You're Not One of Those "Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Sam" Type of Fags

...but that's pretty much how you left it with Baby Daddy after the whole "You want to fuck that Muscle Boy, don't you?" incident. Of course you ended up fucking that Muscle Boy, but even though you'd really like to date a funny boy, you kind of assumed that you'd be laughing with him, not at him. You and Baby Daddy texted back and forth a few times afterwards, but nothing ever came of it. In fact, Baby Daddy was the one who ultimately let the ball drop. Although you're not really sure why exactly he disappeared, you're definitely not worrying about it. Hell, it's summer and there are boys in Speedos to oggle!

Speaking of which, it's an absolutely gorgeous day so you and your BFF take the train to Jones Beach to work on your tan lines. And the boys are even more gorgeous than the weather. There's this one Hispanic boy in particular that has definitely caught your eye, and although your taste in men rarely overlaps, you and your BFF are literally about to wrestle over him. Luckily it's a moot point because the Hot Papi is there with his boyfriend and, get this, their two kids! Talk about a dick deflator. The kids, however, are extremely well behaved, and, you have to admit, it's pretty damn hot watching him be a Papi. You and your BFF spend the afternoon concocting an entire back-story for the two Gay Daddies. Since one of the boys is white and the other Latino, you decide that they must have each used the same white surrogate mother so that the boys are technically half-brothers. Your back-stories, of course, quickly morph into fantasies where the Hot Papi leaves his hubby after falling helplessly and hopelessly in love with either of you. Preferably you.

Both of you are still eyeing the Hot Papi when you are packing up your stuff to head back to the city, when suddenly, almost as if your fantasy has willed it to happen, Hot Papi walks over to you and says, "Hey, isn't your name [INSERT YOUR NAME HERE]?" and you are absolutely stunned because Hot Papi is right! You say, "Yeah," but it's obvious that you are confused and can't place him, even though you honestly can't imagine ever forgetting a face as sexy and handsome as his. However, Hot Papi goes on to explain that he met you at G the night you met Baby Daddy. You remember meeting a bunch of Baby Daddy's friends, but you were pretty hyper-focused on Baby Daddy that night so you cut yourself some slack for not remembering Hot Papi. You're also pretty sure that Hot Papi looks better in a skimpy Speedo than he did fully clothed that night at G. Anyway. You and Hot Papi quickly start yapping about Baby Daddy and so you ask how he's doing. Hot Papi informs you that Baby Daddy was actually supposed to be at the beach today, too, but that his daughter refused to go. You want to ask if all the Gay Daddies belong to some secret club but instead you say, "Tell Baby Daddy I said, 'Hi'," and Hot Papi promises you that he will indeed.

On the train back to the city, your BFF can't get over the fact that you had met the Hot Papi before and forgotten him, so he informs you that you have been disqualified, and he has won the the Hot Papi game of Fantasy Boyfriend by default. You reluctantly agree, but then decide to text Baby Daddy about the bizarre beach incident, just to see what will happen. You write, "You missed a beautiful day at the beach today. The weather wasn’t too bad either ;-)" and you get a response almost immediately, "I was supposed to go today but my daughter didn’t want to go. Next time I guess. Hope u had fun." Which is a lame blow-off and you know you should just let it go, but you decide to continue to taunt Baby Daddy with, "Your Hot Papi friend already told me. Too bad. It would’ve been nice to see you in a skimpy Speedo ;-) On my way back to the city now." He returns with a vague response full of zero questions, “LOL. Maybe go in a couple of weeks. Should be fun," so you decide to finally drop it. You really don't know why, but it's obvious that Baby Daddy is as just-not-that-into-you as you are just-not-that-into-him! But then you wind up receiving another post-blow-off text which really surprises you, but when you pull out your phone you realize that it's not actually from Baby Daddy. It's from the Portuguese Brazilian From London, who has, once again, commuted back to New York and is wondering if you'd like to get together tonight. Christ! Your Saturday night is starting to look like it's suddenly about to get redeemed.

Later on, after a few drinks at Duplex with the San Francisco Treat and Rice Queens I through III, you head up to Vlada to meet the Portuguese Brazilian From London. However, he's late, which is annoying since he picked the place and the time, but you kill some time yapping with Vlada's big bull dyke bouncer, aptly named Tonka until the Portuguese Brazilian From London shows up and, although it's been months since you've seen him, you quickly remember why you liked him so much. Hell, he's smart, funny and handsome! What's not to like? Oh yeah, the fact that he lives in London and has a New York boyfriend suddenly come to mind... However, the two of you end up having such a fun time flirting and chatting that you begin to get a bit melancholy. Why does it have to be so fucking hard to meet a great guy? And when you do finally meet one, why does he have to be so fucking unavailable? Your catches always turn out to be more like Catch 22's, and you almost decide to call it a night and head back to your Home-Sweet-Hovel to huddle over some Häagen-Sweet-Daz, but then something magical happens. The Portuguese Brazilian From London makes you laugh. The fact that he can make you giddy during your Pity Party ultimately pulls you out of your funk, and before you know it, the two of you are in a cab headed to your place.

You're a bit terrified that your Hobosexual roommate will be up watching Sex and the City reruns, but luckily the coast is clear and the two of you end up making your own lost episode of Sex in the City. You, of course, are playing Carrie, and, luckily, the Portuguese Brazilian From London, winds up playing a dual role of Mr. Big combined with dirty old Samantha. However, as soon as it's over, before you can even grab a Kleenex from the tissue box, the Portuguese Brazilian From London is literally pulling up his pants and tightening his belt. You feel ridiculous wiping cum off your chest while this man is, most likely, coming up with excuses to tell his New York boyfriend about why he's getting home so late. Even though the whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous, you walk the Portuguese Brazilian From London to the door, lock it, and then hop in the shower because you suddenly feel like that dirty old Kleenex you just used up and threw away. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Juggles Boys...

...but when you wake up the next morning (in your own bed which is actually slightly disconcerting) your iPhone is definitely juggling text messages from both Bald Boy and Baby Daddy. Since you're so terrible with names, you're actually terrified that you'll mix up their names and end up calling one Bald Baby and the other Daddy Boy. But there's little chance of a naming mishap in a text, so you answer Baby Daddy's offer of getting together tomorrow night before he goes to some charity event. You actually chuckle at the offer (perhaps Baby Daddy does have a sense of humor after all?) because it seems a bit lame. If Baby Daddy isn't going to invite you to the actual charity event, then why is he bothering to ask you out at all? If he wants to go out on a real date, then he should choose a night when he's not busy. Right? Perhaps he's juggling even more boys than you are... Anyway. You respond with a less than exuberant, "What time?" and then click send. Of course you instantly regret it when you read Bald Boy's message because Bald Boy wants to know if you'd like to grab dinner, get this, tomorrow night! Ugh. You are so lame at this Dating Game. So you text Bald Boy back and say that you are waiting to hear back from a "friend" about tentative plans, but if they fall through then you'd love to have dinner with him. And the funny thing is that you're not lying. You'd much rather have dinner with Bald Boy than be the recipient of Baby Daddy's charity before his Charity Event.

After six hours of textpectation while waiting for Baby Daddy to respond (the boy is unemployed, how busy could he be?) you decide that you can wait no longer. So you text Bald Boy and say that your "friend" never got back to you so you'd love to grab a bite tomorrow night. Of course, you wind up hearing back from Baby Daddy exactly twenty minutes after you RSVP to Bald Boy. Your nerves are already shot and you haven't even gone out on an actual date with either of these boys yet! Just one extended Three-Night-Stand with Bald Boy and one No-Night-Stand with Baby Daddy. So you write back to Baby Daddy and tell him that you ended up making plans since you never heard back from him, yet suggest getting together next week after you get back from California.

The next night you meet Bald Boy at a church on the corner of Carmine & Bleecker and, although he's on the phone when you arrive, surprisingly on-time, Bald Boy greets you with a big smile and squeezes your knee when you sit down on the steps next to him. He gets off the phone quickly and gives you three cheap n' cheerful choices (at your request) of pizza, pasta or sushi. Since you've been feeling a bit Gay Fat recently, you end up choosing sushi and the two of you end up having a lovely romantic dinner on the back patio of Yama.

Although your phone almost vibrates itself out of your cargo shorts during dinner, you luckily have the good sense not to check it until you excuse yourself for the bathroom. Apparently when it rains, it whores. Not only has Baby Daddy finally gotten back to you about setting a date, but the Portuguese Brazilian From London is also in town and wants to get together before commuting back across the pond! And if that isn't enough, there is also an email from the Columbia Colombian photographer you met a few weeks ago, but you decide right then and there to let that one slip through the cracks and delete the email without giving it a second thought.

The conversation is anything but light, and, needless to say, there ain't a lot of laughs. You talk about Murdered Mothers and Dead Dads and since you're about to burst into tears you somehow resist the urge to burst into song and sing about how it's a Hard Knock Life. Although you know this is completely tasteless, you also have faith that there is a boy out there who would laugh at your twisted joke because his sense of humor will be just as fucked up as yours. But Bald Boy is not that boy.

After dinner you go back to Bald Boy's balmy studio and you're about to let him have his way with you when he mentions that he has dated not one, but two of your Connexion friends! Once again, you start humming "It's a Small World After All," but this time you're not being a nasty size queen. Eventually the two of you get down to some dirty gay business, however it's not as good as it was at the beach. Now that you're back in the city and not playing Beach House, everything seems a little more real. A little too real. Even though the sex has been pretty great, as soon as you know a relationship isn't going anywhere you always wind up emotionally divesting, which inevitably has a direct effect on the chemistry, and ultimately turns your great sex into some merely mediocre man-mashing.

Afterwards you hop in the shower to freshen up and when you emerge squeaky clean, Bald Boy informs you that he has to wake up at 6:40 for a breakfast meeting. Since it's already midnight, you decide that you'd rather have your beauty sleep than cuddle for a few hours before being kicked to the curb. Bald Boy doesn't seem particularly distraught over your departure as he walks you to the door and gives you a peck before letting you out. Suddenly it feels like you have one less pair of testicles in the air to worry about. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Drama Queen Fags...

...but you are dramatic. Especially when it comes to your love life. Lately you've been all over the place emotionally. The littlest thing can set you off and make or break your entire day. Like the other night when you were publicly judged by the Karaoke Nazi and then made a big scene by throwing down a wad of money to pay the check before storming out and almost getting run over in a crosswalk by some Jersey Hyundai Hag. Apparently her left-hand turn was more important than your life, so you smacked her driver's side window so hard that you actually hurt your hand. But if you look hard enough there's always a silver lining to these dramatic outbursts. For instance, since you left Karaoke early you never got a chance to publicly embarrass yourself after drunkenly requesting Christina Aguilera's Ain't No Other Man when a) You have no right nor any vocal range to sing that song, and b) There ain't no man in your life. And to top it off, since you hurt your hand, c) You were unable to write the Karaoke Nazi any sort of formal apology for your dramatic outburst.

You were, however, able to hunt and peck a one handed iPhone note to Mr. Write since you felt like your last short dismissive email may have come off a bit too dismissive. And you are not one to dismiss an opportunity to have sex, no matter how remote the possibility. So when you wake up the next morning you reply (again) to Mr. Write's ridiculous email about how he couldn't see you because he was "Doubly and Triply" booked over the weekend that he initially asked you out for! Now that it's Monday you realize that it might be nice to keep the potential open for a possible date next weekend, so you write: "how'd your weekend go? sorry for the short reply before. my home internet has been down since Friday and i only had my phone. i kind of had a shitty weekend, but am feeling better now."

Although you don't immediately hear back from Mr. Write, the Gay Gods must have heard your plea and accepted your offering because your phone rings almost instantaneously as you receive a call from the Portuguese Brazilian From London, who, according to his message, has commuted back to New York for a few days. Again. You only met him once (met = kissed) immediately after your Hurtful Hernia Surgery when you went all Judy Garland and accidentally mixed Absolut and Oxycodone (oops), which made for one Absolut(ly) Oxy(moronic) Memorable Blackout. But, as usual, you digress.

After an unproductive day of procrastinwriting, you call back the Portuguese Brazilian From London during your walk home. Although you have recently been feeling completely un-dateable, feeling somewhat desirable by someone turns out to be a wonderful distraction from your depression even though the man is completely unavailable, lives across the Atlantic, and has a twentysomething boyfriend in New York. Unfortunately, between the incessant street noise and the horrible cell-to-cell connection, coupled with the Portuguese Brazilian From London's indecipherable accent, you honestly have no idea what the hell he actually says to you. But it's all good because it was nice of him to get in touch and that simple fact has instantly put you in a much better mood even though, in actuality, he very well may have called to tell you that he has Herpes Simplex One and had an oozing cold sore when he kissed you during the night of your Memorable Blackout.

But none of this matters because tonight you and your BFF have tickets to go see your boy Calvin Harris at Bowery Ballroom! Since you live right down the street from the venue, you tell your BFF to meet you at your place and he surprises you with a nice sized bottle of designer vodka that he swiped during his company's xxx-mas party. Your Hobosexual Roommate stays put in his room busy doing something typical like not-cleaning, and your BFF thinks it is very odd that he's never even met the Hobosexual even though you've lived with him for almost a year. But you just shrug and mix a couple of drinks that are so strong that hopefully they'll take the hair off your chest. Especially that gray one you recently plucked. What's up with that? Anyway.

Eventually you are sufficiently liquored up and head down to the Bowery Ballroom just as the opening band is, thankfully, packing up, which makes it an Absolut(ly) perfect time to go to the Bowery Ballroom's Bar Room and order a much needed Gay Cocktail. Only, as you look around you, you are kind of shocked to realize that you two are the only gay boys in the entire place! Everybody is either *gasp* a Straight Slackster from Billyburg, or they're currently dating one. And this, my friend, is not your typical demographic. Toto, I don't think we're in Ken's Ass anymore. But it's all good because eventually Calvin Harris's Ass storms the small stage at the Sold Out show. Calvin is, as expected, fantastic. His fans, however, not so much. By the time Calvin sings "The Girls" you are about to start bludgeoning The Girls surrounding you with their giant leather shoulder bags. How much makeup do they really need to lug around to a dark concert? And to top it off, The Girls keep squeezing past you to sneak closer to the stage, or The Girls need to push past you to buy another Cosmopolitan, or, more likely, to go buy some more giant fake Prada Bags in Chinatown. Whatever they're doing, The Girls' movement is both constant as well as constantly annoying. Luckily you are taller than them and your big feet have a habit of stomp dancing onto their Jimmy Choos if they get too close. Oh so sorry. Unlike Calvin, at this particular moment you are not loving The Girls.

After the concert it's raining again, and you and your BFF just stand there trying to figure out your next umbrella-less move, which, please God, will hopefully be a Gay one. But that's when Calvin Harris himself walks out onto the sidewalk and begins to wave all of the stragglers to a little bar just south of Bowery Ballroom down by Broome Street. So, of course, you and your BFF tag along and at the bar you have a lovely conversation with Calvin that he couldn't be less interested in! Whatever. If Calvin ever decided to Come Out and write a song called "The Boys" you are sure that you would rank higher on his currently non-existent Gaydar.

On the way home you decide to stop for a Gay Nightcap at Urge and are Pleased as Planter's Punch to realize that your favorite Thursday Therapy DJ also plays at Urge on Mondays. So you give him a big double Euro Kiss and sit down to enjoy the fact that you have Absolut(ly) salvaged what could have been a terrible day, and have ultimately turned that frown upside down! You check your iPhone while waiting for the bartender to concoct your Gay Nightcap, and your heart skips a beat when you realize that you have finally received a response from Mr. Write. You quickly burst into hysterics and read it aloud, dramatically, to your BFF:

“finally writing back. yes, your response seemed terse, i tried not to read anything into it. sorry your weekend was so bad.

but i'm not much better. i have been like a canary in a cage since yesterday, running from one dean to another. i finally ended the day SCREAMING like a hag, like a crazy crazy hag, into the voicemail of the senior dean and i may have committed job suicide. no joke. and i mean SCREAMING. i never get like this, so i am now going to lie down on my sofa, and probably cry. i'm supposed to see my ex tonight for a movie but i am thinking of canceling and drinking a lot of wine.

sorry about my friend from LA coming, and then to collide with you when all this job crap AND the bad/sociopathic ex is sending me letters and leaving me sobbing voicemails. i wish this wasn't happening in my life now; it has derailed getting to know you. i have little energy for US and i'm not sure how to proceed.”

And yes, Mr. Write actually capitalized US as if you and he were on the cover of the Weekly! OMG! His email is so insanely crazy that you actually think that Mr. Write may have actually fabricated it just to scare you away! After all, he is a Playwright who moonlights as a Professor in, surprise-surprise, the Drama Department. But if Mr. Write just wanted to blow you off, wouldn't it have been a lot easier to just not return your damn email? Regardless, you are now absolutely sure that Mr. Write is indeed Mr. Wrong and you and your BFF giggle-sip your cocktails while you re-read the insane monologue again as if you were William Shatner performing William Shakespeare. Anyway...

You're Not One of Fags Whose Head is in the Clouds with Unrealistic Dreams...

...but as you lay in bed you can't help yourself imagining how nice it would be to be snuggling up against Blonde Beard right about now. You imagine your face rubbing up against his softer than expected beard, and kissing his welcoming lips, as you get lost in the feeling that made you fall in love with him in the first place. Only instead of your unrealistic dreams coming true, you wind up with a text message that beeps you back to reality and makes your heart skip a beat. The only boy who would be bothering you during your silly fantasy is Blonde Beard, right? Wrong. You pull your hand away from your nether-regions in order to check the phone and, not necessarily unfortunately, your message is from Mr. Write. "that was great fun...meeting you. i told my director all about you and he thinks you sound 'dreamy.' and he is the straightest boy i know." Although you are obviously touched, your heart is still busy imagining the bearded boy who you hoped to be receiving this dreamy message from, and you take a moment to decide how best to respond. You know you're not in the best mental space, but you also know that you met someone special tonight and you don't want your bad mood to sabotage the obvious potential. So you take a moment and edit your crankiness, and wind up responding with something deprecating, and are quickly rewarded with yet another compliment, "dude you ARE dreamy. surely you know." And you decide to end the conversation because you like the idea of Mr. Write falling to sleep and dreaming of your alleged dreaminess, even though you'd prefer to imagine Blonde Beard tossing and turning to his obvious nightmares of leaving you crying on a subway platform.

The next morning you awake to a full schedule of crap coupled with an overwhelming case of woe-is-you, and you have serious trouble pulling your head from your pillow even though it is (surprisingly) not hungover. You never feel like shit after a night of relative soberness, however, when you reach over from your pillow to check your cell you are distracted from your Blonde Beard sorrow long enough to see that Mr. Write has obviously jumped out of his bed and texted you with a simple, yet substantial, "Hi."

You have so much to do today before schlepping out to JFK and flying to Florida to visit your aging Snowbird parents, but your first order of business is to finish that damn Shutterfly Photo Book and send it off to Blonde Beard. You want to be done with that humiliating task so you make sure it is at the top of your daily To-Do list. You feel kind of silly putting it together, yet for some unknown reason, you want it to be as spectacularly special as you initially imagined it would be. So you run out to a card store to buy some self-adhesive photo-corners in order to paste all of the restaurant business cards that you collected onto each page of the ridiculously inappropriate book. It saddens you as you flip through the book, pasting each card onto each page, while wistfully remembering each conversation at each restaurant, and yet somehow you are compelled to finish. You need to be done with this and drop it in a mailbox. Only you can't. After you finish you end up dragging the humiliatingly sentimental Photo Book into work so you can show someone how fucking fantastic it is. And she literally tells you that, "It's absolutely wonderful. I would cry if I ever received something like this." And that makes you happy enough to finally drop the fucking thing in a mailbox and be done with it. Then you race over to The Mercury Lounge in order to buy tickets to Yaz this summer because you know that, although Blonde Beard bought tickets for both of you, that you are no longer going to see that concert with him. You fret over which night to purchase tickets, but you ultimately decide that if running into Blonde Beard would ruin the entire experience of seeing one of your favorite bands, then you should definitely buy tickets for the alternate night's show.

That evening you have plans to go have drinks with the Portuguese Brazilian From London, only you aren't really feeling all that social, so when he IM's you in the middle of the day to ask if you'd rather go help him buy a suit, you are completely non-plussed. You had tentative plans to have a drink with him tonight, even though you're in no mood, so you're kind of happy that he's altering the plans and giving you an easy out. You want to ask the Portuguese Brazilian From London if, perhaps, he'd rather come watch you write for the rest of the afternoon, but you are friendly enough because you realize that it is indeed best that you skip this undeniably doomed date. So you lie and tell the Portuguese Brazilian From London that you are very busy working even though you are merely procrastinwriting, and you happily put an end to the possibility of spending your aftersnooze at Brooks Brothers.

Later on you get a really nice Text from Mr. Write that says he really wants to see you before you leave for Florida to visit your parents. You are touched and tell him your crazy schedule, to which he responds, "can we at least have coffee? i want to lay eyes on u b4 u go. 4 or 5 ish." And how can you really say no to that? So you meet him at 5pm after a full day of procrastinwriting and then you have a nice coffee at a NewsBar on University Place even though you carry in a Diet Pepsi because you don't drink coffee. You wind up talking about past relationships and even though you consciously choose to be vague about Blonde Beard, Mr. Write is definitely even more vague about his recent romantic shenanigans. So, of course, you press him. He hems and haws but basically tells you that he has recently ended a four year (open) relationship because he wound up falling in love with a boy (which is exactly why you would never allow yourself to be in an open relationship...) and that they broke up a few months ago. When you ask for specific dates you are given nothing. Actually you are ignored. So, of course, you ask again. And then Mr. Write says, January. Or February. As if he has actually forgotten which month his heart was broken.

This is when you begin to look at Mr. Write long and hard. And something seems off. His enthusiasm for you no longer seems appropriate. Suddenly, his overly confident assurances that he is, indeed, truly single, and that he is ready to be dating make you begin to wonder exactly who he's trying to convince? You smile, even though you thinks that the Lady doth protest too much. But you have a plane to catch, so you kiss Mr. Write goodbye and race home so you can pack your largest Gay Fat bathing suit and head out to JFK so you can fly JetBlue through the white puffy clouds to warmer weather for a dreamy weekend in the sun with the Straight Senior Set. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who's Too Chicken to Discuss His Feelings...

...but, as you pull a frozen chicken breast out of your freezer, you realize that it has become glaringly obvious that Blonde Beard is definitely a Chicken shit. And it kind of blows your mind. How is it possible that he could be so undeniably intimate with you, for months, and then just run away like Chicken Little after the L-Word came falling from the Sky (after too many Skyy Vodkas, of course...) You truly don't understand his issue, but as far as you are concerned there are two scenarios: 1) Blonde Beard doesn't feel the same way about you as you feel about him, or 2) Blonde Beard does feel the same, but he's too scared to express it. Neither doomsday scenario is acceptable. At all. So there you have it. It's officially over. Buh-bye, Blonde Beard. Don't let the razor nick ya on the way out! Next!

You sit down on the Hobosexual's lumpy futon couch and rest the Zip-locked Frozen Chicken Breast on your swollen Balloon Balls when you realize that your revelation about Blonde Beard neither surprises, nor disappoints you. And honestly, when you think about the relationship in such broad terms, it doesn't even seem like that big of a loss. But here's what's making you dazed and confused, not to mention driving you slowly insane. If the loss is truly no big whoop, then why on earth were your feelings sooooooo intense for Blonde Beard? Was your tearful subway meltdown just an "in the moment" kind of drunken thing? Or were your intense feelings more like a fast-acting, yet short-lived drug? Perhaps after years of dating Flaky Fashionista Fags, maybe you confused Blonde Beard's promptness and politeness as something that was actually unique and special and worthy of your deepest emotion? Or perhaps it's just that the sex was just so damn good that you let your girlie emotions get the best of you? And meanwhile, if you truly feel so Non-Plussed about the end of your Non-Relationship with your Non-Boyfriend, then why on earth are you so obsessed with the fact that you don't feel worse? Let it go already! Hell, if you're just in denial about the whole damn thing then why can't you just enjoy it before the other designer shoe drops?! And that's when you stumble upon what's really bothering you: After years of being single in New York, has your concept of love become so superficial and Chelsea-fied that you've finally become one of those "out of sight, out of mind," emotionally compartmentalized fags? Anyway.

When your Boneless Balloon Balls are thoroughly numb, you put the Zip-Loc bag on the kitchen counter so it can continue to defrost, and then you pop a Pain Killer and hobble down the six flights of stairs in order to get your Gay Fat ass out of your Home-Sweet-Hovel. You head over to your writing space to do some procrastinwriting, however, by the time you schlep up the three flights of stairs and claim your second-favorite dark little cubicle, your Gay Fat ass is, ironically, feeling light headed. With all your Blonde Beard lollygagging this morning, you forgot to have a breakfast chaser with your one-calorie Pain Killer. However, your dizziness turns out to be a blessing in disguise when you check your email and see that Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger has sent you the results of your Scrotal Sonogram. Being single and sober would be a tragic combination to receive the lovely news that your aging Balloon Balls are actually suffering from a painful case of varicose veins that was obviously aggravated by your Hurtful Hernia Surgery. Varicose Fucking Veins?? How humiliating is that? Your Blue Balls are like the gay equivalent of some Blue Haired Lady in Boca! Do you even have testicles? Or is your scrotum actually holding a couple of over-sized Blue Haired Lady Ovaries? Oy Vey(arie)...

Luckily there's another email from the Portuguese Brazilian From London to help distract you from your Old Girl Troubles, and, even though it's a bit ridiculous, you are happy to set up a date with him when the old chap returns to New York for the weekend. After a busy, light-headed day of Procrastinwriting, you drag your Balloon Balls over to the Gay and Lesbian Center to see a Michael Cunningham interview because he's been one of your absolute favorite authors ever since you read A Homo at the End of the World. Only instead of listening to the old Literary PowerHouse's interview, you spend The Hours drinking the free wine and texting your new literary PowerBottom that you recently met on Connexion: Mr. Write. He definitely gives good text and you can't wait to meet him.

However, when your cell vibrates to alert you to what you assume to be another flirty text from Mr. Write, your butterfly-anxiousness is quickly replaced with rolling eyes when you notice that this particular SMS is from your Hobosexual Roommate. He informs you that he has put your chicken in a bowl of cold water because (get this) it has started to go bad. Now, you know this is not in the realm of possibility because, 1) It is April not August, and your Home-Sweet-Hovel is barely warm enough for your toes to defrost, and 2) Even if the frozen-solid chicken breast has defrosted and actually gone bad, that it couldn't smell because it is tightly sealed away in a Zip-Loc bag. So you text the Hobosexual back and ask him to put your poultry in the refrigerator for you, as you will be home soon to take care of it. He immediately writes you back and informs you, "i put it in the fridge but i wouldn't eat it cause it really smells." You know that this is preposterous because the Hobosexual would never eat any kind of non-processed food that didn't come in a package from Trader Joe's.

After the Michael Cunningham interview and an inappropriate amount of free wine, you head back to the Home-Sweet-Hovel and are surprised to find that the apartment really does smell. Bad. Kind of like rotting chicken. However your rotting chicken is sealed in a Zip-Loc bag, which has been put away in a sealed refrigerator. So like Toucan Sam, you follow your nose and open the sink cabinet where you find the offensive Specimen. Days it's been since the overflowing trash bin has been taken out. And it reeks. You want to kill the Hobosexual because, had he taken care of this smelly situation hours ago, then your apartment wouldn't smell like Flesh and Blood. So you tie up the garbage bag and place it in front of the door because, between your Blue Veined Balloon Balls and your Hurtful Hernia, there's no way you are doing another twelve flights (round trip) to bring out the trash. So you whip up a delicious chicken dish and go to bed early. Of course, when you wake up the next morning, even though the Hobosexual had to move the smelly trash bag in order to get through the door, he couldn't be bothered to take it downstairs on his way to work. God forbid he should do something around the house when he has his old, Varicose-Veined Gay Mommy to do it for him. Anyway...