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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Hectic Inside

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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.

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.

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"

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.

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.

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.