You're Not One of Those Flower-Power Fags Who Believes in Karma...

...but something is seriously off kilter and the gay YOUniverse seems to be taking it out on you in the form of leaks. Perhaps you've been dating too many Astrological Water Signs lately? Anyway. You go to your Storage Facility in Long Island City to collect your gear for an upcoming ski trip, and while you're rummaging around you begin to notice a slight drizzle. You look up with dread and realize that there is a slow drip, coming from the ceiling, that has actually formed a puddle around all of your precious crap. You find yourself wondering about the odds of your leak-prone Hobosexual Roommate renting the Storage Space directly above yours as you head down to the main office to make such a big stink that they have no choice but to give your cheap, but loud ass a discount, or some other freebie, just to shut you up.

Unfortunately the Elementary School Drop Out manning the office that Sunday is much more interested in slurping her Frappuccino while playing Scrabulous on Facebook, than she is concerned with your damp Karmic dilemma. She informs you that you can either move your shit to another unit today, or you can schlep back to Queens sometime during the week, duke it out with the manager, and then, of course, move your shit into another unit then. Either way you've got to move your shit so you decide to minimize your time in Queens and just get it over with now.

So you go back upstairs to your leaky Storage Unit and begin to throw boxes of your old forgotten crap onto a large dolly. It's been years since you've seen some of this stuff; years since you and your Ex broke up; years since you left your privileged much fancier Manhattan life and traded it in for your first Home Sweet Hovel, in Queens, which was so minuscule that you needed to rent this damn 6' x 7' Leaky Cubicle in order to store your crap. You remember feeling exactly like Eva Gabor when she had to leave Manhattan for Hooterville, "New York is where I'd rather stay! I get allergic smelling hay! I just adore a penthouse view! Darling, I love you, but give me Park Avenue!"

But your old fancy stuff isn't half as distracting as your box of photos is. You get sucked in to glamour shots of yourself during exotic safaris to South Africa, to your gut renovation of a 3,500 sq/ft Union Square loft, to your three-star Michelin Guide culinary tour of France, to Madonna's 35th Birthday Party circling Manhattan on a fucking yacht that with the cast of A League of Their Own during Madge's lesbian period where she was making out with Ingrid all night! It's almost hard to believe that these photos are from your life. Hell, at this point it's hard to believe that you used to live in an elevator building. The photos make you sad, but not in a "green-with-envy-I-can't-believe-I-used-to-be-so-fabulous" kind of way. You don't feel jealous or bitter of yourself, because, after all, you were the one who chose to leave the fabulous life that you had become very accustomed to. However, the photos make you sad mostly because you realize that you don't have anyone to take photos with anymore. Now when you travel, most of your photos are of you, solo, standing in front of something touristy. All the shots are blurry, poorly composed and off-center, taken from an unflatteringly close distance because you have to take them yourself with one pathetic, extended arm.

Although you are way happier now than you were during the last few, sometimes suicidal years of your relationship, sometimes you wonder if you'll ever settle down again with someone who can take a more flattering photo during life's more memorable moments? That's when you get a text from the London Lush confirming your date later tonight at Bamboo 52. You have completely lost track of time so you start racing through your move, basically throwing all of your carefully organized shit from the leaky unit into a one big messy pile where you will never, ever be able to find a fucking thing again. You rush home, shower, and somehow make it to the bar on time, which is completely barren that you could almost here an echo when you kiss the London Lush's cheek. He's as super cute as you remember, but that's probably because he's sooooo much younger than you. When they're too young they always end up making you feel too old, and you definitely prefer being the young, cute one! You are typically much happier living in denial about your completely humorless laugh-lines and your, get this, graying chest hair.

Although the London Lush is super nice and the two of you seem to be enjoying each other's company while sipping your Gay Cocktails, you're pretty much completely aware that you are actually on a Revenge Date that has little or nothing to do with the London Lush. Right now you'd much rather be out with Blonde Beard, but since he's still actively pursuing other boys on Match.com, you are definitely not going to put all your eggs into the Blonde Beard basket so he can whisk them into a fluffy frenzy before scrambling them on Teflon over medium heat... As usual, you have too many Mandarin and Sodas while watching Tina Turner and Beyoncé steal the Grammy Awards with, "Better Be Good To Me." Although you have a lovely time throwing back a few with the London Lush, you can't help but be aware of the bad timing because there is only one person on your radar that Better Be Good To You: Blonde Beard. You're not sure if the two of you will last long enough to share a few Kodak Moments, but you know you'd definitely give him a big, dimpled grin if Blonde Beard ever asked you to say, "Cheese!" Anyway...

You're Not the Type of Fag Who Gets Easily Dickmatized...

...in fact, you can't even tell the difference between the Darren Stevenses played by Dick York and Dick Sargent on Bewitched. You've seen one dick, you've seen them all. And you, my man-slut friend, have seen a lot of dick.

Since Blonde Beard is obviously actively pursuing other online dates on Match.com, you decide that you need to keep dating, too. Even though your heart's not really into it, which is mostly because your heart is really into Blonde Beard. This becomes crystal clear (bad drug pun intended) when you find yourself rescheduling a date with the London Lush because you decided that you'd rather have gay cocktails with your GFF (Gay Fags Forever) than have gay cock with the London Lush. So you reschedule London Lush for Sunday evening, partly because you wanted to be able to easily compare and contrast the two boys after your Saturday date with Blonde Beard, but mostly because on Sunday you are Loser-Party-of-One with no plans on your gay agenda for that evening. Quelle horreur!

So you meet Blonde Beard for your Saturday night date at Quartino Bottega Organica on Bleecker near Elizabeth. It's his suggestion and it's the perfect date place. Blonde Beard is wearing the cutest horizontal striped V-neck sweater over a V-neck t-shirt which taunts you with a little tuft of his chest hair all during the delicious dinner which he pays for. Afterward, you race over to catch the 8pm showing of Persepolis at the Angelica, but you cringe when you hear your name called from behind you on the busy Houston Street sidewalk. You turn around slowly, while haunting faces from your dating past flash before you: The Cuddler, The Man Loving Fox Personality, The London Lush, Baby Daddy, Mister Softee, Same Name Boy, Algorithm Boy, The Boyfriendster, Hairy Potter, The Cellist, The Writer, White Pants, are just a few of the names that come to mind... But when you look around you see a face that is vaguely recognizable in a reassuring way because you know you've never slept with this one. Regardless, your heart begins to palpitate because you find yourself in one of your least favorite positions where you are obliged to make introductions. Even though it's freezing, you begin to sweat as you try to remember the guy's name who you now recognize as The Cryer from your brief and relatively painful stint at Gay Group Therapy. Somehow you actually pull his name out of your ass even though you haven't seen The Cryer in over two years, but you obviously use up all of your brain power because after introducing The Cryer, you completely stumble on Blonde Beard's name, and the awkward moment drags on until Blonde Beard ends up introducing himself.

In the ticket line you explain to Blonde Beard that you are absolutely awful with names and when you find yourself in one of those paralyzing situations it isn't too unusual for you to forget your own damn name. And that's when you see the silver lining from the embarrassing situation. You begin to tell Blonde Beard all about Gay Group Therapy and how most of the boys were in some Twelve-Step program for some highly addictive drug that began with the letter C: Coke, Crystal or Crack. You tell him how you felt a bit out of place since you were just a lowly alcoholic who didn't even like Coors, Cognac or Captain Morgan ("Alex, I'll take Booze that begins with C for $200, please.") You go on and on about the drugs and the intensity of the whole Gay Group situation, and after your Pollyanna-ish Just Say No monologue, you look up to Blonde Beard with baited breath, wondering what he's going to say about your fascinating story. But he just looks around and says, "Wow. It's insanely crowded in this theater

Wow? It's insanely crowded in this theater? That's it? His non-response almost makes you want to scream "Fire!" in the insanely crowded theater, but instead you end up racking your brain for explanations as to why he changed the subject. Did the drug talk make him uncomfortable because he is a Crackhead? Or perhaps he wondered why you were in a Gay Group full of Crackheads? Maybe Blonde Beard is now wondering if perhaps you are the Crackhead? Or maybe he wasn't even paying attention to you because what you were saying wasn't really all that interesting or relevant to his life? Anyway.

The movie turns out to be really entertaining (except for that twist ending where the chick has a dick--just kidding), and afterward you decide to grab Frozen Margaritas, no salt, at Cowgirl Hall of Fame. After you finish your first one you begin to ask about the last guy Blonde Beard dated who just vanished into thin air. With some prying, you realize that the disappearing act happened much more recently than you had assumed: November. You also uncover the fact that they both used the "L" word. In regards to each other. In the presence of each other. You are so shocked by this little tidbit that for a moment you actually wonder if perhaps he's discussing that Dyke series on Showtime? But seriously, why does somebody disappear after using the "L" word? Apparently the boy disappeared for a week, only to return with the tabloid newsflash that he went on a sex binge. You, of course, read between the binge lines and assume that there must have been a drug binge fueling the sex binge. Regardless, it's an awful story and you feel really bad for Blonde Beard, who explains to you that the whole experience has left him extremely guarded. This is when you realize that both of you have been busy constructing concrete walls in order to not get hurt by the other. Blonde Beard is scared of getting his heart broken again, and you are scared of getting yours (for lack of a better word) Cracked.

You want to stroke his hairy face and promise him that you'd never ever intentionally hurt him. Or anyone for that matter (well, perhaps maybe a select few like your 11th grade English Cunt, oops, you actually meant to spell Teacher, however that bitch never taught you anything, not even how to spell Teacher.) After a nice brain freeze helps you forget your moral dilemma, you wind up going back to Blonde Beard's place and have an amazing time as you take your relationship to the next level of physical intimacy: you actually spend the night. And yes, you Nosey-Pokers, you finally bring your sexual relationship to that next level, too. And both levels are a-fucking-mazing (with an extra emphasis on the fucking.) But just as you're about to fall fast asleep in his strong arms, you find yourself jarred awake as you begin to realize that you are stuck between a rock and Blonde Beard's hard place. You are completely and utterly dickmatized by a boy who might be traumatized by the things you are writing about on your narcissistic blog. Your online diary-hea actually could be intentionally hurting him. Some of the things you've written might actually really hurt him. You kind of worried that this might happen, but you never expected it to happen so soon. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Gets Depressed and Becomes a Hermit...

...but you are really bummed about the fact that Blonde Beard is a Crack Head. Or might be. Hell you don't know, but you had such high hopes for this one and now you are totally re-examining everything underneath a giant microscope, even though what you really need is one of those giant Drug Sniffing Dogs that like to hang out around JFK Customs.

You're working from home today even though the police called to let you know that they recovered your laptop from the Lazy Blackmailer's apartment. You told them you'd drop by the precinct and pick it up tomorrow partly because you don't feel like getting out of your pajamas, but mostly because you're enjoying wallowing in your own filth and self-pity. After whining to your BFF about your latest novel: "Crackheads and the Boys Who Love Them," he informs you that your dilemma is nothing that can't be solved by a few Gay Cocktails. So you two make a plan to meet at The Ritz for their extremely economical Half Priced Happy Hour.

After an unproductive day of work, somehow you pull it together to take a shower. While you're waiting for the hot water to meander its way up to your 6th Floor Walk-up, you end up staring at your mopey-fish-face mug in the mirror and decide that you need to shave off the damn beard you've been growing. You think of it as a symbolic shave that will somehow rid you of your disturbingly co-dependent feelings for Blonde Beard. Besides, yesterday someone told you that it made you look older, so good riddance and buh-bye to the beard. First you do some weed whacking with your manscaping clippers and then you hop in the hot shower to shave the fucker off.

Afterwards, even though it's only been a few weeks, you definitely do a double-take because you've already become accustomed to your fuzzy/furry look. You definitely look younger though. Gray hairs sprouting from your cheeks was definitely not your best look. So you get dressed to go out and meet your BFF, but when you go to leave your hovel, the bottom door lock just spins and spins, yet never unlocks. There's no click. You stare at the inside of your apartment door in disbelief as you begin to grasp the fact that you are actually locked inside your apartment. How is that even fucking possible? Did your Hobosexual roommate break the bottom lock when he went out for dinner? Do these sorts of ridiculous things happen to other people? Or specifically just to you?

You immediately call the Hobosexual and, of course, you get his voicemail. You leave a frantic message, partly because you want your message to seem a bit urgent, but mostly because you are totally Jonesing for your Gay Cocktail. Next you call your Super, even though he only answers to text messages, but you figure bombarding him with S.O.S.'s can't hurt. Then you call your BFF so that he doesn't wind up going to The Ritz, since it's pretty damn obvious that you won't be meeting him there anytime soon. When he answers you tell him, "Don't go to the bar." "Too late," he informs you, "I needed a cocktail. What's up?" You explain your ridiculous situation which he can't help but laugh at you, "You're locked inside your apartment?"

After lecturing you on your shitty-ass karma, your BFF pledges to come downtown and rescue you after he finishes his cocktail, of course. While you wait for your BFF to arrive, you end up playing sappy broken-heart love songs, and by the time he buzzes you, you're busy scanning the ceiling of your Hovel for something strong enough to hang a noose from while listening to Jennifer Hudson belt out "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going." Ten minutes after buzzing him in, your out-of-breath BFF reaches the final step of Mount EverShanty. You tell him that you're gonna slide the key under the door for him to see if he can unlock it from the outside. Luckily this works and you don't have to go to Plan B where you play Rapunzel and yell out the window pleading with Bad Samaritans on the sidewalk for help. Or the dreaded Plan C where you have to call, and pay, for a Locksmith that you will never be reimbursed for.

You let your BFF catch his breath before beginning the long descent to gayer pastures. By the time you reach the third floor, the two of you decide to go to Urge since it's close by. And as luck would have it (obviously your BFF's luck, as you are void in that department lately) it turns out that your BFF knows the bartender (which is the New York equivalent of winning Lotto). After a few extremely strong and desperately needed cocktails, you actually end up having a laugh about your latest dating debacle. Your BFF thinks that you should keep your plans with Blonde Beard for tomorrow night and just go out and have a good time. After all, you really like the guy, and you don't know for sure that he's a Crackhead. Maybe he's only a recreational Crackhead? Maybe he uses soap that smells like Mothballs? Maybe it was his roommate's Crystal Pipe? Since you don't have the answers to any of these questions, it's important not to presume that Blonde Beard is guilty until proven innocent. You should never judge a Crackhead by his Crack Den. Especially when the Crackhead is great in bed.

And then, after you are sufficiently cheered up (or, more likely, sufficiently liquored up), the cute London Lush without any facial hair (who you've been keeping tabs on from the corner of your wandering eye) begins to chat you up with his adorable accent. You ask him a few questions about nothing in particular, and, yadda yadda yadda, you're making out with the London Lush in the back corner of Urge, exchanging cell numbers. Blonde Beard who? Anyway...