You're Not One of Those Steroid Fags With Bitch Tits and Shrunken Balls...

...but after a two-month doctor prescribed gym hiatus thanks to your Hurtful Hernia, you are feeling a little bit scrawny and a whole lot Gay Fat. And it's just one mere week before Fire Guyland Season begins! So after your morning workout, you actually find yourself wandering into your Gym's Gift Shop and asking the Monosyllabic Muscle Head behind the counter about the Pros vs. Cons (i.e. Muscle Growth vs. Kidney Failure) of Creatine while you swipe your credit card, along with your street cred, as you descend deeper into both financial as well as ethical debt.

As soon as you emerge from your underground Ghetto Gym (which happens to be so far underground that you're more likely to receive a message via semaphore than by cell), your iPhone alerts you to a text from The Ex, “give me a call when you get a chance. the cat is in the hospital with kidney failure - not uncommon for older cats, but the vet isn't optimistic. we'll know more on friday. so sad.” The Ex got the Kitty Cunt in the divorce, but if you could have split him in two, you probably would've. Meanwhile, it's a very strange feeling because you are in NY and the Kitty Cunt is currently in LA with The Ex. Although you inherently broke up with both of them three and a half years ago, you suddenly feel like it was just yesterday as both you and your mood descend into the subway. When you found her fifteen years ago, the Kitty Cunt was just another Pre-Giuliani Homeless New Yorker, abandoned by her owner over a divorce spat. Luckily, your own divorce was much less contentious and the Kitty Cunt remained housed and (over) fed by The Ex until the point of teetering that fine (fe)line between Straight's Fat Cat and Lesbian's Fat Cat. But she was happy. And three and a half years after your divorce, so are you. Or at least you were until you received this bad news.

You call The Ex when you arrive at work in order to get the whole story, and you are surprised at how well he is taking the tragic news because, however much you love that Kitty Cunt, your Ex is way more Pussy-Whipped than your gay ass could ever be. Unfortunately the phone call turns out to be even more upsetting than the text. The Kitty Cunt is currently having her kidney's flushed via IV at the Vet, and they won't know anything until they finish the flush and can conduct some more tests. Your Ex, however, is surprisingly keeping it together even though you expected that he'd be taking blood tests to see if he were a good match to be the Kitty Cunt's kidney donor. You tell him to keep you posted with any news, mostly because you don't want him to go through the horrible situation all alone, but partly because you suddenly feel more alone and single than you have in years. You find yourself wishing you could be in LA with your feline and your fractured former family of three.

Eventually you drown your sorrows in a remarkably tasteless glass of Creatine, and gulp it down while you Procrastinwrite for a bit, but your heart's not really in it. Since you're feeling rather lonely you quickly wind up going online to see if there are any cute boys lurking around on Connexion, and luckily, since it's still relatively early in Sweden, you quickly see that the Swedish Engineer is currently online. Before you know it you're having a chat with your Swedie Pi and you tell him all about your ailing Kitty Cunt's Kidney. Having never had a pet, Swedie Pi is not really all that sympathetic, but honestly you are just looking for nothing more than the potential to not feel so pathetically alone and single. But you are absolutely floored when your Swedie Pi asks for your number because he wants to call. From Sweden. Now you're typically not the kind of fag who likes to put a lot of email/IM/phone energy into any boy that you haven't met offline, but you are feeling particularly vulnerable today so you end up giving Swedie Pi your number. And he calls. Right away. He's got a super sexy voice with a hot accent to boot. For some reason the phone call isn't at all awkward and the two of you instantly develop a quirky rapport and Swedie Pi comes off just as self-assured as he did during your online chat. You like that you can easily notice the integrity behind his playful cockiness. And you really like that your Swedie Pi is confident enough to allow you to see it. But you are absolutely thrilled when Swedie Pi asks you out on a date for the day after he returns from Sweden. You, of course, instantly accept, and decide to figure out the exact date-y details in the next few days.

You don't talk too long, after all it's very late in Sweden, not to mention that it's an expensive international call, so you tell your Swedie Pi to "Sleep tight" before hanging up. Afterwards, you mix up another batch of Creatine and gulp it down while you imagine your kidneys beginning to swell. Eventually, when you return to your laptop you realize that you forgot to sign out of Connexion Chat and notice that a sexy Photo Journalist with a fauxhawk has attempted to initiate a IM with you while you were busy with your Swedish Skype Session. And unlike your Swedie Pi, the Fauxtographer is currently not in Sweden. So you put your Swedie Pi on the back burner (even though, so far, this particular Ikea project has had an extremely easy assembly process) and end up sending the Fauxtographer an email since he has gone offline. Since you and the Fauxtographer are in the same Gay Standard Time Zone, he returns your email in no time and, before you can say, "Say Cheese!" you have plans to grab a drink later this evening. The Fauxtographer definitely doesn't waste any words. Especially not funny ones. He seems as if he may be a bit too intense for you, and after Blonde Beard you could definitely be happy with a little less intensity, but you could also be happy with a little more sex so you decide it couldn't hurt to go out for a quick Fauxto Shoot. You tell the Fauxtographer that you'll be free after 8:30pm and he promises to text you before then so you can make a plan.

After work you head over to Callen-Lorde to get your second of three Hepatitis Vaccination shots. Miss Hot Tranny Meds is, of course, looking fabulous and she seems genuinely happy to see you, but unlike your last visit where you got tested for absolutely everything, this time she just pops a needle in your arm as she quickly goes over all the vital organs that Hepatitis will ruin before sending you on your Mary way. But this is when you realize that, besides your HIV- status, the doctor never called you back with the other results from the various STD tests you took last month. Although you usually consider No News to be Good News, Miss Hot Tranny Meds looks into her database and, as she is telling you that, "Everything is Fi..." she quickly seems to reconsider her words and then promptly leaves both you and your pounding heart to go find the doctor. You, of course, are absolutely positive that you have Herpes, because (although you chose not to write about it in you Blah-Blah-Blog because you eventually began to censor yourself when it came to all things personal with Blonde Beard) during one of your last conversations while he was still your Non-Boyfriend, your follicle faced friend informed you that he had tested positive for Genital Herpes and that his doctor had put him on Valtrex. But now that he dumped you, you have little concern about sharing his messy secrets, so you are completely prepared for the bad herpetic news as Miss Hot Tranny Meds returns to the office. She sits down and looks at you with her heavily made up eyes while she informs you that, "You have tested positive for Herpes Simplex One." You instantly throw your hands up and are absolutely beside yourself. She continues to blah-blah-blah and eventually you return from your narcissistic downward viral spiral, and start listening to Miss Hot Tranny Meds as she explains that you may experience a cold sore around your mouth every now and again. And you definitely shouldn't be kissing any boys during a breakout. "Oh!" you exclaim, relieved. "That's it? I've known about that for years." And you practically skip out of Callen-Lorde, absolutely thrilled to experience your next oral outbreak.

You race home to mix up yet another batch of Creatine and then get primped for your date with the Fauxtographer. However, when 8:30 comes and goes with absolutely no word from your tentative date, you decide that the film in this particular Fauxto-Shoot has obviously been under-developed, so you go ahead and make quite an elaborate dinner for one which consists of Tilapia, grilled vegetables, tomato soup and a big heaping glass of skim milk. And then you eat your three course meal. Leisurely. And then you wash all the dishes. Slowly. And just as you sit down to watch a little TV because you are exhausted and a little sad about your Kitty Cunt, that's when the Fauxtographer texts you, exactly one hour and seven minutes after he said he would. Now there is such a thing as Gay Standard Time and then there is an Hour and Seven Minutes Late for a First Gay Date. You're already over him, but the Fauxtographer informs you that he is actually on your block, “Where u at what u doing, on 1st and 1st. Would be up for 1 very cheap quick drink somewhere if u up 4 it.” Even though u are definitely not up for it, you decide that, between your Herpe scare and your Kitty Cunt's Kaput Kidney, you could really use a drink. So you text him back, "Ok I live right there. Where should I meet you?” but you are annoyed to receive, “U know somewhere cheap and Chill? If so, then there.” The last thing you want to do is put any thought into this outing, because, if you do, you know that you will surely reconsider and quickly blow it off. Not to mention the fact that you also absolutely hate making last minute plans via ten thousand text messages, so you put zero thought into it and give him one option in your terse one-word response, "Urge?"

Five minutes later you are walking West on East 1st Street as some weird guy headed toward you tries to violently jam some flyer into your hand as you pass by, and you sort of jump out of his way while pretending to ignore him because you are absolutely not interested in whatever he's selling. But when you look up you realize that this particular crazy man has a giant cardboard box on his head with two small holes cut out for his eyes. You begin to laugh nervously at the Box Head as he mumbles something about Jesus and the whole bizarre situation actually puts you in a better mood, which is good news for the Fauxtographer because you were really going into this Fauxto-Shoot with all the bad attitude and blank expression of a starving Supermodel.

Although it's dark inside the bar, once you're inside Urge you don't see anybody who's nearly as cute as the Fauxtographer should be, and this is when it hits you. Of course he's going to be cuter in his photos! He's a Fauxtographer! Ugh. So you look around a bit and find an older looking, semi-cute guy, and you say his name in the form of a question as the guy looks at you like you are insane and says, "That's not me," in a high pitched squawk which gives you a short-lived sense of relief until he starts to laugh at his own non-existent joke. You instantly feel like an idiot during the first two seconds of your humorless date, and you just sit down and listen patiently while the Fauxtographer tells you about what a funny guy he is. You hide behind your Absolut Mandarin and Soda and suppress a yawn so big that it almost produces bubbles through your straw. Whatever the reason, you just don't feel at all engaged by any of his stories, however, you suffer through the date like a gentleman and don't even bother answering your cell when a call taunts you by vibrating in your pocket.

After your "1 very cheap quick drink," which, unfortunately, turns out to be a not-so-quick 2-4-1, the Fauxtographer walks you home with the not-so-ulterior motive of going upstairs with you. But you say your goodbyes on the corner and are very vague about which actual corner you live on while being not-so-vague about the fact that your Hobosexual Roommate is waiting for you at home. You reach out your hand for a nice, formal shake, but the Fauxtographer somehow pulls you in and plants one on your unsuspecting lips. During your six-flight ascent to your Home-Sweet-Hovel, your phone vibrates with a text from the Fauxtographer which says, "you, my friend, are the fountain of youth ... was nice getting out and talking about writing and relationships - i had a good time ... thanx - text / call anytime ... xo." Which is nice, but obviously never gonna happen, but that's when you notice the voicemail indicator on your iPhone and dial in to see who called. By the time you reach the top of the stairs you are out of breath and in absolute shock as you unlock the door to your apartment and listen to the dire message from The Ex who wants you to call him back immediately. You instantly know what has happened before he even answers your return phone call, and you are uncharacteristically speechless as The Ex tells you about how he had to put the Kitty Cunt to sleep. He tried to call so as to include you in the difficult decision, but when you didn't answer he had to decide all alone. Both of you are in tears as The Ex explains the sad story of your panting cat, ultimately unable to catch her breath even though she was in an oxygen tank, and The Ex tearfully describes how the Kitty Cunt was licking his forehead as she drifted off peacefully to sleep as the Vet put the shot of drugs into her tiny IV. You're unbelievably sad and feel very, very alone as you lay in bed and listen to the story which sort of sadly signifies the absolute end of the relationship that the three of you started fifteen years ago. And right then, in a sort of bizarre homage to the Kitty Cunt's failed kidney, you decide that you will stop taking the silly Creatine because there is more to life than having big fake muscles on Fire Guyland. However, since it was rather expensive and you hate to waste, you decide that you'll stop taking it after you run out of it. Because, really, how much kidney damage could one little jar cause? Anyway...

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

...but there is nothing you love more than to be sitting on the beach sending snarky picture messages to all your pasty New York friends as they sit at home, shivering, because their cheap slumlords have turned off their furnaces for the season. The only problem is that, for some Global Warming bullshit reason, Florida is actually chilly, while two of the New York Weather Fags (ABC & Fox) are predicting that it's going to hit 80 fucking degrees in the city this weekend! Luckily the clouds clear up long enough to sit by the pool for an hour at your parents' condo, and although it's a sad substitute for the glorious beach, the pool is at least protected from the raging wind so that you don't have to be wrapped up like a gay mummy (in 500 thread count Egyptian cotton, of course).

You're on your best behavior laying obediently on the chaise next to your Mommie Dearest. You're wearing a Straight-Friendly one-piece just like a good little Christina would, as Mommie Dearest yaps away about her latest wire-hanger debacle. Apparently her upstairs neighbor's toilet has recently caused a horrible leak and caused your Snowbird parents' ceiling to cave in. Since your Hobosexual Roommate is prone to causing these types of unnecessary leaks, you wonder if perhaps his Hobosexual Mother might actually live on the 16th floor? But this conversation grinds to an absolute halt when Mommie Dearest's absoulte dearest friend plops down onto the chaise next to you. Apparently, unlike your gossipy mother, her Floridian BFF, Paige Six, really likes to stir the pot. As far as you're concerned, it takes Two to Tango, but you shut your trap because you're on a free vacation and you think Paige Six is a hoot. So when Ms. Six invites your whole family out for an evening of Seafood and Reggae music at Conchy Joes, you quickly accept the opportunity to be her Deep Fried Groupie so you can drink gallons of Red Red Wine and mooch off of the Senior Set's pension plans, of course.

That evening, you all pile into Daddy Warbuck's gynormous SUV and drive over to Conchy Joe's which ends up being a bit of a schlep. But it's all well worth it when the Waiter insists upon seeing your ID before serving you a glass of Red Red Wine. Although you are absolutely thrilled, you find it to be a bit unnecessary when the entire table begins to cackle at the obviously Farsighted Waiter. You glare at Mommie Dearest who is actually choking on an Oyster Cracker that she accidentally inhaled while you were being proofed, so you bitterly move Mommie Dearest's glass of water just slightly out of her reach as you hand the Farsighted Waiter your not-so-new New York License. Ok, now you know you look pretty good for your age (you are gay after all), but does the man really have to do a Double Take as if you're starring in some Damn Doublemint commercial? Then the Farsighted Waiter, who is easily ten years your senior, throws your ID back at you while shaking his head in disgust as he informs you, "I'm actually two years younger than you," as if you have just been pre-qualified for Social Security. You bite your tongue and choose not to explain the difference between Straight Years and Gay Years to the Farsighted Waiter who probably hasn't seen any non-AARP Members since the Category 5 winds of Hurricane Andrew obviously impaired his vision. Regardless, being the youngest looking fag in the room is a nice contrast from feeling like a cent-less centenarian in the under-thirty-only zone you live in below Houston Street that you commonly refer to as Logan's Run.

After several jugs of Red Red Wine, the Reggae Band starts to play and they actually turn out to be pretty good. But what's really entertaining is watching your graying parents pop some Advil and drag all their combined aches and pains onto the dance floor in order to Shake Shake Shake Their Booty. Paige Six somehow drags her Sports Fanatic husband onto the dance floor, even though he's in dire need of a double knee replacement, and Kneeless Joe waddles in place to "I Shot the Sheriff" in the arms of his Drunken Deputy. Eventually, as the Pacemaker Patrons finish up their Blue Plate Specials, the whole dance floor quickly fills up, and, from the copious amounts of Advil you spy being popped by the greedy fistful, it is safe to say that a good time is had by all. Even you end up limping your way onto the dance floor, and with your Healing Hernia and your Balloon Balls, you practically fit right in with the Straight Senior Set.

Only you don't fit in. And not just because you're gay. You don't fit because all these Snowbirds have coupled up and mated for life. And you, my friend, are sorely single. Again. You look around the room and wonder if, decades from now, you'll have someone to retire and grow gray(er) with? For Christ's sake you just noticed (and quickly plucked) a gray fucking chest hair! Or will you wind up living your Golden Years watching Golden Girls reruns from your Craftmatic Adjustable bed? Alone? Or *gasp* even worse, will you be so relationship-ly destitute that you wind up spending the rest of your days wearing Depends Undergarments in your Home-Sweet-Hovel arguing with your Hobosexual Roommate over whose turn it is to replace the Polident? This last pathetic image seems to make you shiver, until you realize that what you assume to be your emotions shaking this deep-seated fear out of the darkest recesses of your Cajun Blackened Heart, the vibration is actually coming from your cell phone in order to alert you of a new text message from your Boy du Jour: the Playwright in Shining Ardour, Mr. Write.

During the drive home you have a total interstate text fest with your Non-Jewish Jew and you tell him all about how you are driving down to West Palm tomorrow so you can ask The Four Questions during Passover with The Ex's family (even though The Ex won't even be there). You find it extremely sexy when Mr. Write practically orders you to pack up your bags and, "Come home! Someone else can ask the 4 questions." But the contrary Shiksa in you immediately taps back, "I only have 1 question to ask of you: Why is it that on this night a bitter aging fag would give up the increasingly rare opportunity of being the youngest boy in the room?" You click send and wait patiently for a witty response from Mr. Write, but you are jarred out of your Four Question Fantasy as well as your car seat while everybody in Daddy Warbucks' Gas Guzzler partakes in a collective chorus of, "OH MY GOD!" You look up as Daddy Warbucks skillfully swerves off the two lane road in order to avoid running over an oncoming motorcycle that has just flipped over and is sliding its way toward your over-sized 4WD along with the leather clad couple who are also tumbling toward you on their way to become one big collective speed bump. Luckily, Daddy Warbucks (who thankfully hasn't had a drop to drink) somehow maneuvers his Beige Behemoth and completely avoids what could have easily become yet another Retiree Roadkill statistic. You all jump out to help the poor people who are somehow still alive even though their Harley has shed a few key parts down the road, including it's Handlebar.

Somehow you are the one who ends up calling 911, even though you are thoroughly drunk and have absolutely no idea where the hell you are. After slurring a few unintelligible "Um, I dunno's" to questions that you are ill-equipped to answer, Paige Six grabs the phone from you and informs the dispatcher where to send help. The Bloody Driver is obviously in a state of shock as he seems to be pacing back and forth and worrying more about his Handlebar-less Harley than he is about his Wailing Wife who is inspecting the various cuts and scrapes covering her dark Bain(daged) Soleil legs through her now-shredded jeans. To calm him down, Mommie Dearest tells the Bloody Driver that you will move his Handlebar-less Harley out of the middle of the road, which seems completely reasonable until you and your Healing Hernia attempt to lift the damn thing. Although you haven't been allowed to go to the gym for over a month, could it be possible that you have lost that much strength? Or, please God, is the Handlebar-less Harley just ridiculously heavy for one drunk gay boy to lift? Luckily the police show up and "I Shot The Sheriff" ends up helping you roll the Scrap Metal out of the road.

Before you leave the scene of the crime (without ever being asked to make any sort of statement or to leave any contact information) you are happy to see that the Bloody Driver has finally stopped worrying about his Scrap Metal and has sat himself down to console his Wailing Wife. And then you pop back into the SUV with the Straight Senior Set and begin your drive back to the Ocean Front Condo. Paige Six immediately begins to spin the simple story into the biggest thing since Hurricane Wilma thrashed through the state of Florida and Bamm Bamm'd everything in it's path into tiny little Pebbles. Meanwhile, when you finally remember to check your phone to see if Mr. Write ever responded, you find yourself equally pummeled by the Category 5 text message you have just received from Blonde Beard. He's obviously received the Shutterfly Photo Book that you spent days making for his 40th birthday in order to document your entire relationship. As you read his words, your heart sinks even faster than your non-relationship did after you stupidly dropped the L-Word on Blonde Beard. The message simply says, "Got your gift. Thanks, it was very thoughtful." Anyway...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click here to view this photo book.

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Says Things He Doesn't Mean...

...but sometimes you definitely mean things that you don't actually say. Like when you go out for brunch with The Ex. You've known each other so long that you don't even need to say things. In fact you can have entire fights without even saying a word. On the other hand, you can still have moments where you wonder why you ever broke up. Anyway. He's finished production on the movie he's directing in Texas and has a week off before moving to LA to begin editing. Since his idea of rest entails nodding off in a Broadway theater, you two meet at Eatery for a nice brunch before his matinee begins. You, of course, are late without any valid excuse, but The Ex, for some unusual reason, doesn't give you a hard time. You get seated right away and order something light because you feel like a big fat pig. And the two of you begin to yap while you wait for you food.

You start talking to The Ex about his imminent trip to Los Angeles and somehow you get on the subject of flying with the Kitty Cunt. The Ex got the cat in the divorce, and that was fine because he should have. That Kitty Cunt meant more to him than you ever did, and besides, you hated cleaning the damn litter box. Anyway. The Ex tells you a story about when he was traveling to LA with the Kitty Cunt who was, surprisingly, on her best behavior. However, during their Limo ride to The Four Seasons (yes, The Ex is fancy in that way), the Kitty Cunt couldn't hold it in anymore, so she turned her Kitty Cunt toward The Ex, raised her tail up inside the traveling cage, and pee'd a stream of smelly cat piss onto The Ex's white button-down shirt! The Ex freaked out and immediately opened the limo's window and hung the traveling cage out the window over the 405 (as if he were Michael Jackson dangling Blanket over that Berlin Balcony), and let the Kitty Cunt spray her scent over the gridlock they call West LA.

The two of you laugh and laugh over this ridiculous scenario until you begin to cry. Only you're not crying in that good way that The Ex thinks you are. You're actually wondering why Blonde Beard has never make you laugh like this? You wonder why your conversations with Blonde Beard aren't as easy-breezy as talking with The Ex. After brunch you are screwed because you know you must spend the day shopping for a present for Blonde Beard's 40th birthday and you have no idea what to buy. Although you had planned to take him to Vermont for a romantic birthday weekend, Blonde Beard's school schedule has recently changed and that trip will have to be postponed for weeks. And now you must come up with some sort of offering before his birthday dinner this evening.

During the train ride downtown, you put your thinking cap on to figure out a nice, romantic present that won't break the bank. You are, after all, still taking him out for an expensive dinner tonight, not to mention taking him to Vermont in three weeks. But you know you need to show up to dinner with something thoughtful. Luckily on the subway you have a brainstorm and you decide to make a Photo Book that documents all of the dates that you've been on since you two met. So you race home and quickly charge your digital camera while consulting your Blah-Blah-Blog for all of the wonderful places you've been. You make a list of bars and restaurants and then race down the six flights of stairs with the week-old surgical scars from your Hurtful Hernia. And you begin to document your relationship. You start at Urge where you had your first kiss and then you make your way West to all the romantic places you two have ever been. As you are taking photos of Quartino Bottega Organica, someone rudely asks you what the hell you are doing and you look up to see an old friend giving you shit. You are a bit embarrassed, but you explain to your Project Runway wannabe friend that you are photographing date locations for a Birthday Gift. Project Wannabe instantly starts to gush and he is sooooooo happy for you that, man-wise, things have finally turned around for you. You chit-chat for a bit, but you have tons of places to document, so you double-kiss him goodbye and then limp your way from East to West Village, taking photos and business cards from all the super cute places that you've shared experiences with Blonde Beard.

Sometimes people eating at these restaurants look at you a bit funny, but you don't really care. Sometimes you have to wait for a long time for the restaurant manager to find you a business card from beneath the cash register, but it's all worth it because everybody gushes about how romantic your gift is, and they all go out of their way to help you, which only makes you more and more excited to give it to Blonde Beard. At Shag, you even have to chat with the Bartender (who you made out with once in the corner of the bar which the surveillance system doesn't survey) while you explain that you are making a scrapbook for Blonde Beard. And funnily enough, the card the Shag Bartender gives you includes his phone number, prominently written on the back. But you digress. You wind up photographing twenty-three places and by the time you finish you can barely walk. You've spent the entire day documenting your relationship with Blonde Beard, and you wind up racing back home to quickly shower before meeting him at Supper for his birthday dinner. Of course you don't have enough time to actually make the book on Shutterfly, but Blonde Beard's birthday is a day away and you feel confident that your tardy present will be well worth it.

You're only a few minutes late, but Blonde Beard is, of course, waiting for you outside of Supper. You are soooooo excited to see him, however when you arrive it is obvious that he's in a bad mood. He informs you that he is feeling sick (again) and he begins to complain about it. However, you have spent the last five hours schlepping around Manhattan reminiscing about your relationship, and you are on such a natural high that you aren't about to engage his complaints. You just ignore anything negative, even when he seems to be taking it out on you for simply suggesting that he might want to finally go see a doctor. Although you let it all go, you can't help but wonder if Blonde Beard is trying to pick a fight? Perhaps he's just anxious about his big birthday? Whatever it is, it doesn't matter because you are here to make everything better tonight.

Your table isn't ready so you head over to the bar and buy a pair of overpriced $12 margaritas. You're even more bummed when you have to tip $2 per lousy (ridiculously expensive) drink, but you are happy when the tequila seems to help Blonde Beard lighten up. Eventually the host seats you at a not-so-private table for two, and you order more drinks as you begin your not-so-romantic dinner, during which Blonde Beard answers a phone call from his Jealous Roommate. Blonde Beard is told that he shouldn't come home because his Jealous Roommate is installing a new kitchen faucet this evening. You, of course, laugh heartily at this information, because his Jealous Roommate is the same man who hates you for joking about the fact that he's never going to finish his endless renovation... Meanwhile, you're thrilled because the faucet situation insures that Blonde Beard will be spending the night at your place (for the first time), which means you won't have to deal with the Jealous Renovating Roommate. During dinner you attempt (at least three times) to caress Blonde Beard's knee with your hand, but unlike previous dates, his hand never meets yours beneath the table. Perhaps his affectionate-less distance has something to do with him feeling sick? Anyway.

Somehow dinner, plus tip, turns out to be $130 (not counting the $28 margaritas you bought at the bar), and it wasn't even that good. But Blonde Beard seems to have drunken himself beyond his bad mood so it was worth it. When you walk outside you somehow remember that you have brought your camera and you attempt to coax Blonde Beard into allowing a stranger to take a photograph. You, of course, want this photo to be the very last photo in your Photo Album of Dates, but Blonde Beard whines about being sick and not looking good and you just let it go because, after all, it is his birthday even though you imagined the last page in the photo book to include a picture of the two of you.

For some reason Blonde Beard wants to go to Hell's Kitchen and you agree (even though you know your Internet Crush is less than three blocks away at Eastern Bloc), and you wind up going to The Ritz. You start a tab there and drink lots of poorly poured beers by the cute but lousy bartender from Syracuse who slept with your BFF. Would it actually kill him to fill the damn glass? Eventually you are able to coax your shy Blonde Beard onto the dance floor, and even though you are suffering from post surgical swollen testicles, you somehow find the energy to dance. Blonde Beard just stands there. Watching. Disapprovingly. Even though coming to The Ritz was his choice. He keeps looking around at other people, but not in that skeevy way where he's checking them out because he wants to chat them up. Somehow it seems like he's just not that interested in chatting you up. Like his Attention Deficit Disorder is pulling him away from you. Even though it doesn't seem personal, it still doesn't feel good. Eventually the dance floor is packed and Blonde Beard starts making fun of the music (even though it's really rather good, which is easily illustrated by all the cute young boys grinding around you). Since you're feeling a bit unsure of the increasingly awkward situation, you decide that flirting is the best policy and inform your hairy faced man that your friend Bunny recently told you that once Blonde Beard saw you dance that he would fall head over heels in love with you. However, when Blonde Beard doesn't even react to either your dance moves nor Bunny's ridiculous claim, you definitely don't feel like dancing anymore.

So you go to Barrage for their Hour of Power and you position yourselves at the far end of the bar where nobody seems to be bothering you. Somehow you finally begin to talk. For real. And even though you've had way too much to drink, you are somehow still emotionally parched for something that has seemed elusive all night long. Honestly, you're not even sure how the conversation begins (although you definitely bring it up), and you (not so suddenly) find yourself on such uneven footing that you can't help but begin to ask probing questions. You don't even remember what you ask exactly. But it doesn't really matter. Nothing he says is reassuring. You begin to panic. How did you go from birthday cocktails to this fucking conversation? Although everything Blonde Beard says is bad, the only thing you actually remember him saying is the only thing actually worth remembering, "Between work and school and you, I feel like I'm spreading myself too thin..." And that's it. When you hear that you know it's over. People don't say things like that when they really like someone. People say things like that when they want to break up. Or when they want you to break up with them. The ironic thing is that you didn't even feel like Blonde Beard was neglecting you! Lately, of course, things have been odd, but he's always offered you all of his free time! Which he has next to none of! That's not such a thin spread! But these are things that aren't worth arguing about. You have no interest in someone who spreads himself too thinly for you. You know you deserve more than that. And Blonde Beard knows that, too. And that's exactly why he's saying what he's saying. You, of course, pay the tab and tell him you want to go home.

On your way back to the subway Blonde Beard informs you that he thinks he should go home alone (even though there is no running water) instead of spending the night with you; that he will call you tomorrow. None of this surprises you any longer. The C train comes and you both hop on and sit in absolute silence from 42nd Street to West 4th. You both get off there, since you need to transfer to the F and Blonde Beard needs to race home to his faucet-less apartment. So you find yourselves standing on the A-C-E platform at West 4th and you are unable to move. You know that there is nothing more to say, of course, but you can't seem to break away. You physically cannot leave him. You feel terrible because you're worried that you have both ruined his birthday and are now breaking up. You just stand there, silently, waiting for something to end the awkwardness, when the A train pulls up. It seems like Blonde Beard is trying to get rid of you when he asks if you can take that train home since it's on a fucked up Weekend Schedule. You can't, but the fact that he wants you to hop on the train makes you feel unwanted and really sad. You tell him, "It is really, really hard to walk away from you right now." And then you look deep into Blonde Beard's blue eyes as your brown ones begin to well up with tears, so you instantly avert your gaze and lean in toward him so you can whisper into his ear, "Because I love you." And you mean it.

Then you walk away. You don't look back as you head down the stairwell to the F train because you are scared to. That's when you really begin to ball because you know it will be the last time you will ever see Blonde Beard. All you want is for him to run after you and grab you into a hug and make everything better. But somehow you make it to the downstairs platform and walk the entire length to the front of the train, passing by drunks who stare at you and your girly tears,without hide nor hair of Blonde Beard. You sit down and cry for an eternity before the F train arrives. And even though he said he would, you know in your heart that Blonde Beard won't call the next day. That he was just saying something he didn't really mean because he felt uncomfortable. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Carb-Free Fags Who Won't Eat Bread...

...but after your laparoscopic surgery to repair your Hurtful Hernia, you are absolutely shocked at the havoc it has caused on your abs. Hell, during the brief period you were lying on the operating table you somehow went from Gay Fat to Circus Fat (apparently skipping Straight Fat altogether). What the hell did Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger do while she was mucking around inside the crevices of your belly button? Did she accidentally misplace her Pocketbook in your abdomen? Regardless, you can absolutely forget about ever wearing your Skinny Jeans again since your Fat Jeans are actually, get this, too fucking tight! Not to mention the fact that you haven't eaten in days! Meanwhile, it's not only your belly that's expanded into Straight Fat territory; but sometimes bigger is better. The Silver Lining of this whole humiliating experience turns out to be that your balls have actually doubled in size. And honey, they weren't that small to begin with. However, between your Second Trimester-Sized Belly and the Square Patch of hair that was mysteriously shaved away from your Treasure Trail, it really ain't so pretty down there anymore. But you desperately want to look pretty tonight because you have a date with Blonde Beard at a restaurant in your neighborhood with the unfortunate name of, get this, Bread.

You limp down the six flights of your Home-Sweet-Hovel a bit early so you can go swing by The Bowery Ballroom to buy tickets for the Calvin Harris show, and then you slowly hobble your way over to Bread on Spring Street. You'd really like to pick up the pace in order to burn some extra calories, but, thanks to your gargantuan balls, it's a bit hard to move at a reasonable pace on a Manhattan sidewalk. Somehow you actually get to the restaurant on time even though Old Ladies with Walkers are actually lapping you. Ever prompt, Blonde Beard is there waiting for you outside of the restaurant and he hands you a cute little Get Well present which instantly warms your heart, until you realize that it is actually a Get Fat present full of *gasp* cookies. You attempt to smile and thank him for his thoughtlessness (oops, you meant to say thoughtfulness), but it's difficult for any actual expressions to squeeze past the fleshy folds of skin that used to resemble your face. You are really happy to finally see your boy for the first time in three days since your belly-button went under the laparoscopic robotic knife. You were kind of wishing that he'd swing by on his lunch hour, or pop in after his night class, just to say hi. Perhaps to check up on you. But you realize he's been super busy.

You end up ordering a Green Salad Appetizer and a Salmon with Root Vegetables Entrée even though you really should be ordering Liposuction with a Side of Anorexia-Nervosa. Since you're still not feeling quite like your normal self, you decide to order a glass of red wine, because, let's face it, your normal self is rarely this sober! The wine hits the spot and the salmon is nice until Blonde Beard offers you a ravioli from his plate. After the carb-tastic pasta goodness, your salmon simply sucks ass. And not in that OMG, rimming kind of way. But the conversation is nice. Nothing earth shattering, just a Post-Op Catch-Up. You talk a lot about Blonde Beard's upcoming Grad School projects which you try to seem interested in, even though you're feeling a bit uncomfortable and crabby. You're slightly surprised that Blonde Beard doesn't ask you much about the operation, nor about your recovery, but, between his surgical squeamishness and the fact that you've chatted on the phone the last two evenings, you wind up letting it go.

After three glasses of wine you are feeling so much better that cheap old you actually picks up the check! However, when you stand up and gravity pulls your expansive belly downward, you instantly feel extremely full. You assume that since everything is so swollen down there, that there's not much room left over for a tiny little salmon to swim downstream in your previously-herniated digestive system. Anyway. When you hit the street, Blonde Beard wants to wander around SoHo and look for a new Spring Jacket since it's still relatively early. Even though you're feeling much too Circus Fat to be shopping for anything that doesn't involve orthopedic flip-flops, for some reason you agree to tag along as long as Blonde Beard doesn't mind walking at your snail's pace. You hit Bloomingdale's, H&M and Uniqlo, but after those three pit-stops you find yourself as winded as a One-Lunged John Goodman on a Stairmaster. After that, Blonde Beard walks you home.

As you unlock the vestibule door to your Home-Sweet-Hovel, Blonde Beard makes a lame crack about not believing that your apartment actually existed. "What are you talking about?" you ask, and he explains that you've never invited him over before. You're annoyed because you have definitely invited him over several times. In fact, you've thought it was rather odd that the boy you've been seeing over the past (almost) three months has shown zero interest in seeing the poverty stricken conditions that you live under. You just assumed that Blonde Beard preferred hanging out in his neighborhood and sleeping in his own uncomfortable bed, but now that his Jealous Roommate has banished you from ever visiting their apartment again, he's decided to slum it over at your place. Although you actually find his wise crack to be a big deal, you decide to not make a big deal about it and instead concentrate on your endless ascension up the six flights of stairs.

You introduce Blonde Beard to your Hobosexual Roommate and they both grunt an unintelligible greeting to each other, which seems kind of strange to you. Even though Blonde Beard's Jealous Roommate hates your guts (which was inevitable since he's obviously in love with Blonde Beard), you definitely went out of your way to be polite and friendly to him since, after all, you were a guest in his overly renovated home. Obviously Blonde Beard doesn't seem to care to give The Hobosexual the same kind of investment. Anyway. Eventually you excuse yourself into your bedroom and ease yourself into the least painful Post-Op position where you can still enjoy making out with your hairy-faced boy. As usual you get lost in his eyes, and then, yadda-yadda-yadda, you are amazed at how far your spunk can shoot even though you feel like you've practically been neutered. Thank God for Laparoscopic Silver Linings!

And that's when Blonde Beard gets out of bed and starts getting dressed. Although sleeping is still extremely difficult, and you were wondering about how exactly you were going to share a bed with him, you are kind of shocked when spending the night together isn't even going to be an uncomfortable option. "It's after midnight," you inform him. "Are you really going home now?" Blonde Beard explains that he has tons of work to do on a school project which is due next week, and he wants to be done before his Birthday on Sunday so he can actually have a few cocktails and enjoy his big day. All of this is, of course, true, but you begin to wonder where his head is really. All along you've felt like you were on the same page, but something seems to have shifted recently. Perhaps it was the ridiculous fight you had with his Jealous Roommate? Or maybe he's just disgusted by the way you look in your Circus Fat Jeans? But he's got to realize that all of that is just temporary, right? But as his hairy face pops up through his V-Neck sweater, you begin to wonder about what isn't temporary? Suddenly almost everything seems to feel a bit ephemeral. Is it possible to be in a successful relationship with someone who is so fundamentally different than you? Are you getting too old to compromise? Or even worse, is Blonde Beard? You walk him to the front door and kiss him goodbye before you instinctively dive head first into the bag of carbolicious Get Well cookies that Blonde Beard gave you earlier. Except, after eating absolutely all of them, you don't feel any better. At all. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who's Into Water Sports...

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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...