...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...
...hell, everything about your life is single, single, single! Seriously though, at twenty you came out to your parents after your college boyfriend dumped you (single, single, single!) and although you called them for emotional support, after you came out you wound up being the one who had to console your hysterical mother. But from that moment on, you've pretty much lived one single, single, single solitary life where everybody knows that you're a big ol' fag. However, what everybody doesn't know is that you're a big ol' fag with a Blah-Blah-Blog. 
Anyway. Enough about Blonde Beard. Back to you and your relatively new brown beard. Tonight's a busy night. You've got a fancy birthday dinner with the BLC at Cipriani Dolci. In Grand Central Station of all places! And then if the BLC feels up to it, you've been invited to yet another birthday party for yet another Blah-Blah-Blogger who somehow figured out who you were. You have no idea how these Hardy Boys are solving the mystery of You!
As you're getting all dolled up for the fancy-schmancy dinner that you can't afford, you remember to check out Zee Blogger's evite to get the 411 on his birthday party. Although you've already changed at least six times, as you pop your head out from an old, yet dressy blue Armani shirt from your fancier days, you can't help but sigh when you realize that Zee Blogger is having a, get this, Pink Party. Ugh. You're already running late and, let's face it, unlike Molly Ringwald, you are not so Pretty in Pink. Eventually you decide that the Calvin Klein underwear you have on will have to do. Although it used to be white, you ruined it while washing it with a red towel while doing a free load of laundry out on Fire Island. Pink underwear is what you get for being cheap. But you digress. Even though you're running late, now that you're looking at Zee Blogger's invitation, you suddenly get curious about who's on the guest list. You are immediately thrilled to find your Internet Crush's name at the top of the list! Of course he's also figured out who you are, however you've never actually met and your cheeks instantly flush at the idea of meeting your favorite Gay Movie Star in person! It's all very exciting as you continue to scroll through the pages and pages of RSVP's (yes, Zee Blogger is that fabulous), but your heart literally stops on the third of five pages when you notice that, gasp, your Hobosexual Roommate's name on the fucking guest list! Suddenly you have this paralyzing fear that you'll run into him and the BLC boys will start calling him the Hobosexual to his face! Or worse, what if the Hobosexual asks Zee Blogger how exactly he knows you? If they have a conversation you know that it will inevitably contain the term "Hobosexual!" And if somehow neither of those doomsday scenarios play out, then surely your Internet Crush will out you after a few cocktails have been thrown down his neck. After all, you've read about his drunken shenanigans on his blog. Meanwhile, are there any gay boys who don't have a blog?
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