Nothing Tastes As Good As Cam Gigandet Feels

I am good at doing two things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Job Is Unhealthy On Several Levels

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

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

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

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

2) Nobody actually knows how to cook. 

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

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

The real issues I have with my job are:

A) It makes me fat.

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

B) It makes me a massive bitch.

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

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

My Presence Is A Present, Kiss My Ass

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

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

1. I have an incredible body.

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

2. I am not faggy.

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

3. I am athletic.

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

4. I have a boyfriend.

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

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

5. I am smart.

I got a 2330 on my SATs. 

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

One of These Days I'll Write Something Inspirational

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baby Jesus Was Wrapped In A Holborn Trench

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

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

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

Worker: Put it on. Let me see.

Me:  :(

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

Me: Of being fat and skinny? :)

Worker: [no response]

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

Worker: [no response]

Me: :(

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

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

Me: narm narm narm narm narm.

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

Me: narm?

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

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

Topher Grace / Pleakley: How does it fit?

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

Topher Grace / Pleakley: [backs away slowly]

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

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

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

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

I am a small at Lacoste.

A Gaffe To End All Gaffes

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.