Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Religious Tolerance

On the morning news, I hear that an old man was beaten and robbed outside his church on Christmas Eve. Reporters interview the church-goers and the Father and this is what they have to say:
"I think the man who did this needs the most healing. So I hope something good comes to him."

"Love thy enemy. Sometimes it's hard. But I feel like we are doing a good job."
Religious people drive me crazy. The tolerance some of them impart is so selective that they'd rather forgive criminals than accept gay people who have never hurt anybody. So let me get this straight, if I beat an elderly man with a baseball bat, I should receive "something good" (ooh pray for an iPhone). But if I make out with a boy, I should die of a terminal illness (and then rot in hell).

I was watching 17 Kids and Counting, the terrifying show about the Duggar family that, as of Dec 18, 2008, consists of 18 kids. They also insist on having all their kids' names start with the letter J. This causes a great deal of confusion, I imagine. Especially since one of their daughters is named JoyAnna and another is named Johannah.

But on top of being regular crazy, they are also religious crazy (two occurrences which I am sure are related). In one episode, they take their kids to a biblical museum where they learn that the Earth is 6,000 years old. Please. Barbara Walters is at least twice that age. When asked about their beliefs, they just giggle and give nonsensical answers about the bible saying this and that.

It's like they suspend logic so they can live their lives based on the vague teachings of a book, which I personally believe to be a collection of short stories. How can they have so much trust and so much faith in something that they can only see with their hearts? They may live in blissful ignorance but it's an insult to human intelligence to not make any attempt at seeking the truth.


I guess I'm just bitter about all of this. Even a cold-hearted person who commits a crime outside a church can elicit warm-hearted sympathy. But if a gay person were to try to get married inside a church, well, God hates fags.

Merry Christmas

Monday, December 22, 2008

Obamanation, Part 2

The slow and steady decline of DCCised is taking place. I feel like Rome. I feel like the British monarchy. I feel like the United Colors of Benetton. Or perhaps the United States of America. You know, the downward-spiraling country that can only be saved by our beloved President, Barack Obama.

No other American president-elect has been received with so much gusto and entrusted with so much faith before. It's exciting that you can buy Barack Obama wine, Barack Obama chapstick, and my personal favorite, Barack Obama novelty cash. You can join the growing crowd of people rallying to get his face carved into Mt. Rushmore. You can tattoo his name on your ass. And by exciting, I mean ridiculous. Question: Why is everyone singing his praises already, before he's actually done anything.

More importantly, Question: Why are gays so supportive of him when he is basically the lesser of two evils. Many gay people I've talked to (and Melissa Etheridge) have had the same response, "It was SO great that Obama was elected but it was SO disappointing that Proposition 8 passed." Has it ever occurred to anybody that the two occurrences may have been related. In fact, I did some research and found that the minority votes that Barack Obama attracted in California ended up being detrimental for gays because the minorities mostly voted for Proposition 8. Isn't that ironic.

Obama kept quiet when it came to Proposition 8 because he didn't want to lose votes. And the gays let that slide because they thought that having him in office was the main goal and he would make things better once he was in. But it seems like we shouldn't have let that slide because now that Obama is in and he doesn't need gay support anymore, he has impassively thrown us under the Eminem tour bus.

In my opinion, Obama put getting himself into office before the gay agenda. Which doesn't surprise me, nor does it make me mad. But it is frustrating to see how foolish some gay people are in thinking that Obama is unequivocally on our side. He is not, as evidenced by the selection of Rick Warren to deliver the invocation at his inauguration. Good luck writing letters asking Obama to take Rick Warren off inaugural extravaganza; it's not going to happen.


So maybe we should stop supporting Barack until he starts supporting us. Because if Obama can put himself first, perhaps gays should do the same.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Home, It's Cold Here

This week, my short temper and jittery nerves can be attributed to the fact that I got a fucking B in fucking Architecture History. I try to rationalize my B by telling myself that the class was lame and the professor was awful. But an idiot I know got an A- and it makes me feel like I've been impaled by an impala. My GPA sucks balls and I'm never going to get into grad school and I'm never going to get a job and I'm never going to lure attractive men into my bed with bundles of money hidden in the sheets. But one girl, who I thought was really smart, who I thought was going to be my competition for getting into the studio sequence, who I thought would surely do well, got a D. Her failure makes me feel a little better about myself. I am horrible.

But now school is over and I am at home. Hence, a new set of problems arises. First, mommy and daddy can't go 15 minutes without asking me how finals went. Really, they want to know what grades I got and if it's going to affect my GPA/future expendable income, which they want 30% of. But they don't need to worry because gays have most expendable income of any group. Second, mommy and daddy are hell bent on me getting a job over break. The fact that they want me to get a job isn't the issue but they want me to work at our family friend's table tennis merchandise outlet or perhaps tutor a Japanese immigrant. That's not exactly what I had in mind. I kinda wanted to work as a go-go dancer at Apex or perhaps at Panera. And the trend is that all my problems can be traced back to my parents. And that doesn't surprise me. During finals week I always cry and beg for mommy. But it's just because I forget how frustrating she is, which I am reminded of about 1 hour after being home. Almost makes me want to go back to school.

Actually, no.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Do I Look Frat To You?

After completely bombing my organic chemistry exam, the only things that give me solace are:
The fact that I'm done with exams this semester.
The fact that I'm done with orgo forever.
The sound of Kristin Chenoweth singing Birdhouse In Your Soul. Girlfriend's got it going on.

And on Raven Simone's Disney Channel character's little brother's spinoff show, there is this band called, get this, "DC3." This name sounds suspiciously similar to DC Cised. How dare the Disney Channel do this to me? No, I will not go gently into the night. They will be hearing from me, and the former members of Destiny's Child, very soon.


Figure 1: The newest fratboy from SeanCody

So a couple of people have told me about some frats that they think I should pledge next semester. And I have to admit that I get excited about the idea of living in a house with tons of hot white guys who walk around naked all day. But this might be another one of those fantasies that seems great in my head but would actually never work out in real life. What are the odds that the sweatpant-wearing, football-loving, diamond-earringed, slang-talking, dick-swinging, skirt chasing, frat boys would get along with a guy like me, a lover of all things Kristin Chenoweth.

But I have to admit, sexual motivations aside, it would be great to be part of a brotherhood. The bonds frat brothers form with each other are supposed to be the strongest bonds guys ever form. I really am looking for that kind of friendship. But once again, I want to be realistic. And I do not want to be lynched.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

Saving All My Luck For You

"Caroline, the 32-year-old niece, who is agoraphobic and rarely leaves the house, quickly ran up $1,268 in charges on the Tribute card, shopping online for Christmas and birthday gifts. Of her newest [credit] card, Rose says: "I regret this one. Truly, I do."

Buried amidst ungodly lengthy marketing readings about unethical credit lending practices, this story puts a smile on my face. I want to direct a movie centered around this one powerful scene. I would cast Lindsay Lohan as Caroline and Sissy Spacek as Rose. This is yet another distraction keeping me from studying for my 7 exams.

And for this week, my mood is at a constant low. I do not get accepted for the RA job which would have guaranteed me free housing and free food. In essence, the school would be paying me $3000 to attend because there would be nothing for my scholarships to cover. I could've used that money to finance the movie. But that dream is dead. I decide to make an inventory of all the dreams that were shot dead in their tracks - post high school.

Biology research position - no
Genetics TA position - no
Admissions office position - no
Business school scholarship - no
Newspaper columnist position - no
GEMS100 teaching position - no
GEMS102 teaching position - no
Restaurant job - no
RA job - no

I'm applying to the architecture program in February. My entire college life so far has led up to this one moment. If they turn me down, I don't think I'll have any faith left in myself. But I have this theory that these consecutive rejections and this "bad-luck" just means I'm getting it out of my system. All of my good luck will come at once in a massive wave of acceptances, cash, and muscular men.

So my advice to myself, and perhaps Rose too, is to give things time. Everything tends to work out in the end. And if it doesn't, I'll just throw myself into the Anacostia.

Monday, December 8, 2008

Archuleta, A Love Professed

I really wanted to hate him. I really did. But I just can't. I'm not strong enough. I'm in love with him.

I love you, David Archuleta.

He is the cutest little mouse that American Idol has ever seen. If there were a competition for mouse-y looking boys, him and Josh Groban and Haley Joel Osment (circa 1999) and Mccauley Culkin (to this day) would all be contestants. This show would be called America's Next Top Mouse. And David Archuleta would win because he is the cutest little mouse that America, no, this world has ever seen.


Figure 1: David Archuleta. Notice the face that has been photoshop-ed to oblivion. Also note conspicuous nipples.


Figure 2: Please serenade me with your silky voice and then rub your hairless face on my hairless chest.

And this obsession with him is justified because me and him being together forever isn't a very ridiculous idea. Move aside pre-pubescent girls, you had no chance anyway. David Archuleta is gayer than Christmas.
Ryan Seacrest banged David Archuleta. Helen Keller can tell that David Archuleta is gay. David Archuleta poos rainbows. David Archuleta goes to the gym. And that explains why he made it all the way to the finals, just like Justin Guarini, Clay Aiken, and Blake Lewis did. Which only goes to show that Americans really do love gays. As long as they lose in the end.

Sunday, November 30, 2008

Debauchery, Cupcakery

On Thanksgiving, I am thankful for the Lifetime channel, which airs the Fantasia Barrino Story and Akeelah and The Bee in rapid succession. I am thankful for the water that is spilled on my laptop, a laptop which is currently being fixed by Friend G (oh the irony). I am thankful that the turkey didn't come out dry.

I spend the next two days meeting up with high school friends. On Friday I watch Australia, which turns out to be Out of Africa - Africa + Australia - Meryl Streep + Nicole Kidman - Substance + Hugh Jackman. Don't get me wrong, it was a very feel-good, picturesque movie. But at times it was too predictable. You could kind of tell that before starting the movie, the director was like, "OK guys, we're gonna make the most beautiful movie ever." They tried a little too hard.

Afterwards. at the Cheesecake Factory in White Flint, I mention my blog to Friend D. This turns out to be a major tactical mistake because now she is dedicated to finding my "secret blog." I suppose I don't have anything to worry about because her strategy so far has been to google various combinations of [my name] and [blog] and [secret]. But if she does succeed, hello. You now know more about me than any other person in the entire world.

On Saturday, it doesn't feel like any day of the week. I am so far removed from my normal schedule that I have lost all concept of time and space and proper dinnertime etiquette. So I go to Georgetown with two of my friends and we eat DESSERT FIRST at Georgetown Cupcake (aka the Cupcakery). You can spank me now.


Figure 1: I'm a rebel.

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Turn That Finger Around

Friend G / Roommate / Boy who I've been hooking up with, is mad at me. He says, "Everytime I say something, you just say something negative." He doesn't want to talk to me anymore. Which sounds like something harsh to say. But it's actually kind of convenient because we're on break and it's not like we would've spoken anyway.

But I don't respond to this, really. I just tell him, "Ok." Because I don't care. But I do care, actually. I am thinking, what the hell. He dragged me into this one-sided relationship where I do everything he wants and he does nothing for me. I've never felt worse about myself in my entire life except during my preteen fat years. And even though he's not holding a gun to my head to keep me here, he's not making it easy to leave either. So you do not get to be mad at me.



And this melodrama is about all I can take. I am done with men. They are selfish and self-centered. They are vain and superficial. And they are smelly and stupid.

Friday, November 21, 2008

The Calm Before The Storm

Mommy and daddy have been strangely nice to me recently. It is a shock, really. They've been asking me things like, "Do you want to get brunch?" "Do you need some new clothes?" "Have you lost weight?" I have no idea how to respond to these random acts of kindness, which are not to be confused with the random acts of violence I am used to. Perhaps they realize the stress I am under at school. I doubt they are aware of the self-destructing gay relationship I am in. Either way, we haven't fought in a long time. But just wait until they find out I can't get married in California or Arizona or the Moon (The first two for legal reasons. The last one for logistical reasons).

But before that, I have to break it to them that I don't plan on going to med school. I want to major in architecture and make less than $50,000 a year out of college. And this will be something that they will take very badly. Because, like most Asian parents, they play the masquerade where they, "Just want me to be happy." But I know that's not true. They want to satisfy themselves. And it doesn't matter if my happiness is what's sacrificed.

If there is one thing I hate, (though clearly, I hate many things), it’s when people expect me to do things that I know are impossible. Unfortunately, my parents have mastered the art of expecting the impossible. Armed with manic-ambition and a loose grip on reality, they’ve always wanted more than I had in me. And in that sense, they’ve always set themselves up for disappointment. It’s one thing to encourage your children to do their best. But their “encouragement” has become a perverse fantasy world where I win a Nobel Prize, upend Ben Carson, claim the U.S. Open, and manage hedge funds all at once. And it’s not like any of this is in jest because my parents don’t really understand the meaning of humor. They just know that like every other dutiful Asian child, I should do everything they tell me to so that I can bring honor to the family. In retrospect, I’ve come to the realization that I have given up on a lot of things because of the pressure that came with my parents’ expectations. Rather than crashing and burning, I chose to concede defeat. Thus, I find that I have abandoned all of the things I love out of fear of disappointing my parents. And now I am completely unable to decide what I want to do with my life.

Of course this could all be misplacement of blame on my part; I could just be a lazy bastard by nature who can't succeed at anything. Even if it is their fault, I suppose I can’t blame them for acting this way. After all, many of their dreams for life were never realized. Their list of failures keeps growing, and though they hide it, I can tell that it makes them very unhappy. I’ve always felt bad that I became another one of their disappointments. But they never seem to care that they are one of mine.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Hypothetical Situation #1

I walk into my boyfriend's building only to see him talking to a guy in the lounge. This scene makes me moody and I walk away, pretending that it wasn't him I was looking for. Go away, I want to hang out with the trashy ho on the 3rd floor who likes the same music as I do.

He knows me too well so he is aware of what is going on. He pulls me into his room and asks me why I am overreacting. Mistake number one. Don't tell me I'm overreacting unless you want your face to lose its current shape.

He tells me that he only sees that guy as a friend and that I'm being ridiculous. Mistake number two.

I personally cannot understand how a gay guy can see another boy as purely a friend. When I meet guys, I immediately classify them into two categories. Those who I like, and those who I don't. The poor boys in the latter group immediately become irrelevant to me and I want nothing to do with them. The boys in the first group become my "friends." I want to hang out with them "platonically" because we get along and we have things in common and we have fun together. But all this inevitably leads to sexual attraction. How hard is it for a gay guy to find somebody that has a great personality and a penis? Very. So can you honestly say that you've ever had a great guy friend that you didn't wonder what their naked body looked like. No. And don't fucking call me ridiculous.

So I tell him that he can wonder about that guy's penis all he wants. See if I care. And he says, "Huh?" And the way he says it is so cute that I forget about how mad I am. I stand on my toes to give him a kiss on the forehead and ask him how his day was. And he is thinking to himself, "My boyfriend is fucking insane," but he tells me that his day went fine and that he met a new guy friend who wants to go see a movie with him. Mistake number three.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

Read: Somebody Take Me To The Tina Turner Concert

4 days later and 0 applications later, I have extended the deadline to the end of eternity. What has this taught me?
1) Nobody wants to cuddle with me when my roommate has left the room.

2) Nobody wants to take me to Tina! Live In Concert Tour at the Verizon Center.

3) Nobody wants to surprise me with chicken parm from Maggiano's by buying it, sneaking into my dorm, and delivering it naked.

4) Everyone thinks I'm fat.

5) Nobody wants to hold my hand when it's cold outside.
And it feels so cold outside. At least for now.


On a high note, I do a ropes course today with my research group. Read: I do a ropes course with four hot guys today, (and 5 other people I don't care about). Let me just say, those harnesses make it so that I can see everything. Read: Those harnesses make it so that I spend the entire time drooling over their thick cocks and giant ball sacks. Maybe that was too graphic.

We also do this activity where we have to balance each other on a log. And the hand-holding and hugging and straddling make me think I could have a future with one of these guys. Or maybe two of them. At once. Maybe that was too graphic.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

This Is Not A Joke

People tend to have a hard time separating my sarcastic comments from when I'm actually being sincere. (You know, that once in every year.) But let it be known that the following post is not sarcastic in any way, shape, or form.


On November 12 2008, I am officially accepting applications to be my boyfriend.

Please leave the following information for my consideration.

Name:
Date of Birth:
Email:
AIM (optional):
Location:
Future Aspirations:
Circumference of Bicep:
Favorite Member of the Spice Girls:
Picture:
Naked Picture (optional):

You may submit your application to dccised@gmail.com, or you can leave the preceding information in the form of a comment. (Please note that pictures cannot be submitted through comments and at least one picture is required in order for your application to be considered.)

To remain competitive, I strongly encourage you to apply as soon as possible and supply as much information that is available to you. Furthermore, submissions at this time represent single-choice action applications. If you are found to have applied to another boy, your application will be terminated.

I wish you all the best of luck.

Saturday, November 8, 2008

Vote or Die

So I didn't vote. And I have my reasons! Tuesday is my heavy day! I had an orgo exam on Thursday! My voting station is far away! My internet was being weird!

But this one person freaked out when she found out I didn't vote. First, she held her mouth agape, revealing her ugly interior-mouth. Then she spoke, revealing her ugly interior-brain. "YOU DIDN'T VOTE?! What's wrong with you? It's your responsibility! You are giving up your power! You are destroying the Amazon!" And what the walking public service announcement is really saying is, "Why didn't you vote (for Obama)? Don't you want change? Don't you want to fit in? Don't you want a new puppy in the White House?"

What's with this charade? I know I should have voted, but this was an election that wasn't close. And let's get real, you voted because you wanted a free button and the moral high ground. Just because you voted doesn't mean you did what was right. Get off your high horse so I can punch the back of your head. Please don't use my apathy against me, I worked very hard to perfect it. And I refuse to take part in the freakish cult following that is American society.


I can't stand people who think they're better than me because they conformed to MTV's expectations of them. And they use their supposed superiority to make me feel bad. But they assume I care about anything other than myself. Which is incorrect.


But if Obama had just told me from the beginning that America would get a puppy if he won, I definitely would've voted.

Friday, November 7, 2008

Obamanation

Although I sincerely hoped that 100 million voters would write Hillary onto the ballot, that did not happen. Obviously. And Obama won. And I am more or less indifferent.

But everywhere around me, people were screaming and some were crying and they were all annoying. "Finally! Eight years of HELL are OVER!" First of all, most of these people don't know the first thing about Bush's policies. They pretend like their lives have been miserable under the "Bush regime" but really, they have not been impacted by his actions in any way whatsoever. Keep in mind, these are the same people that believe Facebook's layout change was the biggest catastrophe of 2008. Yes, he was a bad president. But let's not pretend that you are some kind of martyr.

And everywhere around me, people were screaming and some were crying and they were all annoying. "OBAMA!!!!!" they shouted, as the mob tore through campus, overturning trashcans and uprooting signs. And while some especially fervent Obama supporters tried to tip the shuttle bus I was on, I wondered if they thought this was some form of civil disobedience as opposed to a march of philistines. One freshman felt compelled to say to me, "I am so happy right now, It's like New Years!" Is he happy because he completely supports Obama's new economic plan or because his favorite celebrity has just became President. I can't help but feel like a lot of voters supported Obama because they like him, they admire him, they adore him. He makes us all blush. But what can we say about his political acumen. Uhm, IDK?


Other things I noticed that night:

McCain's sudden non-hating of Obama
Michelle Obama's dress, which looked like she slaughtered a chicken on her lap.
The other black woman on stage. "Is that his mom?" "No, his mom is dead. And white."
Oprah



And this is where the floodgates open and people slaughter me on their laps.

Sunday, November 2, 2008

Hello? Hey Tranny! (It's Tranny)

On Halloween, it is a hot tranny mess up in here. I am a cowboy. My jeans are so tight, I can barely walk without crushing my balls. My belt buckle is so big, I can barely bend over without severing my liver. My boots are so stiff, I can barely run from the police. It's a cute tranny, hot mess, tranny, tranny, fierce, no way, no, fierce, no, hot mess. But I will do anything for a little bit of attention.

Meanwhile, my attention is focused on the boys dressed up as Adam (- Eve), or robed ancient Romans, or Tarzan, or basically anything that gives me a glimpse of their Pecs (+ Nipples). But it's almost torture considering I can't hide anything in these jeans.

And the entire spectacle is a tickety tack tranny hot mess out of control super tranny from Transylvania who is not apologizing for it. But that's what Halloween means to me.


And the next day, I get into a 21+ club with the expired ID of 28-year old California native who is 5 inches shorter than me and 25 pounds lighter. And inside the club, I divide all the men into two subgroups.

1) Those who I am better than. Because they are desperately searching for girls to dance with them, only to get rejected over and over and over. I, on the other hand, am completely uninterested in the girls. Nobody can reject me. I have immunity.

2) Those who are better than me. Because they've gotten the girls and they have proceeded to rub their crotches all over them. Freshmen boys surround them and stare in awe. They treat women like pieces of meat as I watch and yearn to be treated like a piece of meat myself. New goal in life, grind my ass against a hungry boy's crotch as he stares down at me with animal eyes and an open mouth as if he's about to bust a nut right then and there. You gotta aim for the stars people.

And during the course of the night, 3 of my friends pretend I am their boyfriend to get out of dancing with guys. "Flex your arms! Make him go away!" They cling to me the entire night and it gives me intense satisfaction knowing that a little ole' gay boy like me can get the girls that the straight boys could not. They stare at me with intense jealousy. I like that.

At the same time, 2 of my not-friends get approached by guy after guy. And each time, they get this look on their face like, "OH MY GOD, I can't believe this is happening to me! EW!" But really, they are thinking, "Oh thank god this creeper is dancing with me. At least I am attractive to somebody. I will pretend to be disgusted so people don't think I am a slut. I hope he grabs my boobs."

And the night ends at 3:00 for me. And I am out.

Friday, October 31, 2008

Under the Tuscan Pun

On Wednesday my group and I spend four hours editing the methodology section of our research paper. It would have taken half the time if we did not log onto Facebook every single time we reached a point of indecision. It would have taken a quarter of the time if I did not have to change everyone's "I's" and "our's" into passive voice.

And during this group editing session, I suggest that room smells a lot like blueberry muffins and that somebody should bring food next time. And five seconds later, I realize how gay that just sounded.

And during this group editing session, one of my colleagues tells me I have a "way with words." This is the third time in my entire life that I have heard somebody say this to me. I know because every time it happens, I carve a mark three inches above my left (your right) nipple to keep tally. So upon hearing this, I am extremely tempted to drop everything and take up a career as a novelist in the Tuscan hills. I can get Polish immigrants to renovate my house. I can fall in love with an Italian man who is completely uninterested in a long-term relationship.
I can be BFFs with Sandra Oh.

And I will continue blogging, albeit in Italian: a language that I manage to pick up 3 months 15 days 4 hours and 24 seconds. And as I type up a post about how my life still sucks on my HP special edition laptop in ceramic white, I'll sip on some wine to go with the whine.

But I could never write novels because I can't write anything longer than 500 words in length. So that's that.


Figure 1: And I imagine my days would go something like this. With the Barilla Man. Who is perfect because he loves children and al dente spaghetti.

And the meeting probably would have been shorter if I hadn't been thinking about this.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Amateur Men

After finishing 4 exams, I thought the pressure would be off, the weight would be lifted, the skies would be parted, and the heavens would shine down. Instead, it's cold and I have a headache.

Some of this might have to do with the fact that I failed 3/4 exams. After all, I can only remember so much about fucking early Christian architecture, and fucking global marketing strategies, and fucking grignard reactions, and fucking activity-based costing, at once. But most of this has to do with the fact that the next episode of Desperate Housewives is still. 5. days. away.

Even though these exams are done with, and I would like to just sleep forever, life keeps moving. I still have work to do. And I kind of wish I didn't. And I'm kind of in the dumps about it. Say what you will about my immaturity and senseless despair. But I can't help feeling the way I feel. Life is an art and I'm shaping up to be quite the amateur.

And even though sex foot two's also-hot roommate saved my life in lab today before coming to my room to ask me something about lab before talking to me again in the lounge about lab before sipping hot chocolate with me on top of a fur rug in front of a fireplace, I still feel... tepid. Though this would normally be enough to send me into a menopausal type hot-flash sexual frenzy.

The cold wind outside is threatening to knock down all the walls and the only thing that could cheer me up at this moment is a lifelong subscription to Sean Cody.


Figure 1: I want to be inside your heaven.


But But But. My architecture design drawing TA told me that I "have lots of talent." He also made me pin-up this week's drawing in front of the entire freaking class. Which was unexpected and terrifying and embarrassing, but I won't pretend it didn't give me a tiny ounce of glee. Not to mention satisfaction over beating out all the stupid fuckers in the class that always try to make deep philosophical comments in order to look like they actually know anything even though they are really, just stupid fuckers. And when the hot hot hot TA with bright blue eyes and a cute Turkish accent patted me on the back, I didn't pretend not to get lost somewhere in an Eastern European fantasy. And this is the first step towards our lurid love affair that will guarantee me an A+ in the class.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

John McCain Young

On Saturday, mommy calls and says, "Can you please call Sister. I haven't spoken to her in two weeks and I think she might have gone to Las Vegas to get married."

And I say, "Who would she get married to?"

And she says, "That boy I forbade her to see because he didn't graduate from college and is over six foot three."

And I say, "I don't think so. Going to Las Vegas would require her to get up off the couch."

And she says, "You're right. Are you hungry. Do you want something to eat?"

And I say, " No thanks, I ate 23 hours ago."


On Saturday night, I discover that if you type, "John McCain Young" into Google, my blog comes up at the very freaking top. And that would explain the 400 hits I got yesterday. 400 people expecting to find a blog worshiping McCain and his political platform. Instead, 400 people were disappointed and shocked to find an entry dedicated to Hilary Clinton and shirtless boys. And now I am waiting for a fervent republican to denounce my blog and criticize my lifestyle and condemn me to an eternity in hell, aka the floor of a political convention (any party really).


And now, I will prepare for the four exams I have on Tuesday. Goodbye.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Living Conditions

And as if my life wasn't complex enough, with all my classes, the U.S. economy collapsing around me, and Paris Hilton looking for a new BFF, Friend G tries to make my life as difficult as possible.

Lately, he has become a complete asshole, targeting all of my insecurities (which is to say, making fun of me every chance he gets). And if there is one thing that I hate, though clearly I hate many things, it's being insulted. And it's more than being insecure. Because I am painfully aware that I am ugly and I am stupid and I am jealous and I am pathetic. And I am painfully aware that I am not good enough for you, and I am not good enough for my parents, and I am not good enough for myself. The point is that I know all of this already and I don't need you to remind me. Because every time I think about it, it hurts so bad it's like getting punched in the stomach. And nobody should be able to make me feel that way.

And if only he knew how unforgiving I am. How easily I can give somebody the cold shoulder. How quickly I can drop people from my life. But it's difficult with him. Seeing as how he is my roommate.

Lately he's been hanging out with an intolerable gay guy I vaguely know. It kills me and he knows it. And he rubs my face in it. It's taking all of me to act like I don't care, but I do and I'm not even sure why. It's not like I want Friend G to be my boyfriend. He's become so unattractive to me, inside and out. But this might be the closest I've ever been with a guy and I'm just so lost and it seems like there's no way out.

The other day I was sleeping in my bed, (the bottom bunk under his), and he came down to lie next to me. I tried to act nonchalant about it but my heart was beating so fast. "We have an interesting relationship," he said.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Boo, You Whores

On Saturday, my problem is that I hate all of my friends. And the biggest issue I have with them is that they only care about themselves. But also, they are bitchy, undependable, selfish, manipulative liars. Basically my friends are Regina George, Gretchen Wieners, and Karen Smith.

And I know I shouldn't talk about them behind their backs.

But they deserve it.

And I know that if I hate them so much, I shouldn't still be friends with them.

But who else do I have.

I'd rather hang out with people that I hate than be alone. And I would love to make new friends, but I don't know how. All the new people I meet are just friends of friends. And our relationships are pretty much hollow. They are fine to eat lunch with and get drunk with but they are not friends that you can call to talk or friends that mean anything at all. Maybe I can start meeting people outside of this extended network, but I can't imagine going up to strangers and asking them if they want to watch Desperate Housewives with me this Sunday 9/8 central. I feel like the only way I can start a conversation with a person I don't know already is if we are both stuck in an elevator and we are devising an escape plan.

How do people meet new people?

More importantly, how do people (me) meet new people (a nice handsome gay boy that doesn't drive me insane)?

Assuming the percentage of gays out of the entire population hovers somewhere around 5%, there should be about 2,000 gays at this school. Why haven't I met a single one? Ok, that's a lie, I've probably met about half of them. But this is the 1,000 that wear skinny jeans, pink feather boas, and high heels to class. Unlike Bosteaparty's world, where 100% of the characters are hot muscly gays. My world is filled with belligerent straight guys and gays that look like Peter Jackson or Christian Siriano. And I feel like I am playing a big game of whack-a-mole. Every time I come around all the good masc. gays scuttle into the Art-Sociology building or the Performing Arts Center.

All I need to do is become good friends with one person that has the right connections. But obviously that is easier said than done.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Wishful Thinking Part Two

On Wednesday my frustration overcomes my intense paranoia. You know, the paranoia that has me believe that everybody I've ever met has somehow found their way to this blog, reads my entries to their friends, laughs out loud, pastes quotes to their friends on AIM, lolz. But I have to talk about this. I don't care if the person I am talking about is reading.

Dear readers, I think Friend G is gay. And normally, I'm not the optimistic type, but I have physical proof. He is always touching me. And this has escalated from rubbing his head against my tummy. He has moved on to sitting on my lap. Touching my feet while I'm sleeping. Rubbing his foot against mine when I'm not sleeping. Holding my hand for more than 1.36 seconds. Jumping into my bed when I'm still in it. Spooning. Lying on top of me. Making overtures to gay sex.

And there could be several reasons for this. Maybe he knows I am gay and he is just messing with me. Maybe being an only child has seriously impaired his social inhibitions. Maybe he is a big flaming fag.

I don't know though. Perhaps I am using the evidence that is convenient to see what I want to see. And it's not like he's the only one doing the touching. I've slapped his butt more often than any self-respecting straight boy ever would (but he likes it...). I should also mention that he is obsessed with hockey, which is pretty much the antithesis of the pride parade for those of you that are wondering. And also, he is interested in women on Facebook. And we all know that anything on Facebook is the be-all end-all of these things.

I just wish I knew what he was thinking. Because when I do these things with him, it feels so right to me. But it kills me to think that to him, it's all just a joke.

Monday, October 13, 2008

I Am Not My Hair

On Monday, the 2008th year AD (anno domini), the 11th day PLP (praeter LP), the mohawk is gone. And it had to be done away with for a number of reasons. But mostly, it was becoming a burden. People who see me frequently, but don't know me very well, began to associate me with my mohawk and nothing else. And if there is one thing I want to avoid becoming during this life, it's a mohawk with legs. Or a certified public accountant.

So last weekend was my mohawk's last hurrah and I decided to take a little trip to Dupont Circle so it could get some attention from the strange coupley gays that hover around Dupont Circle Saturday mornings while the normal gays are still terribly hung over from the night before. On the way there, somebody on the metro, who looked quite metro himself, kept staring at me. Obviously, I started freaking out because I was wearing my woot shirt again and maybe this was a reader who recognized me. But I was with a friend so it's not like I could run down the metro car screaming at the top of my lungs and beating my chest like I wanted to. So I had my meltdown quietly on the inside and the guy who kept staring at me got off at Fort Totten. If you are that guy reading this entry, hello.

While I was in Dupont, I did get a compliment on my hair. Which is better than getting one for your shoes. But worse than getting one for your face. And now that the mohawk is gone, I suspect I won't be getting any compliments for anything in the near future. But that's ok with me.

Friday, October 10, 2008

Hectic Inside

Enough is enough. I am so sexually frustrated, I can barely function anymore. Sex foot two said "sup" to me as he was coming out of the shower and I almost came all over myself. Unfortunately his girlfriend is visiting this weekend, but looking on the bright side, I guess this gives me a chance to kill her and show him that I can give better blowjobs. He ran into my room just now and asked me if I wore contacts. I thought it was because he is in love with me and wants to know every detail about my life. But it turns out his stupid ass girlfriend forgot to bring contact solution. So I gave him my solution and I gave him my heart because I couldn't say no to his beautiful smile. And he called me a lifesaver but I'd rather him call me baby.

And as the frustration with sex foot two mounts, my sexual energy has become somewhat of a loose cannon. Every time I see a hot guy walking to class, I cant stop imagining having sex with him. And from that point, it's just a sweet sweet fantasy, where I fret over the potential venues for our wedding reception. Then I imagine our beautiful home in suburbia, our beautiful kids running around the backyard with our labrador retriever, and having more sex on the black granite countertop in the kitchen. Can I just fast forward through this boring part of life and get to the sex. God. If anybody reading this lives in the DC area and is willing to make out furiously in a mutually beneficial location (on my body) please email me. You can find my email in my profile. Thanks.

Thursday, October 9, 2008

Can't Let Go

On Wednesday, my adviser at the office of career management advises that I remove all traces of my high school career from my resume. And I see this coming really. "You're a sophomore now, you can let these things go." But can I? As it is, high school is still the crowning achievement of my downward spiraling life. I used to tell people, "I go to _____ High School," and I immediately commanded their respect. I felt smart and special and that I was worth their time. Remember that lame NBC show American Dreams? I won that essay contest in high school. They gave me a lifetime supply of tomato soup (since it was sponsored by Campbell's). I don't think I'm going to top that anytime soon.

Now, I tell people I go to University of ________, and they wonder what went wrong with me. In the back of their minds, I'm sure they are comparing me to Jodie Sweetin or Tiffany or some other child star that fell through the cracks. So while I stew in my bitterness at this mediocre school doing mediocre things, I still desperately want people to know that I was once somebody better. I was once the best at something. And I will be damned if I have to let that go.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

I Lied

And I know I promised that I wouldn't talk about politics on this blog, but that was kind of a lie just like everything else on this blog. So last night was the second presidential debate and I missed it because everyone in the hall is a raging democrat (without really knowing why they are). And it's not really fun watching a debate with people who come in with their minds decided already. People who are completely unwilling to listen to anything that challenges the beliefs that MTV told them to have. And really, the only argument most of them can muster up is that McCain/Palin are ugly/stupid respectively (as opposed to respectfully). So while the democrats bitch and moan about how all republicans must be stupid, they seem to have the hardest time figuring out how anybody could believe anything other than what they believe. And that's pretty stupid too.

And I'd rather not get involved.

And club tennis was that night anyway.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Yay! My Favorite

And as I burned my finger on the hotplate in lab, my entire life flashed before my eyes. Was I going to die before I achieved what I wanted on DC Cised? Wait, what exactly do I want to achieve on DC Cised?

In the midst of the allegations that my blog actually contains substance, I think it is time for me to issue some sort of mission statement.

First off, I just want to make it clear that this blog is not going to be a place for me to be a pretentious little bitch riding my high horse through homoville. You are not my itty bitty children and I am not Grandmother Willow. I'm not going to pretend like I know it all and offer ridiculous bits of advice that were never asked for. I'm not going to tell you how to think, how to act, and how to best be gay. Considering, I kind of have no idea myself, this is probably for the best.

Really, I just want this blog to be a reflection of who I am. I will tell you my stories. I will tell you what I'm thinking. Maybe I will slip up and tell you how I am feeling too. You can laugh if you please (but please don't cry). You can offer advice if you please (but please don't yell). You can insult me too (but please do so behind my back). And hopefully, all of this is enough to make DC Cised worth your time.



And after solidifying the mission statement, I immediately identify a rather large hole in the plan. How can this blog be a reflection of who I am if I don't really know who I am myself. As it stands, I'm somewhere in between gay and straight. Somewhere in between arrogant and
insecure. Somewhere in between biology and architecture. Somewhere in between Monday and Wednesday. There are so many important decisions that I have put off because I am too afraid to choose a path. So now I'm a million different things when I really should just be one. And as I walk down the quad, I've got my mohawk, I'm wearing a Woot shirt, I'm reading my lab manual, and I'm listening to Mariah Carey's Butterfly. But nothing seems to fit together.


Figure 1: Woot Shirt - "Yay! My Favorite"

Monday, October 6, 2008

God's Testament

And I thought I could attribute the recent increase in hits to having an interesting life, or you know, mastering the English language. But sadly, neither are true. After some intense investigation, it turns out that Matt at Debriefing the Boys linked me. I won't say he recommended me because I'm not sure that was his intention. Judging from the things he said, I can't tell if he is praising me or insulting me. Or perhaps he is doing both. Apparently, I am very real and very honest. But that only reveals that I am insecure, disliked, tiny-dicked, and altogether uncool. Actually guys, I try really hard to make myself seem incredibly cool. I guess it's just. not. working. But it's ok whatever Matt's intentions were because getting mentioned by a guy like Matt on a blog like his is kind of like getting a shoutout from God in the footnotes of the Bible.

And I am almost sorry if you are tired of me constantly addressing my insecurities on this blog. (Almost. Because you only have to read about it, whereas I have to live it.) But if you want to read about a person who thinks they are better than they really are, go read about ___ at ____________. He does this very well.

And no, I am not talking about you. This person does not read my blog. And that is part of the reason I insulted him, probably.



And also, don't you guys think it's so funny how I have to go through such indirect measures to find out who is linking me? That is, going to the Oracle at Adelphi, using an Ouija board, and looking up the last 20 referrals to my blog. The same thing happened with LP. God, I miss him so much.

Sunday, October 5, 2008

What a Waste

Apparently getting wasted Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, week after week, isn't good for you. And apparently the physical (and emotional) trauma manifests itself as a __ pound weight gain. Really I can think of no greater punishment that would dissuade me from ever touching alcohol again. But self destruction is one of my favorite activities as listed on Facebook, so I shall press on.

So it is Saturday night and instead of staying in to do accounting homework and watch Hannah Montana, I go to a bar and listen to a band I don't know covering songs I don't know. And during this exciting night I:
Shave my head save for a little strip from the front to the back. They call this a mohawk in some cultures.

See some impossibly good looking guys and pretend that rubbing my crotch against their ass is inevitable because it's so damn crowded.

Get a compliment from a hottie for my popped collar.

Eat some carbs.
But at the end of the night, I still feel like shit. And maybe it's because there are so many people in this world that want to bring me down by telling me I'm wrong, ignorant, naive, bitter, insensitive, selfish, vain. Or maybe it's because they aren't telling me anything I don't know already.


And since I'm writing this wasted, excuse any lapses in judgment and grammar.

Friday, October 3, 2008

The River is Wide

Now that the ripple effect of LP's departure has subsided, it is time to move on to general orders of business. You know, academia, DC news, gay shit.

First. I am glad that I managed to finish five exams in the last two weeks without having a single nervous breakdown in the library. And now that it's over, an immense weight has been lifted from my I-wish-they-were-muscular-shoulders. I feel so good right now. Like I never have to worry about an exam ever again (not true). Like I'm on top of all my responsibilities (not true). Like my boyfriend is waiting outside my door with some chicken parmesan (not true). But regardless, I feel great. I've been looking forward to this post-exam euphoria for as long as I've been stressing out over the exams themselves. And really, the entire time I was more excited about being done with it all than I was worried about failing out of school.

Second. I have a crush on Sarah Palin, which is not to say that I think she's qualified, but she looks exactly like the woman president of the future I have always envisioned. Can we hollow her out and stuff Hillary inside? I'm not going to fall into the trap of talking about politics because it's just a big forum for bitching. And needless to say, most of my readers will defend Obama/Biden as ferociously as a fat kid defends cake.
So I won't go there. Does this mean my blog is going to lack depth? Probably. But where it is lacking in depth, it will be very, very wide.

Third. I was reading Sean Cody the other night (did you notice how I said "read" like it's some sort of educational literature), and I noticed all the hot little straight boys that have done some "experimenting." "Yeah. He blew his junk in my mouth. Whatever." Like it's the equivalent of trying a new flavor of frozen yogurt . Anyway, I've read plenty of stories of bloggers who have "experimented" with hot little straight boys of their own. So it's definitely going on somewhere out there / probably two doors down my hall. But the only kind of experimenting I seem to do is the oxidation of acetophenone in CHEM242. Dear Readers, How do I find hot little straight boys that want to experiment? I think they should all wear those sandwich signs that say, "Sure, I'll give it a try." And on the back, it will say, "But no kissing." And I will pretend I didn't see the back part.

Monday, September 29, 2008

The Color Blue

As many of you may already know, Paul Newman died. And I will admit that I am not all too familiar with his large body of work. And I will even admit that I thought he was already dead. But the fact that he was actually alive when I thought he was dead, and now learning that he is really actually confirmedly dead, makes me sad.
1) Because he had blue eyes.

2) Because he is the most gorgeous guy that has ever lived.

3) Because he founded Newman's Own.

..among other, more serious reasons.

And celebrity deaths hit me especially hard because it means I will never hear about them on E! news again and they will never grace the cover of People Magazine again and the comeback movie which was supposed to culminate in an Academy Award is probably not going to materialize now.

And death in general brings me down because of the finality of it all. Once somebody dies, everything they know dies with them. They will never get another chance to learn something new, (like the fact that Hannah Montana's new 20 year old boyfriend used to be an underwear model), or see something great, (like pictures of Hannah Montana's new 20 year old boyfriend modeling underwear), or watch the new season of Desperate Housewives.

So in order to make the most of my life while I am still alive, I have compiled a list of things I would like to do before I die. They are as follows, in a very particular order.
Figure out how to do a backflip.
Learn French or German or Japanese.
Live in a foreign city for at least 6 months.
Capture London Preppy (or at least spot him in the wild).
Learn how to play the guitar.
Relearn how to play the piano.
Sing in public.
Date a guy named Danny or Jake.
Date a guy name Channing Tatum.
Date a guy period.
Achieve financial security through marriage.
And that is all for now, but this list will grow. And hopefully I will have enough time to get it all done.

Friday, September 26, 2008

The Color Purple

After surviving probably the worst week of college ever, I am looking forward to next week, which promises to be even worse. And I don't even know why I am writing at a time like this. A time when I should be locked away in the upper floors of the library, studying until my hair turns white and my eyeballs fall out. But it's safe to say that my priorities are not quite straight, much like myself. Not. quite. straight.

Speaking of wasting time and being gay, last night, after finishing two exams that day, I decide to go have a little drink and have a little fun. So I come back a little wasted and I see Friend G, someone I met just a few weeks ago but is already one of my better friends here, sitting at his computer. Anyway, the first thing I do when I see him is give him a big hug and rest my wobbly head on his shoulder. And unlike most straight guys, he is very accommodating and does not swat me away. In fact, he starts rubbing his head against my tummy. Something my other friends find very disturbing, but I like it because we are animals and this is how we say hello. We spent the rest of the night sitting next to each other watching Margaret Cho on his laptop and although I'm sure he's not gay, I was so into him at that exact moment. (I don't know why I said "although." It's really "because.") Either way, I had to utilize ever sober fiber of my being not to start making out with him.

Basically, this sexual frustration is too much and it's only a matter of time before I blow up and do something completely irrational like join the army or wear something in the color purple.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Excuse Me, I Have to Go Die Now

It unnerves me when bloggers recommend other blogs. Mostly because they aren't recommending mine. It unnerves me when bloggers don't add me to their blogroll. Because what on Earth could they be reading instead. It unnerves me when bloggers take me off their blogroll. Because there is no greater insult. And all of this bothers me because I am obsessed with acceptance (or is it attention) and I feel like being ignored is a sign that I am not living up to people's expectations. And although these are people that I have never met, people whose opinions shouldn't matter to me at all, their opinions do matter.

So as I read the blogs that are critically acclaimed, I try to pick up on the things that I should write about, the way I should write it, and who I should suck up to to get some exposure. And it seems perfectly ok for me to steal identities and fabricate this entire personality just to try to get ahead in the great institution that is the homosexual blogging community. But what good is that going to do. I'm just going to lose the last few shreds of integrity I still possess.

Anyway, I have learned that the success of a blog has nothing to do with content because _________ at ______________ writes entries that are insipid tributes to poor sentence construction. But people will like what they are told to like. Case in point: Drew Barrymore in
Never Been Kissed. She's stuck as Josie Grossie until one person spreads the word that she is something more. "All you need is for one person to think you're cool, and you're in."
Then poof, she is suddenly the beautiful prom queen who is making out with Michael Vartan. I'm not going to pretend I'm on a different boat here.

So fuck you David Arquette for giving me the pass over. I need it more than anyone. And I know I am being self-absorbed, childish teenager. But I have three months left before I become a self-absorbed, childish non-teenager. And I've got to get it out of my system.



*And don't go recommending me now because that will just make me look stupid. Unless that is what you are going for.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

First Contact

Let it be known that on Monday, September 22, 2008, I made contact with the guy on my hall. The one that is sex foot two and at least the love of my life. Granted, I'm still not entirely sure what his name is. Granted, I only spoke to him to ask him where his roommate was (who is also hot). Granted, all of this was just so I could do an orgo lab report. But none of this matters because now he knows I exist. And the next natural step is to sneak into his room while he isn't there and steal all of his underwear. And before all of this happened, I was kind of scared of him because he is a big masc. white boy with a stern looking face. The kind of face that says, "I kill gays by hitting them repeatedly with a football." But when I opened the door he quickly turned down his speakers, which were blasting Train, so it's not like I'm the only one with a dirty little secret. And once I started talking to him he was all smiles, (I do have that effect on people). So now that I know he won't kill me, I'm feeling bold. By this time tomorrow, I will be sitting in a giant pile of straight boy boxers.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

You Cannot Be Serious

The first few weeks of club tennis are always pure chaos. 140 kids on 8 tennis courts. 100 of them are really only there so that they can put "Club Tennis" on their resume. They don't actually play tennis and some of them are so bad that they don't know how bad they are. Some of them are so bad, I think they might be insane and I am worried that they will hit their owns heads with their racquets. But through the disarray, I quickly find a player who is better than me to be my partner, (that is the only way I win), and we proceed to play "king of the court." And this game is fun because you can become king if you win two consecutive points. And this game is also fun because once you become king, you only have to win one point to stay king. But this game is not fun because you play max. 3 points and then it's the next pair's turn.

So my partner and I are on a roll and we have beaten several other pairs already. Then, it happens. A ball is hit to his side and lands right on the baseline. He calls it out. I am pretty shocked that he does this but I really shouldn't be. Most of the people I've played with make bad calls for their benefit even when it is clear they know they are lying. I really don't like that though and I don't think I've ever consciously done it myself. The best player should win. Not the player who is best at being a shifty eyed conniver.

But maybe I shouldn't even talk. Although I didn't make the bad call, I didn't say anything about it because we needed the point. So I guess I'm just as bad.

Sunday, September 14, 2008

BFF... exclusions apply

Even I can recognize that my insecurity manifests itself in strange ways. Rather than becoming a timid tree squirrel who wallows in self pity, I try my hardest to pretend I am hot shit and I lash out at everyone who I suspect disagrees. Sometimes people mistake the way I act as cockiness, but this tower of confidence is crumbling on the inside.

The worst product of my insecurity is how jealous I get. It starts with my inability to hear somebody else getting compliments. The other day, Roommate 1 was talking to me about how funny my Friend F is, and this just put me in a really bad mood. For some reason, I just can't accept that somebody on this planet could be funnier than me, (or better than me in any way). I want everyone to talk about how great I am. I want everyone to be my friend. And I want everyone to hate each other. Because when people start complimenting each other, they've stopped complimenting you. And I was raised to believe that if you aren't the best, then you're nothing.

So Roommate 1 has been talking to me about partying with Friend F again some time. And each time he brings it up I get a little hurt. All I can imagine is them becoming fast friends and forgetting about me. And I jokingly brought it up with Friend F and he laughed at me and called me paranoid. But my fears aren't irrational because this kind of things happens to me all the time. I introduce two of my friends to each other and they end up running off together into the sunset while I try and figure out what I did wrong.

This is all very difficult to explain and I've done a terrible job of doing it. But long story short, I just feel extremely threatened when the love I receive isn't exclusive. I get this strange feeling that I'm going to be rejected and abandoned any minute. And it's probably because I didn't get enough love in my childhood. But there's nothing I can do about it now, now can I?

All of this would be irrelevant if I had a boyfriend that loved me completely, fully, exhaustively, and exclusively. But this boyfriend doesn't exist. And there's nothing I can do about that either.

Saturday, September 13, 2008

Go to Town

Since our campus is so large, the residence halls are divided into three main communities. North ______, South ______, and North ____. And I enjoy this segregation very much because it makes me feel like I'm part of my own little nation during a Waring States period. And just to cement the cult-y feel of it all, every community gets their own t-shirt.

When I get to the front desk to claim my uniform, the guy there asks me if I want an XL or an XXL. Immediately, I look around for sand to throw in his eyes. But noticing the look of pure rage on my face, he quickly adds, "We ran out of all the other sizes two weeks ago." So that is what I get for procrastinating. I take the XL and cut the sleeves off and it works perfectly as my straight boy costume.

At some point during the same week, I go to Town, a place that calls themselves a "dance boutique." And with that little bit of knowledge, you pretty much don't need to take the place, or anybody in it, seriously. And I don't really want to talk about the experience except that I saw two people I know inside. And it was disconcerting since these are two people that I have flimsy connections with and I do not want them to know I am gay. Because the first person who finds out should be somebody important (Sister, the Pope, Mariah Carey). I don't want the random guy who sat in front of me in Orgo last semester to be the first to know. That is just no fun.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Snuggle

Granted, I don't always present myself as a nice little teddy bear. But that is what I really am. I want to be cuddled with all night long. And during the day, I would be perfectly content with being perched between two fluffy pillows (or perhaps being bounced in freshly washed towels and sheets).

Everyday, I see a new guy that I want to belong to. I don't care if he drags me through the dirt while he is playing his games. I don't mind if his excessive horseplay causes my limbs to fall off. But everyday, it hurts more to think that I can't even remember yesterday's guy's face. All of these guys stumble unknowingly into my life for all of five minutes and then I end up never seeing them again. (Let's not even get into the fact that the love is not reciprocated.) It's depressing and it's tiring and what I really want is to find somebody that makes all of these faces irrelevant. And it would be even greater if this guy were really good at organic chemistry because I need a tutor. But regardless, I'm done with this transient infatuation. I'm going to get a purity ring and join the Jonas Brothers.

And while thinking about all this, I go to the gym and do chest and abs. And the way I describe it makes it sound like I am very serious about my workouts but that is not true. First of all, I use the machines instead of the free weights because all I can imagine is a giant 50kg weight falling on my head and killing me. And people judge me because of it. Second of all, when I use a machine after a real muscly man, I always have to bring the resistance way down and sometimes the shame is just too much. Sometimes, I want to stab my eyes out with a golden brooch. And I'm pretty sure people judge me because of that too.

Monday, September 8, 2008

Bloody Ibiza

So on Saturday night, at 3:30 am, while sitting on the ground of the New York Ave. metro station, I decide that I hate my friends. This is after I was forced into watching Clark Gregg's ridiculous new ego project, Choke. This is after I get confronted by a guy in Langley Park who looks strangely similar to Lil Wayne. This is after I am dragged to Ibiza, lured by the promise that,"This time will be better!" (Just for reference, last time I went to Ibiza, I was almost shot at a Wendy's.)

At the end of the night, I catalogue all the things that went badly.
One: The two girls I am with quickly pair up with the first two desperate guys they can find.

Two: An overweight Indian man crashes into me while trying to dance. Since his mass is so much greater than mine, the elastic collision causes me to fly with great velocity across the dance floor.

Three: The one guy I am with is gay and he runs off into the techno room to dance awkwardly to Paul van Dyk with his strange looking Stitch helmet.


Four: A terrifying looking tranny is behind me everytime I turn around.

Five: A crackwhore asks me for some blow.
HOWEVER, on the way in, the hottest bouncer patted me down. He was so gorgeous, tears are falling down my face as I think about him right now. And although he probably thought my erection was a massive gun, I have convinced myself that he was having as good of a time as I was. And despite all the negative aspects of this damn club, I will go back to Ibiza just to be patted down by him again.

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Opinionated

On Wednesday morning I receive the heartbreaking news that I did not receive the coveted position of bi-weekly opinion columnist for the school newspaper. This is especially heartbreaking because the school newspaper is pretty much garbage to begin with and the columnists currently on the paper have the writing capabilities of a blueberry scone. And this all adds insult to injury.

But even more heartbreaking is the gorgeous guy who lives in my hall. And he is at least 6'2" and he is at least the love of my life. There has been a girl clinging to him the past few days but I am convinced that she is his sister. If not, she is a slut with an annoying voice who deserves to be shoved into the utility closet while I make out with her boyfriend. Cause I can, Cause I can do it better. One of these days I'm going to have a man to man with the gorgeous guy and give him my opinion, "She's like, so whatever. You can do, so much better." And then I will make my move.


I downloaded this song about a month ago and it's been stuck in my head since. Though, if you don't like it you're not alone. One particular comment on Youtube states, "Rite she needs to go ahead and kill herself now."




And this video is good because:

1) 1 in every 5 gay boys wants to be in The Supremes.
2) The rotating rubik's cube fits in perfectly with the social commentary.
3) Solange looks and sounds exactly like Beyonce.


But that's just my opinion, which apparently doesn't matter.

Monday, September 1, 2008

Number Two

On Labor day morning, I try my best to savor the last day of freedom I have before I tackle 20 academic credits, which translates to roughly 7 classes. Daddy calls and asks me what my study schedule for the day is, and I tell him that I am studying rather intensely at the moment and don't really have time for these kinds of ridiculous questions. He seems satisfied with that response.

On this morning, I also decide that I will not be writing about or posting pictures of my roommates on this blog because I am far too young to have charges pressed against me. And really, I'd rather have Jamie Lynn Spears's boyfriend pressed against me. The rest of the hall, however, is fair game. I've already picked out the ones that I will be showering with. And while we shower, I can use my phone to take pictures through a tiny hole in the curtain. And if they ask what I am doing, I will say that my girlfriend is being a little bitch and she won't stop calling me. They will relate to that.

And while I watch the hot ones intensely, I have begun to notice their idiosyncrasies (i.e. clues that point towards homosexuality). For example, guys that pee in the stall when there are urinals available. This can only mean a few things. One, your penis is tiny. Two, your penis is gifuckingnormous. Three, you are a big queer. So I'm hoping number three is true. And I am possibly hoping number two is true too.

Friday, August 29, 2008

A Falling Out with Moving In

Moving into a college dorm always proves to be a difficult task. Along with hauling a 3.1 cubic foot refrigerator up three flights of stairs, one must also contend with an overbearing mother and an emotionally unavailable father. Oh wait, I just confused moving in with being gay. But in this case, the emotionally unavailable father unfortunately does not show up to help and the overbearing mother unfortunately does show up to help. Beyond that, one should always be wary of the transportation service workers, who hide in the overgrown juniper bushes, waiting for the time on one's parking meter to run out.

Once one's things are in one's room, one may think that one is in the clear. However, every dorm room is a deathtrap, therein danger lies. As soon as one walks into the room, the claws must come out. To assert one's stake on the lower bunk, use every ounce of passive aggression one possesses. "Wouldn't you want to be on the top anyway since you need that extra exercise?" And to secure one's closet space, stare it down with an icy glare cold enough to reverse the fortunes of the polar bears in the melting Arctic. Anything goes when it comes to defending one's territory.

When conversing with the parents of one's roommate. Feign interest as if one will see these people more than two times in one's entire life (move in, move out). And even if one's conversations take a ridiculous turn for the worse, hold steady. If one makes a bad impression on the parents, they will know who to blame when the roommate is found stabbed to death three weeks later.

But when the conversations go something like this:
"Oh you live in __________?"

A city of approx 100,000 people.

"Then you must know _______ and
_______ and _______."
"Oh they don't live there anymore but they did in 1972."
"You weren't born yet but surely you know them."
"They went to your high school!"

Oh, you mean the one that was torn down in the 90s and rebuilt ten miles away...
One can just ignore them.

After the parents have left and one is situated with one's roommate. Prepare to sit through awkward periods of lengthy silence because nobody wants to be the first to say something stupid. And after exactly six days, that's when people stop being polite and start getting real. At that point, it would be wise to avoid contracting Lyme disease because one will get slapped, avoid opening a gay boy's mail because he will call oneself a stupid bitch, avoid dipping one's snotty hand in a jar of peanut butter because everyone in America will hate oneself.

But above all, please don't forget one's pillow like I did...

Thursday, August 28, 2008

I'm Going to Bore You With Politics for Two Seconds

Last night, Hillary piqued my interest when she said, "My mother was born before women could vote. But in this election my daughter got to vote for her mother for President." Everyone was cheering wildly and at the time, it was another one of those Yay America! moments. But when I think about it, it's not that impressive.

India had a female prime minister as early as 1966. And China, the country that coined the phrase, "It is more profitable to raise geese, than a daughter", had a female president in the 1980s. 26 countries have had a female head of state. 33 countries have had a female head of government.

So sure, in comparison to the countries we are "liberating" in the Middle East, we are a land of equal opportunity. But compared to a good portion of the world, this is not a place where anything can happen. With this election, we did prove that an African-American can win a major party nomination. But we also proved that women still don't have the power that they should. And I feel like it'll be at least another twenty years before gay people have the rights that they should. America may think it's all that and a bag of chips, but it's really not as open and affirming as it thinks. We've got quite a long way to go before we start celebrating.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

I <3 Hillary

As I watch the Democratic Convention, I try to count how many Hillary posters are being held upside down. There were too many really, but what's important to know is that people who hold Hillary posters upside down hate America. If there is any justice in our nation, those people will be jettisoned into outer space with the 50 women or whatever.

As I continue watching, Hillary makes a shout out to gays... sort of... and I jump for joy on the inside as I lie on the couch, motionless and barely breathing. And it's great to see Hillary get such a warm reaction from the floor and receive some great praise from Tom Brokaw since she should've won the whole damn thing to begin with. But I have to admit that the speech didn't really do it for me. It was all kind of awkward, lying through her teeth to praise somebody that ruined her life. I know the feeling well, I don't know why I couldn't relate more. But she did what she had to do and it didn't make me hate Obama more. So mission accomplished I guess. The entire democratic party can take a collective breath and wait for the Republicans to fuck up in St. Paul.

Also, I would like to point out that as soon as Hillary was done and those two Asians came out to speak, Brian Williams goes, "K Goodnight!" So maybe someday there will be a woman president that loves gays. But there will never be an Asian president. But I'm pretty much ok with that.


Figure 1: John Mccain is hot.


Figure 2: Howard Dean is hot.


Figure 3: Ronald Reagan is hot.


Figure 4: John Kennedy Jr is hot.

The Bicycle Diaries

Let me just say, that I have not ridden a bike since the 5th grade. And I have never ridden a bike with gears. So when Friend D sat me on this monster bike with 8 gears, I kind of yelped on the inside but I didn't say anything because I am a big strong man.

So the old phrase, "It's like riding a bike," is a big piece of shit by the way. Because I completely forgot how to ride a bike. The trail is very hilly and swervey and I am out of control the entire time. But I did not say anything because I am a big strong man.

And even as another biker approaches in the opposite direction, I tell myself, "Stay to the fucking right. Stay to the fucking right." And as the biker is about to pass me I find myself, quite suddenly, on the left side. And we crash.

If there's one thing that I learned from 15+ years of karate, it's to land on my feet. I guess the other guy didn't take karate because he landed flat on the ground with his bike on top of him. And after I apologize profusely and make sure that I didn't brake his neck, I look at his bike and realize that I transformed his front wheel into a pringle.

And through this entire ordeal, I am kind of at a loss for words (hard to believe, right?). As I just stand there, crying on the inside, Friend D runs along and starts gushing, "Can we offer to walk you back home?" "Can we offer to carry your bike?" And this is all well and good, but I am thinking, "Please don't offer to buy a new bike because I am kind of broke." She doesn't offer and he doesn't bring it up.

As we part ways, I ask him again if he is ok and he says that, "He's been in worse." And I can really appreciate the fact that he didn't yell at me or fucking sue me even though he was visibly pissed and very well could have. But if it's any consolation I feel incredibly bad about all this and part of me does want to buy him a new bike and a new life even if I have to sell one of my kidneys for it.

But that's not all...

On the way back, the bike trail intersects a busy road. Friend D decides to stop and thinks we should walk across because I've already proven myself to be incompetent. So we are at the pedestrian Xing and the car that's there stops for us. Funny thing is, the car behind it doesn't stop and actually shoves it's head up car #1's ass.

So in the span of one hour and during the duration of one bike ride, I am in one accident and cause another. And I would like to say that I can't believe this happened to me. But who am I kidding, I do believe it.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

(Don't Go Back To) Rockville

On Friday morning I go to visit my personal stylist at the Hair Cuttery and I tell her, "Do as you please, just don't make my head look like an egg." And when we are finished, my head looks exactly like an egg.

And with my egg head, I go to visit Friend D, who is returning for the first time this summer. And I immediately ask her if she thinks my head looks like an egg. And she says, "Your head could never look like an egg." And that is why she is my friend.

During the day, mommy calls and asks me to have dinner with her because, "She never sees me anymore and she wants to see my egg head." I tell her fine, as if I am relenting. But really, I jump at any opportunity to go to the Cheesecake Factory.

During dinner, mommy suggests that I marry Friend D and asks if she has a good family and good teeth. When I refuse to answer, she tells me that I need a job that pays better and I agree whole-heartedly as she foots the 65 USD bill for two people. (Isn't that kind of expensive? I guess we are pigs.) When I get home, I weigh myself on the scale and am very pleased that I have remained under 1_0 pounds despite having just eaten solid food
.

Today is Friend D's father's birthday party and I have been invited and I am not excited. I hate these kinds of gatherings where people expect you to make casual small talk about school and politics and Michael Phelps. Like I'm actually willing to share my opinion with strangers whom probably don't even blog. Also, mommy says I should bring a bottle of wine and ask for Friend D's hand in marriage. But I tell her that there is already going to be a lot of booze... thank god.

So now I have to drive down Randolph Road where I have gotten no less than 4 speeding tickets in the last year. And then I have to drive down Rockville Pike where I will probably get into an accident at the entrance of every fucking shopping center. And when I get to Friend D's house, the party begins.

Friday, August 22, 2008

Camera Whore

I guess they say a picture is worth a thousand words. If so, this post is worth 7,000 words and if I were a writer at any respectable publication like the New York Times or AXM Magazine, this post would be worth 14,000 USD.


Figure 1: And this is the picture I took on my day off at the Native American Museum and what it really reveals is that I took AP photography in high school.

Figure 2: And this is Sister, in shoes that I told her make her look like an Inca warrior Princess. And in this picture, the Inca warrior princess is furiously rowing a boat made out of reeds while the man in the background hangs his head in shame.

Figure 3: And on the way I home, I catch a glimpse into my future.


Figure 4: And the next day at work, I catch a glimpse into Marat's underpants.


Figure 5: And my fiance Viktor is about to throw one of his tantrums because he caught me alone with Marat on practice court 1.


Figure 6: And although I enjoy his grumpy face, I reassure him that he is the only Serbian for me.


Figure 7: And after a week / a summer / a lifetime of nothingness, this is how i feel. I am the antelope. Life is the leopard.