Well, That Was Fun

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

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.

I am one year older.

Too old, if you ask me.

Architect of My Destruction

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

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.

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

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.