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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.