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...
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
When I read about other guys and their hookups, I wonder why they think it's a problem that they can't get guys to stop wanting to have sex with them. As I simmer in my pool of jealousy, I try to think logically. Well maybe you don't understand what it's like because you've never been in that type of situation. But that's ludicrous. Being a sexual object is pretty much my life's goal, considering my only other option is to die alone and obese, surrounded by cats. Am I going to be a real life 40 year-old virgin? Am I going to be so fat that they will have to bury me in a hollowed out grand piano? And this is all cause for concern. And even though I am keenly aware that sexual desperation does not look good on me, neither do rugby shirts, and that never stopped me from wearing them.
So what exactly do I have to do to whore myself out to the gays out there. I've got straight, white teeth. I've got abs. God, what else do they want from me? I cannot tell you how many times I stumbled drunkenly out of a bar and was completely vulnerable to any heartless man-izer who wanted to use my body and discard me the next morning. But of course, the only person that hits on me is this big creep who wants to feel my mohawk because, "it looks soft." And all I can do is reply, "I have to go to the bathroom", as I cry a little on the inside.
Maybe the fact that I'm not exactly out makes things a little more difficult. I shouldn't expect guys to be able to read my mind when I'm trying my hardest to act straight. But seriously, does nobody in this town have good enough gaydar to sense my readiness to make out with them in a bathroom stall?
Perhaps I'm being too passive about all of this and if I ever want to realize my lifelong dream of being a slut, I really have to take the initiative. Maybe I should get a bright pink t-shirt with "I Want Your Cock" printed in large black letters on the front. Because I think that would be a good look for me.
On Saturday morning, I decide to stop blogging for the time being. And I assume I will take the time off to reevaluate my take on life and when I come back, I will be a different person. I will love everything you all love, and all of our opinions will be exactly the same, and I will actually be politically correct, and everyone will leave those pleasant comments full of pretentious advice and fake concern. But then I realize, that would mean that the opposition has won and there is nothing that kills me more than knowing that. I am not about to bend against the will of a few people who happen to find me repulsive. This is my blog and I will write what I want to write the way I want to write it. If you don't like it, there are millions of other blogs you can read / bloggers you can suck up to / meaningless internet relationships you can forge. But to the people that have supported me, and fought for my honor through catty comments, you're great, I appreciate you, I love you.
And basically I realize all of this Sunday afternoon. But after dramatically declaring my hiatus, it would seem silly to jump right back in. So I wait five days. And I believe that is long enough for me to seem not like a completely ridiculous person.
So all of this means that in the time that has elapsed, I guess I have not matured at all. But that's better than not maturing at all since womb. And I can think of a few examples where this is the case.
And there are really no words to describe how much I hate work. On Thursday, the night matches all go to three sets so I am stuck there until 02:00. I literally consider sleeping in my car overnight since I have to come in at 09:00 anyway. I don't though. Because __________ Tennis Center is within Rock Creek Park; the place where they found Chandra Levy's body.
And today, my mood is already delicate since I'm running off of five hours of sleep. But even so, the tournament directors conspire to break my spirit. Everyone I work with is so frustratingly elitist and self-important that it numbs my mind just thinking about it. Don't they know that I am better than them in every way possible? I've never felt so patronized in my entire life. Two people called me stupid this week. Three if you count Steevo. And that is enough to get me wondering...
When I started this blog in June, I was pretty ambitious when it came to what I wanted to accomplish. I assumed that in two weeks time, I'd have enough readers to populate a small island country. I also thought I would always feel excited to share my opinions with others. But since June, I've made more enemies than friends through this blog by being myself. And I no longer feel like my opinions should be shared, especially when people take things so personally. I know I should be able to swallow people's adverse reactions to the things I write. But I don't think I can because I take everything [direct insults to my character] just as personally. And I guess I've portrayed myself as an arrogant whiny prick that hates mentally retarded people. But in my heart, I know that's not who I am. I'm just saying everything wrong. And it's time to give blogging a rest until I figure out how to say it right.
It's kind of an unwritten rule that we can sit in any of the (expensive) box seats if the people that own them don't show up. So last night my friends and I sat in a box behind the perfect family. The mom was skinny and hot and she was extremely friendly (which is unusual for people who own box seats) and it was so touching to see her wiping the crumbs off her cute son's face. I'm a big fan of good parenting. This got me thinking about my own future family... once again. Since box seats come in 6, I'm thinking that I should have 3 children instead of the 5 I said before. That way, the entire family of five can sit in one box and there will be one seat left over to put my littlest son's box of fries and my husband's manpurse which I refuse to touch. Also, we will all be able to fit in a four door sedan and I won't have to drive a disgusting minivan.
It should be mentioned that one of the friends sitting with me that night was this extremely hot guy who is half white/half Asian. I swear, everything about him is perfect. He's got a great personality, gorgeous face, friendly smile, cute teenage muscles, and probably a giant cock because certain people just have everything. Anyway, his mom is the Asian contributor, which reaffirms my theory that halfies with Asian moms are generally more attractive than halfies with Asian dads. This kind of kills me on the inside because I desperately want to marry a white guy / marry Channing Tatum and have three gorgeous kids. But as an Asian dad, my kids might be ugly and I'm pretty sure Channing Tatum isn't a fan of the manpurse.
And because it's only fair to tell you guys about the goings on at work, that is what I will do. Today, Marat Safin touched my hand. I won't tell you the context, but just know that it happened. Fabio Fognini, a little-known Italian tennis player, flashed the strap of his red Calvin Klein jock during a changeover. And that was also a great moment for me.
Furthermore, I have good news and bad news about possibly-gay-underage-boy. First the good news. We were all sitting peacefully in the stadium when suddenly, Donna Summers's Last Dance comes on. This is when PGUB starts shaking his butt and singing along (how cute!). But seriously, how did he know the lyrics to that song? Because Last Dance is pretty much the gayest song I have ever heard in my entire life. So for the moment, that convinced me that PGUB and I had a future together. Now for the bad news. Later on, we were all watching the women's gymnastics final together when I think I heard PGUB say Nastia Liukin was hot. It was kind of like a Paris Hilton type, "omg that's hot," which is still kind of gay. But it was enough to plant a seed of suspicion in my mind. God I hope PGUB isn't reading this. It would be so embarrassing if he knew that I watch his every move in this borderline psychotic manner. But in case you are reading PGUB, none of this is about you and just pretend this entire paragraph doesn't exist.
Figure 1: Fabio Fognini
Next order of business. Michael Phelps won his 11th gold medal today and I couldn't care less. I am sick of staring at his retarded looking monkey face while everyone talks about his record breaking adventures. The fact that he gets all these medals does not really impress me because there are a ridiculous number of swimming events (17, actually) so he's bound to get a lot of medals. Even the very best soccer team, baseball team, basketball team, tennis player will only get one medal, no matter what. Furthermore, I've always found swimming to be one of the easiest sports in the Olympics. You jump in the pool, splash around for 58 seconds, and then you get a gold medal. Not anything like gymnastics, where you have to spend the whole night flipping and tumbling and twisting and jumping. So long story short, the fact that Phelps has all these medals does not make him the greatest Olympian of all time. And has everyone forgotten his arrest for underage DUI? I can't wait for him to fade back into obscurity, which will inevitably happen one week after the games are over.
So as the number of readers decreases exponentially, so does my enthusiasm for this blog. But since I'm technically blogging for myself and this is all supposed to be an outlet for my emotions and this is not a desperate cry for attention, I will continue blogging even while my readership quickly approaches zero as x approaches infinity.
As if my mood wasn't fragile enough, I start off my weekend by getting towed in Georgetown on Friday afternoon. If I hadn't spent so much fucking time in fucking Lacoste all of this could have been avoided. Instead, I return to my spot, where I find an empty spot. So naturally, I throw up my hands to the sky and start bawling in the middle of street. Eventually, I find a "parking officer" who is basically the nicest government worker I have ever met in my entire life. We'll call him Guardian Angel from now on. So Guardian Angel takes the description of my car and then drives around the neighborhood until he finds exactly where my car is parked and then I almost ask Guardian Angel to drive me there but I feel like that oversteps the boundaries of our relationship. So I walk the 15 or so blocks. It probably could have been done in 10, but I'm inefficient.
Saturday, I went to ______________ Tennis Center, a place I work every summer. There, I see the same cute guy who has been working there just as long as I have. He's about 3-4 years younger than me so he makes me feel like a pedophile, but that's ok. He's got a great body and plays lacrosse so he makes me feel sexually frustrated, but that's ok too. Anyway, the past few years he was always very quiet so we never talked and I just admired him from afar / behind the water cooler. But I talked to him a bit today and I discovered something kind of incredible. He is incredibly gay. He didn't actually come out and say it but they way he talked and the things he said kind of gave it away. So, I'm kind of deciding whether or not I should throw him in the backseat of my car and violate him or play it cool and friend him on Facebook. What do you guys think?
Also, if he is 15-16 and I am 18-19 would having sex with him land me in jail? I think I would like to avoid that.
Thursday afternoon, I go all they way to Capitol Hill for lunch in an effort to make lunch as big of a deal as possible. Capitol Hill is an area that has been completely gentrified in recent years and it's become quite pretentious. So I wear my yellow Ralph Lauren oxford shirt with my white Banana Republic chinos and I believe that is enough to disguise myself amongst the yuppies. We end up going to Goodstuff Eatery despite the big crowd of tourists in hopes that the owner, Spike from Top Chef, is there. Initially, I was a little disappointed that it wasn't actually a sit down restaurant but more of an upscale fast food kind of place. I was even more annoyed that they were only letting two people in at a time and making everyone else stand in line outside; I almost got rained on! But all that melted away when Spike walked down the stairs and brushed against my arm on his way to the open kitchen area. Let me just say, Spike was easily the most attractive guy from season 4 (yummy alternative type) and I always had an inkling that he was gay. Also, I was thoroughly convinced that he and Andrew D'Ambrosi were having casual gay sex on the side, but I'm pretty sure that was just me. So I tried to take pictures of him on my camera phone without him noticing. Everyone else does it, it can't be that hard. But I am not sneaky at all and he noticed me immediately and looked right at me. I smiled. He smiled. The wedding date is set for August 9th, 2008. You are all invited.
I would love to post the pictures that I took but I have no idea how to transfer them from my phone to the computer. So you all will have to make do with these. Figure 1: Cute
Last night daddy told mommy in secrecy that he thinks I am spoiled. First thing this morning, mommy tells me. I don't know why he thought it wouldn't get back to me. Mommy is basically a Gossip Girl and the dynamic of my family is that of a group of middle schoolers anyway. Next thing you know, we're going to be fighting over the same guy and going out to see The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.
But back to the point, I find it ridiculous that daddy thinks I'm spoiled. All my life, I have never asked him for anything. This is mostly because I know he'll say no, but it's also because I've grown up under the impression that if I want something, I should either get it myself or keep it to myself. So I'm basically Cinderella, relegated to doing menial household chores all day, waiting for my Prince to come along and buy me an HP special edition laptop in ceramic white.
And like Cinderella, I have Sister. And she is not evil, but she does have big feet and I think this is all very ironic because if anybody is spoiled, it's her. But daddy can't recognize that because daddy loves Sister more than he loves me and he always will. After struggling with it for a while, I think I've come to terms with the fact that she is daddy's favorite. But what still bothers me is the reason why she is the favorite. Because she went to _________ University. A school that people back home in Taiwan recognize. A school that daddy's friends find very impressive. A school shrouded in strange mystical powers. A school that U.S. News & World Report believes is better than mine.
There are so many things that I have done and can do. But none of that matters because daddy has made up his mind about me. I don't make him proud so I might as well not exist. I get the impression that mommy sometimes feels the need to defend daddy and his dismissive nature. She tells me how much he loves me and this is true because, "he paid for your violin lessons didn't he?" Well, I may not have ever been loved by somebody, but I've got a good idea what it's like. When you're loved, you should feel it. And when I'm with daddy, I don't feel anything.
It would take an idiot not to anticipate all the people who will try to chime in and say, "You should give him a chance", "He cares about more than just __________ University", and "I'm sure he loves you deep down." You are all wrong. Nobody knows my father better than I do. Granted, maybe I am wrong for being just as dismissive as he is and painting him as some sort of evil stepfather. But if the shoe fits... The other night, we went out to dinner as part of a month long celebration of Sister's graduation from __________ University. Halfway through the dinner, daddy turned to Sister and said, "You have brought so much happiness to me." Then he looked at me, but didn't have anything to say.
So on Monday night I find out that because of scheduling changes due to the Olympics, Nadal won't take over the number one spot until later this month. For those of you that were bored with my short bout of happiness, worry not. I am back to being miserable.
Monday morning I go to _________ Mall and immediately find my way into J.Crew because I won't pretend to be a fashionista but I do enjoy looking like I just walked off of a yacht in Nantucket. And to achieve that effect, J.Crew is the place. As I weigh the pros and cons of buying two vintage polos for 60 USD, a sales associate walks by, stares at me, and doesn't offer any help. Normally, I would be thankful because I hate how forward sales associates are and I really don't understand how they think they could ever help me sort out all of my issues, but I've come to expect that they would at least try. Anyway, this sales associate totally snubs me. Oh, and he is gay. I could tell because as he talked to the other customers, he used words like "totally" and "fabulous" and his voice sounded a little bit like Christian Siriano's. I don't usually find these kind of guys attractive but this sales associate was just too cute in his red chinos and green sweater. Please come over here sales associate and help me try off my clothes. What's with me and sales associates? Maybe I'm just scheming to get that 10% discount. Inside the store, there is a size 2 woman with her two babies in tow trying on jackets and she only reminds me how badly I want a family of my own someday. I want to take my babies to J.Crew and dress them in expensive little people clothing and bring them home to my husband to show him what we bought and where his money is going. Just a few years ago, I thought that kids were nothing but annoying little poop machines without enough sense not to suffocate themselves with plastic bags. But I guess my biological clock is trying to tell me something.
I suppose there are a good number of gay guys who choose never to have families and never get married. It's a valid lifestyle choice and it's not like their only other option is to spend their lives in utter loneliness drinking whiskey out of the bottle and watching Liza with a Z over and over and over. In all fairness, gays should be the last people to judge other gays. But I feel like guys who choose to get married and move to the suburbs and adopt little Chinese babies (or make their own babies in test tubes) get a bad rep within the gay community. It seems as though homebodies are seen as fools trying desperately to fit into a "straight culture" that doesn't welcome them. But I don't see it that way at all. When I move to New England and feed my kids wheaties and put up a white picket fence around my house, it won't be because I am trying to fulfill society's expectations for me. It will be because wanting a family of my own is the one thing in my life that I am absolutely sure of.
Figure 1: Couple from New York Times Magazine's article about gay marrieds
Figure 1 : Rafael Nadal and Fernando Verdasco. Awwwww.
When the new rankings come out tomorrow, Rafael Nadal will be number one. I am overcome with joy because I'm living my dreams of being a tennis professional through him. Also, I am quite glad Roger Federer's reign is over. Never really liked him anyway.
In my opinion, Nadal was always the best player on the tour. He's got so much tenacity and drive. The explosive way he plays makes men's tennis actually bearable to watch. (Normally I find it kind of boring.) His cute face and huge arms help too. Federer may have more talent and finesse, but it never seems like he is trying that hard. He just moseys around the court with a matter-of-fact attitude. So hooray for Nadal! He definitely deserves this.
Now I'm just waiting for Venus Williams to take over the number one spot on the women's side. Ok, she kind of sucks everywhere except Wimbledon. But I don't think anybody can beat her when she is at her best. Except, of course, her little sister. I also believe that everyone in the top ten other than the Williams sisters are extremely over-ranked (but I guess that happens when each slam goes to a different girl). I also also believe that the Williams are the only two people on the women's side with personality. Sure Ana and Maria are beautiful, but they seem kind of dead on the inside. I wonder why I don't relate.
I am going to interpret the lack of response for my last post as a sign of resounding agreement. And I am completely satisfied with that explanation.Yesterday night I went to McDonald's at about 11:00pm and I don't care if you guys think it's unhealthy to eat at McDonald's/eat that late at night/eat at all. I happen to think McDonald's is pretty delicious and the grilled chicken sandwich is relatively healthy and I am only young once. And I am completely satisfied with that explanation.
But as I was munching on my fries, ignoring my friends, staring at a cute guy munching on his own fries, I began to wonder something. This guy seems totally straight, but would he be willing to experiment with me in the restroom? Just how many guys are straight but curious? And if so, how can you ever know if they are curious? Would you risk being completely forward with every straight guy you meet? What if one turns out to be a homophobic serial killer who beats you to death with a shovel?
One of the biggest issues I have with being gay is that finding other people who are gay is so goddamn difficult. If you are straight, it is pretty safe to say that any old girl you see on the street could be a potential mate. But if you are gay, how can you know who to go after? I guess this is a bigger problem for me because I am attracted to guys who act straight/ look straight/ are straight and those kind of guys blend in so well with the rest of the "normal" society. It's almost like they are real human beings.
I think a brilliant solution to all of this is to create some sort of clearly visible way of identifying a person's sexual orientation upon first glance. Perhaps all gays should get tattoos on our arms that say, "FAG". All straight but curious people should get tattoos on their arms that say, "I'm willing to fool around but will only let you fuck me if you get me extremely drunk and exploit my emotional insecurities." And all straight guys who are totally uninterested in men should die. And I am completely satisfied with this idea.
Hi. I started this blog as an outlet for my emotions. After the overwhelmingly positive response from like, two people, the main purpose of this blog is now to get me noticed by HBO or Showtime and make me rich.
Tell a friend.
I'm in my early twenties and live and work in DC.
I have body image issues and an unhealthy relationship with food/God/everyone I've ever met.
