You're Not the Best Fag in the World...

...but practice makes perfect, right? Except, of course, when it comes to Softball. When it comes to Pitching and Catching, you, my friend, are an even bigger fag on the Field than you are in the Bedroom. But you've been rather glum ever since The Ex had to have your Kitty Cunt put to sleep, and some of your sporty writer friends have taken notice (mostly for a welcomed distraction from their own procrastinwriting). So somehow the Lit Lot convinces you to turn your frown upside down as they drag you to the East River Park for their weekly Softball game against Heeb Magazine.

Although your recent Creatine diet has definitely added to your sporty look, in actuality you feel much more like Old Spice than Sporty Spice. Your Straight Boyfriend wants you to play Short Stop, but you put an even Shorter Stop to that bad idea and place yourself safely in the outfield. Unfortunately the Pop Up Balls start tracking you down as if they're frenzied Paparazzi and you're Bald Britney sans panties. And if that isn't bad enough, once you've caught the damn ball you are actually responsible for throwing it to someone who is inevitably very, very far away. The whole humiliating experience does absolutely nothing but remind you how you used to feel when you were playing Kickball during recess and all the other Sixth Graders on the field would start moving in to catch your wimpy kick. However, now that you are thirtysomething you no longer have to endure an impromptu game of Schmear the Queer after causing your team to lose the inning. So this time around, instead of trying to impress anyone, you decide that keeping your dimpled smile in tact takes precedence over catching any damn ball that isn't attached to a scrotum. Unfortunately your Straight Boyfriend is not quite as lucky when an evil Ground Ball changes its mind and becomes a Pop Up as it ricochets off a rock and pounds him in his chiseled jaw instead of going into his glove. You, of course, instantly scream in horror, "Not the face!" because, yes, you are that gay, and, yes, your Straight Boyfriend is that good looking.

Luckily your Straight Boyfriend's wound is just as superficial as you are, but you watch it closely, just in case it needs some ice or possibly even a little kiss to make it feel better. After the game you end up on the back patio of a dive bar called Duke's on Avenue C, and you are very happy drinking $3 Stella's. Eventually enough cheap beer turns your seemingly innocuous conversation into a drunken Truth Fest. For some unknown reason, your Home Schooled Hipster friend has decided that you are definitely misrepresenting yourself with the way you dress. And he actually tells you this. You are a bit surprised because, although everything you own was purchased off a Clearance Rack at either Century 21, Filene's Basement or Loehmann's, the Home Schooled Hipster thinks you come off as a Vapid Chelsea Queen. And he actually tells you this. Even though, in reality, he thinks you are a much deeper person than that. You are completely speechless as you nod in awe at the Home Schooled Hipster, mostly because you are kind of secretly thrilled that your minuscule clothing budget somehow can still qualify as "vapid." You end up taking his back-handed compliment as if you were some Gay Jesus turning your other (butt) cheek for another Slap (that Ass!)

On your way home you swing by Plan B because one of your Blah-Blah-Blog friends invited you to some Eschelon International party celebrating the launch of some Gay Matchmaking Reality Show. You, of course, are solely drawn by the promise of free Vodka, Hors d'Oeuvres and a Gift Bag to boot, but when you arrive you find yourself endlessly amused by handful of the D-List stars. It's so ridiculous that you half expect to find Kathy Griffin roaming around with a camera crew. But the venue is so dead that the Reality TV Stars (and you use this term lightly) might actually out number the few hungry freeloaders that actually schlepped over to 10th Street and Avenue B for the Freebies. You wash down some free sushi with some free vodka as you watch Jill Zarin and her Gay Husband from The Real Housewives of New York City mingle with Ethan Zohn, the million dollar winner of Survivor: Africa. However, the whole Reality Experience ends up being just a bit too real for you, so you grab your gift bag and walk the few blocks home.

Even though it's relatively early, you find yourself crawling into bed with a new book called Band Fags written by one of your Lit Lot friends, however your thoughts quickly turn to your Kitty Cunt who, without fail, used to climb up on your chest and sit on your book whenever you tried to read in bed. And suddenly you feel very alone. Even though the hustle and bustle of screaming drunks outside your window is usually quite comforting, tonight the commotion has an isolating effect. You put down the book and pathetically cuddle your pillow as you try to remember what it was like to spoon your Kitty Cunt and listen to the purr of her unconditional love. And that's when you remember Blonde Beard. Or try to remember. His face is already becoming a bit hazy in your memory. You want to call him. Not because you miss him, or necessarily even want him. All you really want is to not be alone. To be held by someone. To hold someone. Just for tonight.

As usual, you begin to deconstruct the reasons for the demise of your Non-Relationship with Blonde Beard. Although you never seem to come up with any concrete answers, you always come to the same conclusion that the Non-Relationship would never have gone anywhere. You go over the long list of Cons in your head but, as always, these negative qualities all seem to pale in comparison to the overwhelming feeling of loneliness that has taken over you. At this point, even Blonde Beard's herpes don't seem to deter you. You don't want to be alone, yet you don't want to call him. The idea of being turned down during this vulnerable moment would actually be much more unbearable than suffering through it alone. And that's when it suddenly hits you. You never fully understood Blonde Beard's sudden retreat, although one thing is for sure, he began to pull away immediately after your Run-In with his Jealous Roommate (which was more like a Run-Away because the big baby couldn't deal with any sort of confrontation even though he completely fabricated the entire ridiculous fight in his own crazy ass head). However, that next morning was when Blonde Beard told you that he had just found out that he had Herpes. The thought never crossed you head before, but now you are wondering if perhaps Blonde Beard may have thought that you were the one who gave him the gift that keeps on giving?

Luckily you are not drunk enough to actually call, but you are definitely still buzzed enough from the free vodka that you do end up writing an email: "hey, i'm not sure what actually happened between us, but it just occurred to me that you may have been concerned that i might be the one who gave you herpes? anyway, i thought you should know that i was tested for EVERYTHING and came back with a clean bill of health. honestly it didn't even occur to me to pass along this info till now. sorry for that. had a crappy weekend. my cat died of kidney failure in LA so i didn't even get to say goodbye. glad you liked the photo book. i had a lot of fun making it. kind of ironic that our last supper was at supper. i'm telling you, you can't write this shit! hope you're doing well." And before you can second guess yourself, you hit send.

You prepare yourself for a long wait. Perhaps an infinite one where you never receive his reply. But, less than ten minutes after you send it you receive this: "Hey, I hadn't thought of that either, actually, but thanks for offering it up. Glad you got a clean bill of health. I'm truly sorry to hear about your cat. hope you're coping with it okay. Best, Blonde Beard"

Best!? Fucking Blonde Beard actually wrote you, "Best!" You are in a state of complete and utter shock! Someone you thought you loved has just Bested you! It is just so insane! Here you were, feeling all sad and lonely and wishing you were lying in the comforting arms of this boy who turns around and Bests you! You quickly turn off your computer and crawl back into bed with your advance copy of Band Fags and you can't help but chuckle at the very first line, "Friends hold you back." Suddenly it becomes very clear that Blonde Beard was definitely holding you back. Holding your emotions back. Holding your love back. Your vapid, Chelsea Boy love. And just like that you realize that it is Best that you never ever contact Blonde Beard again. Anyway...

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...

You’re Not One of Those Black Party Fags…

...although you do find black to be particularly slimming during this time of your self-imposed Gym Hiatus thanks to your recently diagnosed Hurtful Hernia. Besides, the idea of wearing something humiliatingly skimpy to a $140 party for the oh-so-unusual opportunity to hang out with a bunch of drugged up Queens from Queens seems pretty unappealing. In fact you'd much rather wear a humiliatingly skimpy hospital gown for the bargain admission price of a $75 surgical co-pay where, for once-in-your-lifetime, you get to be the (legally) drugged out Queen. And you're not even taking into account that your upcoming Hernia party's admission price includes your own personal Anesthesiologist. Anyway.

Actually, tonight you have something much more wholesome planned and you are very much looking forward to it. Your Literary Lot of friends are getting together in Brooklyn for a Pot-Luck at the Overly Affectionate Straight Couple's apartment. Now, ordinarily, you would probably gag from the thought of accepting an invitation that forced you to cross a river just for the privilege to hang out with a bunch of Breeders, but during this particular river crossing you have decided to drag Blonde Beard along so you can introduce him to all of your friends. And you're pretty darn excited about it, too! So excited that you've actually decided to bake a cake. As an homage to the Black Party, you decide to make a Devil's Food Cake. Well, you actually decided to combine an egg with some Betty Crocker and attempt to figure out how to work your oven (back off Martha!), but an oven is definitely involved.

While waiting for your Chocolatey Creation to emerge from your Easy Bake Oven, you decide to call your Gal Pal who's throwing the Pot Luck to see if she needs any help. Normally, you'd be much to selfish to offer up your valuable Pre-Party Primping Time, but your Gal Pal did just agree to pick you up from the Hospital after your surgery on Monday. However you are absolutely shocked when your Gal Pal takes you up on your insincere offer! Luckily the Cake Fumes coming from your Easy Bake Oven seem to have a soothing affect on you, so you decide to look at the Silver Lining of being volun-told by your Gal Pal to come over early so you can *gasp* help. This way she'll have a chance to get to have some one-on-one time with Blonde Beard since the last time they met he was so ridiculously shy that the Limping Lit Lot Lesbian made some insanely obscure Charlotte Perkins Gilman reference about Blonde Beard being The Yellow Wallflower. You, of course, instantly brought her down a Peg-Leg by asking Charlotte Dykey York, "How many Feminists does it take to screw in a light bulb?" and before she got a chance to ruin your (actually funny) joke you screamed, "That's not funny!"

You call Blonde Beard to ask him about going to the party early and are kind of surprised when he doesn't seem too receptive. After all, it's only a half hour earlier than you had originally told him (even though you definitely planned on getting there on Gay Standard Time), and isn't he supposed to be all gung ho about meeting your friends? So you back pedal a bit and tell him hesitantly that he can come later if he'd like, but then he informs you that if he had to go alone then he probably wouldn't go at all. What the fuck is that about? So you're a bit embarrassed to actually have to say it, but you put yourself out on the line and tell him, "I was really looking forward to having you meeting a bunch of my friends tonight." You're really not happy that you have to guilt him into making the right choice, but you're definitely happier than you would be if he bailed.

After you and the cake have cooled considerably, you apply icing liberally to both, plop the Devil's Food Cake into some Tupperware, and head down to meet Blonde Beard in the last car of the F train. Luckily you time your rendezvous well and, although the train is crowded, you find a seat which helps you take a load off of your Hurtful Hernia. You ask Blonde Beard about his day and he informs you that he isn't feeling well. Again. Your conversation is awkward, but you let it slide. After all, he's not feeling well. Again.

When you get to Brooklyn you pick up some chips and candles on your way over and it's a nice distraction from the stilted small talk. When you arrive at the Overly Affectionate Straight Couple's apartment you are the absolute first guest. Which is an absolute first. You look around in disbelief at the amount of chaos that is being caused by nothing more than you Gal Pal's unruly Lab, Mr. President, who, just like George Bush, was never voted into office by you. This pup is not just a food obsessed vacuum cleaner, he's actually a patented Bagless Dyson who is obsessed with both your crotch as well as your Betty Crocker. And, unfortunately, your job is to keep him away from the food until the guests come. Since Blonde Beard informs you that he's allergic to four legged Presidents, your Gal Pal puts him in charge of gaying up the place with some tea-light candles. And that's when something incredible happens. The guests, (actually you should qualify that), the straight guests start showing up. Early. On time. All of them! Who are these Straight Men and their Stepford Wives? Actually the only person who is more than five minutes late ends up being, surprise-surprise, your BFF. Thank God someone has enough good gay breeding to show up to a Pot Luck after all the offensive carbs have been eaten, and he shows up with a bottle of vodka to boot

You introduce Blonde Beard to a friend or two, and then, like a Homing Pigeon you follow the Vodka into the kitchen and effectively push your Blonde Feathered Friend out of his nest to see if he will take flight. You refill at least twice and have several conversations about extremely interesting things that you will certainly black out long before you make it back to Blonde Beard. You do try to keep an eye on him but you're not too worried because, after all, these are your easy friends! You've decided that he needs to work up to meeting the bitchy Boy Luck Club because, like a Nanny Fine Whine, those boys are definitely an acquired taste.

When you finally get back to Blonde Beard with the Diet Coke he asked for ages ago, he actually tells you that he's going to go home. You don't know what to say so you just look at your watch and realize that it's 9:30pm. On a Saturday night. And then you really don't know what to do. You definitely don't know what to say. He hasn't even met most of the friends you wanted him to meet because a few of them haven't even arrived yet! You're definitely not ready to go. For Christ's Sake, you haven't even cut into your Betty Crocker yet! So even though the incredulous look on your face probably says it all, the words actually come out of your disappointed mouth as you tell him that you're not ready to go. And then you see your Home Schooled Hipster friend and you scramble because you want them to meet because, for obvious reasons, Home School is socially awkward too! You are sure that they will have tons to be shy about, and if they don't they can at least talk about you! But by the time you grab Home School's attention, Blonde Beard has already put his coat on and scaled his way through the crowd as if he's Spiderman making his escape.

By the time you catch up to Peter Parker he's already at the front door. He barely pecks you on the lips and then he's out the door. By the time you ask him if he wants you to walk him back to the subway he's already halfway down the block and can barely hear your question. And you stand there in the doorway until Mr. Fucking Un-Elected President starts to make his unleashed escape, barreling between your legs which force you to pull him inside and close the door. You stand there alone for a minute, unable to even yell at the dog, wondering what the hell just happened? And then you go back inside to your friends who ask you endlessly, all night long, "What happened to Blonde Beard?" Only you don't know how to answer them. Tonight he was supposed to shine. To show all your friends how eager he was to meet them and to fit seamlessly into your life. However, the only thing Blonde Beard was eager about was disappearing. And now you want to disappear, too. In fact, you're in such a dark mood right now that you actually consider going to the Black Party. Anyway...

You’re Not One of Those Fags Who Drinks Bottled Water...

...especially when you're paying for it in fucking euros. However, your Diet Pepsi addiction is slowly burning a hole in your already threadbare True Religion jeans' pocket (you paid extra for that distressed feature). Meanwhile you technically haven't actually had a Diet Pepsi since you left New York, since all you could find in the Alps was Coke Light (which, incidentally, is a thousand times better than the swill called Diet Coke that they sell in the states). But now that you and your BFF have left the Ski Fag trip to join your Literary Lot of Writer Friends for a few days in Berlin, you were sure you'd be able to find a bottle or two of your favorite diet elixir. Unfortunately you've had no such luck.

Since there were four of your friends on overlapping European vacations, you ended up booking an amazing two-bedroom apartment at The Circus Hostel and descending upon East Berlin. After checking in, you find your Home Schooled Writer Friend sitting in the lobby, totally jet lagged and about to fall asleep. You give Home School a double cheek Eurokiss (even though he's straight), and then he immediately produces yesterday's Metro paper from his trendy Manhattan Portage Messenger Bag. You quickly scan the front page headline and realize that one of your Lit Lot friends (the male half of the Overly Affectionate Straight Couple that is sharing the Berlin Apartment with you) has somehow become The Most Hated Man in New York since you left! And all he did to deserve this title was to be poor enough to enter (and win) a New York City Housing Lottery. Four years ago. You burst out laughing mostly because not only is he the Nicest Man in New York, he is also the Luckiest. And his good fortune has much more to do with recently falling for your Straight Girlfriend than with winning the Housing Lotto and purchasing an Upper East Side Studio for $14,000 (plus $295/month maintenance). Anyway.

Eventually your Straight Girlfriend and The Most Hated Man in New York return from an Overly Affectionate bike tour of Berlin and you all go out to a super cute Vietnamese Restaurant called Manngo on Mulackstraße. You've been dragging all day from your Diet Pepsi withdrawal so you order a Vodka Red Bull and quickly become so giddy and wired that you almost get kicked out for laughing too loudly while telling explicit bathing stories about the horrible Bower in Chamonix. Afterwards you all head over to an amazingly fucking cool space called Tacheles, which is an old bombed (and only semi-restored) Jewish department store that was taken over by squatters moonlighting as graffiti artists after the Berlin Wall fell. Every floor has some new bar or gallery to explore, and despite the fact that it is, ahem, not gay, it is the coolest bar you've ever been to. Every once in a while the Breeders do get something right. But, as usual, you digress. You all drink lots and lots of German Beer as you explore each level of the space, and then you and your BFF break off from the straight Lit Lot in order to explore Berlin's dirty gay scene.

When you emerge from the U-Bahn subway, you are a little bit disoriented and a lot bit drunk (especially since it's not only legal, yet encouraged to travel everywhere in Berlin with an oversized open bottle of beer). You wind up asking some Persian Boy with an Abnormally Large Face for help with directions to Tom's. And just like everybody else in Germany, the Large Faced Boy speaks perfect English. He decides to personally escort you to the bar, and on the way he starts offering way too much information about how he just left Tom's after having sex with some Random Trick in the Downstairs Dark Room. When you arrive at the Tom's, the Large Faced Boy's Random Trick is still cruising Tom's (presumably for someone with smaller facial features) and when Large Face Boy introduces you to the Random Trick, he actually extends his hand which you reluctantly shake. You quietly pray to yourself that the Random Trick has washed his dirty hands after finishing up with Large Faced Boy in the Downstairs Dark Room.

After a few more beers, Large Faced Boy walks you over to a gay club called Connection and it's really hopping. The place is an absolute maze, and Large Faced Boy takes you and your BFF on a tour of all the different rooms and levels. However, when you end up downstairs and stumble into a Hot Mess of Dirty Boys doing Dirty Gay Things, you and your BFF instantly begin to giggle uncomfortably, and unfortunately your giggles soon turn into uncontrollable laughter. Which, needless to say, is completely inappropriate and extremely unwelcomed by the Dirty Gay Boys. Especially by the Bitchiest Old Queen This Side Of France who somehow manages to give you the Fish Eye from her very compromising position. So you quickly giggle your goodbyes to the Large Faced Boy just as you get a text from Home School telling you to come meet him at a mixed disco called Berghain.

You arrive to the club at 4am yet somehow wind up in a massive queue with Home School. He's now traveling solo since the Overly Affectionate Straight Couple has gone back to the hostel. Probably to do nasty straight things that you shudder to think about. Not that there's anything wrong with that. As long as they do their heterosexual business in the privacy of their own homes... Behind closed doors and sound-proof walls, of course... But you digress. Your BFF disappears briefly to find a place to pee, yet returns with German sized beers for everyone. He's just thoughtful like that! After an hour of standing in line and meeting adorable Swedish Girls who speak English better than any of the published Lit Lot, you finally get admitted to the club around 5am-ish. You and your BFF immediately ditch Home School and instinctively race to the gay floor. The next thing you know you are dancing on a raised platform to Calvin Harris and you are happier than a gay boy surrounded by Wiener Schnitzel (which you are, Blanche! Y'are!) You dance until the Wiener Schnitzel's shirts start coming off, and then you decide to slink off the stage because after a week of eating fromage in France, you have definitely gotten a bit too Gay Fat to be pulling off your Burqa and exposing more jiggly flesh than the Gay Koran allows any Gay Boy to expose in a Mixed Club.

The next thing you know it's noon and you are in your twin bed(wonder how that happened?) Only you don't wonder too hard because it hurts your throbbing head way too much. Eventually the five of you arise and head over to a nearby cafe called November to have a nice long leisurely brunch. But unfortunately the service is even more non-existent than it was in France (you actually got yelled at when you asked the Bitchy Waiter for tap water). You, ironically, Wait for your Waiter to bring the check for at least twenty minutes. Eventually you decide to embark on a mission to find him and ask for your check as well beg him for another thimble of tap water. Only when you locate the Waiter Who Makes You Wait, he instantly yells at you and gives you an all-too familiar Fish Eye (you obviously had trouble placing his face without the dick in his mouth). As usual, you are way too hungover to argue when he brings you a €4 bottle of lukewarm water (which he has already added to the check). You give him a snarky smile and, you guessed it, he gives you the Fish Eye. Anyway...