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

...but somehow during your quest for packing tape you wind up in the water sports section of K-mart. You immediately get sucked into all the fabulous kids toys which now seem so gay that you begin to wonder if they sell them at The Blue Store in Chelsea. Of course there's a trusty old Slip 'N Slide, but it's a very slippery slope after that. You're especially drawn to both the Disco and Rainbow Fountains. But think of the wonderful 8-some that you could have on Fire Guyland if you purchased the Octopus Fun Float for your pool? Anyway. Eventually some disgruntled employee directs you to the correct aisle where you finally find some packing tape and head over to Express check out which takes forever and seems to be making all local stops.

When you finally get back to your Home Sweet Hovel, you begin the daunting task of packing up your shit for your impending move. It's more than a bit distressing, however, because, although the movers are coming on Monday, not only is your new place not ready for you to move in, but nobody has any idea of when it will ever be ready. And the best part is that no one but you seems to care about your impending homelessness. Anyway. You choose an invigorating packing playlist on your iPhone and you sing along as you place everything you own into little Fresh Direct boxes that you've been hoarding like a hibernating Hampster ever since you decided to move. You are a packing fiend of the fudge packing variety (which means everything is packed extremely well).

Only, as you pack, you begin to wonder if you might be getting sick because your throat begins to feel swollen. Although it doesn't hurt, you can feel the glands around your neck as if you are not only a gay variety fruit, but a very ripe one at that. And when you go to the bathroom and get a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you are absolutely shocked. Even through your newly grown beard, you kind of look like a no-neck Barney Rubble. When he had the mumps. Of course your first thought is that you're dying. Of course. You always seem to be dying on a summer Saturday when all doctors are busy spending their hard earned co-pays on the golf course. All your recent whoring around has finally caught up to you and you are seroconverting from the neck down. You and your Lovely Lady Mumps will surely die homeless on the streets of New York (or perhaps a friend's uncomfortable, yet stylish couch), and you'll never get to enjoy the truly finer things in life, like decorating your new apartment. Nor will you ever know what it feels like to rule Eighth Avenue with a six-pack of washboard abs that you've always planned to locate some day beneath all of that Gay Fat that you've always intended to lose.

You do as much packing as you can handle, given your latest, dire prognosis, even though you know that tomorrow will be a lost day since it is Gay Pride and you and your Lovely Lady Mumps intend to be very proud. So you hop in the shower, neck first as your lymph nodes seem to be making all your Gland Entrances today, and you get ready to meet the BLC for some Pretoxication before a Pre-Pride Party. And honey, if you can somehow bring yourself to swallow, you definitely need a drink.

The Ritz is buzzing with lots of healthy-necked people, and your worst fears are realized when Half-Share asks, "What's wrong with you? You look awful." You explain about your mysteriously swollen jugular and after everybody touches your Lovely Lady Mumps they all have different diagnoses. Especially Fat Albert who assures you tenderly, "Of course you aren't seroconverting. You simply have some kind of aggressive throat cancer..."

Eventually you wind up at a friend-of-a-friend's Pre-Pride Party and you are Absolut(ly) thrilled to be self-medicating with some delicious Mandarin-flavored eliquzor. In fact you're feeling no pain as you're heading back to the bar until you find yourself literally bumping into a boy you dated last summer, but broke up with before Labor Day: White Pants. Although you have no hard feelings (actually you have no feelings at all) this boy is always so irritating and dramatic when you have the misfortune of running into him. At this point you'd much rather run over him, but you give him a big, dimpled smile and say, "Hey, how are you?" But White Pants is a TV reporter and he just stares at you so melodramatically that you feel like it's 9/11 and that your symmetrical neck lumps are the Twin Towers. There's this loooooooong, ridiculous pause which is so pregnant that you suddenly feel like you're at a Straight Pride party, and that's when White Pants eventually says, "I'm goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood," with about seven different syllables and five different irritating nuances. Then White Pants doesn't say another word. You briefly consider giving him a big infectious kiss on the lips, but ultimately decide that after all his weirdness, you have nothing more to say. So you just roll your eyes and head over to the bar where you, surprise-surprise, find a bunch of your closest friends. You quickly pour yourself a potent drink as you say a quick little prayer, "Are you there, Vodka? It's me, You!" Luckily Judy Blitz hears your plea and the Cranberry Sea parts so White Pants can model his summer wardrobe far away from you.

Unfortunately this is yet another party where everybody is just way too cute to commit to anything more than a schmoozy, yet vapid conversation, so you end up yapping with your friends all night. The highlight is when one of Half-Share's Fire Island housemates starts to bombard you with compliments like, "I used to hate you because you didn't have to have a real job, but now I'm very impressed with your blog. You're actually a very good writer." Even though it's been swollen shut for hours, somehow your jaw slackens and you are at a loss for words as the backhanded compliments start to pour in. "I actually liked you when we first met even though my boyfriend didn't at all. He thought you were shallow." Although you know that Backhand means well, it's perhaps the first time in your life that you are completely at a loss for words, so you actually just seek comfort in your Gay Cocktail as Backhand continues his barrage of friendly fire.

Eventually, when you can't take being on the Frontline anymore, Rice Queen rallies the troops and the Boy Luck Club hops into a cab and head downtown to the Meatpacking District for some dirty, Daniel Nardicio D-List Pride Party. Although the previously gay neighborhood has been overrun by Bridge & Tunnel Breeders, you are escorted from the street directly into a time-travelling elevator which quickly whisks you back to Village as it was during the sexual revolution of the '70s. Avec Meat, sans underwear. It becomes quickly obvious that you and your Lovely Lady Humps are no longer in Kansas. You actually see things that you've never seen before; even some things that you never wished to see. There's more Grade A meat in this building than back when they used to pack it here. Half of it is hanging out. Some of it's being sampled. Most of it is constantly being inspected. But all of it is completely shocking. In a good way. It makes the Fire Guyland Underwear Party seem more like a cute little Panty Party starring Doris Day. This party, however, features an entire cast of Whorish Gays. And you, of course, begin to make a Fruit Loop under the guise of looking for the bathroom. Only you never find the bathroom. Instead you wind up in some line which you assume is for the bathroom, only when you finally get a turn it's actually a pitch dark Janitor's Closet with no light and no window. As you pee in the dark you really, really hope that you're peeing in the sink and not on some dirty boy who has been rumored to be hiding amongst all the janitorial filth. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Smokes Fags...

...but even though a decade has passed since you quit, you still find yourself having smoking dreams and then wake up feeling horribly guilty. The only nice thing about these dreams is when you awaken and realize that it was just a dream. Usually you just heave a healthy full-lunged sigh and go back to your ashtray-less life, but on this particular Saturday morning you wake up rather jumpy and irritable, almost as if you're having a Nic-Fit. However your current irritability has more to do with the fact that it is now Saturday morning and you still haven't heard from Mr. Write about making weekend plans, even though he's the one who suggested getting together in the first place.

The last you heard from him was on Thursday when he dropped an email bomb, "i got a looooooong letter from the bad ex just moments ago, it's sent me into a bit of a tailspin that i haven't even started feeling yet. have to walk the dog first. ugh." You, of course, responded instantly, "Which one is the bad ex? The Sociopath? Does he even count as an ex? What did he want?" And that, my friend, is the last you ever heard from Mr. Write. You begin to wonder if maybe he's freaking out? Is he getting back together with The Sociopath? The unknown always plays a number on you as you begin to rifle through the multitude of possibilities that, thanks to that ancient episode of L.A. Law, usually include an open elevator shaft like the one that Rosalind Shays stumbled into and plunged to her very dramatic and much appreciated death. So even though Mr. Write has ruined your non-existent weekend plans, you give him the benefit of the doubt and respond (again) to his last email. This time you simply say, "Is everything ok?"

Moments later you get an instant response which is much less satisfying than any elevator shaft would have been: "yes yes, sorry to be out of pocket, i got overwhelmed with work yesterday on top of having my visitor from LA, she's great but all-consuming. and weekend plans through sunday got stacked up doubly and triply, i SWEAR i am rarely this social...all ok with you?" Doubly and triply booked? What the fuck is that? Obviously Mr. Write has forgotten that he is actually quadruply booked because he's the one that asked you to do something this weekend. Whatever. Although you are annoyed, you're not really surprised. Actually, you're pretty much over it. Mr. Write obviously needs a Re-Write before his words and his actions can actually cohesively combine in order to ultimately make up one unfortunate, yet extremely predictable plot line of a typical Boy Meets Boy Eighth Avenue Love Story that will surely open and close during Previews. If a boy is sooooo busy that he winds up triple booking with other boys, then not only is He Just Not That Into You, but he is obviously not ready to get into any sort of relationship with you either. And since, ultimately, that's what you want, it's easy to sort out Mr. Write's "doubly and triply booked" bullshit from your ultimate goal of finding Mr. Right and being his Numero Uno booking priority. So you write back, eventually, and decide to keep it short because a) Mr. Write really doesn't deserve much detail, and b) Your internet connection has been down for two days and you are sending it from your cell. You respond, “I’m fine. Sounds like you’re busy. Have fun with your friend.”

You, of course, never hear back, and although the silent treatment isn't entirely unexpected, it definitely sends you into a tailspin. Mr. Write was supposed to be your fucking Blonde Beard rebound! How dare he doubly and triply book his weekend plans and then disappear into thin air! And then, just to really feel bad, you begin searching Connexion profiles through all your silly (for lack of a better word) relationships, and none of these boys seem to be single! They're all listed as Dating or, get this, Exclusively Dating! One is even In a Relationship! It's almost as if your breaking up with these boys put them onto some Disney Express Lane directly to Happily Ever After. And you can't help but ask yourself the pitiful question that terrifies you and your perpetual singleness to the core: Could it be you?

You mope around the entire event-less day until your BFF sends you a text telling you to come meet him and his Gal Pal at The Ritz for a Gay Cocktail. Even though, *gasp* you're not feeling particularly social, you decide that getting out of your Home Sweet Hovel will do you good, so you swing up to Hell's Kitchen for a few cheer inducing Stoli O's. Your train connections are flawless and before you know it you've got a Gay Cocktail in hand and are leaping through the back patio door looking for your BFF so you can bitch all about lame ol' Mr. Write. And that's when you see it. You are absolutely shocked. Six months after he quit you catch eyes with your BFF just as he's taking one big ass drag from his cigarette. He looks up at you as if he's fifteen and you're his mother and then he says, "I don't wanna hear it." And, guess what? You don't wanna say it. You've said it before. Practically every six months when your BFF falls off the Wagon and hitches a ride from his buddy, Joe Camel. Needless to say, it disappoints you, but your BFF is a big boy and you are much too young and way too cute to be his middle-aged mother, so you shut your minty-fresh, smokeless trap. And that's when you get a fabulously exciting, spontaneous text from your Gal Pal: "Singing Karaoke at Lemongrass on 13th. In a huge private room! Bring whoever!" And when it comes to Karaoke, no matter what kind of foul mood you're in, you never need to be asked twice.

In fact, you are so excited for this well-deserved dose of Homeopathic Vocal Crack that you grab your BFF and his Gal Pal and hail a cab (without a moment of your usual cheap hesitation) and you head down to Greenwich Village. As the meter ticks away, your BFF's Gal Pal calls a few of her peeps to come join your Gal Pal and the rest of your Literary Lot of Writer Friends. However, while the three of you are squashed in the backseat of the taxi, you quickly become aware of an all too familiar clinking sound, and when you look over at your BFF you see that he has somehow smuggled his Pink Vodka Cran into the Yellow Checker Cab. You must give him another one of your Motherly looks of shock because he immediately gets defensive and says," What was I gonna do? Leave it?" But before you even get a chance to respond, your BFF brings up a very valid point, "If they didn't want me to take it then they shouldn't have served it in a Plastic To-Go Cup..." And then your BFF quickly turns into the Backseat Nazi and begins to yell at the Cabbie about how he's taking us the long way, and, since your BFF is always right when it comes to directions, you don't really mind until the Cabbie gets annoyed and hits the brakes. Hard. In fact you don't actually begin to mind until you feel the Vodka Cran and all the melting ice soaking your leg and absorbing quickly and coldly into your sock and shoe. You yelp from the Hypothermic Shock, and, of course, that's about when the Cabbie asks, "Did someone spill something back there?" And your BFF, who's now in absolute drunken hysterics, quickly quips back with a terse, "No, sir!" as he drops his now-empty To-Go cup onto the floor. And then, for some unknown reason, the Cabbie feels bad for taking you out of the way and actually turns off the meter as he heads across town in his soggy Yellow Submarine.

When you arrive at Karaoke, Lemongrass is packed, but after ordering a few drinks the Cocktail Waitress shows you back to the Lit Lot's private room. And it is a little slice of (as Belinda Carlisle would say) Heaven on Earth. Apparently the Lit Lot was getting annoyed that none of their songs were ever being played in the main room, so, surprise-surprise, one of the cranky writers complained and they offered up their most spacious private room at a huge discount. But thanks to the miracle of a recent text messaging blast, the large room has quickly filled up with cheap writers who should stick to writing words instead of singing them as they pop up on the monitor. And you use the word "singing" very cautiously (mostly because you're a bit too drunk to come up with a better, more accurately descriptive word). You're also a bit too drunk to answer the question, "Who are the Karaoke Nazis?" when your Home Schooled Hipster friend points out your BFF's Gal Pal and the friends she invited are hogging the microphone. They're also busy fast forwarding through all of the Lit Lot's songs since, being Karaoke Nazis, they have quickly figured out how to work the Karaoke Machine's remote control. But things quickly disintegrate when someone from the Lit Lot who actually paid for the room tries to reclaim the precious microphone and is, instead, greeted with a Karaoke Nazi's middle finger.

You're a bit embarrassed since you're the one who extended the invitation to the Karaoke Nazis, so you quickly look around to find your BFF to discuss the best way to handle the Current Karaoke Threat Level, which, just like her rising middle finger, has just been elevated to a Code Orange. But your BFF seems quite oblivious as he, uncharacteristically, puts down a full drink and heads outside. You ask aloud, very confused, "Where's he going without his Gay Cocktail?" until you realize that he is obviously going outside to smoke, and you roll your eyes because a) You don't want your BFF to smoke, and b) You are left all alone to diffuse the Book Burning campaign taken on by Karaoke Nazis' during their Invasion of the Lit Lot. And that's when you find yourself on the Front Line of this malodious Sondheim-ish Dance War between the Jets and the Sharks.

That's when your BFF's Karaoke Nazi Gal Pal looks directly at you and yells, "Don't you roll your eyes at him! He's a big boy and if he wants to smoke then that's his choice. He doesn't need you judging him to make him feel bad about himself!" And you are absolutely shocked. In fact, you would have actually preferred to get the finger from her because you are in no mood to argue with the Karaoke Nazi's righteous bullshit, especially when she is so utterly wrong-cious! But she doesn't stop. She just keeps going on and on and won't let you get a word in edgewise. And to top it off, she's got the damn microphone! You barely get out a sentence, "Why on earth would I be supportive of an addict who's fallen off the wagon? I'll save my support for when he quits again!" And that's it. You get no more words into this bullshit argument, yet you are quickly ripped a new asshole for being so judgmental. Yet during your lambasting you quickly realize that this argument (like most arguments) has nothing to do with what you're actually arguing about. The Karaoke Nazi has also obviously also started smoking again, she obviously also feels guilty about it, and instead of having this argument with her husband who hates that she smokes, the Karaoke Nazi is obviously taking her venom out on you.

But you ain't having it. Not tonight. You already feel bad enough about being dumped by both Blonde Beard as well as your God damned rebound, Mr. Write! And since you don't understand their reasons for dumping you, you certainly aren't about to be dumped on further for ridiculous reasons that you do understand, yet have absolutely nothing to do with you. So you very dramatically say, "Can I say something without being interrupted?" to which the Karaoke Nazi instantly interrupts you. So you repeat, very loudly (even without the Karaoke Microphone), "I'd really like to say something without being interrupted, if you don't mind!" And with your second request she actually shuts up, so you say, "I'd just like to take this opportunity to point out that you are pulling exactly the same kind of judgmental crap on me that you are accusing me of pulling on our Smoking Friend." And with that you throw your share of the bill down onto the table and immediately walk out of the bar.

Of course, once you make your way outside you find your BFF innocently smoking a cigarette and you just walk by, unable to even say goodbye. Moments later you receive a text from your BFF that says, "U left so suddenly?" to which you respond, "I was suddenly done." You're still steaming as you wait impatiently on the same subway platform that Blonde Beard recently dumped you on, wondering why on earth you should be happy when your friends start doing things that are bad for them? But that's when you realize that you will actually be absolutely thrilled when you officially learn that the Karaoke Nazi has started smoking her way to an early death again. Anyway...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click here to view this photo book.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're Not One of Those Strung Out Fags Who Hasn't Slept For Days...

...but after last night's Magnum-less P.I. (Penetration Incident), let's just say that you didn't sleep very soundly. You even tried counting sheep, but for some reason you kept imagining a Perv-y Sheppard fucking his livestock raw. Meanwhile, today your feet are definitely dragging (almost as if you were in drag, complete with painful 9" Stilettos). You're so tired that you almost fall asleep during your schlep of shame back to your Home Sweet Hovel. However, after sleepwalking up six flights of stairs (while dreaming wistfully about moving into your new building with one of those fantastic new inventions they're calling an elevator), you walk into a Katrina-esque disaster area that used to resemble a sub-poverty-level kitchen. It seems as if your Hobosexual roommate threw some sort of dinner party (even though the Home Sweet Hovel lacks any sort of table surface to eat off of) and then just threw all of the dishes into the sink, obviously for Alice to clean. However, although you keep reminding the Hobosexual that he can "Kiss your Grits!" he somehow keeps forgetting that he's not one of The Brady Bunch kids and that Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore (and that includes both Alices: Ann B. Davis and Linda Lavin). You practice your Lamaze breathing as you tip-toe through spaghetti stains while dreaming about that dishwasher in your new apartment!

You're so tired that your only accomplishment is futzing around on the internet trying to decide whether or not to change your Connexion profile from "Single" to "Exclusively Dating." Although you haven't had that particular conversation with Blonde Beard (yet), you kind of feel compelled to change your status not only because you want to be exclusively dating, but also because it helps you to imagine that you would only do the Magnum-less P.I. with a boy that you were in an exclusive relationship with. Ugh. You were so fucking stupid last night, but you try not to beat yourself up because, after all, you are only human.

Later that afternoon, you end up dragging your BFF out to Jackson Heights because you have to drop off a $100 check to the Real Estate Agent who reminds you of Benning's famous character from American Beauty, only a bit more Jewish and lot more whiny: Annette Weining. Only when you get to the office, it's an absolute mad house. Or more specifically a mad Open House. Everybody and their unemployed Uncle wants in on the cheapest real estate east of the Mississippi. While you're filling out your check you over hear one of the agents talking about your friend Jet Blew who has apparently gotten lost in the Bermuda Triangle of the Receptionist's inept attempt to transfer his call to Annette Weining and you wonder if he'll be moving into Melrose Place too? You, of course, will be playing the Heather Locklear role.

The whole ordeal takes way longer than you expected so you end up racing back home to change into something cute because you have a plethora of evening plans that begin with a 5:45pm dinner (yes, you realize that it is absolutely ridiculous to schedule anything smack in the middle of Happy Hour, but The Ex wanted to get a Blue Plate Special and since he's paying, you do your best not to complain even though you are failing miserably). However, The Ex is pissed (rightly so) when you arrive at DB Bistro on Gay Standard Time, which today happens to be thirty minutes late. But The Ex used to live with you so he probably assumed you'd be late and subsequently lied to you about the ridiculously early reservation time. But when you arrive, the fancy restaurant is packed with Pre-Theater Diners munching on $32 Hamburgers. When you place your order, you briefly consider asking the waiter how much extra it would cost to add a slice of cheese, but decide to stick with what's on le menu. You and The Ex have a really nice time catching up, and you listen sadly while he tells you about his father, Jerry the Hugger's funeral, which happened while you were hemorrhaging euros and gallivanting around Europe. He also tells you all the gossip about the movie he's currently directing in Texas with half the cast of High School Musical (which sounds dreadful, but ultimately much less painful than the train wreck of a musical that you end up seeing in Previews: Cry Baby).

You certainly want to Cry, Baby, but that has as much to do with the Mid-Western Giant Breeder that's kicking your seat in time to the horrendous score, than it does with the horrendous show. Somehow you make it through the ghastly Broadway remake of the dreadful John Waters film (trust me, this one feels more like Jeri Curl than Hairspray). Meanwhile, you're busy mentally decorating your new apartment while the ridiculous show drones on, and you count down the moments till your post-theater escape. Afterwards, just like trained seals, the Broadway audience jumps to their feet and gives the poor actors a standing ovation (which is fine, because it's not exactly their fault that they were cast in this dreck. Unlike the audience, at least the actors are being paid for their nightly humiliation).

You pummel over Blue Haired Old Ladies With Walkers and even stomp on a Toddler's Tootsie because you can't get out of the theater fast enough since you are definitely Jones-ing for a Gay Cocktail. Outside, you air-kiss The Ex and shudder as you wish him a safe trip back to Bush Country. Then you race over to The Ritz to meet your anorexic friend, Fat Albert, and a crazy Russian boy (who, of course, you used to date). The Soviet Dicktator (who recently moved to London) is back for a visit and has arranged a Boys Night Out. The Dicktator notices you as you walk into the shockingly empty bar and his expression immediately elevates into one of the warmest stoic frowns you've ever seen. You congratulate The Dicktator about some new Comrade you've heard he's dating back in London to which he immediately begins an interrogation, "Who told you that?" A bit embarrassed, you begin to backpedal, "I'm sorry. Are you not seeing him anymore?" But The Dicktator quickly begins to use his old Soviet-era interrogation tactics as he backs you into a corner beneath a dimly lit "Exit" sign that somehow suddenly floods your retinas with a blinding surge of wattage that seemingly doubles as a truth serum. Eventually you submit to The Dicktator's probing question, "Fat Albert told me!" And with that, The Dicktator relinquishes you to hunt down your anorectic friend to further his investigation.

Luckily, you find Fat Albert before The Dicktator does, and you immediately apologize for passing along his benign non-gossip to the KGB. But while the two of you are talking, some random boy makes a bee-line for you and interrupts your apology as he extends his hand,"I don't think we've met." You are a bit taken back by the formal introduction that feels much more Ritz-Carlton than Ritz Gay Bar, but you introduce yourself because, after all, he's cute. And although you thought he was just some random patron, The Cute Interrupter turns out to be part of The Dicktator's little group of Comrades who have gathered to toast his triumphant return to Amerika with generous shots of Stolichnaya.

A few Stoli O's later, the tears you shed during Cry Baby have long since dried up and you quickly find yourself yapping about The Cute Interrupter's boyfriend (all the good ones are always taken...) as well as the various places that you've both lived. You even attempt to play the Lame Name Game, but he doesn't seem to know any of the same Left Coast Fags that you do. But then he asks the inevitable question, "What do you do?" Ugh. This question always makes you squirm because you hate talking to anyone who receives a weekly paycheck about how you are a Starving Writer (on a diet of course) who's living off his savings in order to write the Great American Govel (Gay Novel). However, not only do The Cute Interrupter's eyes not glaze over, but they actually seem to light up as he tells you that he works for Genre Magazine. "What a coincidence," you laugh lamely, "I read Genre Magazine! Now if only I could write for it..." And then The Genre Gent reaches into his wallet and produces his business card and hands it over, to you. Your eyes almost pop out of your cartoon head when you see his high powered position, and then you instinctively bow toward this Gay Rupert Murdoch Publishing Czar, much like a Japanese Geisha would, and you accept his gracious business card as if it were your most coveted possession. And then you do something you've never done before. You tell The Genre Gent all about your anonymous Blah-Blah-Blog which has really started to take off (oh come on, if you don't sell yourself nobody else will!) And the Gay Cocktails really start to kick in as you begin embellishing the truth with heaps of relentless networking about how your Blah-Blah-Blog was recently written up as one of the Best Gay Blogs, yadda, yadda, yadda.

After your shameless self-promotion you are absolutely famished so you grab another celebratory Gay Cocktail and head downstairs to dance. The KickAss DJ has got the whole floor up on their feet, but when he plays MIKA you find your big Gay Fat ass ascending to the top the banquette so you can really let loose. You sing along to your court of young adorable boys as you inform them, "Big Girls, You Are Beautiful!" and you, of course, are The Biggest Big Girl as your arms flail around in time to the music... And that's when it suddenly hits you, or more like scrapes against you like a recently groomed Blonde Beard. None of these delectable drunk boys, no matter how young, hung, hairy or smooth, absolutely none of them are even remotely on your Gaydar. Even though you are Out and About, grinding amongst a sea of P.Y.T.'s on the dance floor, the only place you really want to be is lying in Blonde Beard's arms on his overly soft mattress (which definitely needs to be upgraded; sooner than later) as you tell him all about the amazing new contact you made at Genre.

So just like that that you decide to say your goodbyes to Fat Albert, The Dicktator and, of course, Genre Gent before you hop on the subway to go back to your Home Sweet Hovel. Although you'd rather go to Blonde Beard's, it's late and your boy is definitely making Z's. Luckily the subway arrives almost as if on cue which makes you feel like you've just picked up a Monopoly Chance card which says "MTA Error in your favor! This weekend the A Train is Running on the F Line! Advance immediately to Second Avenue without transferring!" However, your luck instantly runs dry when you get back to your Home Sweet Hovel and you find your Hobosexual Roommate sleeping on the little couch. Again. Unfortunately he wakes up as you tip-toe through your Lifeless Living Room, but he doesn't just wake up. He's so strung out that he actually jumps up and shrieks. You apologize for waking him, but you take the opportunity to ask him why he's sleeping in the Living Room. Again. To which he responds, "The bedbugs are everywhere. They're on the futon couch now, so I have to sleep on the little couch." You want to ask him why he doesn't just sleep in his own damn bed in order to keep the infestation in his bedroom, but he offers you an explanation without you having to ask, "I haven't slept through the night in months. I even threw my mattress away last week."

And that's when the light bulb above your head starts to flash uncontrollably because you realize that your Hobosexual Roommate has officially gone insane. Either that or you are the only fag on earth who is immune to Bedbug bites. Even though you've never once been bitten, you've definitely scoured the apartment for signs of the alleged infestation and found absolutely zero evidence. You begin to wonder if the Hobosexual has caught a bad case of crabs and is in denial? But you begin to lose both your patience as well as your Stoli O' Buzz as he tells you, complete with big saucer-sized pupils, that you will have to have all of your clothes drycleaned and then put away in storage. The Hobosexual's Imaginary Bedbug situation was all fine and dandy, but if he thinks you're actually going to spend a dime on his delusion, then your sleep deprived roommate better prepare himself for a rude awakening. So you inform him, in the nicest possible way, that you'll be happy to do whatever it takes to get rid of the Bedbugs, but you will definitely need to see a Bedbug before you start paying for their extermination. And that's when the Hobosexual begins to groom his sweater as if it were his baby Gorilla, and you are in shock when he actually produces several pieces of, get this, lint, and attempts to convince you, in all honesty, that the wool he pulled from his pilling sweater is, indeed, a Bedbug. You begin to wonder if he might actually be sleepwalking and having a simultaneous dream, or if this bizarre dialog is actually coming out of your nightmare? But you just politely say, "Goodnight," and tell him that you will discuss it in the morning. And then you go straight (for lack of a better word) to bed and spoon your pillow while delusionally imagining that it is Blonde Beard instead of a Bedbug. 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...

You're not one of those Interior Decorator fags...

...but you do have taste. Whether your taste is good or bad is for the rest of the world to judge, because one thing's for sure, when you get the invitation you will surely be judging their apartments!

Anyway. You end up agreeing to go on an actual date with a boy that you Revenge Fucked when you ran into The Writer last week at The Ritz. Revenge Fucking is always such a healthy thing to do, especially when coupled with a downward spiral of drunken self-pity. And even though you've been a bit resistant, Bar Boy has been nothing if not persistent. He's been texting and emailing and calling until you finally gave in and agreed to an early Sunday night dinner date at a restaurant he suggested called Hell's Kitchen.

The restaurant looks vaguely familiar, and you have an uneasy feeling of déjà vu as you walk up to meet Bar Boy who is waiting patiently on the sidewalk. You breath a sigh of relief when you get a good sober look at him and realize that, indeed, he's even cute without your beer goggles. However when you walk into the restaurant, your déjà vu turns into déjà ewww because you realize that not only have you "already seen" this restaurant, you've also "already slept with" its Bartender. Not to mention the fact that you never called him afterwards. Ugh. Of course the host informs you there's a thirty minute wait and of course there's nowhere to wait but at the bar and of course The Bartender instantly realizes that you're on a date and of course you order a bottled beer because you're absolutely terrified of letting him mix you a cocktail. Bar Boy, however, obliviously orders a Grey Goose and soda which you keep inspecting for traces of contamination.

A few glasses of wine into dinner, Bar Boy informs you that his friend is having a Game Night party and he thinks it would be fun if you both went. You're a bit surprised because what was supposed to be a simple first date is now turning into a full-fledged fourth or fifth date where you suffer through an endless evening of Impress The Friends. You know you're in over your head, but, as usual, after two glasses of wine you're much more agreeable. You are, after all, having a good time, and who knows? Maybe Bar Boy could be the one?

The party is actually fun and after an eight year stint in La La Land you realize that you're much better at Celebrity when you play in New York. The party splits up into groups so you don't really get to talk to Bar Boy all that much, however, you do run into him in the kitchen a few times while you're refilling your wine glass. This is where you first notice that Bar Boy has moved back to Vodka. Without the soda mixer. You also notice he's begun to sway.

You're pretty toasted when the party finally ends and a few of you decide to go check out Posh, however, when you hit the elevator and Bar Boy can't seem to locate the Lobby button, you realize that he's three sheets to the wind. Maybe even four. His eyes can't seem to focus and his eyelids seem to blink independently of one another. He is able to say two words, "Yes" and "No," although both words sound alike and convey only one consistent message. You all decide that, just like a horse with a broken leg, Bar Boy needs to be put down. Although everybody tries to skirt your questions during the stumble back to Bar Boy's apartment, his friends kind of allude to the fact that this behavior is not at all atypical. It's not like you have anything against over-indulging, but come on! This boy can't remember his own address!

But you realize that his Alcohol Poisoning is the least of his problems when you pour Bar Boy back into his apartment and discover the real deal breaker. The friends walk in and turn on the lights, full blast, and you are speechless. The last time you were here there must've been a dimmer switch involved because you are absolutely shocked by the decor! All of the furniture is so Gothic and over-sized that you feel like you've stumbled into Cher's Malibu Compound. Or possibly even Morticia Addams'. It kind of feels like Bar Boy decided to sell his Castle in Transylvania and downsize into a one bedroom rental in Hellsea.

You're still taking it all in when Bar Boy's torso falls onto his over-sized California King sized bed, fully dressed, yet his feet remain planted flat on the floor. His bedroom set is even bigger and bulkier than the gargantuan furniture in his Living Room. You help Bar Boy get his shoes off as you begin to wonder how his movers ever got this crap through the front door? Or perhaps they removed a window? Or possibly even an entire wall? Or more likely they just constructed the apartment building around the furniture, because it kind of has that Ship in a Glass Bottle feeling to it. You're so busy gawking that when you go to take Bar Boy's pants down you wind up sliding both his jeans and his underwear down to his knees where both promptly get stuck. His friends start calling for you as they're ready to go to Posh, and you feel bad about leaving Bar Boy in such a compromising position, but your retinas can't take his apartment any longer so you just turn off the lights and say, "Good night and Good Luck." Anyway.