Can We Take Today Off the Calendar Please

It's been eight or so years since I began my "gay life," marked by the moment I realized that my adulthood would be different (read: difficult) and there was no way to deny or avoid it. I had one last girlfriend during my gay life. She wasn't really so much a girlfriend as she was an asexual beard. But we both got some sort of self-esteem boost out of our dysfunctional relationship and I hear she's doing quite well for herself now so I don't feel too bad about it in retrospect.

Despite my dutiful and supportive beard, I was miserable the first half of my gay life. I thought about what would happen if my parents and my friends found out. I worried about how I would hide my sexuality during college. I lay in bed most nights wondering, "Why me?"

My first gay relationship marked a turning point in my gay life. Today marks two years since. I remember driving home the night we started dating officially (though we were only ever official in our heads) thinking to myself, well I guess I'm pretty lucky after all.

Tralala.

In the time since my last post, I've been trying to move forward with gay life. More accurately, I've been trying to live regular life without suffering a nervous breakdown in a public place. For the most part, I've been successful, though I do tend to drag my feet and look down at the ground a lot like I'm Macy Gray in the music video for "I Try." Life is hectic, I don't know if that helps or hurts.

I still think about "it" a lot, though thinking about it at all is probably thinking about it too much. It's probably unreasonable to not care for four months and suddenly suffer a massive epiphany/stroke and start caring. A friend pointed out to me today that I tried, and he tried, and it didn't work out, so I should just let it go. She also suggested that what I really missed was intimacy and not him in particular. I hate people who are all, philosophical and insightful on Skype. I just want you to tell me my hair looks nice.

I wonder what it's like for him to love somebody new. I wonder if he thinks about me on occasion. I wonder how he can suddenly do without all the things he used to love about me. These thoughts are depressive though. For the moment, it seems like the best thing to do is to bottle up all my questions and doubts and fears inside of me in the hopes that one day I'll forget that they exist.

In truth, all of this posturing is hypocritical. I've been on a steady stream of dates since the summer. The fact that none of them has led to anything seems kind of like it's my own fault and it's certainly aligned with the kind of luck I've come to expect. 

I used to worry if being gay meant everyone in the entire world would hate me. Now I worry if it means nobody (other than my beards) will love me. And while I spent the first half of my gay life wondering, "Why me?" the second half of my gay life (this is assuming I don't make it through 2012) is mostly defined by the question, "Why not me?"

The Irony In My Life No Longer Impresses Me

I was feeling manic on Sunday night after Once Upon A Time and before Desperate Housewives so I googled "gay-friendly therapist, dc." Finding one that seemed to have a particularly sympathetic looking headshot, I sent an email urgently asking for a first consultation as soon as possible. She emailed me back the next day, "First consultations are $350." Miraculously, I felt better instantly.

It's downright prophetic that I wrote about TBA in my last post because 3 days later a friend texts me, "Do you know the new guy that TBA's dating?" I was, in fact, not aware that he was seeing somebody. This was one of those shoot-the-messenger moments. I resisted.

I suddenly felt like I was being kicked in the stomach and the back of the head, simultaneously. The guy he met right after me turned out to be somebody serious. Being the dramatic diva that I am, I sent the most awkward and ridiculous message I could have possible come up with, "Do you love him?" He said, "what?" and then a few minutes later,"yes."

I felt the kicking again. How could two people who were basically each others entire lives just move on? Well, I guess the real questions is, why did one move on and the other one didn't? It's tough to imagine all the things he used to do and say to me, he's now doing and saying to this new guy. I wonder if he makes him happier than I did and I suddenly feel this strange connection to Adele.

This question is more or less answered by the fact that TBA also came out this summer. He decided not to go to Princeton but to stay in the area for a job. I wonder if this is the work of the new guy too, getting him to do and feel things that I could not. Ultimately, I will go down in history as a footnote in TBA's little black book, the boyfriend that was always in the shadows and a little bit insane. This new one seems more real.

I was dropped, I see that now. And I also know now that anybody who says they will love you forever can wake up one day and decide that they don't anymore. Four months after the fact, I should care less than I do. Perhaps it seems like I'm only upset that he found love sooner than I did. But the truth is I'm upset because he found somebody to love and I think I'm still in love with him.

There are many more questions I would like answered. But although knowing may satisfy my curiosity, it will probably only make me feel more horribly inadequate and depressive. The best strategy here is to go back to what we were doing just a few days before, not talking to each. For me, it takes a conscious effort to not pick up my phone and tell him that I want nothing more than to fall asleep in his arms. For him, it's rather effortless. It doesn't seem to matter to him whether he contacts me or not, and when he does, he comes off surprisingly glib. Yesterday morning, out of the blue, he said to me "if you are looking for new music, the new florence + the machine album is fantastic." This might be the last thing he ever says to me and I'm always going to wonder if it was spam...

Compounded with the rest of my problems, I feel especially helpless - like I'm drowning and there is nothing for me to hold on to. People say, "just move on" like it's that utility bill sitting on my desk that I've been putting off. They say, "don't think about him" as if the new season of Top Chef, white Hyundais, Angry Birds, Fresca, Pop music, the very thought of college, and a million other things don't remind me instantly of what we were together.

I was on OKCupid tonight hoping to spark up a conversation with a rando internet freak that would somehow result in the love of my lie. I clicked on a profile that looked somewhat promising and there he was, standing in the background of this guy's profile pic. TBA was wearing a shirt we bought together, smiling.

How fucked up is that?

This Is the Part Where I Tell You I'm A Cutter and You Tell Me How To Fix Everything

I'm not really a crier. I've cried a handful of times in my adult life, mostly during episodes of Desperate Housewives and one time to make TBA stop arguing with me and hug me. Usually, I express my feelings of profound sadness through eating fatty foods or just going to bed. So it is surprising, even to me, that I came home from work today, sat in the corner of my room, and cried.

I realize it's a little bit early to be having an existential crisis being that I'm still young and there is still time to make sweeping life changes. But the very root of my frustration is that extenuating factors will keep me from making these sweeping life changes and I'm going to have to live the life I'm leading now for the next 30 years until I turn into an old gay person / cease to exist in society's eyes.

I'm adjusting poorly the real world. I can't even explain how disappointed I am in myself for choosing subsequently easier majors until I settled on one that would lead me down this career path that [I am just now realizing?] is going to drive me fucking insane. Maybe it's just the company I work for, which seems to be relegated to the smaller and more remedial projects. Maybe it's the project itself, which is indeed small in scope and remedial. Or maybe it's my boss, who can only explain concepts while making motions like he's throwing a football, and still does a shit poor job of it. 

But I'm trapped. If I leave before a year, every company on the face of the planet will think I have some form of professional leprosy. I also have to study my ass off for the next six months to finish my CPA exam or I owe my company the $3000 they paid for the useless study courses. After one year, I could always move to another company, go to law school, or maybe get my MBA. But will these things really make my life better, or provide more of the same problems? What I really want to do is start my own food truck. I do not have the capital for that.

More than my professional problems, I'm affected by personal ones. I'm lonely. My friends have scattered to far flung places like London and Seoul and Arlington. I used to eat every meal, do every workout, and drink every drink with a friend. Now, I find myself doing all those things alone. I have too many nights of quiet desperation where I don't do anything but evaluate and reevaluate my life. Just like saying a word over and over makes it lose its meaning, thinking about my professional and personal goals on an hourly basis makes them seem so much farther away and wholly unattainable.

Recently I've been thinking about TBA a lot. We did this whole awkward social tango where I successfully ignored him for about a month after our break up and then he texted me out of the blue and asked "Are we seriously never talking again?" so I relented and we talked for about a day and then he started ignoring me. I'm not sure if he was just doing that to gain the upper hand and have the last say but that's what happened. I'm pretty sure he's sitting somewhere, stroking his four cats, blissfully aware that I miss him and I am utterly incapable of starting a new relationship because every guy I go out with either doesn't remind me enough of him or reminds me too much of him.

It feels good to get some of my feelings out on virtual paper even though emoting online doesn't make anything go away. Realistically, all I can do is hold fast and try to make good life decisions. But inwardly I worry that the natural flow of "wise" life decisions is going to keep taking me further from the things I really want.

The Lease Dies Tonight

I have this roommate. 

He seemed like he was going to be white and gay and friendly and smart and considerate and funny. It turns out he is only white and gay. Apparently white and gay are not synonymous with any of the aforementioned traits; only bitchy, selfish, and... what's the word for "has really nice hair"?

I pose an example.

Every day, after he comes home from work, he frantically changes out of his suit and into some sort of hipster clothing article he bought from a thrift store for $1 or a vintage store for $100 and spends a good 15 to 30 minutes complaining about everyone he spoke to that day. Normally, I would be fine with this, but he does exactly what the people he complains about do.

I pose an example.

He takes very serious issue with a coworker who makes judgmental comments about what he eats for lunch. "I don't understand why anybody would try to impose their arbitrary food preferences on somebody else like it even matters."

Nevermind the obnoxious use of the word "arbitrary" in that sentence [like it even matters]. But the other night, he comes home, looks at me drunk-eating a sandwich, and goes, "I don't understand anybody who would buy pre-sliced and pre-packaged turkey." What does he do? Hunt, roast and slice a wild tom every time he's in the mood for a turkey club.

He also likes to preface most of his comments with the phrase, "I don't understand." As if the idiocy that is about to follow can be forgiven because it's all part of his endless quest for knowledge.

Anyway, he's a complainer. And after going on and on about how he has the worst life out of anybody on the entire planet, he takes a stab at politeness and asks, "I'm sorry, how was your day?" But at that point he isn't really interested in listening and is already thinking about J. Crew's November catalog.

One afternoon, I came home to find him dragging a sponge across the kitchen counter. It was like the only place he ever saw somebody clean was during "The Help." "I cleaned the apartment all day" he said in his best housekeeper/martyr impression. He then complained about our other roommate for never cleaning (I'm sure he complains about me when I'm not around). But the real irony is that the place looked exactly the same. White people's idea of cleaning is putting a spoon into the dishwasher and then going back to reading Gawker, eating grainy mustard, and bitching about why everyone else won't clean everything else.

And he also does this thing where he says something really obnoxious and catty like "I don't understand why anybody would watch Desperate Housewives", pauses, and then goes, "are you mad at me?" like asking how his bitchy comments make you feel makes him somehow thoughtful. FYI, just because you're paranoid about being inconsiderate does not make you considerate.

Then there are the little things: like the fact that we are fighting a war of attrition on who should by the next ream of toilet paper, and the fact that he refuses to split the cost of buying a couch from Ikea because it's "ridiculously expensive" but will buy a $200 peacoat from Zara right after work but before going to the store and spending $50 on arugula and Icelandic yogurt.

But more than all of this, it seems like he's just not a great person. He finds himself very intelligent and inquisitive and cool but everything about his life is so contrived and refuses to be disagreed with. To top it all off, he's always saying something shitty about somebody, most of the time, right after they've left the room. Sure, he tells me he's my friend to my face, but who knows what that even means coming from a white and gay person.

Perhaps it's fitting then that last night, he came home from the grocery store fuming, "Can you believe somebody at Giant told me I had no manners?"

I did, but I didn't say anything, because I'm the good roommate.

At Least I'm Still Skinny

I feel ugly today. It's probably because earlier, my dad was like, "You're not that ugly for an Asian, go find a girlfriend already." Also, my mom does this cute thing where every night before she goes to sleep she takes a long look at me and says, "How much weight have you gained today?"

My ugliness has ruined my self esteem, which is why I'm so into self deprecation, which makes guys even less attracted to me, which makes me feel even uglier. The cycle is endless. But actually, there are some times when I feel pretty attractive. Like yesterday I was in the shower at the gym and this guy walked back and forth at least five times staring at me the entire time. At first I was like ew no he is so gross. But then I was like, maybe he wants my number? Then I was like, ew no he is old. But then I was like, maybe he will buy me mozzarella sticks?

Then there are the rare instances where cute white boys are into me. Like my ex bf, but then again that didn't really work out. And who knows if that was true physical attraction or just post adolescent desperation gone horribly, horribly wrong. Now there's the new straight guy. But he hasn't exactly disabled his OKCupid account. And also he lives in NYC. 

I've been going on Manhunt a lot because I have this huge financial accounting exam coming up that I really need to study for. Mostly, I get messaged by a lot of 40 year old men who look like they're 20 years pregnant and guys pretending that they want to play tennis and trying to convince me that that somehow requires I show them my penis first. There were a few promising leads but those turned out to be a 5'2" guy who insisted on watching the new "Planet of the Apes" and an Indian guy who forgets who I am every 24 hours.

My misanthropic views of online dating are this: people decide within 5 seconds whether they want you or not, and it doesn't have anything to do with your cute humor or beautiful personality, it's how you look. I find it really annoying how guys pretend to want to find friends and deeper connections so they can stand on some sort of sexual high ground. But it's not like I've been invited to any Jane Austen book clubs or Liz Lemon worship parties. So either they're lying, or they only want to find friends that they can envision future sex with. And it doesn't matter if you're on any site other than Manhunt that touts the idea of "matches" and "connections." Gay guys don't care if you're a 99% friend match just like straight guys would never actively search out a platonic relationship with Ugly Betty. Men want sex. End of story.

Basically, these sites are built for narcissistic white guys to find guys that make them feel like they're having sex with themselves. (I'm obviously angry, but that sounds pretty hot, no?) "YEAH, I LOVE LICKING ASSHOLES, oh wait? you're Asian? ew no." I guess I can get some satisfaction out of the fact that when these guys get to be 30 they start looking like Peter O'Toole and they're forced to hit on young ethnic minorities because in their delusion they think that's an even match. Future young Asians, exact my revenge.

The more I read this, the more it sounds like a crazed rant. To be honest, I'm a hypocrite for judging. I pretty much dissed and dismissed the short fem guy and the Indian with no crystallized intelligence. But it feels good to let some of the bitterness out once in a while. I'm beginning to realize that the only relationship I'm ever going to have is with this blog. And even then, we only do it once a month.

Runaway Lessee

The first open house I ever went to was for an apartment near Mt. Vernon Square about two blocks away from the convention center. The apartment itself was the third floor of a converted townhouse, no doubt the work of a gay couple from Chevy Chase or Fairfax dabbling in real estate on the side. Everything was pretty and new, down to the roommate, a congressional staffer from the Midwest. He was the embodiment of corn-fed gorgeousness. I listened to his smalltalk halfheartedly, spellbound by his looks and the prospect of seeing him walk around communal areas naked. The room was less impressive. It was windowless and maybe 6x9 with enough room to fit a twin bed and almost nothing else. It kind of reminded me of that scene from Kill Bill where Uma Thurman wakes up inside a coffin. I also thought it was grimy that I would be paying the same price as him while he slept in the spacious master. Drew, the roommate, asked me if I would contact him to follow up. I said I would. I did not.

A few weeks later, I went to another open house in the Chinatown neighborhood. The apartment and room were slightly larger and it was part of a complex with amenities including a gym and a pool. But as soon as I walked into the unit, I knew I wasn't going to live there. It was one of the dirtiest places I've ever seen. There was uneaten and spilled food on the coffee table. Piles of dishes in the sink. Dust and grime on all the furniture. The carpet was discolored and the entire place smelled weird. It was cheap and conveniently located, so he may have been able to sell me on it, but the roommate was blasé during our entire meeting. His face only lit up when our time was over and two blonde girls arrived for the same tour. I seriously doubt any girl would be interested in living with such a dirty person though. He was pathetic, I don't even remember his name. He is a college kid that never grew up, and most likely never will. Mostly, I'm just annoyed that he had the audacity to not clean up before an open house and then act completely nonchalant about it. I didn't call him either. I still see him post ads on Craigslist to this day.

Perhaps the most impressive open house I went to was in a complex in Columbia Heights. The building was beautiful, the apartment was beautiful, the bedroom was beautiful. The roommate was beautiful but something about him seemed off. It may have been his ad, with glittering statements like, "To be in contention you must have enjoyed chugging a 4loco before Chuck Schumer banned them, raging house parties and loud bars. If you're a homebody, this home ain't for you. The unit is somewhat small, so if you are not outgoing and you act like a hermit you will get annoyed and wind up passive aggressive." During the tour, he couldn't stop disparaging poor people, people who eat mac & cheese, and the "Petworth hood." He reminded me a lot of Patrick Bateman, especially when he pointed at his TV and said, "This is my new $1,000 TV." In later emails, he would demand that I reimburse him for all the things he bought.

I told myself to grin and bear it. This is not America's Next Top Best Friend, I just need a place to not be homeless in. Needless to say, we had a confrontation about rent even before signing the lease. He went on this rant about how, "some people wouldn't think it's fair for me to squeeze my life into the den and pay less rent." I was not about to have some brat from Long Island tell me about the unfairness of life, so I called it off.

Sometimes I wonder if I treat this housing search too much like I treat my search for love: impossibly high expectations with too much emotional investment in things that I know won't work out. I'm also a size queen in both regards.

Mama's Boy

One of the most poignant memories from my childhood is from when I was four years old and my father got a rather unexpected call from his ex girlfriend. She was visiting the United States and wanted a ride from the airport. About twenty some odd years earlier, she had broken up with my father, leaving him heartbroken, and one must assume, still the slightest bit in love. My mother flew into a rage. Storming to the basement to retrieve two large, black suitcases. She tossed them onto her bed and began packing clothes. I wandered into the room, asking her where she was going. "Nowhere. I'm trying to scare your father."

Sure enough, he never went to the airport and my parents are still together (for better or for worse).

I have a theory that my eyes and lips were inherited from my mother through nature while my need for love and flair for the dramatic, through nurture. Traumatic events defined my childhood and I became like her in many ways. I fall in love easily and get hurt easily. I recall both of us gasping with giddiness during the dance scene between Harrison Ford and Kelly McGillis and then sobbing uncontrollably when they part ways at the end of the movie. The slightest bit of emotional letdown sends me spinning and I too, take guilty pleasure in "scaring" people back into loving me.

The recent barrage of dates was rather pointless, something my mother would do. An effort to feel something, anything, other than lonely, it was as ill-conceived as TLC's search for a Left-Eye replacement. I found myself comparing each and every guy to him, wondering if I was trading up or trading down. It was unhealthy. And I also discovered that all the guys in DC are really self absorbed; but unlike the self absorbed gays in NYC, they're ugly. And a little bit mentally insane.

I was about to give up on men and relegate myself to dying alone, sexually inactive, and surrounded by cats (which I am allergic to so you can add "with sinus problems" to that depressing list), when I got one last message from OKCupid. I figured I could listen to one more guy tell me I'm cute only to confess, after getting to know me, "Sorry, I have HPV. Bye."

Unfortunately, this guy turned out to be genuine and sweet. The bastard texts me in the morning, apologizing for falling asleep while we were Skyping at 2am. This asshole talks about taking care of me when I'm drunk and listens patiently while I freak out about my "lost" wallet that I drunkenly stuffed into the glove compartment of my car. He has the nerve to worry about me getting home safely after a night out. And like the douchebag that he is, he tells me that thinking about me gets him hard at work.

I could forgive all that shit if it weren't for one thing: he is straight.

Well, he is as straight as a man looking for other men on the internet can be. But he's never done anything with a guy and has only recently developed feelings for men. I mean, he plays lacrosse and drives a Nissan Sentra... what more can I say? Do I know what I'm getting myself into? Probably not. Do I think anything will come of this? Probably not. Do I think he will marry me? I'm not sure. No, like, I actually asked him, and he said, "I'm not sure." 

I sensed he was uncomfortable with my awkward and personal line of questioning, and I was worried that he too, would end up telling me had HPV. So I told him that I was sorry for asking and that we should stop talking because I was having feelings for him that he couldn't reciprocate. He just laughed and said, "I dunno, I'm pretty into you."

A play right out of my mother's book. Worked like a charm.

Haven't Been Date Raped Yet But There's Still Hope

I've been thinking, trying to figure out why Tall Blonde Alcholic broke up with me [for real this time] to spend the last two months of his summer alone before he moves to New Jersey. The obvious occurred to me recently, he doesn't want to spend them alone, he just doesn't want to spend them with you. 

Then my mind drifted to his mouse-y new love interest. I guess he's kind of cute in a Joseph-Gordon-Levitt-I-will-never-age-Peter-Pan sort of way. But I inwardly hope to run into him somewhere in public so I can break him. Sometimes when I'm feeling especially lonely, I wonder if they are together at that very moment, laughing about my pathetic idiocy. I wonder a lot of things about them, but I know that answers to these questions won't quell my pathological interest and will only make things worse.

There was one night I couldn't fall asleep. I kept having short and vivid dreams about TBA in relationships with new people. In the last dream, he was dating a girl named Hannah Ruth and I was so infuriated that I slept with this hot black guy only to find out that he didn't want to be exclusive, which was crushing. When your dreams start to piss you off, you really know that you need to make a few life changes. So I decided to go on a few dates and find a new man. Because you know those losers that whine about how they don't know how to be alone and they need a man to feel fulfilled? Yeah I'm one of them.

Date #1

This was my first real date considering Tall Blonde Alcoholic and I kind of threw ourselves into the relationship immediately since we had already known each other for about six years. I met PR on OKCupid and we found that we had matching eating and body dysmorphic disorders. Somehow, we decided this was enough to meet up. 

He was much cuter than he let on. He had beautiful eyes, light brown hair, and a great butt, but the compliments kind of end there. Throughout the entire date, he talked about his Twitter account and his mom and his personal problems, many of them involving dating other guys. At one point, I had to walk him through how he should approach the cashier at Crumbs that he had a crush on but was ignoring him. Towards the end of the date, I was desperately searching for ways to get out. So I told him it looked like it was going to thunderstorm and he should get back to his place lest he get caught in the rain. My parade, had already been rained on.

Date #2

I met JB on manhunt recently, (yes I exhaust every internet dating option). Originally, he told me he had just gotten into a relationship and that he was looking to develop that. I didn't ask how still being on manhunt was part of the grand scheme of couples development and just assumed he was lying. Less than a week later, he messaged me telling me he liked my profile and thought we should meet up. This more or less confirmed he was lying and also that he was kind of dumb for not remembering who I was. But I agreed because he's totally an otter and I'm kind of into that in a weird, self-destructive way.

Since he is one of those happy to be alive gays with supportive parents and a job in human rights, I couldn't really tell if he was having a good time or not because there was a permanent, idiotic smile plastered across his face. I, on the other hand, felt really awkward. He was kind of high strung, (an otter on speed), and he kept talking about being gay in a triumphant and pretentiously intellectual way. During the middle of the date, he literally yelled "I am gay!" in Chinese inside a Chinese restaurant. He is white.

After lunch he basically ran off to meet another friend. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to take this as, "I am a super busy, popular person," or "this is me dismissing you immediately," but I was super relieved to have it be over. I can only stomach so much awkwardness in one day before the pain becomes visceral.

Later that night, he sent me this, "Although I don't feel we have chemistry in the sexual or romantic sense, I enjoyed lunch and I wish you the best of luck in both your personal and professional pursuits."

This was annoying because I had just assumed we were going to ignore each other and pretend the date had never happened. How is he the one to tell me that I didn't exude a sexual attractiveness? YOU EAT LIKE A HOMELESS PERSON AND NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR FORMER BISEXUALITY. So it's settled. You can go shave your back hair now.

Date #3

My date with CM has yet to occur but it appears to be the most promising. He is 6'3" and blonde and super cute and already calls me "babe," which I LURVE. He sent me this extremely serious text confessing that he is kind of a fanboy and into KPop. I thought to myself, this is perfect; people mistake me for a Korean all the time. But nothing is perfect; he lives in Virginia and I'm in Maryland. Also, he'll go days without saying anything to me and then randomly he'll send me a "Good night babe :)" text. I can't tell if he's seriously interested or not. I really don't know how men work, but of course you all know this by now.

Time To Reactivate Manhunt

I don't know if I have the clear mind to write about what has just happened but a vague and angsty twitter comment pretty much obligates me to write a follow up post.

In my sophomore year of college, one of my roommates taught me how to hack passwords on a computer. Giving this kind of power to a person with not one, but two True Life ailments ["I have trust issues." and "I'm addicted to social media."] is similar to giving an addict a brick of cocaine the size of the Pyramid at Giza.

I don't know what possessed me to check up on Tall Blonde Alcoholic's Facebook but it probably had something to do with the fact that he has seemed distant in our conversations while I've been in Europe and I wanted to know what was going on in his life. You can choose to read this as: I'm a creepy, jealous stalker that wants to make sure somebody I'm not even "with" isn't "with" somebody else.

It's a strange sensation to find something you are looking for but inwardly didn't want to exist. In my case, I found a string of messages between him and another guy. They talk about exchanging numbers and dinner dates and catching up as soon as he gets back, (coincidentally he is also in Europe). Tall Blonde Alcoholic sends him messages full of flirty smiley faces about how he will be totally free to hang out and look at his "cute pictures." Reading the excitement in his words to start something new with somebody else makes me feel hurt. He used to talk to me that way.

Side note: Tall Blonde Alcoholic met this new guy at a party that we both went to. I left early. On the way out, I was casually involved in a fight with this new guy and his two fag hags. Hopefully this is one of those funny coincidences that I can look back on and laugh about...

In some sense, I can't complain because we are not technically together. And what do I know about social propriety, I hack Facebook accounts. Regardless, I feel like a fool who has been holding onto nothing while he has been making plans otherwise for quite some time now.

The vengeful beast in me would like to do something to retaliate but the most I can do is to stop speaking to him; which only gives him an even more perfect opportunity to move on with his new guy. But callousness and being neurotic (dad's side, mom's side, inherited respectively) is probably what got me to this point to begin with. And I'm pretty sure that finding out about all of this is only going to further my emotional hangups. So maybe I should take a different route in dealing with this. Thus far, nothing comes to mind except the occasional fantasy of shoving them both off of a cliff.

Just a few hours ago, I thought that I would go home at the end of the week and spend two months with a person that I loved and I thought loved me. Now, my mind is filled with strange and morbid thoughts about the nonexistence of true love and how anybody can wake up one day and decide they don't love you anymore. I wonder if he will think of me when he takes his new guy to the places we used to go to and does the things we used to do. I wonder if his new relationship will mean more to him than the last. And I wonder if the new guy will be better for him than I was. My life has devolved into an Alanis Morissette song.

I don't really have any regrets about what I did. My moral compass may be seriously misguided but I believe snooping around is only wrong if you don't find anything. I certainly deserved to know about this, one way or another. This may be a good way for me to get the final push to let go. For the past six months I've been that idiot girl trapped in a Lifetime movie who just doesn't get that her relationship is doomed to fail. In some ways, I kept caring about us because I thought he cared too. So if ever there was an indication that things would not work out, I think this is it.

Oh, Hey Losers

I haven't been on here in a while. I actually forgot my password. I've been really busy with emotional lapses and losing 30 lbs. Also, I feel utterly incapable of stringing together one long and thoughtful post, so I will present a series of vignettes.

I graduated. All during college I had this lurking fear that I would snap unexpectedly and become incapable of going to class or studying and I would have to drop out and be the new homeless man, (as if there is only one), on the corner of H and 7th street. That didn't happen. Graduation was decidedly anticlimactic, the proverbial kthnxbye moment. The nostalgia is inside of me though and it will probably hit me in a massive wave while I'm riding the Metro and I will just start bawling in front of everyone who is on the train between Columbia Heights and National Archives.

I went to New York City this past weekend. I met up with an old family friend that I hadn't seen in ten years. He turned out to be flamboyantly gay (hence, living in Manhattan). He took me to a "club" that turned out to be emphatically gay. This was kind of awkward because I had to act nonchalant about the 360 degree views of exposed penises. His gay friend hit on me the entire night. He kept commenting on my lips and at one point told me he was imagining my lips in dirty places. I didn't really know how to react to that so I just took his comment "as is" and applied some chapstick.

My boss at my old job used to write me really mean emails telling me how inept and fat I was. Then she would end every message with a :) as if that was an appropriate substitute for social propriety. I kind of miss that about working in an office. I finally got a job. It's in DC so thank god I don't have to come up with a new name for this blog. Starting September 15 you can expect the bulk of my posts to be about how work is slowly draining my soul.

On Monday, I'm going to Europe for a month. I fly into London and fly out of Athens (LP <3) and will be visiting 13 countries in between. I bought tickets for the French Open but I'm scared of French people and I'm worried that I'll get beaten up and robbed on the metro while local Parisians watch, laugh, and ridicule my clothes. So I'm looking forward to that with equal parts excitement and extreme worry.

I'm still seeing Tall Blonde Alcoholic. Our relationship has taken on a strangely cyclical pattern where we fight about how he doesn't love me, we get drunk, I end up in bed with him, and I wake up and eat something really oily and dense. And then we do it all over again. He is going to Princeton in the fall. It's kind of depressing to think that one of these days my go-to melodramatic drunk rant, "Goodbye, I will never see you ever again" is actually going to stick.

I feel like every aspect of my life is changing and I am in a constant state of free fall. While I look forward to Europe, and upon my return, my new life as a young professional in DC, I worry about the uncertainty of it all and I wonder if reality will meet my conservatively low expectations. Like a book I don't want to end, I cling desperately to the last few pages of college life, not wanting to say goodbye to the familiar characters yet. Who, if anyone, is going to be a part of the next chapter in my life? Should I make an okcupid account?

I have a friend who graduated one year early to start working. She came home for the weekend and I met up with her for lunch today at New Big Wong in Chinatown. Talking to her made me feel like no time had passed at all since high school, giving me hope that the connections we make with real friends will last. But undoubtedly, she has changed, now a part of the corporate world and with a new boyfriend who leaves messages for her in the morning by putting blueberries on her laptop keyboard.

The Best Stuff Happens To Me When I Wear V Necks

Out of the three people in my sophomore year triple, Chris Colfer was definitely the most flamboyant. He also had the voice of a wattled crane. So everyone kind of suspected that he was gay and it was funny and sort of awkward that the other two roommates were actually the ones having sex with each other. Chris Colfer assured everyone he was straight and I was pretty much convinced. I assumed he was one of those guys that likes musical theater and vagina at the same time. Well, not the exact same time.

So I'm at my roommate's party [not the one I was casually having sex with, the other one] in my blue v neck. I don't know anybody there so I went straight to the kitchen to "do my thing" aka take shots of vodka and chase with water. The vodka is blue, so it's like, meant to be.

Chris Colfer says he has to tell me something and pulls me into a closet [ironic]. At this point, I am standing in a dark closet with a flamboyant junior with an entire party watching from the outside and I am wearing a blue v neck. And then he leans in to kiss me. I'm not sure if I expected this and went into the closet just to confirm my suspicions and flatter myself. But I'm not interested at all; I prefer the Darren Criss type. So I turn my face away and ask, "So what do you wanna talk about..."

"I think I'm in love with you."

This is the first time I've seen Chris Colfer in two years. So either his love grew from afar or maybe he was sitting on this bomb for the past two years or maybe he was just trying to feed me lies to get me to sleep with him. Regardless, I wanted to kill myself. This was the worst closet I've ever been in, hands down. I manage to respond with a feeble, "Thanks. But I'm one of those guys that likes Mariah Carey and vagina at the same time."

So I tell him I have to go to the bathroom but go to his room instead. I close the door, open the window, and leave.

In case you're keeping track, this means all three of the guys living in my sophomore triple were/are gay.

Nothing Tastes As Good As Cam Gigandet Feels

I am good at doing two things.

I am really really good at pouring the exact right amount of water into a rice cooker on the first try. This helped me in AP chemistry and Orgo to a certain extent. Mostly it helps me make really really good mixed drinks.

I am also really really good at losing weight fast. One time when I was 13, I got pneumonia and lost 15 pounds in two weeks because the only thing I ate the entire time was a clementine. When I came back to school, my friends formed a group and went to the counselor because they were worried that I was anorexic. To this day, the thought that somebody would believe that I was anorexic still flatters me and makes me smile.

My crash-break-up-crash-diet comes pretty close. So far, I've lost 17 pounds in three weeks. I don't know if it's the euphoria of being skinny or the lack of nutrients reaching my brain, but I am swooning with satisfaction.

Before you point your finger and warn me about the perils of depression, realize that is not the case here. Usually when I'm depressed I eat a ton of Chinese takeout, lie absolutely motionless in bed, and watch America's Next Top Model marathons for DAYS. Wendy from Shanghai Cafe and Tyra Banks are literally my therapists. So I don't really know what the motivation for this sudden weight loss is. My parents think it's because I have a new girlfriend, *giggle*. But I just want to look good. Mostly, to win over a new boyfriend. (Cam Gigandet, if you are reading this, I'm available.) Subconsciously, I'm sure, to get the old one back. 

On top of the diet, I've also been going to the gym 5-6 times a week. Mostly, to build muscle. Subconsciously, I'm sure, to snare a bro. The second part hasn't really worked. Gay college guys don't go to the gyms. They are still "figuring themselves out" or whatever.

Side Note: On every single treadmill there is a little red sign warning about "Exercise Bulimia" because February was National Eating Disorder Month and nobody bothered to take them off.

Working out to purge a meal? Check
Working out more than 45 minutes more than 5 times a week? Check
Exercising instead of spending time with friends? Check
Feeling guilty for not working out? Check

I was at a bar last week, dancing my heart out, when one of those "happy to be alive" gays with those really broad smiles that reveal all 32 teeth came up to me and told me I was a really good dancer. Then he just stood there, expecting me to give him a lapdance for telling me something I already know. I said, "My girlfriend thinks so too," and I pointed to an Asian girl in the crowd that I've never met before.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I didn't look terrible to begin with and I've found most of the changes have been subtle. But considering how vain and narcissistic gay people are, it has definitely made a difference. Even so, the new found attention doesn't give me the satisfaction that I thought it would. I still feel as if no matter what I look like, it will never be enough. And I will eternally have another 17 pounds to go.

I Don't Eat Solid Food, I'm Single Again

One of the worst parts of ending a secret relationship is when people who kind of knew about the both of us all along ask, "Why isn't Tall Blonde Alcoholic here with you?" I have to come up with a way of saying, "I don't know what he's up to and I don't give a fuck," without sounding too vitriolic.

I also have to suppress the urge to tell people how idiotic I feel. For the past six months, I've been taken for granted while he chased memories of his friends from his summer internship and made new friends outside of our circle. I was the one left alone all the times he felt like he'd rather be with his engineering friends. I sat in my room alone the night of our one-year anniversary because he was doing an assignment he had procrastinated on for a week. He didn't even make any effort to see me on his birthday, opting to go to a friend's friend's apartment instead and asking me if wanted to tag along.

Meanwhile, he and his gay summer roommate who lives in Miami have the same profile picture of the two of them together. His spring break plans, which I was conveniently not included in, happened to put him in, not only Miami, but in his gay summer roommate's apartment. If that wasn't enough, I distinctly remember a text from the gay summer roommate asking him, "Are you gay?" And I'm pretty sure that, "because I want to have sex," was where that conversation was going. I suppose I will never understand his desire for his gay summer roommate, who lives thousands of miles away, to keep him warm at night when I was in front of his face all this time. But they are both moving to the same area in New Jersey next year. So that question more or less resolves itself.

My belief is that if he really wanted our relationship to work he could have put forth the effort. But he couldn't, and more importantly, he didn't want to. I've spent weeks considering how I was going to tiptoe around discussing the breakup so as to not make myself seem like a self-absorbed and embittered victim. But I honestly consider the demise of our relationship less my failure than his. Either he was too spineless to tell me he didn't love me or he was too selfish to care about anybody's happiness but his own. 

But the unbearable unfairness sets in when I realize that all his shit ends up placing him in a position to move on, finally do what he wants to do, and be with the people he wants to be with. And I, the one who is theoretically better off without him, am the one who is alone, without anywhere to go on spring break.

I would liken being single again after a long relationship to going through physical therapy. More than not enjoying being alone, I don't know how to be alone. I feel like I have to relearn how to function without the constant companionship and support of another person. For the most part, I've grown accustomed to eating alone in my apartment. I've accepted only being able to share my witty comments to my pathetic followers on Twitter. [Just kidding. I love you all. Follow me here, here, and here.] The one thing I have yet to get used to is lying alone in bed at night. That is when I feel the most lonely, exposed, and vulnerable to the girl from The Ring. 

Previously, three days of debilitating loneliness was my limit and I inevitably went crawling back [I did this twice] under the false hope that things would be different [they never were]. This time, instead of waiting for him to change, I think it's time for me to change. This is the part where I flip my curly, blonde hair back and walk down the streets of Manhattan, alone yet triumphant a la Carrie Bradshaw. In reality, this will probably involve more, "Table for one, please," and spending Friday nights rabidly refreshing my Twitter page. The triumphant and liberating feelings have yet to materialize. 

After all this, I still feel like there is more to say, but I can't put into words how crushing it feels to listen to him tell me that I'm not worth the effort when I see him doing it for other people all the time. The most painful aspect is that he was the best thing I've ever had; having him made me feel lucky despite my otherwise shitty life. But he ended up disappointing me more than anybody ever has before.

I never thought I'd be in this position during the last semester of college. As time runs out, I feel like all the pieces of my life are falling away, leaving me without any plan for the future, without anybody to turn to, and without an understanding of who I am anymore.

My Job Is Unhealthy On Several Levels

Before Julie Powell made awkward obsessions with cooking and lesbian haircuts trendy, I was a foodie with a lesbian haircut. Listening to everyone talk about "depth of flavor" and "herbaceousness" now makes me want to vomit. That's my niche

I got a job in a restaurant kitchen two years ago. This was equal parts me trying to pursue my culinary dreams and me trying to spite my parents for wanting me to become a doctor or supreme court justice or engineer or accountant or drug addict or teacher or nurse or chef, in that order.

But I had a romanticized vision of what working in a kitchen would be like and I didn't know what I was getting myself into. 

1) Nobody uses copper pans or wears toques. Maybe they do in Le Bernadin or in France.

2) Nobody actually knows how to cook. 

3) Cooking the same thing every single day turns your brain into red-skinned mashed potatoes.

All of this is fine, I couldn't care less about toques and my brain. And the fact that nobody knows how to cook actually works to my benefit because I was promoted after a few months to a sous. Now, I mostly stand there like a limp noodle and boss people around.

The real issues I have with my job are:

A) It makes me fat.

When you're surrounded by food all day and it's all free and it's all made with massive quantities of butter, it's really hard to maintain my incredible, supermodel figure.

B) It makes me a massive bitch.

One time a perpetually irritable waitress forgot to put in an order for an 8-person table and would not stop complaining about how long her food was taking as if none of this was her fault. I pointed to the door and told her to "Get the fuck out of my kitchen." This was wrong on my part. I should have said, "Get the fuck out of the kitchen," lest I let all this power get to my head.

Recently, one of the cooks was working extremely slowly and decided to strike up a conversation about indie rock instead. I asked another cook to take his place and he responded, "Why don't you worry about yourself." I turned around, pointed my finger at his face, and said, "Watch the way you talk to me," and turned back around. I'm pretty sure he is going to quit soon. Then again, so am I.

My Presence Is A Present, Kiss My Ass

Over the years I've developed this strange sense of humor where I insult myself viciously and then wait nervously for others to laugh. Some of my go-to comments are telling people I got a 600 on the SATs and that I have the upper body strength of Suri Cruise. I do this because, ONE: it makes people more comfortable than being obnoxiously pretentious and TWO: when people's expectations are sufficiently lowered, you can only impress them. This is also probably some deep rooted response to my parents' insulting. I definitely feel the need to put myself down before anybody else has the opportunity to.

This post is going to be different because I feel like I've adequately trashed your views of me so now I am going to impress you with an accurate and honest and true description of myself.

1. I have an incredible body.

I talk shit about my body a lot. I usually do this in real life to fish for comments like, "If you lost 20 pounds you would die," or "No your head definitely does not look like an egg." Last week I was driving in my car, singing along to the Glee version of Total Eclipse of the Heart when the thought hit me: my blog readers have never actually seen me so they really do believe that I am the fattest person in the entire world. Let me tell you that I'm not fat. I am six feet tall and have a 32 inch waist. Ok, I am fat. But I'm not Khloe Kardashian fat. I am Matt Damon in Ocean's 13 fat.This is more than you ever needed to know.

2. I am not faggy.

The only reason I was listening to Glee songs was because I was alone in the car and all the heavy metal / grunge rock radio stations were on commercial breaks.

3. I am athletic.

I play tennis very well. Sometimes my boyfriend, who's never really played before, beats me. But that's because he is tall and has that weird white-person natural athletic ability. But seriously, I am good. No, tennis is not a gay sport.

4. I have a boyfriend.

I had this phase a while back where every single post was about my debilitating loneliness. I wrote once about how I refused to believe that the world could end in 2012 before I ever had a boyfriend. Somebody commented, "If the world can't end before you have a boyfriend, I think we're all safe. Indefinitely."

Well the joke is on all of you because I have a boyfriend AND he is white AND he is masculine AND he is cute AND he has a huge dick AND he doesn't think I am mentally insane. Well, he probably does, but he hasn't brought up any concerns yet.

5. I am smart.

I got a 2330 on my SATs. 

So yeah, my life is perfect and you should absolutely envy me. I should be the example showing everyone that gays can make it in this world. I should have my O.W.N. show. I would call it, "Beautiful Dinosaur" and I would cast Alex Pettyfer as myself because we are basically twins with the same body type.

One of These Days I'll Write Something Inspirational

I used to be scared of revealing too much on here because I was worried that a random internet passerby would recognize the details of my life and discover that I am gay. I realize now that this is retarded. First of all, what are the odds that one of the 70 (I am being generous) out of 7 billion people that read this blog would know me? Unlike my waist: slim. Also, everyone knows I am gay anyway. I've pretty much made a name for myself as the boy who looks at gay porn during class. (See previous post).

The only thing holding me back now is that fact that I don't like the way I sound when I write honestly. Though I've written off the "closeted-frat-jock-blogs" of beautiful white boys for their lack of complexity and the very real possibility that they are just a facade for middle-aged, overweight pedophiles, I cannot deny that that I secretly wish I could write a "closeted-frat-jock-blog" of my own. I don't want people to sympathize over my imperfections. I want somebody to admire and lust after me the way I admire and lust after them. Him.

Though I am stubborn, I am a realist. And since plastic surgery is expensive and my bicep muscles are not materializing, I might as well spill my guts and beg you all afterwords to love me the way I am.

An obligatory post of a typical "closeted-frat-jock-blog" is the one where he comes out to his family and they have a meltdown for 15 minutes and then go back to loving him and showering him with words like "you will always be my son" and "we will love you no matter what." Then one of the parents goes, "You know, I always kind of knew!" Everyone laughs. A sigh of relief is breathed and the next day everyone eats pancakes for breakfast.

Recently I've been encouraged, and at times pushed, to come out by blog readers who have never met me but swear they have a unique insight into my life. I mean, seriously, I'm twenty-two, it is time to step up and live life honestly. If 15 minutes of pain is all it takes for a lifetime of clear conscience, why not?

One of my earliest memories was getting my first B in second grade reading. When I told my mother she got this grave look on her face. She told me how disappointed this made her and how scared she was to tell our father. I pleaded with her to keep it our secret but she insisted that she had to tell him. This logic was lost on me. When my father found out he pulled out a plastic hanger from the closet, beat me with it until it broke and locked me in a dark room.

The next day, a Saturday, I woke up to find a stack of reading comprehension books ranging from second grade to fifth grade levels. I was to get through all the books and become the best reader in my entire class if I ever wanted to see the outside world again. It took me one week, sitting alone in the dining room to get through it. To be fair, I did become the best in the class and I'm pretty sure the existence of this blog is owed to my deep understanding of parallel sentence structure and dangling modifiers.

But the real lesson learned that weekend was that my parents took my failures personally. Anything I did wrong cast doubts on their parenting ability and they couldn't stand to be perceived as incapable parents. They always say that they sacrificed everything so that I could have a better life. To this day, I am not quite clear what "everything" means: an acclaimed career in ballet. Regardless, not succeeding would represent a complete waste on their part. They could not bear the thought of knowing that they not only failed in their own lives but continued to fail through their children. And if I couldn't make them proud through my actions and abilities, they would bend me by force.

So after taking a failure like getting a B in second grade reading and scaling it up to failure like being gay, I would expect my mother to tell me that my disappointments will cause my grandfather to die. My father will  warn me that nobody in the extended family can ever find out about me. My mother will cry and ask me why I want to ruin the family name and how everyone is going to blame her for giving birth to a bad son. My father will tell me that I should never show my face ever again.

As far as I'm concerned, it would be poor planning to come out now. I mean, I'm still on the family cell phone plan. How awful would it be to declare emotional and sexual independence while still being a child in all other respects. Any sense of relief I get would be offset by the fact that I no longer have a place to call home or a family to speak to... and a phone to speak on.

My current plan is to graduate, get a job, get my own phone plan, adopt a dog, accrue a 500 mile distance from my parents and then come out over the phone (Facetime if I'm feeling particularly brave). I will still be able to witness the mushroom cloud from the explosion of their moods, but at least I will be at a safe distance and I will know that my dog still loves me and my physical world will not collapse around me. And if they don't let me come home for Christmas, I won't care because I was planning on visiting London Preppy anyway.

Needless to say, I'm conflicted by all this. I'm worried about scaring depressed gay middle schoolers, but this is my realistic not-jock-frat-white-liberal view. It is foolish and reckless to think that every parent will react to a gay son the same, positive way. My parents will not console and support me like yours did or most likely will. They will shame me and try to change me.  

Come out if you want, but know that sometimes it doesn't get better. Sometimes you come out and your mother cries for the rest of her life. And when you tell your father, he'll put you right back into that dark room.

Baby Jesus Was Wrapped In A Holborn Trench

I've been home on break and my mother has been unloading all the feelings about me she's been holding in since summer. She tells me I've gotten way too fat, I've failed this family by not having a job offer yet, and that I am a 7. Then she shoves a porkchop down my throat and tells me she loves me.

I got a trench coat for Christmas. I tried it on and my parents both agreed that I looked like an overstuffed sausage. I went to J.Crew to exchange it. Conversation is as follows:

Me: I got this trench in medium as a gift but I think it might be too small and I'd like to exchange it.

Worker: Put it on. Let me see.

Me:  :(

Worker: I think it looks fine. I mean, you are right at the cusp.

Me: Of being fat and skinny? :)

Worker: [no response]

Me: Maybe this will be motivation to lose some weight! :)

Worker: [no response]

Me: :(

Worker: You will have to go to Tysons Corner. That's the only place they have a size large [enough for you].

I wander around J. Crew in Tysons Corner looking for a larger casing for my sausage meat when this gorgeous prepster-chic worker comes up to me. He has beautiful up-swept brown hair and skinny jeans and a polka dotted bow-tie. He looks like a cross between Topher Grace and Pleakley from Lilo & Stitch. 

Me: narm narm narm narm narm.

Topher Grace / Pleakley: What kind of trench was it?

Me: narm?

Topher Grace / Pleakley: Was it this one right here? I believe we have a large.

I repossess my composure after stumbling all over my words and revealing that I am too fat for a medium by making jokes about my body.

Topher Grace / Pleakley: How does it fit?

Me: It's weird because I have absolutely no pecs and a big stomach.

Topher Grace / Pleakley: [backs away slowly]

Now he is convinced that my physical deformities are coupled with mental ones.

Topher Grace / Pleakley: Many of my clients prefer the slimmer silhouette and it looks like it fits your shoulders well. It's really only meant as a shell anyway.

Now it feels like he is Rachel Zoe trying to dress Gabourey Sidibe,

I grab the large, telling him that I am more likely to get fatter than get skinnier and stomp off. He doesn't get my pain. He doesn't sympathize. 

I am a small at Lacoste.