DC Cised

"I Like Having Too Many Friends"

2012-01-19T12:34:00.001-05:00

I have a lot to say; I always do. I just feel so emotionally-exhausted that I dont know if I have the words in me these days. I'm also regular-exhausted. I have this free 3 [consecutive] day pass at the WSC but everytime I go there's a new receptionist who perpetually thinks it's my second day. I've gone 5 days in a row now. I can't feel my arms.

The picture of complete and utter loneliness that I paint around myself is not entirely true. My situation could be worse. I could be a black, lesbian Jew - I could be Aneesa from Real World Chicago. But I've done ok, working with what I've got, in the district of desperation and dismissiveness. I go on a steady stream of dates, (I'd say an average of 3 first dates a week). I went on three last Thursday alone. The problem is these dates almost always end with, "I'd be cool with messing around, but let's just be friends."

Now I don't know about YOU guys, but I don't give handjobs to my friends on the Metro. So my general reaction to these overtures is something biting like, "THIS IS NOT AMERICA'S NEXT TOP BEST FRIEND." It's insulting to be told you aren't qualified for the upper echelon of dateable guys; what about me isn't good enough for them? Since I'm dating exclusively white guys, it kinda puts me right back in San Francisco in the mid 1800s, "You're ugly. Go build me a railroad."

Somebody on OKCupid put it perfectly when he said gay guys no longer form relationships via their daily lives. Everyone's on an online website or on Grindr where the pool is seemingly limitless. They make split-second judgements without making the effort to observe any other personal qualities. In doing so, "the perfect guy" is potentially bypassed for a "total babe" who is a total nightmare. This guy is either a genius or as pathetic as I am. Perhaps both.

Ok, so let's say I get why people wouldn't necessarily want to be with me. The larger problem I'm wrestling with is its effect on me. Why does it matter? Why can't I be like the rest of these bumbling idiots, content with going on an endless string of first dates until Mr. Perfect falls right into my lap? How come I can't stick my toe into the pool without falling in and drowning?

The truth is, I notice problems with every guy I date too. Mr. Thursday was slightly effeminite, mildly arrogant, and a Republican. Mr. Friday was selfish, awkward, and had this really consicupous stain on his front tooth. Red head #1 was immature, transient, and looked like a dinosaur. Thor was Icelandic.

The difference between me and all the other men is that I search inwardly for ways I can make a relationship with an otherwise imperfect person, perfect. They, on the other hand, only look for reasons why it won't work and treat each one as a dealbreaker. Maybe it's only fed by desperation, but I feel for people, imperfections et al. White people only care about themselves - finding somebody to satisfy their needs. And so the real question becomes: is it worse to settle with somebody or grow old with nobody?

I suppose the verbiage is still in me, I just have to dig a little deeper these days.

Reflections, Regrets, Resolutions

2012-01-05T21:04:00.004-05:00

I've been thinking a lot about time lately. The holidays provide the perfect backdrop for my temporal affective disorder. The one, two, three combination of Christmas, New Years, and my birthday are relentless. They simultaneously remind me of how quickly the last year has passed and how slowly the time ahead of me seems to move. They emphasize how desperation can stretch for months onto a year and happiness can only last for a day, and in some cases, just a few seconds.

Christmas as a young adult is always letdown. The traditions I remember from my childhood have all been abandoned and family togetherness is contrived- merely an excuse for my parents to get me in a room with them and warn me against dating anything but an Asian girl. My sister somehow escaped this purgatory. It turns out San Francisco is just out of arm's reach. I should move there.

My parents and I went to Great Falls on the Potomac on Christmas day. Standing on the bridge above the gushing rapids, my father felt the need to unload some philosophical musings about how time is like water: it seems never ending but the water you see right now will be gone in a moment and you will never see it again. This was depressing. Then my mom made a comment about how if I ever abandon or disappoint her, she is going to jump into the falls headfirst. "How about if I jump instead," I bargained in my head.

New Years was less of a downer. I went to New York City this year; its frenetic pace and the masses of unfamiliar faces helped me forget about my "DC problems" for a few days. Also, I imagined myself as Michael Fassbender in Shame. That was fun.

New Years Eve, at around 11pm, I text a guy that I'm seeing to wish him a happy New Year. He texts back, asking me what I'm up to. Turns out we are both in NYC, both in East Village. He doesn't want to meet up. The ball drops. And then I go home.

Birthdays are especially hard. I spend the entire year building up immense expectations that this is the one day out of the year that the people I care about will want to make me happy, that the universe will somehow allow everything to go my way, that I will feel loved. Not so. I worked all day, went to dinner with my mom (apparently after not receiving a text from this cute guy that wanted to buy me dinner- not sure if I believe him when he says this now), went home, watched Modern Family, went to bed. I don't even like Modern Family. The only thing more disappointing about the actual day is the fact that I have to wait a whole year to experience it again.

At the moment, I don't know how to feel about time. In some respects, it moves too quickly and I feel like every part of my life is out of control. In other respects, it moves too slowly and I feel like there's no passion, no excitement, nothing to live for.

In the new year, and my 23rd year of life, I've made the resolution to let go of everything behind me and strive to be a better, happier person. But aside from waking up earlier, eating less meat (interpret this however you want), and investing more in my 401k, I don't exactly have any fabulous ideas that will make me the cute, upbeat, loveable guy that I want to be. More importantly, I wonder if change really is easier to achieve now, when the "new year" concept is just an overblown celebration of the arbitrarily selected Julian calendar. WHAT DO THE ROMANS KNOW ABOUT MY LOVE LIFE?

Maybe my dad was right. Perhaps true happiness exists only for a moment in time, and when that time passes, it's gone forever.

Can We Take Today Off the Calendar Please

2011-11-29T23:28:00.004-05:00

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

2011-11-04T07:40:00.004-04:00

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

2011-10-26T23:33:00.003-04:00

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

2011-10-16T23:47:00.007-04:00

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

2011-08-19T01:07:00.006-04:00

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

2011-07-24T17:46:00.003-04:00

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

2011-07-19T03:24:00.006-04:00

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

2011-07-04T13:31:00.009-04:00

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

2011-06-20T20:40:00.026-04:00

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

2011-05-29T00:20:00.002-04:00

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

2011-04-08T12:49:00.002-04:00

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

2011-03-24T17:45:00.003-04:00

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

2011-03-10T01:49:00.016-05:00

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

2011-02-18T17:31:00.004-05:00

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

2011-01-14T21:16:00.016-05:00

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

2011-01-09T17:36:00.005-05:00

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

2011-01-06T03:17:00.008-05:00

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.

A Gaffe To End All Gaffes

2010-12-04T17:21:00.006-05:00

I diagnosed myself with ADHD after it was featured in an issue of Time and I crossed off all the symptoms on the checklist provided. I had considered getting a prescription for adderall but after bringing it up with my parents, they told me that only white people needed drugs to do well in school.

I didn't pay attention to the rest of my father's speech but the gist was this: If I couldn't focus in calculus without the aid of amphetamines, I would have to take this personal failure in stride and somehow live with myself for getting a B and shaming the family name.

In college I discovered the miracle of using my laptop during class. This actually did nothing to help me focus but at least I wasn't falling asleep in the middle of a lecture hall with my mouth open.

In fact, using a laptop only worsened my ADHD. I overstimulated my mind with sporcle quizzes and now I am completely dependent on them to stay awake. Without the adrenaline rush from trying to remember all the capitals of Africa in under 6 minutes, I feel impossibly bored and physically stifled, like my brain had become a black hole sucking every powerpoint presentation into a dark dimension and the intense gravitational pull was forcing my eyelids to close.

THE TRUTH IS I could have paid attention in my banking class. The topics are semi-interesting (somewhere between naked male celebs and the Huffington Post) and this is the field where I'm half-heartedly trying to get a job. But I stopped caring about all that after the first day when the cute boy sitting in front of me suddenly started to look like Paul Walker and then I HAD to Google all the films Paul Walker has been in.

Sometimes I will do things on my laptop so I feel like my lack of focus is in the name of productivity. Answer all my emails. Pay all my rent. Clean up ALL THE desktop icons. So last Monday, I was taking pictures from my desktop that I had made for the last post and putting them in my "Super Secret Blog Folder." I was dragging images carefully one at a time to the top of the folder because the pictures at the bottom of the folder are porn. After dragging the last picture, the folder miraculously scrolled down to the bottom, revealing naked pictures of Paul Donahoe and a huge penis next to a bottle of Powerade.

It was only open for a second but I was sitting in the second row (behind Paul Walker) so pretty much everyone in the class (minus Paul Walker) probably saw it. And the issue isn't so much that I am annoyed that everyone in he classroom knows that I am gay, it's the fact that they all know I am obsessed with gay porn. Subtle, I know, yet important.

Two days later I had a presentation in that class about asset-backed securities. Inwardly, I was terrified that somebody would ask me a question at the end like, "Why do you have gay porn on your computer?" or "Are you a top or a bottom?"

They never did.

I'm not going to bring my laptop to class anymore. It would be impossible for me to focus on surfing the internet while thinking about all the people behind me who know about my wrestler/large penis fetish.

Thanksgiving

2010-11-28T18:40:00.013-05:00

Thanksgiving is always an emotional apocalypse for me. First, I have to deal with the flurry of media portraying perfect families throwing footballs, roasting perfectly browned turkeys, and sitting around the table being thankful for nothing but each others' company. I don't think I've ever thrown a football with my dad in my entire life. Our turkeys usually come out the color of Snooki's left breast. And my family mostly sits around the Thanksgiving table listing all our resentments silently in our head.

This year, we had company via several people from Taiwan that I barely know. People in Taiwan don't even know what a turkey is, much less Thanksgiving. They only participate because of the prospect of going to the Coach outlets at midnight. One bitch sniffed everything before she put it on her plate. She made it to the top of my silent resentment list this year.

Normal families are on their best behavior when company is around. My family does not understand this concept of keeping bones in the closet, not hanging our dirty laundry, etc., etc. In fact, the ice wine that company brings only serves as an uncorker for the mayhem that ensues.

My adorable mother complains that I have not cooked any Chinese food for our Asian guests so she plots to make a batch of last minute eggrolls. As she is being spattered by hot oil she complains about how she has to do everything around here. She collapses on a pile on the ground, claiming that nobody loves her.

My father, who doesn't really know how to be funny around mixed company without insulting me begins by asking repeatedly, "This is all the food you made despite cooking all day?" Actually, his words were, "Cook day all make only this?" At the dinner table, he interrupts the silence to make sarcastic remarks about how I will never graduate or find a job. Then he gets drunk and starts calling me "Iron Chef" and demands that I list every single ingredient in every dish to our guests.

Then he takes a skeptical look at the food and says that this would have been a good dessert if things like cake did not exist.

I've been spending the day recovering. Here is a breakdown of my hours.

Thanksgiving is also a trying time because it is especially difficult to be a closeted gay son. "No, I don't want to talk about college football." "No, I don't have a girlfriend." "Oh, the untitled 2010 Meryl Streep project? Let's discuss." It's only a matter of time before my quirkiness becomes blatant homosexual tendencies. So I'm not really sure how many more Thanksgivings I will have before the ultimate family meltdown occurs and the only thing I can do to escape is to hide in the cavity of the turkey itself.

Indeed, Thanksgiving always gets me thinking about family. And despite my efforts to lie at every turn and maintain the archetypal perfect son facade, my family is still hanging together by just a thread. So I wonder what would happen if I came out. At which point, I concede that the utter absurdity of Thanksgiving at my family's house is still a little better than Thanksgiving alone.

Are You There Citigroup? It's Me, Margaret.

2010-11-23T04:45:00.003-05:00

There's no better time to post when people start having conversations through their comments demanding it. I also have this new rule where I don't post something new until the last post receives at least NINE comments so really this is a perfect storm.

Normally I would be asleep by this hour but I am lying in bed, wide-eyed and worried that my life has not and will continue to not turn out as I expect. I am a senior in the school of business with no job offer. Liken this to being the Last of the Mohicans or a wild, three-headed elephant roaming the streets of Manhattan; if the embarrassment isn't enough it's only a matter of time until I'm shot and killed. I told this to a fat, bald guy who works at PriceWaterhouseCoopers. He thought I was pathetic.

There's this girl in my banking class that is pretty and thin but her skin has this weird sheen to it like maybe she rubbed olive oil all over herself or maybe she is made out of wax. She was talking to me today about all the job offers she is entertaining. When I thought she had left the class to go pee, she was actually answering a call to receive another offer. She told me that she has one particular job in mind and plans to move to New York City for it but the $68,000 salary she is being offered sounds too low. I didn't tell her that I'm probably going to move home after school and the $8 an hour wage at Trader Joe's sounds just right.

Obviously, I am miles and miles smarter and more qualified than these people (I got straight A's in the fifth grade). I can't understand why I'm being shunned by every employer like I'm the egg salad in a Ruby Tuesday salad bar. Maybe there is some sort of scarlet letter on my back that I don't know about. Maybe they know I'm gay.

It would be hard to pinpoint the exact mistake that caused the derailment of my hopes and dreams, but I'm going to try anyway. Maybe it was the time I spent three months sunbathing and watching Desperate Housewives reruns instead of getting a summer internship. Maybe it was the time I switched to business because architecture was too hard. Maybe it was the time I switched to architecture because pre-med was too hard. I probably shouldn't have eaten an entire can of sour cream and onion pringles before my office interview with Ernst & Young.

My father, who is deeply invested in preventing me from shaming the family name, would probably say that I lack the confidence to endure the hardships that come along with the things I really want in life. And that this is all my fault because he was the best father in the world. And it's also my fault because I am gay and therefore a complete and utter failure. (This is a hypothetical and absolutely unrealistic world where I have come out to my parents.)

Though I've never really considered that being gay would have an impact on the other areas of my life, I'm beginning to see that it does. Maybe my fear of rejection and the constant swirl of doubt in my mind has prevented me from pushing myself to be something great. Instead, I've settled on just fitting in because deep down, that's all I really want.

He Turned Their Rivers Into Vodka and Hawaiian Punch

2010-10-26T22:52:00.005-04:00

I believe in God. Not because I have faith that everything happens for a reason or that there exists a heaven and hell. I believe in God because it is convenient to have somebody to blame when things go wrong in my life. I am aware that this is sacrilegious and I will probably be struck by lightening or herpes. But it's hard to believe that this much shit can be dumped on one person without somebody deriving some sort of enjoyment out of causing it.

Like the time I turned out gay. Or the time my parents hated me (this goes hand in hand with the first one I guess). Or the time I thought I was dying from AIDS. Or the time I had four exams in one day. Or the time Taylor Swift enjoyed continued success. This sounded less melodramatic in my head.

Recently, I've been convinced that God's work has taken the form of drunken bitches. And in a strangely literal turn, he has possessed them to spill shit on me and my things.

First instance, a beer is spilled on my desk in the middle of the night. I find my new ipod floating face down in this alcoholic sea, alone and lifeless. I have no conclusive proof of who did this because I was blacked out on my bed at the moment. The entire situation seems too much like a game of Clue for my liking. Maybe the beer was knocked over by the Russian girl, with her hips, at 3am. Or maybe it was my BF, with his penis, at 4.

Second instance, my laptop is hijacked to provide the music for a party. A skinny girl spills her vodka and hawaiian punch on my keyboard and blames her boyfriend for bumping into her. Bitch please. In the the process of cleaning, irreparable damage is caused to the t, y, g, n, space keys. This girl is not really a close friend so I can't exactly make passive aggressive comments to her face about paying me for the damage. So I resort to making passive aggressive comments behind her back about her speech impediment and english-pea sized head. Actually, there was nothing passive about that.

Third instance, my closest friends keep spilling lies about how much I love to eat cock. I mean, cock is not bad I guess. But honestly, I prefer Chinese food.

And then there's this instance a long time ago where I explicitly told a guy where he should not come. That is all I'm going to say about that.

This is all upsetting because all I can't help but think "why me?" The only way I can get any emotional relief is by blaming God and the fact that He's just not that into me.

This is wrong. I know it. If there really is a God out there, somewhere past the stars and where Mariah Carey's mind now resides, He would not be pleased. And this is yet another unhealthy relationship to work on.

Be Honest, Have I Gotten Frat?

2010-09-23T23:13:00.004-04:00

I never mustered up the courage to pledge a fraternity because let's face it, I don't look good in a jersey tank, I don't have very much testosterone, and I like penis. Mostly though, I just don't know how to act casually around that many attractive, young men without sweating profusely and having an absolute nervous breakdown. And I find it somewhat difficult to become close friends with men because in my eyes, building a friendship is all just a prelude to sex.

So I spent my first three years of college wondering what life was like within fraternity walls. I wondered what brotherhood and social solidarity felt like. I wondered if all the brothers walked around naked after going to the gym together to lift those bar things with two heavy round things on the end. But I accepted the fact that in this case, my ideal-self was too far my actual-self.

At the beginning of this school year, a friend suggested that I pledge his business fraternity. A glimmer of hope emerged. I guess I don't look that bad in a jersey tank.

So I rushed as a senior, clinging pathetically to my last chance to realize a 4-year dream, clumsily peddling myself to people half my college age, eating free buffalo wings.

I was invited to an interview and was actually kind of proud of my old, shriveled self until I realized virtually everyone made it past the first round. Also, everybody in the room looked about three years younger than me and I found it hard not to hum Hilary Duff's "Sweet Sixteen" in my head. It's my time to shine, Sweet Sixteen.

I had a terrible time answering questions like, "If you were a song, what would you be?", "If you were a sound, what would you be?", and "If you were an animal, what would you be?" It was even more difficult (read: humiliating) trying to impress brothers younger than me with witty (read: retarded) answers and watching their expressionless, uninterested faces dotted with acne.

I received an email this morning, thanking me for my interest. And like Vinny on last week's episode of The Jersey Shore, I felt at once betrayed and insulted that my vulnerability would be thrown back in my face, that my efforts would be unrewarded, that my frat dreams would come to an end. But I guess I will just have to accept that my lower-standard-self is still too far from my actual self.

If Anyone Asks, I'm White and I Love Kids

2010-09-01T21:00:00.004-04:00

The good news is that my hometown is now famous. The bad news is that most news outlets are referring to it as "Silver Springs." Extremely rude.

A few posts back, a reader told me to embrace being Asian. The truth is that I woke up this morning ready to embrace Asia in my thin, yellow arms. After today's events, I am keeping it at arm's length. Regardless, somebody is going to blame me for all of this.

I actually know a guy named James Lee.

Among his demands is this jewel:

1. The Discovery Channel and it's affiliate channels MUST have daily television programs at prime time slots...Focus must be given on how people can live WITHOUT giving birth to more filthy human children since those new additions continue pollution and are pollution. A game show format contest would be in order...MAKE IT INTERESTING SO PEOPLE WATCH AND APPLY SOLUTIONS!!!!

This is delusional. The Discovery Channel will never be interesting. Even if lives depend on it.

Another notable demand is as follows:

10. Stop all shows glorifying human birthing on all your channels and on TLC.

This is a direct slight towards Kate Gosselin. Extremely rude.

Towards the end of his list of demands, he spirals into nonsensical ramble about dirty babies and furry animals. He loses the numbering scheme, but one of his last request manages to present a clear, intelligent point:

Saving the environment and the remaning species diversity of the planet is now your mindset. Nothing is more important than saving them. The Lions, Tigers, Giraffes, Elephants, Froggies, Turtles, Apes, Raccoons, Beetles, Ants, Sharks, Bears, and, of course, the Squirrels.

I prefer not to be associated with any of this.

Video Thursday!

2010-08-12T15:31:00.009-04:00

This is the embodiment of the 90s for me. Thin Mariah.

I live in this world minus the eye crystals. I am Taylor Swift. Channing Tatum is the boy. Jenna Dewan is the other girl. Bitch.

Because I am gay.

Because I am gay.

Sometimes I Scare Myself

2010-08-02T11:13:00.012-04:00

I was on a friend's friend's friend's friend's brother's hookup's friend's Facebook page this morning staring at his pictures.

So naturally, I'm going to put all of them on here.

If this is you, please don't sue me.

Also, if this is you, please follow me on twitter.

Also, if this is you, call me.

I want to sink my teeth into his arm.

My favorite parts of this picture are earrings, teeth, nipple, and cleavage, (in that order).

And he is a wrestler.

God, seriously?

So like, in a massive stroke of luck, this shows a subtle hint that he might be gay. Though as somebody who has never even met him, this is mostly irrelevant.

And this proves it beyond any doubt. Still irrelevant.

So looking at this person is fun, but it is also bittersweet. On the surface he seems to be the perfect guy (and everyone knows the surface is all that matters). It feels personal because he represents everything that I couldn't be or become: white, beautiful, capable of pulling off a v-neck, medical.

I imagine somebody is going to say something about how a lot of [beautiful] people say that their looks are actually a handicap and they find it difficult to be taken seriously or seen as anything but an object. This is bullshit.

I'm sure somebody else is going to say something about life being what you make of it. This is annoying too. Save it.

A Bitch in Fag's Clothing

2010-07-27T23:09:00.007-04:00

A Gay Man's Account of His Own Burgeoning Heterosexuality
Bamba Hadhur Tamang

When I came out at age twelve my sexual-preference didn’t feel like a choice. Biology seemed to confine me in pubescent shackles and all I wanted was any male that would (sexually) give me the time of day. I wouldn’t have called myself promiscuous (”but who knows?!”) and finding a sexual partner proved tricky in the dominantly Christian suburb where I lived. Luckily, at thirteen, my family moved to inner city Portland where I could surround myself with gay culture.

After a two year binge on gayness, where I was constantly surrounded by like minded people who taught me that, above all else, I was normal, I realized that, ironically, it has been conservatives, Christians, Mormons, Jews and the blue collared (like the loggers on my mother’s side of the family) who have always upheld the unique role homosexuals play in society. The liberal idea of homosexual equality, to me, is far more bigoted and backward than anything I’ve ever heard from an “ignorant” “anti-gay” conservative.

Gay men are cultural refugees, marginalized muses, and mystical aesthetes. Their legacy and contributions to society can be traced from late 19th century photography back to the dreamy statues of the Greeks. Like a kind of autism, sensory stimuli overwhelms the gay-male brain. In a rural family, there will sometimes be a boy who Sticks Out, a boy who is uninterested in paternal pursuits, like throwin-the-ole-pigskin-around. Instead of Tonka Trucks and building blocks he is hypnotized, overwhelmed, by the lushness of his mother’s clothes, the silks and the linens, the seductive scent of her perfumes, sandalwood, vanillas, orange blossoms and rose buds, and struck by the vibrancy of her make up, the deepness of the mascara, the pastel shadows, and the violent beauty of a streak of lipstick across a palid face. Makeup, to him, is simply a paintbrush.

I’ve worked with children in my church and in summer camps. I’ve noticed that this nascent fascination with aesthetics, for boys, often couples with a predisposition towards sensitivity and/or shyness. This predisposition leads, inevitably, towards a failure to bond with peers, particularly the ones uninterested by paper and string. This disjunction causes a feeling of Otherness which is tantamount to the gay experience. It’s a uniquely gay Otherness unlike racial exile. I want to, almost, call it “queerness.”

When gay adults claim that he or she has been gay since childhood what they are remembering is, in effect, this particular kind of Otherness, this queerness.

Because of this it seems odd to me that gay activists would align themselves so stringently with biology. The widespread desire to find a biological basis for homosexuality is still moot (I doubt we will ever find a substatial biological foundation for gayness) and, furthermore, will lead to claims that we are deformed at the prenatal level. The desire itself is symptomatic of an over-politicized social climate. The left actually believes that finding the “Gay Gene” will force everyone to submit to the rhetoric of “acceptance.” Quelle fascisme!

The LGBT community needs to stop harassing Christian people. The Judeo-Christian tradition sees homosexuality as an existential threat because it is. Gay men, in fact owe a lot to the church and how it has influenced gay culture. (Then, when I stare at the alter boys, the contra altos in the choir, and the statues of boys lashed, crucified, bleeding, naked, I can’t help but think that the church also owes something to gay culture…). From the ACT UP campaign, in which queer activists stromed into a cathedral and threw condoms at the bishop, I have been vastly dissapointed in the way the LGBT youth have conducted their partiuclar mode of “building awareness.”

In the words that might remind you of the great gay messiah, Chris Crocker, “Leave Jesus Alone!”

A truly progressive politics should not be a middle-class, elitist posturing with a paternalistic attitude toward the religious working class’ “ignorance.” “We are the educated ones, and your homophobia comes out of deep ignorance,” touts the left. I hate this. We are smarter than this.

Sexuality is highly fluid. It wasn’t until college that I even realized that having sexual realations with a woman was allowed, let alone a possibility. I was a sexually reversed person. A faggot who needed to “come out.” And, sitting in bed one night, next to my male lover, I lit a cigarette and asked if he had ever had sex with a woman. “Of course not,” he replied. “I’m a faggot. I like dick.” “Well,” I said, “So am I, but have you ever? Have you even considered it?” He frowned said, “Once but I didn’t like it.”

It occurred to me that the feeling, the fright and excitement, the visceral fury of the simple idea of having sex with a woman, was something I had not experienced since, say, I was sixteen and trying to have sex with men. Gender didn’t seem to matter so much anymore, the excitement of something new and “forbidden” was overwhelmingly appetizing. And yet, like a sixteen year old, I was terrified to peruse anything. WHAT IF I WAS WRONG? Better to just stay in the closet.

If sexuality can be this fluid how are we, then, to concede that gayness is strictly biological? How? Perhaps the chemistry has just changed? But then, is it a coincidence that the chemistry would change in college, especially a college where sexual experimentation is allowed, nay, encouraged?!

To deny fluidity of sexual preference is to abandon the work academics have put into the study of gender and sexuality. Sex is temporal and always on a continuum, coming in and leaving like the tides. It permeates every relationship, even familial, every dream, every word that comes out of our mouths is in someway touched by sex. How can we find a GENE for this? How can there possibly be one biological factor, nay, one UNWAVERING biological factor that determines our sexuality from birth until death?

We can change our sexuality. Yes. You heard it from a fag: sexual conversions are theoretically possible. Though they may not be pleasant or desirable or even valuable, and though Christian fanatics may use this fact against queers, sexual conversion must be theoretically possible. We are more comfortable knowing that sexuality is genetic, rather than letting it loose to the chaotic powers of God.

Instead of mooing about equality the Left should look long and hard (tee hee) about its approach to gay politics. At the same time, we, as gay men, should seriously reconsider our affiliation with the left, our pursuit of marriage rights, and special legal protection. Additionally, gay men ought to embrace our culture’s character in spite of its tendency towards sexual promiscuity and drug use, nay, BECAUSE of sexual promiscuity and drug use. To be gay is to be an outsider. To be an outsider is to be an artist. To be an artist is to be hated by soceity at large.

Even if you think homosexuality is an inborn trait it does no good to seek the approval of government, the Judeo-Christian establishment, and other contenders who know very little about queerness. I’m adopting the view of Parker who once said, “heterosexuality isn’t normal, it’s just common.” We’ve got to start thinking and behaving along those lines instead of validating the Right’s queer-fears and degrading our culture by asking for their vapid approval. I’m not calling for separatism, (though a continent of gay men wouldn’t be half bad) but I am calling for enlightened militancy. We’ve got much bigger fish to fry than marriage.

Since homosexuality is a choice, there is no need to harbor self-hatred by thinking that our choice to love who we want to love is somehow wrong. It’s fabulous. And it’s how we have and are going to survive for the millennium to come.

[sad face]

When you're gay it oftentimes feels like the entire world is out to get you. As a part of a extreme minority, group solidarity is key and I definitely would like to believe that every gay person out there wants to fight for the same causes that I do. That is why this person's story is so upsetting; he claims to be one of us but has brash opinions that seem to go against everything that is logical and right from a gay person's perspective.

While his description of makeup makes him seem like the biggest fag on Earth, I find it hard to believe that this man is actually gay. His entire story is unbelievable. I mean, what kind of retard doesn't know having "sexual relations with a woman was allowed." This was a young, confused boy that was desperate for any sexual attention he could get and young dumb-asses like him are a lot more likely to get attention from gay men than women. In college he finally woke up and realized it was women he wanted all along. Good for him. The fact that he is applying his own marginal experience to that of gay society as a whole is absolutely ludicrous. His sexual fluidity is just another way of saying he is just a big slut. Most of us are more viscous.

He then proceeds to use the fact that he supposedly rose above the shackles of homosexuality to lecture us on all the things we are doing wrong. I take extreme offense that he does this while using the term "we" when he is fucking women now and renounces the very essence that makes us who we are. I don't see how seeking marriage equality and the same legal rights is a trivial pursuit we should abandon. I don't see how fighting to be equals under the law amounts to nothing more than vapid government approval. What kind of bigger fish could he possibly be talking about. Would he be saying the same things to the women who sought suffrage and the slaves that wanted freedom? I'd also like to point out that he has no idea what "enlightened militancy" means.

The problem is not that gays harass Christians, though I'm pretty sure it's usually the other way around. The problem is not self-hatred, because I think the majority of the hatred we receive comes from... well, Christians. The problem is not even the right's queer-fear and the left's misguided political agenda. The problem is that people like him are coming out of the woodwork and providing false evidence for our critics to suggest that gays choose to undermine religion and family and government. If anything, his story is creating more mistrust and misunderstanding.

I don't really want to get into his argument dismissing a biological basis for homosexuality, but I'm going to. As somebody who doesn't know anything about biology, he grabs onto words like "genes" and forms a completely misinformed opinion. He believes that one gene couldn't possibly be the sole factor influencing our sexuality. But nobody said homosexuality wasn't polygenic and nobody said environmental factors didn't also influence our behavior. Don't try to explain this to him though - wouldn't want his head to explode.

Aside from all these problems, I just don't understand what he is talking about and I'm sure he doesn't really either. His story is just full of contradictions, loose ends, and generalizations. and he has a funny way of sticking in big words and poetic statements without any transition or explanation. And by the end of his story, it becomes painfully clear that he knows nothing about genetics, religion, politics, or the gay community that he's got one foot in and one foot out of.

Please Ask, Do Tell

2010-07-20T22:52:00.006-04:00

I walked through the last door of the last car on the train. He walked in through the second to last door. We moved to the center of the car and met face to face in the middle in an urban take on running towards each other in a field of wildflowers. He was wearing a tan military suit. I wasn't sure what the tan color of his clothes or any of the the medals and pins on his chest meant. But he was cute.

I was facing forward, like most people, in the direction that the train was moving. He was facing me, inching ever closer as people packed on at Farragut North. I hoped desperately that I smelled good and that my pores were invisible. His proximity made me nervous and sweaty. My pores were visible.

When he looked down at his phone, I began to stare him down. From his excellent complexion to his long eyelashes to his neat, closely cropped hair. I hoped desperately he would not look up and catch me staring. But deep down, I wanted him to catch me, smile at me, and ask me what my name was. I caught a glimpse of his name on a pin embroidered on his chest. Jeremy, if you are reading this, please follow me on twitter.

He turned around to send a text message on his phone. I read over his shoulder, wanting to discover something that would suggest he was gay, like "I am so sad Ugly Betty was canceled" or "Where do you think Landon Donovan gets his hair cut?" But I was not holding my breath. It has been my experience that men like Jeremy, (aka men I desire), are not only straight but also conservative and into whites only. I only caught a few words from the messages. It seemed as though somebody wanted him to turn around and go back in the other direction. He let out an audible sigh and sent a final text.

"I have dinner with gay Jon in an hour."

The small beacon of hope grew blindingly bright. I immediately saw myself as gay Jon. I mean, my name already begins with a J. Then I thought of my boyfriend, away at work and unaware of the loneliness that led to this torrid affair. In seven minutes Jeremy had shown me the beautiful, unexpectedness of life and the fragility of love - an urban take on Bridges of Madison County.

We stopped at Dupont Circle. He said, "excuse me," revealing a deep voice. As soon as he walked out the door, I could not make him (or his tan suit) out amongst the crowd through the tinted windows.

Happy Birthday, Baby Girl

2010-06-27T17:31:00.010-04:00

It was a typical hot and humid DC afternoon. He walked three feet in front of me around his parents' house to the backyard where thirty of his relatives were already grilling and combating the summer heat with cold beers. He came home from New Jersey to celebrate his niece's first birthday and invited me to come along. He had actually invited me several weeks ago but I didn't take him seriously until he called me the day of asking if I was ready to go. I frantically ripped through my closet to find my straightest looking shirt and put on the best bro face I could.

As soon as we arrived, he went to say hello to his parents and his brother whom he hadn't seen in a month. I immediately dove for a barbecued drumstick like a wild savage hoping to avoid awkward introductions to people who had never seen a gay Asian boy disguised as a straight white man before.

His older brother, who has always derived joy out of teasing him, started talking loudly. "How come you still haven't brought home a girlfriend yet? It's been three years in college and a month in New Jersey and you still can't get a girl?"

I eyed a platter of deviled eggs and popped one in my mouth. And then ate two more. Okay three.

His mother interjected with a smile, "Oh come on now, leave him alone."

His brother continued. "Maybe he doesn't even like girls." And started laughing with his friends.

I grabbed the an ear of corn and gnawed on it furiously trying to drown out their conversation.

He had already had a few drinks and looked upset. I could tell he was deep in thought but figured we would go up to his room later and talk about it in privacy. And then make out. Instead, he turned toward his brother and shouted, "Yeah. You're right. I don't give a shit about girls. I am gay and _____ is my boyfriend." He looked right at me and I stared back, doe-eyed and hungry, sitting in a cheap lawn chair under the shade of a tree.

I quickly looked straight down and began taking non-stop, successive bites of watermelon, hoping to avoid the eyes of thirty or so conservative WASPs and their judgmental babies.

He walked towards me, took the watermelon from my hands, and threw it on the ground. My eyes were still fixated on the wasted fruit when he grabbed the back of my head and kissed me hard on the lips. He smelled like charcoal and tasted like beer. I tasted like watermelon.

He took my hand and pulled me up, leading me quickly towards the front of the house and back to his car. He never turned around to see his family's reaction, but I looked back for one last glimpse at the scene we had just caused. Mouths were still open in shock and no one was speaking. And I stared longingly at the cake that had yet to be cut and served.

But this isn't really what happened.

Chicago

2010-06-22T18:58:00.008-04:00

I am in Chinatown when three tourists come up to me, unaware that I am a tourist myself.

Touristy Mommy: Do you speak English?
Me: Not really.
Touristy Mommy: What is dim sum?

I am in Chinatown when he sends me a text, "When are you gonna be back from Chicago?" I tell him I will be back Monday night. I wonder why he asks because regardless, he is still going to be in New Jersey. My whereabouts are largely irrelevant. A few minutes later he asks when he can call me. This immediately feels strange, this proactive effort to speak to me.

As soon as I return to the hotel room, I hide in the bathroom, turn on the stall shower, sit in the bathtub, and call him. He picks up and his voice is comforting, despite the sound of the shower in the background and my racing heartbeat.

He tells me he was in New York City last night. He stayed out too late and needed a place to sleep so he went to the apartment of a man he had hooked up with before [we were together]. This is where the man tried to kiss [fuck] him. So he left and went to the train station and fell asleep until the first train left for New Jersey in the morning. He tells me that nothing happened and that he loves me.

I ignore the holes in his story. He's never been to New York City before, why would a former hook up live there? Out of everyone he knows living in New York City, why pick this place? Why did he have that man's phone number and address? What did he expect would happen? I don't interrogate him with these questions, partly because I'm afraid of the answers and partly because I've been in the "shower" for too long. Deep down I know he didn't go there just to fall asleep. But I tell him I trust him. In my head I rationalize that trusting somebody is not as hard as being alone. But then again, I am alone right now, aren't I.

Maybe this is a self fulfilling prophecy. I was so desperately worried about him cheating that it has become a very real possibility. This is ironic and obnoxious because I dream about discovering ten million dollars of cash in my basement all the time and that prophecy has yet to materialize.

Later in the afternoon, I muster up the emotional composure to take a walk down Lakeshore Drive and then eat an entire stuffed pizza.

When I wake up the next morning, I feel like hell. I self medicate myself with pain killers and Jamba Juice. My sister has already checked out and the hotel room feels dark and empty. As I gather my things and motion towards the door, I look back and find it difficult to leave. Like closing the pages of a good book, it's hard to watch these adventures and this life[style] come to a close. And I know that when I land in DC, I will have to return to a life[ ] and perhaps a failed relationship that no amount of painkillers and Jamba Juice can pacify.

Chinese Buffett

2010-06-15T23:11:00.009-04:00

My mother calls me at work.

Her: How would you like to make $40 of interest.
Me: How did you find my number?
Her: I need to borrow $5,000.
Me: I already told you I don't think a facelift is a good investment.
Her: My best friend is opening a jewelry store in La Jolla Beach.
Me: I think you should get a facelift instead.
Her: This is how Warren Buffett made his fortune you know.
Me: Investing in small business ventures led by discontent, middle-aged, Chinese women.
Her: And See's Candies.

When the conversation is over, the issue is still unresolved. I'm sure that $5,000 will be missing by the end of the day. She has all my account numbers memorized and considers these "loans" a personal debt I owe her for all the food, shelter, and violin lessons over the years.

Coincidentally, Warren Buffett appears on the front page of Yahoo news in a list of most successful people to get rejected from their first choice college. I read the story, hoping at least one of these people will be Asian, fat, and emotionally unstable.

Buffett says:

But at the time, he "had this feeling of dread" after being rejected in an admissions interview in Chicago [for Harvard], and a fear of disappointing his father.

Memories, light the corner of my mind.

As it turned out, his father responded with "only this unconditional love...an unconditional belief in me," Mr. Buffett says.

This feels... less familiar.

And his story ends with him, "dashing off to Columbia instead." How adequate.

I am never going to see that money again, am I.

It's Actually Flitwick

2010-06-12T16:05:00.014-04:00

Wallowing in self-pity is a bit like playing near a tar pit. First you stick your toe in and it feels nice and warm. And before you know it you're neck deep in shit and the more you struggle the deeper you sink.

I made it pretty clear from the beginning that this blog would be "an outlet for my emotions." Read: This blog is meant for me to whine and occasionally talk about cute boys and pretty clothes.

My new boat shoes.

Every once in a while, readers feel the need to tell me to stop being so "emo." That's just not possible. My life is too depressing and I never claimed to be a strong person. I had hoped that my personal doubts and inner struggles would be interesting and endearing and cute. I certainly don't want to drag all of you into the tar pit with me. In fact, I get a sense of fulfillment when my readers derive enjoyment out of my miserable existence. If that's not your thing and you want a light-hearted read, go follow some gay middle-schooler who only has to worry about passing trigonometry and figuring out how to masturbate. Or go here or here.

And as for the person who called me a fuckwit, I have to say thank you. Hearing the word fuckwit cheered me up because it sounded like a professor's name from Harry Potter. (This is one of those people who have to use British slang to sound intelligible.) And here is usually where I would say something mean about you. But since I don't actually care enough to read your blog or follow your incessant chattering on twitter, I don't know anything about you and wouldn't even know where to begin.

But you definitely took my mind off things.

Toothpaste Tears Us Apart

2010-06-09T00:32:00.014-04:00

Before Tall Blonde Alcholic left for his internship with Colgate in New Jersey he told me how bored he was going to be in a new place and how miserable he was going to be by himself. He gave me no choice but to feel sorry for him and I tried to comfort him by telling him I would miss him with all my heart and would patiently wait in DC until he came home to me.

This was before I left for Alaska, where stormy seas and evergreen trees prevented us from communicating. When I came back after seven days, his story had changed.

The day I got back to Seattle, I called him while I was on the light rail. He told me about how great the internship was and how much fun he was having with his fellow interns and roommates. They had already gone out for several nights and there was even going to be a party in the near future. His invitation fell somewhat flat on my ears, "I guess you can come if you want." Later that night, I finally got in touch with him on AIM. Only he left after 15 or so minutes because he had to go to sleep.

And there I was, the fool feeling sorry for him. I had thought that we were both going to have a terrible time being apart, except he was having the time of his life. And it wasn't so much that it was fun, it was that the people were fun. This immediately made me wonder what set these people apart from me. What's to stop him from falling in love with them over the course of the summer? And when it's all over won't he hate leaving them, and won't he miss seeing them, and wouldn't he rather stay with them? Coming home to me at the end of it all will be nothing more than a cheap consolation prize for giving up the best experience of his life.

On Tuesday night, I left a small party to hide in the bathroom and call him. I turned on the faucet so people outside wouldn't be able to hear me. I asked him why he hadn't called recently, making snide comments about how happy he was in New Jersey and poking fun at his sudden change of heart. He said, "I thought you'd be happy for me. Aren't you glad I'm not miserable?"

And in an instant, the guilt was deflected. I stumbled on the phone, grasping desperately for words that would avoid the truth. I want to be able say that I love him enough to want nothing more than for him to be happy. But deep down I was glad when he first told me was going to be lost without me. Like anyone else, I want to feel important. To see him enjoying himself so much breaks my heart into a million icy pieces and makes me reconsider just how much I really matter to him.

And all of this is much easier for him than it is for me. I am the one stuck here living our old life. His absence changes everything for me. He is the one who gets to start anew without me. And wouldn't you know, it's still pretty damn great.

So in the end, I suppose neither of us has the upper hand in this argument. I don't love him enough to want him to be happy without me and he doesn't love me enough to be unhappy without me. And neither of us love each other as much as we thought we did before this summer came along and tore us apart.

I turned off the faucet, got off the phone, and went back to the party. Average Brown Quarter-Asian was waiting outside and said to me, "Have you heard from Tall Blonde Alcoholic recently? He can't stop talking about how much he loves New Jersey."

I could have punched her in the face.

Can I Use My Cell Phone In Alaska?

2010-06-07T01:56:00.011-04:00

My idea of a fun vacation involves something unique and unusual. This would include, for instance, backpacking through a war-torn African country or perhaps committing a string of identity thefts and bank robberies across central Europe.

My mother ignores my suggestions and plans a seven-day family cruise to Alaska. Hell is a place on Earth and its name is The Oosterdam.

As I enjoy my "Bon Voyage Dinner" on deck nine, I experience a brief moment of deep reflection and wonder if a single potato on this ship didn't arrive pre-cooked.

To maintain my sanity and battle the effects of seasickness, I begin to meticulously judge those around me. To my left, a group of 70+ year-old passengers who can't walk, see, or hear, order a bottle of wine. They will be having more fun than me, most probably. To my right, a group of overweight passengers heap mounds of roast beef onto little plates while discussing with each other the pitfalls of overeating. Straight ahead, a group of quintessential middle-aged Asians, chew with their mouths open and talk loudly about real estate.

The ship makes several stops on land. The first of which is in Juneau. After visiting Sarah Palin's old house, I walk around downtown hoping to find a shirt that says, "Juneau You Want Me."

The next stop is in Sitka. I search high and low for spots where The Proposal was filmed, spots where Ryan Reynolds may have walked on. I would later find out that The Proposal was filmed in Massachusetts.

Victoria was fun. All the boys are cute. I am considering moving there after school.

On board the ship there is a magic show where the magician somehow incorporates the theme of gay marriage into his stand-up routine. "Straight people have been married for years, gay people deserve that misery too." My marriage is going to be utopia with a white picket fence. That's what I deserve. Asshole.

Over the course of the week I meet several new people on the ship. One woman makes a living singing The Way We Were twice a night, every night. One group of tweens has adopted a new motto, "Don't abuse alcohol. Let alcohol abuse you." And just about everyone else on the ship either has a rich grandfather or is a rich grandfather or is a really really cute guy with really really long, dark, and conspicuous eyebrows who doesn't pay any attention to you whatsoever even though you attend all the same events and somehow manage to sit at the table next to him almost every night at dinner.

Towards the end, this trip becomes bearable. Because, let's face it, this is ten million times better than work where you hate everyone and everyone hates you. Also, happy hour is between 3:30 and 4:30 pm. Also, you got to see a whale and a seal and a dolphin. Also, all the fat people make you look skinny.

My one lingering regret is being torn away from Tall Blonde Alcoholic as he begins his summer internship in New Jersey. When the ship docks I call him as soon as I get the chance. He misses my call and returns it a few minutes later. He says he's at Target and sounds distracted. He tells me over the phone about his cool, funny, roommate from Miami as if I'm not cool (I am) or funny (I am) or from an exotic locale (Taiwan). He must have known that I would frantically stalk this new variable on Facebook as soon as I got the chance. He is cute and skinny (absolutely, not relatively) and definitely gay (absolutely and relatively). Inwardly, I have a terrible feeling about this. Realistically, there is nothing I can do. As I disembark, my stomach is filled with salmon and my heart is filled with terror.

And while I look outside my cab window and watch the rain fall in Seattle, I try to come to terms with the fact that things change and people move on while you are gone. I wonder what the weather is like in New Jersey and if I'll even recognize my life when I finally find my way home.

Copyright 2010

2010-05-28T23:43:00.010-04:00

Apparently a quiet war is being raged against me by impostors on the internet.

On Somebody's blog, Somebody writes:

Thank you to Hugo Boss for your present as well... was very sweet of you. Oh... and Happy 17th Birthday to you. Only one more year before you are of legal age in the US... :-P
Love ya so much

I try to be cute and funny and ironic and I write:

are you two doing it. that would be illegal. right?

Somebody writes:

wait... what?
How would it be illegal for me and Donna Karan to sleep together?
Last time I checked straight sex between two consenting adults is still legal in ALL 50 states :-P

(At this point, he misunderstands who I am talking about. Things remain civil.)

Then, Impostor, posing as me, writes:

Straight sex is legal, and a boy and a girl is considered straight sex in all 50 states. It's also considered pedophilia when the girl is only 7! On my investigations Becky is not even in her teens yet. THAT'S WHY ITS ILLEGAL!

(Not really sure why Impostor had the urge to write this. I believe it should say, "a boy doing a girl," and not, "a boy and a girl." Not really sure what "on my investigations" means. Missed an apostrophe. This sounds nothing like me.)

Alas, Somebody says:

wtf?
Dude... where the hell do you get that from? Donna Karan is the same age as me... she is in college...
I cant believe I am even explaining this... I really hope you are joking around... but even so its not a cool thing to joke about.

I am stupified

Not to be pedantic, but stupefied is spelled incorrectly.

If this person wanted to pose a maniacal argument, he/she could have just written an anonymous comment. Clearly there's a personal vendetta there. I'm just not sure what's causing it. It's probably because I think Meryl Streep should have won the Oscar over Sandra Bullock. I've made a lot of enemies because of my stance on this hot button issue.

So all this makes me sound belligerent as well as retarded and a little bit insane. As if I wasn't already good at making people hate me through mean comments, this will certainly put me over the edge. The follow up post to this is called, "People Are Morons," and the comments section is devoted to discussing how weird and dumb I am. I guess the impostor got what they wanted. But just for future reference, a comment is only from me if it is bitchy AND grammatically correct. Not one or the other.

Hello Summer, Nice To Meet You

2010-05-22T23:44:00.013-04:00

The night before my advanced accounting exam, I pace back and forth in the study lounge. I am unprepared. As I read about double entry book-keeping, I think about how much more I would prefer some double entry ass-fucking. Tears well up in my eyes and I feel like I am going to throw up. I have hit the bottom. My former roommate who I used to hook up with before we ended things on bad terms walks by outside and sees me through the window. He knocks on the glass and waves. It is 5:00 am and this is a new, unfamiliar low.

At 7:00 am, the anxiety gives way to feelings of calm resignation. I pack my things up and walk upstairs to my room where I plan to crawl under the sheets and suffocate myself on a tube sock. Failure in advanced accounting is inevitable. And then we die. And then we are reborn as impala on the African plains. It is the circle of life.

At 8:00 am, the exam begins and I don't know how to answer the first question. Instead, I daydream about the season finale of Desperate Housewives. I can't believe Paul Young is back. Angie was so smart to put the bomb IN THE DETONATOR.

At 10:00 am, I text my bf, "Yay over."

For the next four days I complain very publicly about how badly I did and how I'm going to get my first B and that my life is over. But grades came out yesterday and I got on A. Yay.

When I come home from school, I want to tell my mother the good news. It feels strange that I want to do this because she has always criticized everything I've ever done and for years I've tried to convince myself that I don't need her approval. I realize I do this because deep down I still want to make her proud and redeem myself for my consummate failure: being a gay son.

Before I can get a word out she looks at me and says, "You look too fat." This would have been fine if she hadn't said "too." Because "too" implies that I am fat in both absolute and relative terms. I lie to her about having eaten lunch already. Today I've had one cup of diet coke and two cough drops. She knows nothing about the A.

I am going to the beach tomorrow with my bf. I don't know what he's said to his parents about the trip but I am lying and telling my parents that I am going with four guys. Four guys in one hotel room with one king size bed doesn't arouse as much suspicion as two guys in the same situation. He will probably make me watch the Lost finale. Maybe after that we can sell beer to teenagers and have gay sex in the sand. We are a couple of renegade summer tourists.

I am probably too fat for the beach. I have a crippling fear of little children mistaking me for a beached whale and trying to haul me off to sea. I am probably going to sit, fully-clothed, under an umbrella and read Laura Bush's autobiography.

You Again

2010-05-15T19:53:00.010-04:00

In my first post ever, I briefly talked about my best friend in middle school who unknowingly helped me realize I was gay when I found myself staring at his crotch with more than just competitive inquisition.

Once he started becoming the subject of my pubescent fantasies, I began to act differently around him. I would casually insult his clothes or make fun of the things he said because the only way I knew how to show love was how my parents did it, through intense and unfiltered criticism.

I never really considered telling him how I felt because I was afraid of his reaction and how news might spread among our group of friends. Eventually, I just pushed him away, using a small incident involving a relay race, a baton, and the word "penis" as a reason to end the friendship. I began telling everyone how much I disliked him because I found it much easier to channel my emotions through hatred than unreciprocated love. Deep down I had hoped that he would chase after me to try and reconcile everything, but he didn't. And even after we went on to different high schools, I wondered for a long time if he thought about me and what happened between us. Eventually I realized we would probably never see each other ever again so I just let it go.

Anyway, eight years later, turns out we are not only at the same university, we are in the same major. And wouldn't you know, he is randomly assigned to a semester-long group project with me. In cases like these, I like to ask myself, "What are the odds?" But this has nothing to do with chance. This is the work of God and his sick sense of humor.

And this is extra fun because there are only three people in this group. So when the third member invariably ditches meetings because of some stupid grandmother on life-support, I am stuck with him in quite possibly the most awkward situation on the entire planet.

Me: Can we meet at _:__ in _____ to work on the _____?
Him: You sure you don't want to just do it at my place?
Me: ...
Him: All my roommates are gone and it'll be more comfortable

...More comfortable than what.

When I get to his apartment it is indeed, empty. And he still has the careless hair and big brown eyes of the first boy I ever fell in love with. Could this be what I've waited eight years for? Am I finally going to get to see what is under his basketball shorts? He starts talking about the project, and then his girlfriend. I try to act normal. He laughs at my stupid jokes and mannerisms, which apparently he still finds funny. I consider standing up and shouting, "Why didn't you chase after me?! Couldn't you tell I was going through something?! Couldn't you tell I was drowning?!"

Maybe all this time he was blithely unaware of the teenage psychodrama that I had convinced myself ruined the relationship. Maybe he is aware but is just as happy to pick up right where we left off. Does it really matter after all this time? When I look at him now, all I can do is laugh about how strangely life unfolds. I'm not in love with him anymore. Perhaps we can finally just be friends now.

It's getting late and I tell him my head hurts. He brings me an Advil with a cup of cold water.

Pride and Prejudice

2010-05-09T12:25:00.006-04:00

At a recent party that I attended because somebody tipped me off that there was an 18 year-old boy there that looked like Taye Diggs, I overheard a conversation between LeeLee Sobieski and a foreign exchange student from Austria.

Austria: I do not think gay people should have children.
LeeLee: What? Why not?
Austria: Parents should be man and woman. It is not natural.

He failed to notice that the real deviation from nature in the room was his hair, obviously, a European import.

Anyway, this is where I chime in and try to be cute and say, "I thought most Europeans were supposed to be more liberal than Americans. [giggle]."

Austria: No you guys are much more liberal than we are.

I found this to be shocking. I thought Americans were the champions of bigotry and discrimination. And we kind of like to breed the idea here that all of Europe is pretty much like Berlin or Paris, (run by gay people), and that Eastern Europe is a nether-land that exists only to produce great gymnasts.

But that must be an incorrect generalization. Kind of like the time I wrongly convinced myself that all black people were like my black roommate: selfish, messy, and like to cut all their friends' hair in the common room every Thursday afternoon. (But then I met Taye Diggs. Who was cuter than a little black button. [giggle].)

Europe was supposed to be the homosexual promised land that I could always run away to if I ever became dissatisfied with the unalienable freedoms being taken away from me at home. And Europeans were supposed to be fun, skinny people that were either gay or wished they were gay. But the fat, ugly Austrian proved all this wrong.

For every LeeLee that generously takes the gay agenda into her own hands, there is an Austrian steadfastly climbing the Alps to spread the word that all gay boys should be childless lest we teach the next generation to be as gay as we are. I had hoped that the only people who truly hated gays were 40+ and when they died we would be free at last. But sadly, gay haters are being born every day, everywhere. And if they are so unwilling to change their minds, I wonder how long it will take for the world to just accept us and let us have babies.

At the very least, we'll always have Paris.

Farewell, Ugly Betty

2010-04-30T23:55:00.007-04:00

Tralala I went home for the weekend and my boyfriend won't respond my texts. He did a power hour and then went to a concert with a crazy girl who is in love with him. I'm ok with it. I'm doing homework and watching Buffy. Ok, I lied. I'm not doing homework.

I wonder if he's having sex with the crazy girl. I wonder if he's having sex with some guy he met at the concert. I wonder if he's having sex with both of them. I wonder if he ordered Chinese takeout without me. Growl.

Sometimes I tell him about my irrational fears and ask him if he would ever cheat on me. This might seem like an unusual thing to bring up in the middle of dinner but ever since my home girl Sandra took that fall, nobody can be too careful. Usually he pats me on my head and tells me I am crazy. He never says anything like, "I couldn't even imagine," or "You're the only one that I want." He just tells me I am crazy. Which I already know.

All of this is probably caused by a deep rooted suspicion that he doesn't find me attractive. And that feeling is probably caused by the fact that I don't find myself attractive. And that is probably because I didn't grow up in Asia where everyone looks worse, the same, or only slightly better than me. Instead, I grew up in America, where I am surrounded by young bucks romping shirtless around the quad with their blue eyes, effortless muscles, and curly blonde hair. And also, I am fat.

I can name a few things about him that I find very sexy. But I don't think any part of me drives him wild with desire. And I think that hurts our relationship. Though it's hard to deny that my glittering personality couldn't make somebody fall in love with me, I sometimes feel like we are together because we are just two lonely gay boys that have nobody else. Which begs the question: can a man truly fall in love with somebody he doesn't find attractive?

I can't really believe Ugly Betty was canceled. I'm going to miss it.

And The Next Day You're Out

2010-04-08T00:23:00.009-04:00

I am talking to Tall Blonde Alcoholic on AIM, and being the emotional and needy person that I am, I end every single sentence with a heart. Lucy Liu and Shoshana Bean come over for dinner so I close the chat window, sit my laptop on my desk, and move to the kitchen. Lucy Liu asks me if she can check her gmail.

Later that night, I reclaim my laptop from Lucy Liu and realize Tall Blonde Alcholic has sent me a message and the window has reopened. All of our previous conversation is laid out in plain sight, hearts et. al.

Now initially, I think to myself, Lucy Liu would respect my privacy and not read my AIM conversations just because they popped up and are blinking orange. But who am I kidding, Lucy Liu is the biggest bitch I've ever met.

So over the next few days, I grapple with the thought of Lucy Liu knowing that I am not only gay but dating a tall, blonde, alcoholic person. I assume she told Shoshana Bean because she tells her everything. She even told Shoshana Bean about the time she hooked up with a skinny white guy who is obsessed with anime and has herpes. And then Shoshana Bean told me. And now I've told you.

Next thing I know, Lucy Liu's lesbian slut roommate is being uncharacteristically friendly to me because we are suddenly united by the fact that I like men and she likes women and we are both emotional wrecks. She pushes me towards guys at the bar and slaps my ass in a way that only gay asses are slapped.

And soon after that, I am wearing Tall Blonde Alcoholic's jacket on a chilly night and Lucy Liu is giggling behind me while exchanging knowing looks with all of her ugly, subservient friends.

Recently I've been avoiding Lucy Liu and telling people it's because she has an alcohol problem and is overweight. It is insulting that she didn't have the respect for me to keep a secret like this. And it is annoying because she thinks I have no idea that she knows. I'm certain she is feeling quite proud of herself for being all-the-wiser and thinking she is playing this game under my nose. So I feel a strange lack of sentiment over cutting her out of my life. By now she's probably told everyone. And though I had grand plans for a big coming out party / wine & cheese tasting, she has sabotaged this dream of mine.

Mommy, I'm Gay

2010-03-16T22:21:00.005-04:00

Daddy: I know you have a girlfriend and I know that she is Indian.
Me: What.
Daddy: You brought home leftover curry last night. An Indian girl must have made it for you.

Actually Dad, it was Thai curry. So if anything, the stupid slut is from Thailand.

Mommy: Don't come home one day and tell me your girlfriend is pregnant.
Me: That would take a miracle.
Mommy: What?
Me: Huh?
Mommy: Do I need to buy you a box of condoms?
Me: Aaaaaaaalready have some.
Mommy: What?
Me: Huh?

I don't know how many more awkward conversations I can take. Whenever I go out, they joke about me going to see my girlfriend, which annoys me to no end. How dare anybody insinuate that I like girls? Sometimes, I want to turn around and say, "Actually, I am going to suck my boyfriend's giant penis. And then we are going to watch Up In The Air." But I keep it all in. I suppose this is the price I pay for, uhm, what is the word for the opposite of estrangement?

I can't put this off forever though. True, I could hump men all day and all night without my parents figuring anything out. But when it comes time for me to settle down, get married to a beautiful, tall, white man, and adopt a Vietnamese orphan girl, I can't exactly do it with my parents in the dark. And although I previously wrote it off as a narcissistic white boy's game, there is something unsettling about never telling your parents who you really are before they die.

So I guess one day, when the political climate is right, I will have to just do it. I would definitely come out to mommy first because she is the more sympathetic of the two and she just gets it. [It being fashion.] The problem is, I have trouble gauging what her reaction will be. Sometimes I purposefully expose her to gay things and observe her behavior.

Like one time I turned on CNN and there was a story about a man who was outed in Iran and then stoned to death on the street.

Mommy said, "That is ridiculous why would they do that?"

And then one time we watched Brothers & Sisters on a plane together and the two gay guys started making out.

Mommy thought that was major lolz.

So from what I can gather, her reaction will be somewhere between not taking me seriously and bludgeoning me to death with medium-sized stones.

Coming out can wait.

So I don't know what the point of this was.

Hunted

2010-03-11T14:19:00.018-05:00

Sometimes I log onto my old manhunt account in an effort to forge platonic relationships with members of DC's homosexual underbelly.

This morning I received three unprecedented, and might I add unwarranted, negative messages.

Since I don't feel the need to protect the identity of people who are mean to me, here they are in all their glory.

Daitru90
Age:22
Location: Pentagon

Him: Try to look at the corner honey. There they use a stick. The sickness profile I have ever seen in my life
Me: i have no idea what you are talking about.
Him: of course you don't . That wouldn't suprised me a bit
Me: you are a ridiculous if you have nothing better to do than harpoon people you don't even know on a site like this. surely you can take your arrogance elsewhere; i am not amused. i'm also not sure where all of this negativity came from (maybe syphilis is slowly eating at your brain) but if you don't have enough of a sense of humor to take my profile with a grain of salt, than that is your problem and not mine. and if you're going to pick an argument with somebody, try making at least a little bit of sense.
Him: Mr. English speaker, why don't you just summarize your lengthy essay in one word "ego problem" That would save alot of our time. Anyway, I have so much fun. Hope to see you online soon.

I really couldn't make sense of what this guy was saying. Something about corners, sticks, and surprising him in the past tense. I'm glad he could recognize that I speak English but disappointed that he didn't know how to read my masterpiece essay. Isn't there some law that says you can't have sex before you can read? Well, there should be. I'm also upset because there should be a comma before ego problem (which is, incidentally, two words). But, I mean, he looks pretty good other than his asymmetrical breasts.

A few minutes later.

Newtodc2
Age:22
Location Pentagon

Him: Reading your profile make me empty a bottle of tylenols. You sure are def. the winner of sickness person on earth. With that attitude, Why don't you just come back to wherever the hell you from.
Me: learn English.
Him: Speak for yourself

Excuse me, my grammar is impeccable. I eat dangling modifiers for breakfast. In fact, I would like to point out that in telling me to, "come back to wherever the hell i from," instead of, "go back to wherever the hell i from," he implies that he is there too.

Also, who is he to tell me off, considering his profile reads, "all men are NOT created equal!"

Now, at first I was confused about these two seemingly independent occurrences. But then I thought, how many twenty-two year olds from Pentagon could be on manhunt at the same time using the word "sickness" incorrectly? Surely, less than two.

And finally.

Summersms20
Age:22
Location: DC

Him: Pitiful !!!!!!!!!!!!!
Me: Nice hair.
Him: Thanks but sorry I cannot say the same to you. You're got the look but with that profile, you sure got alot of attention

I don't know about him, but I was being sarcastic. Seriously, his hair looks like the surface of the mega-asteroid in Armageddon. This doesn't make me any less ecstatic about hearing that I've "got the look." But I have to wonder how many twenty-two year olds could be on manhunt at the same time mistaking "alot" for one word? Surely, no more than one.

Maybe this guy thought he was making some brilliant point that manhunt users should be less like me [smart and funny and cute] and more like him [illiterate]. But sadly, none of his three manifestations could amount to anything more than confusion on my part and hopefully, amusement on yours.

This was a lot of fun.

Heads & Balls & Shoulders

2010-03-06T00:48:00.005-05:00

I don't usually give out advice on my blog. It makes me feel like one of those 40-somethings that cling desperately to their youth by trying to tell young gay boys how to live their lives with pearls of false wisdom. I am a firm believer that a stranger on the internet can't possibly "know exactly how you feel!" Don't trust them. Don't even trust me. Everyone should find their own way through life.

Ok, but I have to give you guys one bit of advice.

A few nights ago I went to the club with a few of my friends. At around 2am everyone was pretty tired and we all went our separate ways. I went to Tall Blonde Alcoholic's apartment to cuddle for a bit when we decided it would be a good idea to get freaky in the shower. So he grabbed his laptop, put it on the vanity, and played Disturbia, while I took off my clothes. Funny.

And then we got in the shower. And did the dirty. While getting clean!

The next morning, I woke up to the most excruciating pain ever in my balls. I thought I was going to die. Seriously killed by ball pain. So I put my clothes on and tiptoed out of the apartment, thinking an STD of some sort was involved and it was time for me to jump off the roof of the building out of shame.

Later that morning, Tall Blonde Alcoholic texted me, "Why do I have rug-burn on my balls?"

And then it dawned on me.

Me: Did you use Head & Shoulders as lube?
Him: Yes. Why?
Me: It contains zinc pyrithione! A potent heat shock response inducer that may cause DNA damage!

Actually, I didn't say that. I just looked that up on Wikipedia right now.

But the point is that now my balls look like the surface of Mars.

And I'm probably going to get cancer.

So next time my knees are behind my head [on my shoulders] I am not going to use Head & Shoulders. And neither should you.

Love: A Personal History

2010-02-27T18:31:00.006-05:00

You grow up thinking it's perfectly normal that your parents love each other and hate each other at the same time. So it's also normal that they love you and hate you. You believe that every kiss should be paired with a slap and every "I Love You" is waiting for a retraction.

And then you are watching Step By Step and Full House and learn that real, anglo-saxon, American love is unconditional. You wonder why the people that say they love you can also hate you and ultimately hurt you. [It is because they are Asian.] So you force yourself to stop forgiving them for the way they make you feel and you decide to resent them instead. And when they say, "I love you," you stop believing. And where you used to respond, "I love you too," you don't say anything anymore.

But as you grow older you realize that this is not their fault. They cannot love you because they cannot understand you. They will continue to see what they want to see: the archetypal version of a son that will one day marry an Asian girl who will bear them three grandsons. And they will love that archetype with all of their hearts and they will love the real you the only way they know how. And though you still can't bring yourself to say you love them, you can appreciate their gestures.

And when you are all grown you think you don't need your parents' love. You know what real love is and you can find it in the form of a boyfriend or a naked French rugby player or through the unrequited adoration of Kim Yu-Na.

But the people you love can never love you back in the idealized manner you've always imagined. And when you are with your boy, all the little things bother you because they seem to tell you that, just like your parents, he loves you and he hates you.

And though you've convinced yourself you would be capable of loving somebody that truly understood you, you find that you are not so different from your parents. Like them, you are incapable of love. Because you don't know how to feel loved without feeling hurt.

Panda Hat(er)

2010-02-13T01:18:00.007-05:00

To commemorate Tai Shan's last day in DC, I wear my cute fuzzy panda hat to work. It was a doubly good day to wear it because it was very cold outside and my cute fuzzy panda hat keeps my head and ears quite warm.

The receptionist sees my hat and smiles.
______, the bitch, says, "I like your hat."
My supervisor sees it and laughs for the first time since 2003.
Visitor A says, "Can I try it on?!"

The day is a success. Not only am I paying tribute to Tai Shan, I have made countless people on the metro and at work smile. I have brought joy to the world.

The next day I receive a call from my supervisor, who is working remotely.

Her: Did anybody talk to you about your hat?
Me: _____ said it was cute.
Her: Oh, I probably shoudn't say anything then.

She continues.

Her: Somebody came to me saying the hat was not appropriate for the workplace and it conflicts with the image we are trying to portray.
Me: Who said this.
Her: I cannot tell you who said it.
Me: It was ____ from marketing wasn't it.
Her: I cannot tell you who said it.
Me: My life is over.
Her: I would not worry about this.
Me: If you need to reach me, I will have run myself through the paper shredder.

I was not trying to make a statement. All I wanted to do was pay homage to Tai Shan and wear something that was cute and fuzzy and warm. And now ____ from marketing has turned me into this frivolous sociopath trying to dismantle the company's meticulously polished brand image. Even worse, he has turned my cute fuzzy panda hat into a symbol of anarchy.

And before you wag your finger at me, take a moment to consider that I am not the one taking two hour lunch breaks to go to Georgetown Cupcake and renting a zipcar with the company card to take day trips to Philadelphia and New York City. But I am sorry. I am sorry for wanting to have fun and for being cute.

I never meant for my cute fuzzy panda hat to become an emblem of sweeping social change, but my cute fuzzy panda hat and I will show the world that cute fuzzy panda hats and professionalism belong side by side. When I show up next week, cute fuzzy panda hat and all, I will show the world that my cute fuzzy panda hat is the embodiment of corporate commitment to quality and integrity.

And ____ from marketing is just jealous that he isn't as cute as I am, anyway.

The Gay Couple

2010-01-21T22:55:00.006-05:00

The gay relationship is a mysterious beast. Unlike the straight relationship, gay relatioships can't annouce themselves to the world, show their affection in public, or end in marriage. Well, maybe we can in West Hollywood [not the marriage thing] and most parts of Canada. But if you live anywhere else you're probably going to get clubbed to death like a poor baby seal.

With both of us still in the closet, and the background to our bad romance being a somewhat conservative city, it's difficult for me and Tall Blonde Alcoholic to do coupley things. Whenever we're out together I have this strange sense of unease. To calm my paranoia, we walk with our backs to each other so we have a 360 degree view of approaching lynch mobs. It's more romantic than it sounds.

When we go to the movies, we watch things like 2012 in its tenth week of release or Nine in its first week of release to make sure nobody is in the theater. When we go to dinner together we're not exactly snuggling it up in the booth and spoon feeding each other. And when we're in a big group, I tend to overcompensate by staying as far away from him as possible. Usually this is easy, though sometimes he mistakes this to mean I am mad at him. But this can prove difficult when he gets drunk and takes off his shirt and charges at me.

It's kind of hard carrying on like this. I feel like I have an obligation to pretend he's not important to me because I don't want to accidentally out him. I guess he feels the same way about me. But playing things cool all the time can really wear a couple down. At some point this brilliant deception is going to become a reality. Are we fooling the world or just fooling ourselves?

Our two month anniversary is in EIGHT days and I'm so excited!

Well, That Was Fun

2010-01-18T12:44:00.027-05:00

It's always hard to know beforehand which posts are going to get a lot of attention and which ones aren't. Sometimes I poor my icy heart out into a post and the only person that comments is mother disguised as a fat middle-aged man disguised as a cute teenage boy.

I didn't expect people to get so excited about my little study on Jason Carwin. It's kind of thrilling. Apparently, the only thing I've learned from all of this is that if I want my blog to be any sort of success, I should just attack teenagers until they are all floating, lifeless in the blogging sea.

I try not to care about what people say in the comments. When people tell me I'm a good writer, I smile to myself and blush a little. But I don't really think of myself that way and I haven't exactly gotten any Pulitzers in the mail so that's that. When people disagree with me, I tend to think they've got their little minds backwards. But everyone has their opinion and I can tolerate that as much as I can tolerate heterosexuals. So that's that.

But when people are mean, I get kind of taken aback. Well, clearly I've done myself in because I'm the one that dedicated an entire post to writing off a poor innocent boy. But at least I had the decency to channel my aggression onto my own blog. For example, don't comment on my post calling me a seething, jealous bitch and then ask me how things are going with my boyfriend. Things are going fine, by the way.

I didn't think Jason was going to read the post. Some fucker probably tipped him off. Probably that bitch, Anon #5. But he left a nice comment which I respect as much as I can respect heterosexuals. So I suppose in this exchange he is the bigger man and the better person. Who knows, maybe even smarter fag (well, depending on who you ask).

I don't really regret what I've said but I regret where I'm coming from. I don't want anybody to be happy until I've found happiness for myself. I want to go to Yale and I want to Julie Powell-esque blog success and I want to attend the Golden Globes with Neil Patrick Harris. When I encounter people that have these things, I try to rationalize why I deserve it more. I need to get over that.

All things considered, I certainly don't think Jason should take my post to heart. As much as I have the right to be a bitch, he has the right to be happy about his acceptance. If I'd gotten in somewhere great, I probably would've jumped for joy and told Stavros Niarchos to suck my dick. And though I am hard-pressed to say so, in Jason's own way, he deserves it. Meanwhile, I still grasp desperately to the hope that one day I will achieve my own sort of success and acceptance. Because I think I deserve it too.

--edit--

It really bothers me that somebody with absolutely no readers and no comments has called my blog under-read. How would he even know? My sitemeter is password protected...

This person thinks he's Mother Willow because he's too mature to care about money and where he goes to school and "any of that shit." Please. That is just so naive. Hand me that $2 trashcan from Ikea so I can vomit in it.

Your parents paid for your private school (seriously doubt they were snipping school vouchers from the local newspaper) and probably paid for your college and will probably continue giving you whatever you want for the rest of your life no matter what you do / how unsuccessful your blog is.

And though this person finds me "absolutely disgusting," I have a feeling he will continue reading my blog and will probably have some sort of response in the form of a short witty comment. But I really hope he doesn't. This is the last thing I want to say about all of this.

But if he decides to write a follow up on his own blog about how horrible and tragic I am, I couldn't care less. Because if a tree falls and nobody is there to hear it, then your blog is a piece of shit.

Carwin's Theory

2010-01-11T08:21:00.027-05:00

I don't usually read new blogs because people are idiots and reading their stupid thoughts and stupid prose makes me all sweaty and upset.

I recently started reading a blog by an 18-something: Carwin's Closet.

I was intrigued by the post "Hope-o-Meter Plummets," which discusses the unfairness of college admissions and his general mistrust of the process. Nevermind the title, this post made me feel good on the inside for once in my life because I was fucked by college admissions and will jump on any wagon that points out its flaws. I've had to watch people miles and miles dumber than me get into my dream schools while I fester in my current situation. It's turned me into one of those bitter, bitchy fags and not one of those happy, fun fags.

But his next post is, "YALE CLASS OF 2014."

Which, I feel like, sends a mixed message. There is something bothersome about a guy who only complains about a system until he gets what he wants out of it. I'm still festering here. What happened to THE CAUSE?

I tried to make myself feel better and I assumed he was from Montana or Winnipeg or some other dumb locale where getting into a good college isn't that difficult. I've always hated the fact that living in DC meant I had to compete with the kids of stupid politicians and the bitches at NIH and NIST. Also, it was a mistake to go to a magnet school because everyone there was like, obsessed with being smart and it was annoying. But it turns out he's from SoCal, where there are a serious number of Asians.

I suppose his real advantage was going to a private school and being a self-proclaimed privileged kid. I feel better and worse at the same time. Maybe this proves that I am smarter than him but it also means that regardless, he's going to get more out of life than I will. I don't blame him. I'm just jealous. Side note: I thought it was somewhat comical that he contended he had "seen the real world" by living in Switzerland for four months and India for two. The Swiss aren't exactly rife with poverty and I have my doubts he was slumming it in the Bombay ghetto.

The sad fact is that it's not really survival of the fittest in this world. He got a leg up because of his money, and working hard matters less for him than it does for the rest of us [me]. A lot of us [me] worked just as hard, if not harder than he did but we [I] got nothing out of it because nobody really cares about the son of two poor immigrants. [Read: his best doesn't have to be as good as my best.] Well it's sad for me. I'm sure he is still clicking his heels with joy right now. But the real point here is that the system is broken, even if one privileged kid from SoCal gets some good news.

Insult to injury, I'm not on is blog roll and he doesn't even know who I am / how great I am. I feel like Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada, "So you don't read Runway... and before today you've never heard of me..."

I'm frustrated that somebody I feel better than is getting the things I couldn't. His blog isn't particularly insightful or well written. But then again, I'm the one who quotes The Devil Wears Prada and listens to Bad Romance on repeat for two months. I mean, I'm pretty sure that still makes me better than him. But he does get more comments and has more followers than I do...

I don't actually think I'm better than him - smarter maybe, but not better. In the end, it's just disheartening to have all these problems, and have no money, AND be gay, AND be ugly, AND be fat. And this is probably the real reason why it's hard for me to read other people's blogs and listen to their problems. Because compared to me, these kids have it easy.

It Is My Birthday.

2010-01-04T10:35:00.001-05:00

I am one year older.

Too old, if you ask me.

Architect of My Destruction

2009-12-20T22:50:00.003-05:00

As the semester draws to a close and I see all the studio kids leave the architecture building, I am disgusted by their camaraderie and sense of accomplishment. Mostly because I used to be one of them, wide-eyed and hopeful for my future in the hallowed profession. But sadly, I left a year into the program and just one month into studio. And naturally, I am bitter now.

I miss studio. The sense of closeness among the fifty or so students. (Well, everyone else was close. I was somewhat of a leper). I miss falling asleep on my studio desk, wrapping myself in sheets upon sheets of trace paper, and scowling at anybody who dared to come near me. I miss the lofty arrogance I used to possess over my friends in other majors because I was studying to create something tangible and beautiful and they were studying rat brains or something. I miss my studio critic, who was sweet and looked a little bit like Taylor Swift.

But more than I miss what was, I miss what could have been. Right before I left, Taylor Swift said to me, "I don't want you to leave something I think you would be really good at." It kind of pissed me off that she said that instead of, "You are out, auf wiedersehen," because now I can't help but imagine what would have been if I stayed. Would I have survived the first semester and done well for myself? Would I have become the next great architect? Perhaps design a Real World house or bathrooms for Oprah.

At the time that I left, I found the studio environment to be somewhat toxic. I thought that everyone was strange, the girls in my section were all lesbians in club rugby, and it was ridiculous that people enjoyed staying in the building overnight and skipping meals just to get their projects done. Maybe through time I would've seen my peers as interesting and eclectic. And maybe through time I would have recognized studio as a semester long slumber party / extremely effective diet. And maybe, just maybe, after a long time I would grow to like lesbians. But I didn't feel like I had that time, so I left.

But mostly, it was about the work, and I can't help but wonder if I left just because things got hard. I am now majoring in finance and accounting, which is easy. While I find it somewhat intellectually stimulating and I am definitely having more fun in college, I don't feel like I'm accomplishing anything worthwhile. I feel soulless, and the spreadsheets don't help. At the same time, maybe the only reason I want to go back is to have that close group of friends, feel better than everyone else, and be around gay and trendy people all the time. All bad reasons.

I guess I'm just at a place where I still can't tell if I've made the right decision. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten involved with architecture in the first place. Now I am stuck with all this knowledge about line weights, circulation, and rococo, but not enough experience for it to be useful in any way except for having a little more insight than others when watching HGTV.

And I suppose this all goes back to the common theme in my life of not knowing who I am or what I want to be. Other than not gay and not jobless.

1, 2, 3

2009-12-16T23:05:00.006-05:00

At a house party, it is someone's idea to play "Never Have I Ever." This idea does not seem fun to me because there isn't anything I haven't done. Also, I can never remember if you are supposed to put your finger down when you have done it or when you haven't done it.

After the first five never-done-its, Tall Blonde Alcoholic is already out of the game. Everyone lies back and sighs, well that was fun. And then, wait a minute, that means he's had a threesome. Everyone assumes he's done it with two girls or maybe one other guy and a girl. But I know better.

Tall Blonde Alcoholic looks at me. I look at him, and then look away. Like they do in the movies or fragrance commercials. It doesn't look as good when I do it, but the effect is the same.

Seconds later, I receive the first of many texts, "Are you mad."

Why would I be mad? I have no reason to be mad. He did it before he met me. My response: "No." But I am mad, obviously. Because I am possessive and I like to think he has never thought about, wanted, fucked, or fuck+1ed anybody but me. (Keep in mind this is before we officially became boyfriends and I hadn't locked him in a cage under my bed yet.)

From that point, he unravels. The sweet tea vodka does not help. I drag him outside, where he begins crying.

"Everyone inside is judging me."

"No they're not."

"You hate me."

"No I don't."

"Everyone in the entire world hates us just because we're gay."

"Speak for yourself."

He continues to sob. I have a crier on my hands. He says he has nobody. I tell him he has me, which is something I've heard from a movie or fragrance commercial once. He says, "I love you so much."

I don't know how to respond to this because he is drunk and he's having an emotional breakdown so clearly he doesn't really mean it.

So I don't say anything back. And I suggest we go back inside. And I kinda wanna have a threesome now. And also eat a brownie.

Levi Johnston Nude. London Preppy Semi-nude.

2009-11-23T01:35:00.009-05:00

Every once in a while, I make a discovery on the internet that changes my life. A few weeks ago, I was on Google typing in all the familiar phrases into the search field: "london preppy nude", "celebrity penises", "zoloft common questions", "baby deer eaten by lions at national zoo."

Usually, these searches result in, nothing, disappointment, hopefulness, nostalgia (in that very particular order). But this time was different. This time I was met with nostalgia, hopefulness, something, and disappointment (in no particular order). This time, using a sophisticated methodology, I was able to finally find an uncensored picture of the man known as London Preppy. And after I found the one, I found like, ten more. And then, I found his name.

Caveat emptor, these pictures are in fact, not nude. Well, there is one picture where there is nothing between me and his pee other than a strangely shaped, tangerine colored hat (story of my life). But by uncensored, I mostly mean his eyes aren't covered with that annoying red rectangle that keeps us from peering into his soul. In fact, there is not one butt butt or pee pee to be found. Which is disappointing, but I especially like the one where he is wearing an unhemmed t-shirt and has dirt on his face because it makes it look like he was just attacked by some sort of large, brown bear.

I hope this entry doesn't make him mad if he ever finds out. Maybe he, along with Dr. Izzie Stevens and I, wishes/wish that his/our nude/semi-nude/semi-formal/semi-former modeling days were left in the past. And maybe he doesn't appreciate annoying-ugly-fat people digging these pictures up and plastering them on their walls and getting them imprinted on their bedsheets. And that is why I'm not going to post them, say where they were, or say his name. But I'm keeping the bedsheets.

But it is a shame he has to cover them, because they really are beautiful eyes.

He said in a terrifying, stalkerish way.

But I do not owe the same debt to Levi Johnston so here they are.

Figure 1: I like how in this one, they don't really show me anything, but his hair looks so curly and nice.

Figure 2: I like how in this one there is a miraculous white line going horizontally through the picture across his back.

Figure 3: I like this one.

Maybe This Time

2009-11-03T23:57:00.013-05:00

The day after everyone decides to burst out of the closet in Salisbury, we avoid looking at each other in the eyes. Inwardly, I wonder if he meant what he said. I want to get him to say it sober. I want to sit on his lap. Instead,we go back to pretending we are straight. We sit far apart and hum along to Lady Gaga on the car ride back.

Several weeks after returning from Salisbury, Tall Blonde Alcoholic, Average Brown Quarter-Asian, and I get mildly/wildly intoxicated. We end up in Average Brown Quarter-Asian's dorm room. I lie horizontally on the foot of her bed and decide that it wouldn't be that bad if the sky fell down on me. Tall Blonde Alcoholic walks over to the bed and lies next to me with his head on my chest and his arm around me. And though he would have blamed it on the alcohol if I asked, I feel like the sky has indeed fallen down on me.

Over the next few days, I consider what has occurred. No doubt Average Brown Quarter-Asian is considering designs for my life. But I conclude that he is an alcoholic and probably thought I was either a pillow or an oversized bottle of spiced rum.

A week later we are both sitting on the couch in my apartment watching Chicago. I've had a few drinks and I find Renee Zellweger irresistable. So over the course of the movie, I inch closer and closer to where he is sitting. He has had a few drinks and he finds Catherine Zeta-Jones irresistable. So over the course of the movie, he forgets to inch away from where I am sitting.

I tell him it's late and that he should just sleep in my place. I then systematically talk him out of every article of clothing he is wearing. When I wake up and sober up, I think to myself while he sleeps silently, "There is no way that this has just happened." And then I think, "He is probably gay."

Over the next few weeks, the occurrence repeats itself several times. Always the same, he gets drunk, I get drunk, he wants to make out, we end up in bed together. When he wakes up from his drunken stupor, he realizes his huge mistake. And for the next excruciatingly sober hours, days, weeks, we ignore the homoerotic tension and pretend nothing is going on. He doesn't express any sober or reasonable desire to see me or be with me. I express my desire to drown myself in the Tidal Basin.

Some lessons are never learned, and this is mine. This is just further evidence that nobody on this planet is physically capable of wanting me. In which case I might as well live a life of solitude on the Moon, which incidentally has water. Ready my spaceship.

And although he really is special, out of all the silly boys, I have a feeling this one will disappoint me the most.

HIV Is Not FUN

2009-10-29T12:34:00.010-04:00

I feel like it is every gay boy's rite of passage to, at some point, believe they are dying of AIDS. My coming of age came last week when I ran around campus thinking I was dying and said goodbye to everybody I've ever met.

On Monday morning, I brush my teeth, look in the mirror, and wonder if I should take my mom's advice and get a nose job. As I spit out the toothpaste, I find that there is blood in it. My first impulse is to try and remember if I bit my tongue in my sleep or if I tried to bite a hot guy's ass last night. I call my friend Tall Brunette J.Crew and this is how the conversation goes.

Me: Good morning. I am dying of AIDS.
Her: It's 2pm. Why do you say that.
Me: I am bleeding from my gums.
Her: Are you brushing too hard?
Me: No, it's aids.
Her: Or it's gingivitis...
Me: That is disgusting.

Later in the afternoon, I sit on my bed and use every bit of emotional strength I have to regret those two random hookups. Those freaks probably had AIDS and now I am dying.

The next day, I wake up with an intense fever, a sore throat, and a strange feeling of nausea everytime somebody mentions vaginas (the last symptom is not abnormal). But this occurrence, along with the bleeding gums is too much of a coincidence for me.

I walk to the health center and go straight to the front desk, demanding to know where the HIV testing lab is. Every head in the room immediately turns to look at me. Obviously, they've never met a gay whore before. I smile and wave. No pictures please.

Inside the lab, a 20-something African immigrant tells me he is going to administer my test. At least, I think that is what he said. I cannot understand a single word coming out of his mouth. I am not optimistic about this situation and I try to remember where the nearest emergency exit is. But before I know it, he is walking towards me with a needle and crazy eyes. I try to turn my head slightly so I can read the name embroidered on his breast pocket just in case a lawsuit become necessary in the future.

When I come back the next day, I do not need to ask the front desk where the HIV testing lab is. I proceed there on my own. People watching me assume I am a regular at the HIV testing lab. Obviously, they've never met a gay whore before. I smile and wave. I will be signing autographs later.

There is a new doctor in the lab. He motions for me to come in. He tells me to close the door. Which I immediately interpret as an indication that I am positive and dying. He tells me I am HIV negative. Which I immediately interpret as an indication that I am negative, but still dead on the inside.

As I leave the health center, I get a text from Tall Blonde Alcoholic, "Did you go to the health center yet? Are you alright?"

I suppose for the time being, I am.

Salisbury, A Conclusion

2009-10-26T22:10:00.008-04:00

After he had cried quietly in our arms for a few minutes, I stood him up to look into his brown eyes and see if he was ok. Average-Brown Quarter Asian motioned for us to all go back inside. I had been looking for the perfect chance to get rid of her so that Tall Blonde Alcoholic and I could get naked and make love on a bed of acorns so I told her that she should go in because it was getting cold and the people inside probably missed her. I would stay with Tall Blonde Alcoholic until his tears dried.

I wasn't wearing shoes since Tall Blonde Alcoholic had dragged me outside so abruptly. I motioned for him to follow me, all the while the acorns and the twigs on the ground poked at my feet, forcing me to tip-toe carefully across the backyard.

As we made our way towards a dark and secluded corner where our secrets could be contained, each painful step felt like an indication to turn around. He would be the first person I have ever told. (Keep in mind, I never told the ex-roommate who I've been screwing for about a year. In that situation, my homosexuality was just implied.) I never pictured doing this in Salisbury. I never imagined doing it just to make somebody else feel better. When we got to a good spot, Tall Blonde Alcoholic was pacing nervously. I told him to sit down, not knowing fully what I was going to do or say.

I sat on the ground, my back supported by the tire of an old truck. He sat next to me and started crying again. He kept repeating, "I can't believe I just did that. I feel like I'm going to throw up." I looked at him and realized I would do anything for him. And I really didn't want him to throw up on me. So amid the chaos, with a voice that was shaking from the cold and the nerves, I managed to mutter, "Hey, it's fine. I am gay too."

Over the River and Through the Hood

2009-10-06T22:34:00.009-04:00

On Sunday night I am feeling particularly desperate and lonely. And the question of how far I will go for love is answered, literally.

Average Blonde Creepy found me on Manhunt a few weeks ago and had been aggressively courting me with the same message every few days for the past month. Always, "what sup," as the subject line and nothing in the main message. I was extremely concerned about why he placed the "s" where he did, when simply moving it to the other side of the space would make his subject line grammatically correct (assuming the use of an apostrophe). I also wondered if this man was really only capable of that one thought, "what sup," and if this was the true mark of a criminally insane man.

But Sundays are made for people like me to take their chances with the criminally insane. So when Average Blonde Creepy messaged, "what sup," I responded, "no tmuch."

Without wasting any time on the pretense that he cares about my personality, he asked if I wanted to "come over to his place." I responded by asking, "what would we do?" like there was any question. He said, "we can chill in my hot tub," and I said that was fine, "as long as I can get back in time for Desperate Housewives."

When I asked where he lived, he said, "_________." And though his location was annoyingly distant, I thought about how far Moses walked to get where he needed to go / I had nothing better to do. So I hopped onto the university shuttle to _______ ____ Station and took the _____ line to Chinatown where I switched onto the ______ line to ________ __ Station. In the process, crossing a river, entering another state, and finally arriving at what seemed like the set of The Wire.

So as I tried to position my backpack in a way that would shield me from stray bullets and judgmental eyes, I wandered around feeling shocked that I had agreed to do this, hopeful that this man would be decent looking/smelling/weighing, and confused as to which direction was north. But deep down, I had already regretted coming to this place at the end of the world and concluded that this must be the beginning of the end for me.

As soon as I got through the door of his house, this __ year old of a man immediately began showing me all of the things that make him important and relevant like the security piece that gets him into the White House and his autographed copy of "The Audacity of Hope Yadda Yadda Vom." He also talked about all the homework he had to do and how much he disliked math.

A rare glimmer of literacy emerged when he mentioned having to read a chapter from The Scarlet Letter. And though I had read the book my freshman year of high school, and though this guy was __ years old, I respected him for a brief, shining moment. That is, until he suddenly pushed me onto his bed and began furiously making out with me. And while I didn't stop him, I wondered deeply how we went from discussing the important themes of a Nathaniel Hawthorne novel to sucking face with my jeans around my ankles.

And as he continued to press his face against mine, I realized that no matter how far I traveled, I would still be starved for love. And pretty soon, starved for oxygen.

What Happens in Salisbury, Stays in Salisbury

2009-09-30T12:27:00.008-04:00

As we stood at the side of the beach house in pitch black and silence, Average Brown Quarter-Asian and I searched desperately for something sympathetic to say. Even in total darkness, I could see the tears in Tall Blonde Alcoholic's eyes and I wanted to hug him and reassure him and take off his pants.

But as much as he was shaken by what he was revealing, I was shocked by what I was hearing and found myself unable to provide any sort of meaningful words of support aside from, "It's cool man, you're cool." Because even though I've suspected Tall Blonde Alcoholic to be gay for at least two years now, (and though my gaydar has yet to fail me), there is nothing quite like the bombshell of hearing somebody say, "I am gay," or in this case, "I'm not exactly straight."

So while Average Brown Quarter-Asian stood there, quietly interpreting his statement and considering her options, I too weighed in on what this could possibly mean. I thought to ask, "So on the Kinsey scale of 0 to 6, where would you place yourself," or "If I were naked in a room and Megan Fox was naked in the same room, what would you do?" But in an effort to remain sensitive, I refrained.

And after a sufficient period of awkward silence, Tall Blonde Alcoholic said, "I understand if you hate me and don't want to be my friend anymore." At this point, Average Brown Quarter-Asian and I jumped in with a chorus of "NOOOOO" and "Are you kidding?" Because all in all, Tall Blonde Alcoholic played this well. He picked all the right words to finally make me think I have a chance and make Average Brown Quarter-Asian believe there is hope for her too.

So as Tall Blonde Alcoholic continued by telling us how much it kills him to be different and judged by everyone, (and I pretended that this was the first time I've considered such foreign concepts), I noticed Average Brown Quarter-Asian inching closer and closer to him, trying to offer emotional but mostly physical support. And at that point, I knew that the race was far from over.

And all I can remember thinking was, "This sobbing mess of a boy will be mine if it's the last thing I do."

Salisbury Je T'aime

2009-09-27T20:13:00.006-04:00

When Average Brown Quarter-Asian invited me to her friend's beach house in Salisbury for the weekend, I was extremely hesitant about going. I am not very close with her group of friends and I live in constant fear of being judged by strangers. Also, if I got into a huge fight with somebody there I would have nowhere to go and I would still have to drive back with them for 3 hours at the end of the weekend. Also, I hate using other people's showers and sleeping on the floor.

But I decided to go because Tall Blonde Alcoholic was going and one weekend alone with Average Brown Quarter-Asian would have given her an insurmountable lead in the race for his affection.

The first night we were there, there was a party in the beach house. I met an impossibly attractive club lacrosse player with an incredible body and a gorgeous face. While trying to come up with ideas to talk him out of his compression shorts, I noticed that one girl had started grinding her ass against Tall Blonde Alcoholic and he kept on backing away. A few minutes later, the girl came to me and asked me what was wrong with Tall Blonde Alcoholic. I laughed and said I didn't know. She said, "maybe he is gay." I laughed again and said, "maybe he is." I looked over at him and he was pretty much standing next to us and he probably heard the entire thing.

For the next hour he stood in the corner of the room and would not stop downing beers and taking shots of vodka. I couldn't decide if he was upset about what I said, the slutty girl who tried to dance with him, or the lab report he had to finish by Monday. Average Brown Quarter-Asian and I tried to get him to stop and ask him what was bothering him but he wasn't listening to either of us.

We went into the next room to discuss strategies of getting him away from the alcohol before he killed himself. But after a few minutes, he came into the room and told us to both come outside with him because he needed to talk to us.

He brought us to the side of the house and said,

"I want you to know that you two are my best friends. And it's probably already obvious but, I'm not exactly straight."

And all I can remember thinking was, "Thank God I came to Salisbury."

Marketing Is Gay

2009-09-23T11:34:00.009-04:00

In BMGT451, there is a brief section in one chapter about marketing strategies for attracting gay people. Note, this is for attracting gay people and not for attractive gay people. And though these nuances turn me off initially, and though I am really only interested in attracting attractive gay people, the ensuing class discussion is somewhat exhilarating and it makes me feel alive again.

First of all, I love being in a small classroom when a professor brings up anything gay. Because all the people that are chatting and texting suddenly stop. Everyone gets a sullen look on their face like somebody they knew but didn't love has died. And they all pay as much attention as they can to something they don't care about but not as much attention as they would pay to an episode of The Hills. And this is all because nobody wants to be "the jerk" that hates on "the gays" in public. Though inwardly, most of these people know that they are the jerks that hate in the privacy of their own homes. Dorms.

And it's also fun because I feel like a gay spy, infiltrating a secret meeting for straight people to discuss our strange behavior. I take notes on all their strategies to overcome us and sell us things we don't need like his & her towels and marriage license frames. I will take these notes to Dustin Lance Black and he will try to make a movie out of it if he can stop having trashy yet well-documented sex.

So the professor says:

"It seems as though gay people respond positively to ads aimed explicitly towards heterosexuals but heterosexuals respond negatively to ads specifically for gays."

Excuse me, we prefer to be called sexually challenged.

"Gay people do not take offense when an advertisement features a heterosexual couple but heterosexual people are turned off by advertisements featuring a gay couple."

I don't know about you, but ads featuring straight people make me want to vomit off the Empire State Building and watch as it kills somebody on the sidewalk. And the only gay people that don't vom at the sight of hetero happiness are too busy focusing on the shirtless man in the ads to even notice that there is a woman present.

The discussion ended shortly thereafter because the business school prefers not to hide, nor to flaunt gays. And when addressing gays, it's important not to dwell because gays are a niche market that nobody but Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia wants to tap anyway. So these brief sessions end up being meaningless. The hungover white boys learn nothing about tolerance and the importance of tight-fitting jeans. The materialistic girls still mistakenly think that gays are nothing more than shopping buddies and that they themselves look good in black tights.

But at the same time, their shallow understanding is a blessing because they fail to crack any of the codes and learn any of the secrets of gay people. And even though today's college kids are well aware that gay people exist in the world, they will never truly understand them. us. me.

It's Like An Episode of The Bachelor

2009-09-19T04:31:00.014-04:00

After running some errands this afternoon I came back to my apartment and was about to fall asleep when Tall Blonde Alcoholic called me and asked if he could come over to hang out. I immediately pried myself out of bed to get ready so that I didn't look like a complete monster when he got here.

We spent a few hours drinking beer, eating popcorn, and watching Behind the Music: Pink while we sat next to each other on the couch. We were close enough for me to smell his body, admire his tight fitting kakhis, and send my heart beating. But not close enough to feel satisfied.

Average Brown Quarter-Asian comes to my apartment too, mostly because she knows Tall Blonde Alcoholic is there. We take tequila shots. For them, it's typical college fun. For me, this marks the beginning of a substance abuse pattern.

After the first shot, Average Brown Quarter-Asian feels as though she can blame her behavior on the alcohol. So she proceeds to throw herself on Tall Blonde Alcoholic. She touches his arms and chest repeatedly. Not enough to feel satisfied, but enough to send her heart beating. At the end of the night, Tall Blonde Alcoholic is lying on the floor of my apartment and Average Brown Quarter-Asian is sitting next to him, equally smashed, stroking his hair. This is fun for me.

Average Brown Quarter-Asian gets a call from one of her friends asking her to come to a party. It's already 4am and she asks if we would want to go with her or would rather just go to sleep. Tall Blonde Alcoholic gets up off the ground and says to me, "I'm only going if you are going." I decide not to go.

He asks me to walk him back to his dorm. I wasn't sure if this was an invitation to make out in his dorm room or if he was just being annoying, so I said no. He then asks if he can sleep in my apartment for the night. He says it like a joke and I don't want to seem like an eager homo so I say no to that too. I find out later that he goes back to the party that Average Brown Quarter-Asian went to. This is fun for me.

At this point, Average Brown Quarter-Asian and I are in direct competition for Tall Blonde Alcoholic's affection. Obviously she has the upper hand, because it is more acceptable for her to force herself on him in public places in various states of undress.

One Time, On Manhunt

2009-09-12T16:10:00.005-04:00

There are some words that you should never begin a story with.

One time, on manhunt, there was this guy. We will call him dcrunner103, because I have no obligation to protect the identity of idiots.

So dcrunner103 sends me the following message:

"hey man, hit me up on a messenger and we can talk. I'm at ___ on aim, ___ on yahoo.

later"

First, I am excited because he starts the conversation with "hey man, hit me up...". And if this isn't a hetero-acting, football-loving, dick-swinging, white boy, I don't really know anything anymore.

Second, I am excited because he suggests that we talk. This means that he loves my profile/personality and wants to know more about me. And once we share our feelings, aspirations, and food allergies, he will tell me that I am his soul mate.

Third, from what I could derive from his 1-centimeter big picture, he had abs.

But.

When I message him, he says, "who is this? lol"

So after I assured myself I wasn't talking to a 12 year old boy, I reminded him who I was and showed him the message he sent me.

"Haha, well that was a long time ago."

Yeah. Like 20 minutes.

And then he immediately asked me, "So what are you looking for?"

I gently reminded him that my profile says I am looking for a husband, trying to be funny and cute.

"Dude i read a lot of profiles, i dont have it open anymore"

And at this point, I am trying to grapple with the idea that this "dude" messaged me wanting to "talk" but didn't bother to remember who I was or anything about me. So I wondered for a while if he was one of the automated computer people or just retarded.

And then I realized he was just like every other guy on manhunt. And I gave up on him. And everyone else.

Love, In All The Wrong Places

2009-09-03T01:34:00.010-04:00

By pure coincidence, my old roommate and the Tall Blond Alcoholic live in the same hall in rooms across from each other. God likes to torment me in this way and the only way I survive is by believing that He will pay me back in a big way. This is the old roommate who finds me repulsively unattractive but manages to get me into his bed every other night. This is the Tall Blond Alcoholic that I suspect might be gay and that I harbor lonely-gay-boy feelings for. Feelings that, by definition, should not be taken too seriously.

I live halfway across campus and am completely unaware of what goes on between the two of them in that hall. Sometimes, when I have nothing better to think about, I seethe over the idea that they are probably eating dinner together, working on homework together, or having casual and surreptitious sex.

Last time I hooked up with my old roommate, I accidentally left my shirt in his room. Since I was watching Top Chef in the Tall Blond Alcoholic's room today, I asked him if I could walk across the hall and get my shirt back. He told me to wait in the bathroom for him to hand me the shirt because people in the hall already suspect that I am gay and he doesn't want to be seen.

Several things bother me about what he said.

1) The fact that they suspect me.

2) The fact that they suspect me and not him.

3) The fact that he is embarrassed to be seen with me.

4) I am not even gay.

It is hurtful that my old roommate will use me to get off but can just discard me to protect his reputation. A reputation that is not that great to begin with, which only adds insult to my injuries. And I'm disappointed that he threw me under the bus instead of manning up and being true to himself. Though I'm not really one to talk.

So I left the room of the boy who will never open up to me to pick up my shirt in the bathroom from the boy who will never appreciate me. And I prayed to God that He can pay me back by giving me the strength to stay the hell away from this hall.

In All Fairness

2009-08-21T20:43:00.004-04:00

When I stepped foot on the muddy ground at the Montgomery County Fair, deep down in my heart I knew this was the last time I could beg my aging body to eat funnel cake and ride a tilt-a-whirl. But this place always possessed such a sense of adventure and excitement, and I wanted to relive those feelings one more time.

So I paid 8 USD to get in (another 8 USD for my friend) and 20 USD for rides and 15 USD for games and 4 USD for a corndog and wondered if anybody still remembers that we are experiencing a recession. I rode all the rides I used to, inwardly hoping that my now adult-sized body would not cause the entire ferris wheel to come unhinged and start rolling down interstate-270. I got harassed by all the workers to "buy a game for my girlfriend," which got to be really awkward when I replied by saying, "I eat penises for breakfast, lunch, and dinner." One, why do they assume we are dating. Two, why do they assume I am straight. Three, why do they assume I speak English.

On one particular ride, my friend got scared and grabbed my hand. I thought to myself, "Perhaps this is the moment I realize that I am straight." But when I opened my eyes, found myself looking at a female, and felt myself gag, I knew nothing had changed and I looked for ways to pry myself out of her sweaty, needy hands.

I've known this girl for about 6 years now and everyone who's met us for the first time assumes we are dating. Recently, at a party, three separate guys tried to hook up with her and each time she came running back to me to sit in my lap and tell me how disgusted she was. The next day, a guy said to me, " I heard _________ was chewing you out a lot at ______'s." Like I know what that means. But this is annoying. Girls are gross.

Anyway, the fair was too expensive and not that fun today. It probably would have been better if it wasn't 90 degrees and humid. And also if this girl wasn't "chewing me out" the entire time.

As we were leaving, I was 100% consumed in making sure the goldfish I had just won was not missing any scales. We walked passed a group of guys and she whispers to me, "Oh my God, that guy totally just eye-fucked you." So I guess she proved herself to be useful and today wasn't a total loss.

Summer Rides

2009-08-18T23:03:00.007-04:00

Tall Blonde Alcoholic and I were going to the same party so he asked me for a ride there. When he got in the car, all I could notice was how good he smelled and how weird I was for noticing. But some guys just smell so good that it makes your mind go numb. Since I was driving and at least a little bit of consciousness was necessary, I rolled down the windows and pressed on.

I am 83% sure he is gay. Which is very relevant to me. But it's also irrelevant because even if he were, there is no guarantee that he would want anything to do with me. I hate people who think that two gay guys need nothing else but their gayness in common to get along. With that said, whenever I see a hot guy who I know absolutely nothing about, I tend to hope he is gay and believe that is the only thing we need to establish in order to get married.

Anyway, we went to the party. Which turned out to be somewhat of a letdown. It was nothing more than a get together where a few people got drunk and watched bad movies. And there I was, hoping it would be the kind of party that got all of us so wasted that I could rape him without him remembering a thing the next morning. Throughout the night, there were lots of weird moments where we both made eye contact or my leg accidentally brushed up against his. It always got my heart beating but deep down I know that he is oblivious to the tension that exists only in my mind. There is nothing between us and there never will be.

So I accepted what we were and drove him home. But before he got out of the car, he leaned over and kissed me. He still smelled good but also like cheap beer and chicken mcnuggets. When I realized what he was doing, I pulled away and he asked me what was wrong. I said, "You know I have a cold, right?"

But that last part didn't really happen.

Metrosexual

2009-08-15T01:15:00.007-04:00

The DC Metro, in a perpetual effort to repair the stretch of rail between Fort Totten and Takoma decided in its infinite wisdom to shut down that segment of the red line on Friday night. And when the train operator announced that Brookland was the final stop, the passengers reacted with the intelligence that I expected.

First, they sat there for about 10 minutes, ignoring the train operator's directions and the fact that the lights on the train had been shut off. Then, they stumbled out onto the platform like confused zombies, each face looking more clueless and panic stricken then the next. (This, I can forgive. Because the who the hell has ever gotten off the Metro at Brookland anyway.) Everyone made a mad dash to the escalator and then to the shuttles that Metro had generously procured for us. And they weren't the cheap old ones either. These were the pretty new red ones with hybrid capabilities.

This was when people started to really get on my nerves.

"Where is this bus going?" "Where are they taking us?" "Why aren't these buses labeled?!" This bus is taking us to Disney World. Shut the fuck up.

Inside the bus, people continued to complain about how ridiculous the Metro is and how inconvenienced they were. They forget that places like the Amazon don't even have metrobuses. So when the train shuts down in the Amazon, they probably have to ride giant domesticated anacondas from one station to another.

And inside the bus, it is crowded so I am forced to stand at the joint between the front and the back of the bus. Everytime we make a turn, space and time are bent and I fall over onto the people in front of me.

A middle-aged woman whose life revolves around the Washington Post takes it into her hands to hypothesize why all of this is going on. She then proceeds to lead a discussion group about the history of Metro accidents and their casualties. The fact that she knows everything about Metro crashes gives her life meaning and has allowed her to carve a niche in a world that is otherwise cruel to middle-aged women obsessed with reading the Washington Post. Nine people died for her niche.

I'm also bitter towards this woman because in this situation, I tend to sit by myself perfectly quiet and altogether motionless. She, on the other hand, has already formed a little club in the back of the bus with a pretty hot guy as one of the founding members. They are having so much fun socializing and talking about all the people that have been killed by being hit by a Metro train. And here I am, sitting in the joint of the bus, kinda wishing that the Earth would open up and swallow us all.

Puppy Love

2009-08-12T13:49:00.004-04:00

On Monday, while mowing the lawn, the hot neighbor decides to let his brand new puppy out to play and pee. The puppy runs into my yard and I turn off the lawn mower to make sure I don't mow it down accidentally and leave puppy parts all over the place. The hot neighbor spends a good 5 minutes running in circles trying to catch his puppy. I just stand there awkwardly and watch him get increasingly flustered and embarassed. His puppy runs toward me and starts licking my butt. I would rather have the hot neighbor licking my butt.

He grabs the puppy by the collar, gives him a spank, and drags him back to his side of the yard. I would rather have him do those things to me. He forces the puppy inside, only to emerge a few minutes later with a short leash. A leash that I could find a few other uses for.

The neighbor says, "sorry" without ever looking me in my eyes, which I have kept cooly concealed behind a pair of sunglasses. I say, "no problem" without ever revealing the lust in my heart. That is all we say to each other. And the cliche first meeting is over.

All Growed Up

2009-07-30T17:40:00.007-04:00

I knew this guy in middle school that was kinda dorky and had a funny voice. I vaguely remember him trying to be my friend but I didn't really pay that much attention to him because I was a little douchebag back then. After we graduated and went to different high schools, I never expected to hear from him again.

But.

I found him Facebook.

And he is so hot.

Of course I am kicking myself for not becoming his BFF when I had the chance and now it's too late. He goes to school in a different state, I have no idea where he lives anymore, and I'm pretty sure it would be weird, (after all these years), to see if he wants to come over to play video games or something.

I think he has a girlfriend.

Of course he does.

Zac Efron is Gay

2009-07-28T14:24:00.004-04:00

Last night I may or may not have accidentally typed "naked male celebs" into Google and I may have accidentally searched through the first hundred results before I realized my mistake. I came across this gem somewhere after 43 but before 58.

It is called , "Zac Efron's gay kiss."

Which is exciting in theory. But which one am I supposed to believe is Zac? I suppose the one on the right looks a little more like Zac, but that's only because he is wearing an ugly trucker hat and we can only see 18% of his face. The one of the left could very well be a girl with no boobs. So I guess he looks a lot like Zac too.

I have this fantasy where I make it big in the Asian pop scene. After a few hit albums, I return to America to seek crossover success. Zac Efron will hit me up because he is obviously gay (see above photo) and jonesin' for me, a little pop tart. We will have a secret gay relationship until one of us is outed by the fat ugly Perez Hilton. His career will be over but I think mine will survive since I have that loyal fan base in Asia.

My Philadelphia Boy

2009-07-20T23:03:00.002-04:00

While waiting for the Apex Bus (unfortunately not associated with the gay club) to take me back to DC from Philadelphia, 3 people ask me for directions. With two days' knowledge of the city, I can already pretend I know everything. Luckily, yes, I know exactly where Chinatown is, I know exactly where Urban Outfitters is, I know exactly where the Real World house is.

But this is weird. People never ask me for help in DC. In general, people steer clear and avoid eye contact because they fear how much they love me. But in Philadelphia, I am approachable because nobody loves me.

While I was still waiting for the Apex Bus (unfortunately not associated with the style of The North Face jacket), my beautiful boy walks up to the line and stands by me. He is one of those tall skinny ones. With a small waist and an archy back. Long legs and big feet. Conspicuous ears and long eyelashes. Big brown eyes and neatly cropped hair. He is so cute I could hug him and smile forever. His back is facing me. I am invisible to him.

I get on the bus first. I pick a seat and make sure the one next to me is clearly available. An obnoxious French couple asks if they can take my two seats in order to sit together. The French man hints that I should sit next to "the beautiful girl." The French are so obnoxious.

I sit next to the beautiful girl but I don't care about her. My beautiful boy walks on the bus. He sits diagonally behind me, the worst place possible. I can't look at him without seeming completely obvious but he has a perfect view of all my obvious physical flaws. This is not how I planned it, but the French are so obnoxious.

When we arrive in DC, I hop onto the Metro. When I turn around on the platform, he is sitting on a bench behind me. He is beautiful even in the insufficient underground light. I wonder how much longer our paths will coincide. When the train comes, he gets in a different car. That is the last I ever saw of my beautiful boy.

There Goes the Neighborhood

2009-07-16T23:01:00.006-04:00

The new neighbors moved in a few months ago but I haven't been home very much so I didn't even know what they looked like until I saw them playing catch in the backyard today. Before that, all I knew was that the family consisted of a single dad and 7-year-old twins (a boy and a girl) and that their situation would be the perfect backdrop for a tv show on ABC in the early 90s.

mommy immediately assumes that the good-for-nothing wife turned her back on her most important duty as a human being and is probably working as a dancer in Las Vegas. I suggested that maybe she died. "Oh, hopefully." I, on the other hand, have a theory that the wife left the husband because after years of sexual repression he finally came out to her. And after seeing today how attractive he is, I fervently hope that my theory is true. That DILF is mine. I have no qualms about the age gap. He looks great for his age and I look horrible for mine. So really, it's a perfect match.

This weekend, I plan on mowing the lawn shirtless and romping around my backyard in an overtly sexual manner. When he sees me from the window above his kitchen sink, his heart will beat fast inside his chest and his knees will go weak. He will come outside to introduce himself and we will have passionate sweaty sex underneath my deck on a bed of freshly laid gravel.

His children won't like me at first because they are quite against the idea of replacing their mommy (with a man). They will play horrendous tricks on me like putting a frog in my teacup and applying superglue to my seat at the dining table. But given time, they too will come to love me and see the beauty that lies deep deep deep deep deep within. They will also see me as somebody who is much better than their good-for-nothing mother who ran away from her responsibilities to become a burlesque dancer at Mandalay Bay with unwholesome ties with the mob.

But sadly, I don't live on Wisteria Lane. Also, seeing me shirtless won't make him weak in the knees as much as it will cause him to throw up in the sink. So this is probably not how things will unfold.

Pride Parades are Dangerous

2009-07-02T00:08:00.007-04:00

I stumbled upon a youtube video of a queeny middle-aged gay guy getting harassed by a bunch of black kids in Minneapolis. They follow him down the street taunting him with glittering gems like, "Gay is not the way!" At the very end, he emerges from the throng, thinking of himself as a hero, and walks triumphantly down the street declaring, "See how I'm not scared at all!"

There are a lot of comments. Because when it comes to gay people, you either hate them or you love them. I've culled the best ones. My comments in red.

I hate those mother fucking niggers but i also hate those mother fucking gay ass bitches that like to fuck each other in the asshole. but niggers are worse beacuse they have big ass nostrils and are smelly as hell and they got some big gums. they all need to go back to africaland and play with the tigers and lions. i hate black and gay people. i hope i never see a gay black guy. (There are no tigers in Africa.)

you know what is just filthy? how that faggot is walking around like a girl and his effeminate behavior. what a bitch. gays have a hidden agenda. (To quietly redecorate America.) don't trust these motherfuckers. even OBAMA doesn't care about the faggots. (Yeah... I guess he doesn't.)

I would love to squish all those kid's heads like little grapes. (wow...)

you are not scared because they are kids... (This one is my favorite.)

are those ethiopians? they look weird as hell (Sources indicate that they are, in fact, Somalian.)

most gays die of some type of infection, they only thing that creates homosexuality is child molesters its all psychological, how many gay monkeys do you see? (Carson Kressley and Michael Urie are two gay monkeys off the top of my head.)

What this poor fellow should have done was throw waffles, fried chicken, watermelons, Kool Aid, and Barry White CD's at the mob along with coupons for dinner at popeyes (Don't forget Spongebob Square Pants backpacks and Michael Jackson...since last Tuesday.)

I'm not going to link it because this video is too ridiculous. And I'm not taking sides.

Me Seeking Men

2009-06-29T23:34:00.004-04:00

Once in a while, I like to go on craigslist just to see what the dregs of society are up to. Also, lately I've been really desperate to find somebody to make out with. Dreg or not. Seriously. Dreg or not.

As with any forum for man-on-man action, the men can be easily categorized into several groups. First, there are the people with no pictures. These people are ugly. There are the people who use fake pictures of hot guys that obviously are not them. These people really want to lure you into their dark apartments so that they can stab you nine times. There are the people that only show their penis or butt. These people have faces that look worse than a penis or butt.

Then there are the hot guys. These hot guys are always straight-acting muscle-jocks that don't like fat people and minorities. Such is life.

Lastly, there are the picky guys. These guys have a preference for every single facet of your appearance and personality. Which is ironic because these guys are usually horribe little trolls.

Generally there is no creativity, no surprises, no hope on craiglist. However, three profiles did catch my eye. Here they are. Don't sue me either if this is you. My comments in red.

#1
no time for games. (which explains why you aren't on inklink right now)
bored as hell.
6'4", 190, brn, brn, athletic (fuck. me.)
GOTTA BE.......white (this makes me mad, but I would say the same), discreet, good shape (ugh), laid back, gf/wife extra points (should i bring her along...)
SEND PICS IF YOU WANT A REPLY

(pant, pant, pant)

#2
Looking for strictly a massage trade maybe with a happy ending too (STRICTLY...but maybe...). I'm 21, five ten, one seventy eight, athletic (fuck. me.), laid back and your average guy's guy (huh?). Looking for a normal guy (as opposed to a guy's guy) who's in decent shape (it's not too much fun to massage fat rolls) (you're a bitch), under 40, and interested in massage and good with his hands. Be pretty close by. Include a pic with your reply. Let me know, looking late here too.

(your chin and thumbs are so sexy)

#3
You: 18-late-20s, Caucasian or Latino (I have friends of other races, but I'm not sexually attracted to them. Sorry, nothing personal) (it is very admirable that you can find it in your heart to be friends with ugly minorities). I'd prefer you to be smooth/slightly hairy and height/weight proportionate (I don't need a body-builder, just someone in decent shape). Finally, I hope I'm not being too picky (wow, too late), but I prefer cut guys over uncut guys.

Stop Being Nice If We're Not Going to Make Out

2009-06-28T20:36:00.003-04:00

I met the cutest guy in the entire world last semester when I was his TA and he was my student. I gave him an A+ just for being cute. I expected him to disappear once the semester ended but he found me on Facebook and started chatting with me a lot. This makes me seem like a pedophile. But actually, he is older than me by a few months. I'm just much smarter than he is.

So this Avg blonde cutie invited me to the bars near school on Thursday. I said no because I was scared. He invited me to the pool on Saturday. I said yes because I wanted to see him with his shirt off. He invited me to his house for a party that night. I said no because I was scared.

Obviously this is just one guy being friendly to another guy.

But.

Why does he keep asking to hang out like we're best friends when he barely knows me? I'm sure he has tons of other friends and we really don't have anything in common. I ALREADY GAVE YOU AN A, WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

I want to believe that he is a closet homosexual and he wants me in bed / as a boyfriend.

But.

That is never the case.

It is day 11 of the summer diet of 2009 and I have lost 10 lbs.

Red is the New Dead

2009-06-24T13:00:00.009-04:00

Yes, I am fine, I was not killed by the metro. Thanks for asking. Oh wait, nobody asked. Thanks for that.

Right now, every single person I know has their Facebook status as, "OMG I was on the metro!" Ok, you were going from NIH to Shady Grove in the other side of the city going the opposite direction. Don't be dramatic.

That's my job.

In my sophomore year of high school, I was right behind the other train that crashed on the red line. And I missed the earlier train because I bought a burrito right before boarding. So while I was stuck underground for 2 hours, I thanked that burrito and then ate it. Possible death and definite low blood sugar: averted. Chipotle solves everything.

Monday, I left Georgetown at 4:30 and transferred at Metro Center a little before 5:00. And I was fucking pissed I just missed the earlier train because clueless tourists with their fold-a-million-times maps always get in the way at Metro Center. But if I caught it, I might be dead! This deserves an exclamation point. Because I have cheated death twice.

Just kidding. There's no way I could have died in either of these situations. I always sit in the middle of the train (where people don't even know they've been in an accident). Also, I like to wedge myself between to impossibly obese people whose fat can absorb all the force of the impact.

But what this tells me is that the metro has designs for my life. And perhaps the third time will be the charm.

But right now, I am fine. Thanks for worrying. Oh wait, you weren't worried. Thanks for that.

It's My Diet and I'll Die If I Want To

2009-06-20T23:18:00.005-04:00

On day three of the summer diet of 2009, I have officially lost 6 lbs. These results are encouraging. I am beginning to see the benefits of starving myself until I pass out in a heap on the ground at which point I eat a single peanut and one baby corn. But the initial weight loss is always rapid. The next 14 lbs will be the true test of my willpower, my determination, and my desire to be loved for my body as opposed to my personality. And the last 10 lbs will be easy because at that point I will have lost so much of my brain mass and my soul that I won't understand the feeling of hunger anymore. I will smile when that day comes.

I tell j-girl about the summer diet of 2009. I seem ridiculous because as I am telling her, we are eating fried risotto balls, drinking caipirinhas, and waiting for our pizza. She tells me I am ridiculous and says that if I lost 30 lbs I would be nothing. Her logic is flawed; she fails to notice that I am nothing already. Losing 30 lbs will actually make me something. Vogue Japan will make me something. She ignores this and suggests that we get Larry's Ice Cream. This is her effort to sabotage the summer diet of 2009. It works. Actually no, I can probably purge tonight's meal in the restaurant's bathroom or a trashcan on the way home. I immediately scan the premises for the bathroom or suitable trashcans.

Inside Larry's, a few guys at the tables are staring at me. I wish they wouldn't look at me until I've lost 30 lbs and gotten my hair cut, but they persist. And then the guy behind the counter tells me I have a sexy voice. This is too much. I have never been so insulted in my life. I grab j-girl. We have to leave.

Thanks for your continued support

2009-06-17T23:45:00.006-04:00

After writing my last post, I was overcome with a sense of nostalgia. So I combed through old comments looking for bitchy remarks and more importantly, situations where retrospect has given me the upper hand. Needless to say, it was a mistake to rehash some of those old wounds and I probably spent the better part of an hour crying naked in the bathtub with the water running and the curtains drawn. But I did stumble across this gem:

Hey man, I just started reading your blog. Don't worry you are actually a pretty good writer.

This comment seemed to come unprovoked, which only furthered my righteous anger. The phrase "Don't worry" is used because he thinks his opinion, which he no doubt arrived at in 5 minutes, will make me feel better. The word "actually" is used because after 5 minutes, he already knows that neither he nor I have any faith in my ability to write or function at all as a human being. The word "pretty" is used because he doesn't really think I'm a good writer at all.

And it is somewhat insulting that he thinks a lukewarm response like that will make me feel better about myself. Wait, it's insulting that he took my self-deprecation seriously. And it's all very ironic because after visiting his blog, I came to my own 5 minute realization that he is actually a pretty terrible writer. Maybe the fact that he thinks I'm pretty good should make me feel even worse. Maybe that was his intention all along...

Speaking of pillars of support, mommy took one look at me today and said, "Fatty. You're fat. Don't get fatter." Of course this was in Chinese, but I feel as though her comments have lost very little potency in translation.

As a response, the summer diet of 2009 has commenced. I plan on losing 30 lbs by July 11. I want to be so skinny that I look like I'm dying. And when people ask me what the hell happened, I will tell them that mommy locked me in a cage all summer and deprived me of life's necessities: food, sunlight, cable television. And maybe when I'm that skinny, Vogue Japan will ask me to do an editorial spread for them. No doubt, one of the reader comments will read, "Fatty. You're fat. Don't get fatter." But this time, in Japanese.

Save the Drama for Obama

2009-06-14T16:30:00.005-04:00

I once posted comment on some guy's blog (I forgot who) saying this:

"i'm pretty sure obama doesn't give a shit about gays. the fact that he defends civil unions does not offset the fact that everyone he is connected to believes we should die in a fiery pit."

Immediately, a catty bitch (I remember who) sent me an email telling me how stupid I was and how I should read a book or something. He even devoted an entire blog entry to me, saying, "If one makes that sort of inflamatory claim, there ought to be some evidence, IMHO."

Nevermind that this schoolteacher can't spell inflammatory and uses a few too many preteen-esque abbreviations. He has other things to feel stupid about right now.

Becauuuuuuuuuuuuuse

Obama has chosen to actively defend the Defense of Marriage Act, saying it saves taxpayer money. After all, marriage benefits shouldn't be doled out willy nilly in these tough economic times and everybody knows gays are an unnecessary extravagance. (Or is it they are unnecessarily extravagant?)

Obama also stated that the DOMA protects against things like incest and child rape. Although the fact that he likened gay marriage to incest and child rape is irksome, the real question is: How was his trip to Paris? Did he find time to visit the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe? Did Sasha and Malia have an enjoyable time?

Lastly, Obama warned that gay marriage laws should not be compared with interracial marriage laws (you know, the ones that allowed his parents to get married) because the civil rights of blacks are inherently more important than those of gays. I would think the similar plights would give gays and blacks some common ground. But if Noah's Arc (the tv series, not the boat) is any indication, gay themes and black people don't always mix and mesh.

So all of this has occurred even though he pledged to repeal the DOMA while campaigning. As I predicted, Obama talked up all the wide-eyed, overly-optimistic gays just to get their votes. Now that he's in office he can do whatever he wants. He can go on late night talk shows all the time. Which isn't really unexpected. You win elections on the far left but you certainly can't govern effectively over there. You govern by betraying your supporters and going on late night talk shows. Either way, he has thrown gays under the bus and this just shows that he really doesn't give a shit about gays. IMHO.

Gayzies Crazies

2009-06-12T18:20:00.004-04:00

Sometimes I wonder if this gayness comes with a certain amount of mental instability. For instance, as I watch Gabrielle Solis get thrown under the bus for sleeping with a high school boy on Desperate Housewives, I have to admit that sleeping with a high school boy is actually a lofty goal of mine. And as I watch three college girls on 20/20 cry about gangrape, I recall that as a child I always dreamed of getting raped by 10 guys from a community college baseball team.

And I have to wonder if normal people think about these things the same way I do. Is there some reason that instead of viewing these acts with disgust I kinda sorta maybe wish they would happen to me? Do I only think this way because I am a sex-crazed predatory gay fixated on only two things: hot ass and designer eyewear?

At any rate, I'm a little worried about myself. I am flirting with the notion of preemptively registering on the list of sex offenders. But you know, only to meet other cute sex offenders.

Why can't my sexual thoughts be wholesome, just like those of boring straight people.

lookin4thatguy

2009-05-27T15:34:00.007-04:00

And summer has arrived. In between taking extra classes and scrambling to find a job, I have extra time on my hands. This leads to the inevitable reactivation of my account on gay.com.

First of all, I have to voice my objections with the fact that gay.com won't really let you do anything unless you are a premium member. I'm not about to pay $20 a month just so that I can get rejected more comprehensively. Even so, gay.com is still better than manhunt, which has an interface that is completely nonsensical. How am I supposed to find love if I can't even navigate back to the homepage.

The first thing I always do when I'm on gay.com is check "Who's Online." There are only 56 gay people in Martha's Vineyard right now. That number is severely deflated. Lucky for me, there are 755 gay people for me to choose from in my area. Out of those 755 people, one of those guys will be blind and deaf and capable of loving me.

You can tell a lot about a guy through his profile pic. If he cuts off his face, he is still in the closet. If he is shirtless, he is confident about his body and probably doesn't want to date a fatass. If you look closely in the background, you can even tell if he lives in the residence halls of the same university you attend. You send him a message to try to start up a conversation. He does not respond. You search your heart for ways to move on. But my absolute favorite is when guys try to accomplish too many things in their profile pic. Let me clench my abs to show off my body and play the piano to show I am talented and wear only a towel to show I want sex and wear sunglasses to conceal my true identity.

Somehow though, the "About Me" always proves to be less revealing because everyone's is the same. "I'm looking for a handsome guy." Yes, and I am looking for the hunchback of Notre Dame. "I'm a nice guy." That is what they all say until they tell you they aren't into Asians and they can't deal with your emotions. "I'm looking for a masculine guy who loves sports." And after reading that, I feel like I've been thrown under the bus.

In the end, there are only two categories of guys on gay.com. First, there are the "unreachables." They have incredible bodies and incredible faces. They are so beautiful, you wonder if they are real. They are always bisexual because, let's face it, somebody this hot will inevitably leave you for a woman and really they can do whatever they want. They are the hottest guys you have ever seen until you see their "hot list" and it's populated by even hotter guys. They seem to only associate with fellow hot guys and you back away, dejected and embarassed.

Then there are the untouchables. These people are either a really skinny and awkward ethnic minority or a middle-aged and overweight man who looks like Newt Gingrich. Realistically, these are the people you get approached by. They ask you sit on their face or take a picture of yourself urinating. Sorry, I can't be bothered right now, I'm doing homework.

And so, even the internet dating scene poses certain barriers. For a guy like me who would never have the confidence to start a conversation with somebody I'm attracted to, finding love online is just as hard as it is in real life.

Moving Out Is Hard To Do

2009-05-20T22:18:00.006-04:00

And I hate moving out. I try very hard in my everyday life to be an unemotional and callous, but really I am a sentimental and nostalgic. Leaving the room that I've lived in all year makes me want to cry a little and die a little.

My parents are in Taiwan right now so I had to move all of my things myself. This is actually a blessing in disguise. My parents' idea of helping is to be counterproductive, frustrating, and unaccepting of different lifestyles. So that was good. Until I had to bring my giant fridge down to my car. It was heavy and I've got the arms of a tyrannosaurus rex. I tried to lift it high and carry it fast to impress a hot guy that was watching me. I hit my car with the corner and scratched it.

Looking at the empty room is depressing. It's like all the memories are gone and the entire year never happened. I can't believe I'm never coming back. I miss living with the only guy who knows I'm gay / the only guy who I've ever hooked up with. When we lived together he cared about me and he made an effort. I miss the way we were. But he moved out halfway through the year and he moved on.

I called him this afternoon, so that I could help him move out. I did this for selfish reasons because I wanted to see him and I also wanted his parking space after he left. I invited him to my house party this weekend. He said another one of his friends was having a party this week and he would have to see. I'm pretty sure he is lying. I'm also pretty sure he is really confused that one minute I hate him and the next minute I'm inviting him to my house for parties and to my room for blowjobs. He told me I should get psychological help. Which is kind of insulting, but that might be wise.

He's moving back into the same building next year and I am moving across campus. I told him I want to work on our friendship and he said that he does too. But I just don't think he cares anymore.

I hate moving out. Because I hate moving on.

Death in the Family

2009-05-07T01:56:00.004-04:00

My mother has a candid way of talking about death. “If I ever get sick, I hope I go quickly,” she explains one night over the dinner table. “I don’t trust any of you to take good care of me,” she snaps her chopsticks at me, my sister, and finally my father.

“And I want you to scatter my ashes over my favorite place,” she carefully instructs while we try to eat. I immediately assume she means Loehmann’s on Wisconsin Avenue, the discount-designer where she once lost me but found a pair of Versace sunglasses for seventy-five dollars. She senses my misjudgment and clarifies, “I want you to spread my ashes on the hills of Tuscany.” My mother was born in Taiwan and has never been to Tuscany, but she lives vicariously through the movies. At least she didn’t say the bridges of Madison County.

After a long silence, she settles, “But I plan on staying around until I am eighty.” Looking at me, she confesses, “I don’t want you to be parentless.”

Although the thought of my mother fretting over my potential orphan-hood is touching, I wonder if she realizes that I will be well over forty by the time she turns eighty. With any luck, I will be grown with a family of my own, and the thought of her scrutinizing my every move until then from a rambler house across the street is terrifying.

I find myself laced with guilt whenever I consider my parents’ death. When the thought does comes up, I worry it will be the one time God is actually listening. Angered, he will find some way of punishing my lack of filial respect, perhaps by smiting my parents on my behalf or perhaps by putting me to death for my wandering thoughts. But I must admit that life after my parents seems just as intriguing and exotic as it does terrifying.

With my parents gone, nobody can tell me not to eat ice cream for breakfast. I plan on formally renouncing green vegetables. Every last one of my fantasies of frivolous disobedience can be realized without any sense of guilt. But life without mommy and daddy would represent a sense of freedom much more significant.

With my parents gone, I could get B’s and C’s in school without getting the piercing glare of disapproval and the accompanying lecture of responsibility. I could travel for the thrills, not to study abroad. I could take jobs for the adventure, not to further my career. I could be an artist, a writer, or a chef –not a doctor, lawyer, or chemical engineer.

When I was five years old, still young and naïve, I wanted nothing more than to be a farmer. One of my brilliant ideas was to take eggs from the refrigerator and stuff them in my blanket in the hopes that they would hatch into chicks. (In retrospect, my foray into the poultry business was an idea destined for disaster.) All the while, my mother laughed at my simple dreams, not because I had hidden eggs in a bed I would accidentally jump into later but because, “What would your grandparents think?!” They lived five-thousand miles away and I had never met them, I didn’t care what they thought.

Some years later, when I took the SATs during my junior year of high school, my mother frantically placed burning incense sticks in every corner of the house, an effort to beg my then deceased grandparents to lend a helping hand. When my scores came back, my mother was pleased. “You can thank your grandfather for that!” she clucked. Never mind the previous summer I had spent studying. Needless to say, this culture comes with a great deal of pressure. Along with my never ending quest to satisfy my parents, I am somehow expected to impress an audience that spans several hundred years.

Yet even more than my academics and my career are concerned, my parents have a hand in every facet of my identity. They tell me what I should say to sound more mature. They tell me what to wear to appear more professional. They tell me what kind of person I should marry because, ironically, they claim to “know what will make me happy.” Obviously I don’t always take what they say to heart. But their efforts affect me enough to want to lie when I do against their word. Either way, the control they have over me is suffocating. Sometimes I cannot even tell what I want anymore because I have spent so long doing what my parents want.

It’s sad to say, but I truly believe that I can only start living once my parents are gone. And although it would break their hearts to hear that I feel this way, I am thoroughly convinced that it would hurt more if they found out that I don’t actually want to be a doctor and I don’t really want to marry a Chinese girl. But even though my parents gave it to me, I should not have to owe my entire life to them.

Of course this could all be misplacement of blame on my part. I don’t have to listen to their advice. I don’t have to care what they think. Last summer at my sister’s college graduation, Oprah Winfrey told a captivated audience to do what “feels right.” My father quoted her for weeks afterwards, something I found to be strangely hypocritical. What if I had told him that it felt right to become a backup dancer for Britney Spears? My father is more of a subscriber to the school of, “Do what feels practical and fiscally responsible.” But Oprah was right, (as always). I can do as I please and throw honor out with window. After all, what’s more important to me, being a happy and true person or being a good son?

And there is always the possibility that their death would not change anything. What if I falsely assume that their physical presence is what keeps me in line? What if their constant nagging and prying has been so firmly entrenched in my psyche that I will always seek their approval, whether they are around to give it or not? If my mother had her way, she’d become omnipotent upon death and she would subtly let me know when she feels like I’m making the wrong decision by dropping boulders from the sky. Then there would truly be no escape.

I once read a scientific article that suggested our parents have very little influence over our behavior. Despite my background in science and my utter faith in the objectivity of scientific research, I view this conclusion with a certain amount of skepticism. My parents have always dictated my life, whether directly or indirectly. And when people call me neurotic, needy, insecure, and desperate for approval, I like to believe that I can blame my parents for that. But at some point, I will have to step out from their shadow, which protects me as much as it holds me back. And all I can do is hope that they will still love and support me, even though I will probably go against their will and scatter their ashes in the backyard.

The Gym

2009-04-28T01:29:00.006-04:00

There are several activities that I don’t actually enjoy doing, but I do them anyway because I enjoy the fact that I do them. These activities, which include drinking tea, watching the news, caring about the world, caring about others, etc., make me feel sophisticated, knowledgeable, lovable, etc. But one activity I really can’t decide if I genuinely enjoy or not, is going to the gym.

There is no doubt that going to the gym leaves me with a sense of pride and accomplishment. Finishing a workout is a testament to my determination to better my body. Yes, the fact that I spend all that time trying to get a man to want me superficially really says something about me. I let other people know that too. “I just got back from an awesome workout at the gym!” This gives them the impression that I am strong, masculine, and hetero. But I must admit that running on a treadmill for 30 minutes and doing some half-assed bench presses aren’t really getting me anywhere. My heart’s just not in it. And it’s not like anybody will ever want me for my looks or believe that I’m straight.

I guess what I’m really there for are the men. Because men that go to the gym are always attractive. They always have smooth, muscular arms. They always have perfectly formed asses. They always have blue eyes. They always have huge dicks. Always. And if they don’t, they are playing racquetball in the back part of the gym where nobody goes anyway.

Sometimes I go to the locker room to change even when I don’t need to just to see some naked boys. This makes me feel somewhat guilty because it’s the equivalent of a man sneaking into the ladies’ locker room. I don’t feel guilty enough to stop. One of these days I’m going to be featured on To Catch a Predator.

But going to the gym is also intimidating. I feel like everybody in the weight room is straight and hostile towards faggots. I feel like even the women at the gym are stronger than I am and could beat me in an arm wrestling match. I feel like everybody in the pool has a better body than me and is judging my obese self which looks like an overstuffed sausage ready to burst out of its casing. I feel like everybody in the locker room knows what I’m really there for, a glimpse of their penis and some merciless ass-pounding. All of this has me wondering if I should leave the gym behind and never look back.

But despite my severe paranoia and self-consciousness, the hope that one day I will have a body that horny men drool over, that one day I will have anonymous sex in the sauna, that one day I will meet my future husband in a racquetball court, gives me reason to keep going back to the gym, whether I really like it or not.

Figure 1: Yes, this is pretty much what it's like.

Killed by Kindness

2009-04-13T21:29:00.002-04:00

I'm not used to guys being nice to me. Not because they rarely are but because I don't really know how to react to it. A straight guy would just be like, "Hey! Thanks dude!" But when a guy is nice to me, I think it's rational to assume he is in love with me.

I went to Georgetown this Friday with Tall Blond Alcoholic and Average Brown-Quarter Asian. We went to Five Guys and I got a handful of peanuts to eat while we waited for our food. There was one peanut shell that I couldn't crack because I am a weak and helpless infant. So he took it and cracked it open for me in my hand. Then he started opening all of them for me into my hand.

While I was in his room Saturday night, he invited me to his house for Easter. He was drunk when he said it so I didn't take him seriously. Sunday morning, I got a text saying, "Will you be ready in 45 minutes?" I read it as, "Will you marry me in 45 minutes." I said yes.

Avg Brown Quarter Asian tagged along and clung onto him the entire time. When we got back, I asked him if he has feelings for her. He said no and looked really distraught about it. I told him that he shouldn't worry but he should let her know at some point. I'm hoping I didn't just say that for my own benefit because she is my friend too. He asked me if I had enough to eat.

If all this isn't a blatant profession of love, I don't know what is. At this point, I'm going to expect him to act like a boyfriend. I'm going to want him to ask me out on dates, cuddle with me while we watch Iron Chef together, make out with me wherever and whenever I want. When he doesn't do so, I will feel like he is trying to break my heart. He is ignoring me. He hates me. I am never speaking to him ever again.

Oh wait, here's a text from him. "Wanna get dinner?"
"Sure!" Let's also get married.

I know I'm being ridiculous. This is mostly a joke. You don't have to point that out to me.

The Tables Turned

2009-03-30T23:29:00.009-04:00

I am embarrassed about how gay I was in middle school. I did not play football. Most of my friends were girls. I gelled my hair. I like to keep tabs on the guys who made fun of me for it. Their names are on my friends list. Their numbers are in my phone. We stay in touch. Because when their lives fall apart, I want to be in the front row, smiling.

But an interesting phenomenon is occurring. I look around and suddenly these very people are self-proclaimed "VERY LIBERAL"s. They passionately defend gay marriages in groups like "If You Don't Support Gay Marriage, Then Don't Get One!" They blast "Just Dance" from their dorm rooms and sing Avril Lavigne in the shower. They take an hour every morning in the bathroom just to get their faces ready. They gel their hair.

Part of me is skeptical about their homomorphosis. How can somebody go from being so closed-minded and hateful to the President of the Gay Straight Alliance. Also, why couldn't you have learned all this like 10 years ago, before you completely ruined my self-esteem.

But it's not a bad thing that these people have changed. Better now than never. And perhaps their transformations are sincere. It's just ironic that those jerks became sensitive men and I became an athlete with the body of a minor Greek god. I guess all I'm saying is, who's the fag now?

Figure 1: You guys are gay. Or European.

What A Tangled Web We Weave

2009-03-29T22:23:00.008-04:00

Referring to my friends by letter has become very cumbersome. Even I can't keep track of who they are anymore. And thus, I have created an elaborate system of naming.

Names will be composed of three parts as follows:
Height
Hair Color
Attribute

I've known Tall Blonde Alcoholic for about 6 years now. He was very quiet and reserved in high school but ever since college he has become a raging party animal. I harbor deep suspicions that he is gay. I don't think he's ever had a girlfriend. He never hits on girls. He worships Britney Spears. It doesn't say what he's "Interested In" on Facebook. And one time, when I was using his laptop, I saw that he was subscribed to a gay s&m website. I guess you could say that was the tipping point.

Anyway, I keep quiet about this knowledge because not everyone has the god given talent of gaydar and perhaps Tall Blonde Alcoholic wants to come out on his own terms. I can relate.

I have another friend, Avg Brown Quarter-Asian. She is in love with Tall Blonde Alcoholic even though he has never done anything to suggest he feels the same. She says she has moved on but she has not. When he gets drunk and passes out on the floor, she lies down next to him and pretends she has passed out too. When he's gone, she always complains there's nothing to do. She talks about all the things that he does that convinces her that maybe the love is reciprocated. "One time, after I got him a beer, he said he loved me." Yeah and one time, after I blew a guy, he said he loved me. And that didn't exactly pan out the way I planned either.

She is so in love that she can't see what's really going on. I can relate.

She has a few suspicions that he is gay also. (A seed that was probably planted by me.) I told her that she should give up on him. (Because subconsciously I want him for myself.) But she thinks there might be hope that he is straight because...

get this...

"Remember that one time he said he wanted to marry Lady Gaga?"

I can't argue with that.

Gay Idol

2009-03-17T23:49:00.005-04:00

Every year, there is one contestant on American Idol that is gayer than a messenger bag. First it was Justin Guarini, then it was Clay Aiken. Most recently, it's been Sanjaya and David Archuleta. I watched Idol for the first time this year and when I spotted this seasons gay contestant, I was not impressed.

I've heard some controversy over Adam Lambert opening up about his sexuality on the show because it would cause him to lose votes. Let's face it, the vast majority of Idol viewers are obese conservatives who wear massive sweatshirts and sit on their couches all day quoting the Bible and Paula Deen. So sure, he would lose votes if he came out. I also suspect that the show would lose quite a lot of viewers that are appalled that a homosexual is being flaunted as an "idol."

But if he does come out, every time something bad happens to Lambert people are going to complain about it being some form of anti-gay discrimination.

I know us gays have a certain obligation to stick together and support each other. So if one of us finally makes it in the world, we should back him 100%. But I can't bring myself to like Lambert just because he is gay. I must say, if Lambert gets voted off, it probably won't be because he is gay as much as because he is also really weird and bad.

First off, his hair looks like he killed a bird of paradise and put it on his head. He wears more eyeliner than Amy Winehouse. He sings well but also like he's possessed. And it's all very awkward to watch. I don't know why this has escaped people's attention but the winner of American Idol has to appeal to the majority of the American public. If he (or anyone really) thinks he can win by being weird / individualistic / gay, he's going to be surprised.

And although it's pretty obvious that he is gay, conservatives are very dense and they probably haven't figured that out yet. But I don't want Lambert to come out on the Idol because he would immediately become the face of the gay community to millions of ignorant people across America and they will probably assume we are all like that. And just for once I would like an all American guy to represent the gay community in a positive, non-bird-of-paradise, non-eyeliner, non-fucking-weird way.

My Boyfriend, The Pornstar

2009-03-16T14:02:00.010-04:00

Monday, March 16, 2009 is a day of revelations. Mason, or Mase as I affectionately refer to him in hypothetical situations in my mind, is not an amauteur college boy. Mason, or Mason Wyler as he is more widely known, is in fact, a porn star. But Mason is not a typical porn star. He is the type you can take home to mommy. He isn't overmuscled or overtanned. He has the cutest smile. His dick doesn't look like an alien. He doesn't make me vomit a little in my mouth. In short, he used his naturally, boyish good looks to decieve me.

You may recall seeing him first at Corbin Fisher, billed as the wide-eyed and innocently straight Mason, "he stays busy in his free time by hitting the gym, chasing girls, and playing football!" But alas, another revelation is to be had. Because the charade of heterosexuality is as fake as the hypothetical situation I concocted where Mason knows I exist. I know this because one time, while he was getting fucked, he said under his breath, "That is the biggest dick I've ever had." Uh, shouldn't it be the only dick you've ever had...?

So this makes me skeptical about all of the other models on Corbin Fisher and Sean Cody and Broke Straight Boys that are labeled as "straight" and "amateur." As far as I'm concerned, they are just giving me false hope in thinking that I can stick my cock up any old straight boy's ass and get away with it.

Anyway, there's an interview video of him floating around somewhere where he talks about his involvement in the gay porn industry and his boyfriend (SO I AM RIGHT). It is so cute I can barely stand it. He also confessed to being somewhat of a loser. Which I think is adorable considering his occupation, and it makes him seem all the more attainable. But I couldn't figure out how to embed it so these pictures will have to suffice.

There is also a story about him getting raped by an army captain in his Dallas apartment. But I'm not really sure what to make of that...

Also, could I use ANY MORE commas.

End of Gays

2009-03-12T00:51:00.005-04:00

It seems like every day the New York Times publishes a new story about a shooting rampage. This is a sign that the world really is ending. Nostradamus 2012. Which is a pity because I'm pretty sure Tina Turner was planning a comeback that year.

In preparation for the end of the world, I have started going to the gym every day for 2 hours. I want to be in peak condition when the world ends so that I can outrun the zombies and outswim the tsunamis. I also want to be strong enough to withstand the famine/plague/lack of internet service. But these gym sessions have proven only marginally effective. I have a habit of eating a slice of vegetable pizza immediately afterward.

What if the world really did end in 2012? There are other signs that point to its demise: the rapid onslaught of global warming, the collapse of the global economy, the cancellation of Pushing Daisies. If it does happen in 2012, I will only be one year out of college. Perhaps I will be in grad school. I can't imagine the world ending before I even find a decent job. I can't imagine the world ending before I find a decent boyfriend. Dear world, hold off for like, five years please.

But on the other hand, this confluence of disasters is probably occurring because, like dominoes, one collapse causes another. At some point, a domino will remain just out of reach of the collapsing chain and from that point, we can all rebuild and move on.

So probably, the world is not ending. I can stop going to the gym and stop freaking out about my 10,000 virtual shares of Panera Bread. What do the Mayans know anyway? Oh wait, didn't the Mayans invent popcorn? We're screwed.

Salacious

2009-02-27T16:42:00.007-05:00

Every time I think about something for the first time, I start seeing it everywhere soon afterwards. Remember my last entry? Right after I wrote it, I saw a guy in my econ class leave a half eaten doughnut on his chair when class was over. I almost ripped off his face. The same day, a girl stood in the middle of the aisle to have a conversation with her friend when everyone was trying to leave the lecture hall. I almost chopped off her head. And that night, when I was in the dining hall with my friend, she made me wait an eternity for her while she searched the entire premises for a single cap for her drink. I almost unfriended her on Facebook.

This can also apply to other situations. Like for instance, whenever I learn a new word, I feel like it suddenly shows up in everything that I read. Salacious (ok, I implanted this one). And this one time, I was stalking a 14 year old boy and he mentioned something about Golden Corral, a place I'd never heard of before. The next day, I couldn't turn on the TV without hearing something about Golden Corral. In case you are wondering, it's a low-end restaurant and not a low-end cowboy fetish store.

I'm sure there is a psychological explanation for all of this. Perhaps we don't notice things until we think about them, and then they are everywhere. Perhaps I look for positive reinforcement for my theory and I ignore all the evidence that contradicts it. But I doubt I will ever know if this is all coincidence, divine intervention, or just a mean trick my brain is playing on me.

I have to say though, this phenomenon does not always work. Because I have been thinking about having a boyfriend for the past 5 years. And he has yet to materialize.

Let Me Get One Thing Straight

2009-02-02T18:47:00.011-05:00

There's something about straight boys that makes my heart flutter. Could it be their cock swinging arrogance? Their swashbuckling demeanor? The way they always think about sex? The unkempt stubble on their faces? Their goofy smiles? Their silly talk about unimportant things like sports and cars? Yes. All of the above. I love me some hetero ass.

But this presents an interesting paradox. What's the point of being attracted to somebody that will never be interested in you? Is this an elaborate subconscious scheme to sabotage my own life? Is this an effort to keep love at bay so I can never have my heart broken?

No. Straight boys are so hot. I don't understand how anybody on this entire planet could not want to fuck a straight boy. I would give a kidney to fuck a straight boy. I would give up Desperate Housewives to fuck a straight boy. I would renounce Britney to fuck a straight boy. Straight boys are so hot. Girls, I don't blame you for getting in my way. If I were a girl, and not ugly, I would be a total slut. I would probably have sex with an entire sports team at once. Because straight boys are that hot.

If anything, my infatuation with straight boys is due to the fact that they represent everything I am not. They are confident and aggressive and rugged and beautiful. Straight boys complete me. They are the cheese to my macaroni, the peanut to my jelly, the Cannon to my Carey. And while they're so busy chasing girls and talking about the Superbowl, they don't even realize how happy we could be together.

Diatribe

2009-01-25T11:05:00.006-05:00

Before I go on extended breaks, I tend to get frustrated with the people around me. "I don't care because I'm not going to see you for two months and when I come back I am going to have the body of Jessie Pavelka and you will be kicking yourself for making me mad. Bye. Die."

This is Jessie Pavelka's "About Me" on ModelMayhem.

My name is Jessie Pavelka. I am a fortunate yet unfortunate person just like all the rest of us. (That's deep.) Strengths and weaknesses, good and bad, happy and sad, you know the rest. (This sentence is missing three predicates.) I have decided to devote my life to chasing my dreams and aspirations w/(Is it really that hard to write it out?) no regret(s) and no fear in my heart. If things work out great, if things go on the way(one word)side(,) I accept and move on. Days get long and life gets short, but I keep on going. I am loved and loveable(maybe in person) and TRY to send out love even when (i)t is not received.(That's very big of you.) I am a spiritual being who strongly believes in God and Quantum Physics.(hah...) Things happen for a reason and at the exact time they are supposed to.(You won't be saying that when Dietribe is cancelled.) My thoughts control me and I control my thoughts.(That makes sense.) This is me. KEEP IT REAL My Heroe is Most definitley my Mother the strongest woman/human being(an unusual hybrid indeed) I have ever met and anyone with the courage (to) turn a thought into and idea(,) then impliment that idea into something great, something that matters....(transition?) I DO NOT DO NUDITY OF ANY KIND!! Thank you! (You're Welcome.)

Note: the misspelled words
lovable
hero
definitely
implement
with
it

Note: the capitalized words
TRY - meaning his attempts to send out love without recieving are mostly unsuccessful
Heroe, Most, Mother - none of those words should be capitalized under any circumstance
KEEP IT REAL - an impulsive statement that must have occurred to him suddenly while writing
I DO NOT DO NUDITY OF ANY KIND - i don't wanna talk about this

Also:
Why do they even call the show Dietribe? I get the whole "ha ha play on words" bit, but it doesn't even make sense. Diatribe means a bitter verbal attack (like I have just demonstrated). You can't just pluck words out of the dictionary that almost have the word diet in them and make a show out of it. It's completely irrelevant!

I'm going back to school tonight and I don't have the body of Jessie Pavelka.

It's A Good Thing

2009-01-22T19:37:00.007-05:00

I was watching Martha Stewart this morning, (don't judge me), and Sigourney Weaver was the special guest. She was there to promote her new Lifetime movie Prayers for Bobby but somehow Martha suckered her into butchering a chicken on live TV. Anyway, back to the point. They played a clip from the movie where Sigourney's character goes, "I will not have a gay son," and the crowd gasped.

This surprised me. I would think that a room full of middle-aged white women would relate to that kinda of reaction. But upon further thought, any woman who watches Martha Stewart and has interest in trimming pillowcases and home made stationery would appreciate a gay son who can help them bake scones and plan weddings. Maybe people are more tolerant than I think. Next time I'm amidst a group of middle-aged white women, I'm coming out. They will give me hugs and invite me to their book club meetings.

As for the movie, I must say that it could be better. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for the the heartwrenching tear-jerkers that better "the cause", (as opposed to blatant insults like I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry and overrated pointlessness like Brokeback Mountain). But it's all kind of cliche and and the writing seems unnatural. Also, Bobby's constant face full of tears is overkill. Why not just do the lone tear down the cheek? But I love love love Sigourney Weaver. I love her. I will suffer through bad writing and bad acting to watch her. Saturday at 9pm. Who wants to make it a date with me?

Novel Idea #1

2009-01-19T18:35:00.004-05:00

I have several ideas for novels swimming around in my head. The first one involves a beautiful young Indian girl named Deepa Chopra. She is tired of having no control over her life but keeps these feelings mostly to herself and confesses only to her free-spirited best friend, Sameena. Deepa lives with her two controlling parents who manage to maintain a stranglehold on her life while also owning and operating an Indian restaurant, The House of Kamal.

Every morning, Deepa wakes up at 5am and goes with her mother to Costco where they proceed to buy every single rotisserie chicken that the warehouse is willing to give them. Doctored up with some garam masala and ground coriander, they will be sold for triple the price at her parents' restaurant. Deepa reads the labels, "Not For Resale," every single time and feels badly about this practice. But she has no power over her mother and relents, feeling that the universe will right itself in other ways.

Deepa constantly daydreams of meeting the perfect man and being whisked away to a new life. But she is fully aware of her parents' intentions to arrange her marriage. Furthermore, she has come to the realization that her parents will select her husband based on their own criteria and that she will have no say. To her parents, he will be a nice man with an even temper and a stable job in IT that will be able to adequately provide for the family. To Deepa, he will be a boring man with an uninteresting and mindless job and whose favorite movie is something thoughtless and cliche like The Dark Knight. The idea of spending the rest of her life with somebody so uninspiring suffocates Deepa.

These thoughts compound her feelings of lack of control. She deals with these feelings in unconvential ways.

Ugh. I just ripped my jeans right below the pocket. My favorite $9 GAP jeans. FUCK. FUCK THIS STORY.

Circus

2009-01-15T22:21:00.009-05:00

Temperatures in the DC area are dipping into the single digits and that has put me in the cuddling mood. Unfortunately, there are no live bodies to cuddle with. I have resorted to rolling my blankets into the shape of Channing Tatum and going to sleep with him. It suffices.

Inauguration is this Tuesday and I am twitching at the prospect of seeing Hillary in person. I feel, as a DC resident, a certain obligation to go and witness this historic event that is taking place right in my figurative backyard. However, several million people, whose literal backyards DC is not, are coming in from God knows where. (Obama's step-grandmother is visiting from Kenya. I wonder how often they actually speak and if he calls her granny.)

Downtown streets have restricted access. Bridges from Virginia are closed inbound. No bicycles allowed on the parade route. Smithsonian, National Archives, Judiciary Square, 7th St. Convention Center metro stations are closed. I heard a rumour that Beyonce has to walk on foot. I heard a rumour Oprah's secret lover tells all (but that's unrelated). It will be mayhem. It can not be missed.

Speaking of things that can not be missed, Britney Spears is coming to the Verizon Center in March. I want a ring seat so bad even though they are $3,000. Most likely I'll end up in the upper concourse; the section so high that moisture condenses into clouds that support a vast rainforest teeming with 50% of the world's bird species. But even those seats are $100 plus. But if Britney isn't worth it, I really don't know what is.

Stalk Me

2009-01-13T22:11:00.004-05:00

Alas, there are three new ways to interact with me.

I've created a Facebook account (DC Cised, friend me!). Maybe I will take pictures of myself wearing a dark hoodie and a baseball cap and sunglasses in a dark room with no flash. Maybe I will take pictures of myself naked.

I've also created a Twitter, so you can go traipsing through my thoughts and read about my everyday life. Please follow me so I don't feel like a complete loser.

I've even created a fan page for you fans out there. Yes, all 3-4 of you. Now you can proudly proclaim your devotion to me on your profile. And your friends can stumble blindly into my blog and stop being your friends once they realize what it's actually about.

As always, you can chat with me on dccised (AIM) or email me at dccised@gmail.com. The funny thing about that is people often send me emails and message me, but after I respond, they just fall off the face of the Earth. Either they had a massive heartattack from all the excitment of talking to me or they figured out how stupid I actually am from my response. I'm hoping it's the first one.

Watercolor Penis

2009-01-11T22:12:00.013-05:00

Five of the ten pieces in my portfolio can be anything I choose. I feel like this is a mistake on the architecture department's part. People are going to submit weird and altogether ugly things like oil paintings of their dogs and watercolors of their penises. This is also a disadvantage on my part because I am one of those people that, if given no direction, will wander aimlessly forever. So that is what I'm doing.

I've decided that for one or two of these pieces, I'm going to do a Chinese watercolor. I haven't really done one in about five years but in my heyday, I was pretty famous for my shrimp paintings (lolz right?). Anyway, in order to remember how to do any of this, I have to pay my old art teacher a visit. And to do that, I have to return to Chinese school.

Figure 1: I did not draw this.

Upon hearing that I will be making a cameo appearance at the Chinese community's gossip mecca, mommy is sent into a frenzy.

"If somebody asks, lie and pretend you are happy."
"K"

And when I get there, mommy furiously tries to set me up with every singe Chinese girl. But that is a story for another time.

Figure 2: I did not draw this.

You Have Killed Me, Morrissey

2009-01-08T17:49:00.012-05:00

Portfolio Requirements

2) An exterior two-point perspective view of a significant work of architecture. This drawing is required to be made from life or on site. Pencil, shade and shadow with line weight.

I decide to draw the DC Convention center because there are no curves and I fucking hate drawing curves.

Nonetheless, I feel as though this project will consume every last ounce of life in me. After I finish, I will collapse in a pathetic pile on the ground, leaving requirements 3 through 10 unfinished/unstarted. Hopefully though, the single 8x10in sketch will sell for millions at a Sotheby's or Christie's or Ebay auction. Mommy can spend my hard earned money on plastic surgery and daddy can spend my hard earned money on new floor to ceiling windows.

Next door at the National Portrait Gallery, there is an exhibit showing photographic portraits of a man named Morrissey. I look at that name and wonder why it sounds so familiar. Wait a minute, isn't that the middle-aged vegetarian British singer/kook that LP is obsessed with. Yes! Why yes it is!

I feel like phoning LP at that very moment.

Me "Omg guess what."
LP "I've overdosed and died and this is an out-of-body experience."
Me "...... No. They're showing Morrissey at the portrait gallery!"
LP "I haven't been filled with so much excitement since the LP scrapbook sold for 5 million pounds and paid for my complicated and expensive but necessary ribcage removal procedure."
Me "...... You should really come see it! I think I see the back of your head in one of the pictures!"
LP "I can't. I'm an Aussie now. I can never return to that world or be who I used to be."
Me "Oh. I forgot."
[Insert long, painful silence]
Me "I miss you."
LP "I have to go now, Aussie time and all. Goodbye"

And for those of you that are now convinced that I am some sort of insane and obsessive LP stalker that spends hours dreaming up hypothetical situations, you're wrong. My insane and obsessive hypothetical situation only took like, 10 minutes to dream up.

The Blame Gayme

2009-01-06T17:10:00.008-05:00

For the past few days, mommy has been staring at me, giggling to herself, and saying, "I can't believe you're 20! I made such a wonderful boy!" as if she molded me out of gay-dough. Mommy thinks that every positive thing that has ever occurred in my life is because I passed through HER birth canal as opposed to somebody else's.

"You're 185cm tall? - You can thank me for that!"
"You got an A in accounting? - You got that from me!"
"You don't have sickle cell anemia? - You're welcome!"

In her mind, all my triumphs can be traced back to the single act of her giving birth to me. And she uses this as some sort of vindication.

But as much as she takes credit for my strengths, mommy feels she is equally accountable for my failures. So if I were to ever tell her that I am gay, there is no doubt in my mind that she would blame herself and find a way of guilting me into marrying some poor Chinese girl who doesn't understand what's going on and just wants a green card.

Which has me wondering. Can I blame her? Whose fault is it really?

I certainly don't blame myself because homosexuality is not a choice. I choose men over women because I think women are disgusting to look at. But I do not choose to think this way. Honestly, if I had the choice to choose differently, I would. Being gay is hard work and I just want to fit in. Also, I'm tired of being in love with unattainable people like Anderson Cooper.

But just because homosexuality isn't a choice doesn't mean I was born this way. I know many gays refute the idea that gays are "made" and would rather believe that gays are born singing showtunes. (Some sort of genetic predisposition that makes certain neuron groups bigger or whatnot.) But many gays just like to think that homosexuality is purely physiological because it means that they can elicit sympathy and compassion as "victims." Most of all, it counters the idea that homosexuality is a choice and that homosexuals are at fault. Even though it isn't and we aren't, I feel like there has to be something more than that.

I would like to dismiss the stereotype that says gay boys are the eventual products of households with overbearing mothers and emotionally unavailable fathers, but the fact is, that is exactly where I come from. So that could very well be it. Mommy took me shopping as soon as I could walk, so that might explain my affinity to overpriced clothes and the beautiful men that model them. Daddy has never told me he loves me, so that might explain my habit of trying to squeeze those words out of the throat of every man I have ever met.

My best guess is that homosexuality results from a mix of biological and environmental factors. So thank you mommy, daddy, uterus, Liza Minnelli, the 6th grade, for making me gay. I have all of you to blame. But I guess it's not so bad. As long as I have Anderson at 10pm to comfort me.

Birthday Boy

2009-01-04T15:30:00.004-05:00

On January 4, 2009, I am officially, irreversibly, unfortunately, fortunately done with my teen years.

My twenties begin with the consumption of two Tylenol precisely as the clock strikes 12:00am. This is in commemoration of the last twenty years of pain and in anticipation for the next twenty years of pain. Also, I just saw the worst movie in the history of planet Earth (Rachel Getting Married) and I was nauseous.

I wake up at 10:00am (the hour that I was born) to the sounds of mommy, gently rapping on the door, telling me what to wear and planning out the minute details of the next twenty years of my life. I am still half asleep and the only things I catch are, "yellow oxford shirt," "medical school," "three grand-kids."

In keeping with birthday tradition, mommy and daddy take me to lunch. And in keeping with my life's tradition, they discuss my inadequacies: past, present, and future. They tell me that my new age requires new maturity. No longer can I hide behind my sarcasm. No longer can I use their credit card. No longer can I wear woot shirts - the final knife in the heart.

Dinner will occur at 8:00pm at White Flint. I wonder if any of my friends will show up. Go there if you want to stalk me and see what I look like. I may or may not be wearing a yellow oxford shirt. I will not acknowledge you without gift in hand though. These are your options:

a $995USD Movado Watch

a $1297USD Polo Trench

a $50USD Male Masturbator

Or you could just leave a comment. Which is as good a gift as any.