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

...but as you're sitting on The Ex's stoop, homeless, surrounded by everything you own in the world that wasn't just carted away into storage, as you sit there with the wrong set of keys, you start to obsess about your Lovely Lady Mumps and begin to feel like your lymph nodes have become so swollen that you are actually having trouble breathing. Or perhaps it's just your hysteria? You begin to leave frantic messages for The Ex and his friend who left you the wrong set of keys, but, of course, nobody is taking your calls. That's when, smack in the middle of your homeless dilemma, a party boy you kissed years ago walks by and looks up at your Sesame Street Stoop and asks you, all impressed, "Is that where you live?" and you are just so irritated by his sudden interest in you that you respond, "No, actually I'm homeless." And with that Ms. Fair Weather Fag turns up her nose and keeps walking down the picturesque block.

When your cell finally rings you realize that your battery is almost dead, but luckily it's The Ex who feels terrible for your situation. Unfortunately he's in LA and he informs you that there are only three copies of his apartment keys, one of which is in your hands and doesn't work. One of the remaining two is in the possession of his Co-Op Board President, but she's apparently on a Straight Cruise (not to be confused with a Tom Cruise). Just in case, you try to buzz Mrs. President's apartment but there is no answer. The last person happens to be your Ex-Niece, only she's busy moving today too, so even if she has the keys they are probably lost in an unmarked box somewhere between Manhattan and Brooklyn. But you leave her a frantic message anyway, just in case her move has been less chaotic than yours.

And then you nervously inspect your Lovely Lady Mumps while waiting for your cell to ring, hopefully before either you or your phone dies. Luckily your Ex-Niece gives you a rescue ring and she is so adorably sweet and offers to interrupt her move and drive her U-Haul back from Brooklyn just to bring you the keys. But this is when someone who lives in the Co-Op finally walks up the steps. You practically hang up on your sweet Ex-Niece as you accost the man walking into the building. Luckily he believes your gay-ass Saab story and allows you into the building so you can store your defrosting Tilapia and other random stuff in the hallway until you can track down a key. He also tells you that Mrs. President is actually back from her cruise and that they are having a Co-Op board meeting right this very moment on her glamorous roof deck. He says to stay put and that he will try to find her. You call The Ex while you wait, because really, if he doesn't speak to Mrs. President directly, then why on earth would she ever hand over his apartment keys to some homeless stranger who has moved onto her front stoop.

Eventually the whole mess gets worked out, but Mrs. President turns all Mrs. Kravitz on you when you realize that she's only given you a key to The Ex's apartment. So if you ever decide to leave the building, you'll have no way to get back in through the front vestibule door. You ask if perhaps you can borrow a set of front door keys from her so you can make a copy, but for some reason this scenario turns out to be a big fucking deal. Apparently Mrs. Kravitz has no problem with you living inside her glamorous Co-Op, however if you ever want to leave then you'll never be able to get back inside. Perhaps you should place an ad in HX and start turning tricks in there so you won't have to ever go out? Or maybe just leave the gas stove on? Or spray paint her common hallway with gay graffiti? This woman who runs your Ex's life is really not thinking anything through, but eventually you somehow convince her to hand over her keys and you promise that you'll make copies tomorrow morning as all the locksmiths are surely closed now that it's 9:30pm. Although you are initially relieved when you finally get inside of The Ex's apartment, that's when things actually really go from bad to worse.

His apartment is full of your things. Things you bought together. Your couch. Your photos. Your TV. Your rug. The kitchen is full of your Fiestaware. The hand-blown wine glasses you bought together in Venice. The picture frames are full of photos of your lives together. But it gets really upsetting in the bedroom when you have to sleep in your old bed. The bed you shared for over a decade. You lie there, remembering how amazing it felt to be held every night before you went to bed. What it felt like to have The Ex spell "O.J." on your back because he was thirsty and it was too tired to speak. But what really gets you is the afghan sitting at the base of the bed which your Ex-Aunt knit for you boys eons ago. Only now it's covered in cat hair from your Kitty Cunt who suddenly just died a few months ago. This was your life. You shiver, not from the overly powerful central air conditioning, yet from the feeling of being so uncomfortable surrounded by all the homey things that gave you nothing but comfort for years. Will you ever be that comfortable again? Anyway...

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 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 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...