesn't. He just lies there and isn't helpful in any way shape or form. You really don't know what to do, but the one thing that you are pretty confident about is, even though the last thing you want to do is spend the night, that you should not leave. Leaving the apartment now will somehow justify that this crazy person has a valid reason to be mad. And leaving would also somehow enable the Jealous Roommate's ridiculously childish behavior and allow it to blossom into an even bigger drama. So you stay. And you don't have sex. And you don't talk about it. And you do have trouble falling to sleep. And Blonde Beard barely touches you the entire night. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those S & M Fags...

...unless of course it's a night like tonight where you find yourself at one of those Stand & Model bars (can you say G Lounge?) where the only kind of pain that is inflicted upon you is strictly emotional (unless, of course, you count the misery of feeling physically inadequate amongst the artificially enhanced Chelsea Steroid Queens). But while you're busy chatting it up with the Boy Luck Club, an email comment from one of your Blah-Blah-Blog Readers beeps through to your iPhone and you quickly find yourself reeling as if you had just been iPunched in the stomach:

"I love your blog but even at the risk of never reading about your shenanigans again, I think now might be a good time to stop writing about your relationship with Blonde Beard. If you really like him and you want things to work out, you don't want entries like this floating around the Internet, because if he ever sees that you wrote about his drug problems on your blog, anonymous or not, he might (and probably should, to be honest) freak out..."

Meanwhile, the only person freaking out right now is you. The Boy Luck Club immediately notices the sobering change in your typically drunken demeanor and they try to comfort you about the strange situation that you have unexpectedly found yourself in. You started your Blah-Blah-Blog mostly as a goof, but after a while you realized that writing about your ridiculous dating foibles, was not only cathartic, but there might actually be a Silver Lining that might hopefully bring some attention to your writing and ultimately help attract a Literary Agent that could help sell your damn novel. So far, it's all been good, except for the fact that you never had a Plan B for when you fell in love. Especially not so damn quickly. And definitely not so damn publicly. So you say goodnight to the Boy Luck Club and shuffle your Gay-Fat Ass (actually at this point you may actually be creeping into Straight-Fat territory) to McDonald's on Eighth Avenue, and you order $3 worth of Food (you use the F-word lightly) from the Dollar Value Menu in order to drown your sorrows on cheap, yet Manly portions of TransFat across from, ironically, a Fat TransMan.

The next morning your alarm wakes up your depressed gay ass way too early for a Saturday because you have to schlep out to The Pines in order to check out a Quarter Share (even though all you want to be checking out is a Quarter Pounder) with your future Fire Island Housemates. You almost miss the 9:16am train because your Cabbie keeps making wrong turns because he is much too busy yapping Farsi into his cell and can't seem to retain the fact that you needed to go to that obscure destination they call Penn Station. Luckily you make the train with less than thirty seconds to spare, and plop yourself down between Rice Queen and Rice Queen Too, who, ironically, dated each other in college long enough to realize neither of them liked White Boys too much. You pretend to sleep while listening the two yap about their recent outings to The Web as they compare notes on their overlapping dates. At one point White Rice actually shares an Asian Boy's number with Brown Rice (which you find a bit odd) until you realize that Brown Rice is just entering it into his phone to double check if the number had already been stored which would, of course, mean that they had dated. Everyone is shocked when the fact neither White Rice nor Brown Rice has slept with this particular Asian Boy, so it is quickly decided that he must be Sticky Rice. You, of course, open your eyes at this point to learn the meaning of this new urban slang which is explained to you as an Asian Boy who would prefer to sleep with another Asian Boy over one of your two friends.

After spending the last of your cash and taking out a loan from White Rice to pay for the $24 round-trip ferry ride (which is explained to you by the Sayville Ferry Girl as a Winter Rate, although you consider it more of a Winter Rape), you are tickled pink when you realize you have sat your Gay-Fat Ass down next to Robin Byrd herself! You love-love-love the Original Public Access Fag Hag who would somehow always get her guests to expose themselves during a striptease during the final credits to "Baby Let Me Bang Your Box." So, of course, you discreetly take a photo with your camera phone because, even though it becomes blatantly obvious from her "mature" appearance that her shows have probably been rerun longer than The Brady Bunch.

Eventually you get to The Pines and meet your Real Estate Agent who reminds you of that actor in Ghost (you know, the one who played the Subway Ghost?), only this guy is much, much scarier. And in the same way that the Subway Ghost wasn't able to get off the Subway, this Realtor actually can't get off Fire Island because he lives in The Pines year round. Which is, ironically, nothing more than a Gay Ghost Town from Labor Day till Memorial Day. For a while it seems like yours is the first conversation the Ghostly Realtor has had since they shuttered the Blue Whale's doors after last Summer's final Low Tea, but you quickly tune him out because you get a text from Blonde Beard about meeting up in Rockville Centre later on. Somehow you agreed to accompany him to, get this, a two year old's birthday party. On Long Island. After telling Blonde Beard what train you'll be on, you end wandering up and down the boardwalk, touring luxurious, yet freezing cold beach houses, none of which have running water. This dry situation presents a constant drainage problem for your girly bladder which, as usual, overfloweth with Diet Pepsi. At the end of the day, you and the Rice Queens end up being drawn to a super cute place on Beach Hill that, shockingly, you all agree upon, and you tell the Ghost Realtor to draw up the papers so you won't be late to the toddler's birthday party.

When the train arrives at Rockville Centre (tragically, it really is spelled like that), you give some quick double Euro-Kisses to the Rice Queens because you are excited to get off the train and give some lengthy French-Kisses to Blonde Beard who is waiting for you on the platform. As usual, your eyes quickly weed through the Pastel-ish Suburban Crowd and immediately lock onto Blonde Beard's piercing blue eyes which draw you in like a Tractor Beam from the U.S.S. Enterprise. After you get your kiss you head over to the Breeder's party in order to celebrate the two year anniversary of their successful Breeding. Although it's not something that you'd typically relish doing on a Saturday, you were touched when Blonde Beard asked you to join him, not to mention the fact that you were excited to meet some of his friends. Besides, today is your Two-Monthiversary so you probably would have agreed to eat broccoli or even gone Women's Shoe Shopping with him if that's what he asked you to do.

You are both completely out of your element in the extremely spacious Long Island Home, and you keep staring mistrustfully at the plethora of Pastel Colored Suburbanites who seem to be, get this, enjoying their Nanny-less babies even though the Rugrats are spitting up and screaming and eating things off the carpet. Your eyes are also constantly drawn toward the staircase which is freaking you out because it is inside the living quarters instead of out in the dirty common hallway so it can be shared with apartment dwellers where it can do double duty as an ashtray to accommodate neighbors who are too lazy to schlep down six flights to get their nicotine fix. You suffer through the endless opening of the presents by a baby who is more interested in the discarded ribbons and ripped wrapping paper than he is interested in his actual toys. Suddenly one of the other childless Manhattanites happily informs you with a gleam in her eyes that your train is ten minutes earlier than you all thought it was, so you all mumble your goodbyes as you rush outside. You are so anxious to make this train that you end up squishing yourself in through the back liftgate of a Jeep Liberty so you won't have to suffer through an extra half hour with disturbing staircases and manipulative blonde babies.

You and Blonde Beard board the Long Island Railroad and duck away from the other Manhattanites into the first available seat. You worry that it might be rude, until Blonde Beard informs you that, "The party is over!" And before you know it you are back in Penn Station which is, unfortunately, full of Amateur Suburban Drunks who are wearing green and actually singing "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" even though all their eyes are glazed over. You consider informing them that St. Patrick's Day is still forty-eight hours away, but then you'd actually have to talk to them, so you just leave because, after all, there is gay sex to be had.

Back at Blonde Beard's stair-free apartment it gets hot and heavy pretty quickly. You find yourself sitting on top of him, hypnotized by his blue eyes in that now familiar way where you forget absolutely everyone and everything that is beyond your peripheral vision. That's when Blonde Beard looks up at you and whispers, "Thanks for coming along with me to that horrible baby party today. I know you didn't have to go, but it really meant a lot to me." You instantly get all veklempt, and even though you know you shouldn't say it, you can't stop the words from coming out of your mouth, "Of course I went with you. I'm falling in love with you..." And just like that, on your Two-Monthiversary, you drop your first L-bomb. In all of your thirtysomething years, you've only ever said it to two other boys. Even though, this time, you didn't really say it, yet, you certainly just gave some foreshadowing of what was to come with this practice sentence, almost as if you were a sophomore in High School taking your PSATs.

And then you just wait. And wait. And wait. But all you get is crickets. Although Blonde Beard's body language stays consistent, and his eyes never ever veer away from your stare, he does not return your oral sentiment. Eventually the silence embarrasses you so you look away. On one hand you feel like you have just exposed your poker hand prematurely, while on the other hand, even though Blonde Beard obviously does not feel ready to meet your call, you trust that he is not bluffing. Although you feel extremely awkward, you do appreciate his confidence to savor the tender moment without feeling the necessity to parrot those words back to you before he is ready. So to break the silence you find your abandonment issues taking control of the situation as you quietly request, "Please don't hurt me." To which he quickly whispers back, "Don't hurt me either." And although you want to say that you would never hurt him, you instantly remember the comment from that boy who reads your blog and you begin to worry that maybe you already have? Or maybe you're even worse, like some anonymous Robin Byrd who profits off of your guest stars by emotionally exposing them on your narcissistic blog. Anyway...

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...