It's 12:30, and I'm getting ready to run over to Halo. I'm gonna guzzle some booze before I get there, out of neccesity this time around. I can't afford to be drinking all of my money, as per the norm, because I just bought tickets to Hawaii. Lauren and I are gonna be there from March 3rd until the 10th.

Fucking stoked. Pam's gonna have no idea what hit her.

That said, I totally missed work this morning. I slept through/never set my alarm last night. I'm not sure which it is 'cause I did my very best to entertain yesterday evening on what became a two event night. Kelly [straight] came over with her gayboyfriend Matt and I cooked us all dinner while we watched the two hour premier of Alias. We might start doing that regularly, Kelly and I. God Bless Tivo.

Speakin' of the Lord, god bless good sex. Neighborsex rules.

Where the fuck is Paris Hilton when I need her?

I could really use her black amex right about now. If I'm going to Hawaii, I need a few things: rock hard abs, a well furnished apartment to return home to (no one likes coming from paradise to la chateu de ghetto), and some new clothes.

Margaret Cho once upon a time ago revealed the true secret for perfect abs: sucking cock. The only way to get the perfect washboard is through repetitive waist-bending motions, something that I hadn't, until recently, been partaking in. Since my sex drive died out somewhere around the time of my crystal meth addiction, I assumed that it was the drugs and not the dick that caused me to disappear into a lithe, toned, concentration camp Ken look. The gym has taught me otherwise, showing me that I can have good arms and pecs without nose candy. I'm actually not allowed back at my gym, so theres no way to know if it would have eventually supplied me with the washboard I want. That said, I'm left with one option: the only way to discover which variable, dick or drugs, was at work for me two summers ago is to reestablish an active, healthy sex life for myself.

Logic's fucking fabulous.

That brings us to point two: My apartment. While mostly well furnished, the old girl could use some help in the bedroom. Long neglected from lack of use by more than a stumbly drunkard (read: me), I think its time to make it a saddle worth getting back into. Bookshelves, artwork, maybe even a bigger rug. An ottoman to be bent over.

If only I were 18 again... oh, the wistful days of having more than a passing resemblances to a high priced twink escort and the number of sexual suitors to match. Oh, the days of having boyfriends to just steal cothes from.

Alas, now I've some how become indie meets Bloomies, and I'm actually the person I would have stolen clothes from.

I don't know who the fuck this quiz thinks she is, startin' out all fantastic, and then cuttin' to the quick of my crazy like its her job. Fidelity, abuse, and pathological lying? Fuck that bitch, I will mace her ass. She don't even know me!

From here on in, no more quizes!


To wit:

You are a XSYG--Expressive Sentimental Physical Giver. This makes you a Sex Bomb.

You are sexy sex sex sex! The sexness! You are the sexiest, hottest and most charismatic of all types. You are a captivating speaker and a great dinner date -- relaxed, self-effacing, charming and generous. Your type probably has origins in something sad -- trying to keep the peace in a tough family situation, or an early heartbreak -- and you'll probably want to address and resolve that at some point, but in your relationships that heartache is pure gold!


You lie effortlessly -- not necessarily a bad thing. You can have problems with fidelity. You need frequent praise and validation, and in seeking it you can make decisions that aren't consistent with your general good judgment. In other words, don't cheat on your significant other just because someone is paying attention to you.

You strongly dislike conflict, and will avoid it. Like an XPYG, you give so much of yourself to your partner that you feel dismissed and unappreciated if you don't get the same in return. But you internalize your feelings more and have a hard time getting over them. You don't *want* to cheat -- you just keep finding yourself in vulnerable situations. But you'll stay with your partner in the long run from guilt and a desire to please.

Your sex life will always be hot. You are one of the rare people who can keep the fires of passion going forever -- if you find a good match. Find another XSYG and you will never need (or want) anyone else again.

Of the 175447 people who have taken this quiz, 8.2 % are this type.

I had a really busy day today, I bounced from work to home, to 12th and Penn (to pick up a package), to 13th and U (to get ready for hawaii), back to home, to the gym, to home, to Jenny Lee's (15th and U) to Chi-Cha (Carter's going away party), and couldn't quite make it to Staccato's for indie rock and roll karaokee for the children (tsunami relief) to catch up with the improvers.

Phew.

Anyway, on my way home, after spending time with Alex, his new boyfriend, and Jenny Lee I decided to come home, rub one out, and leave a message on Craigslist under men seeking men. Its a laundry list of the thing I want in a man. We'll see if anything comes of it, won't we?

Bring it on, 2005... the motto? "I've got feet, sweep me off them."

The Year of Love, indeed.

I'm sore, banged, and bruised. But I'm happy.

No, I'm not sleeping with anyone on a regular basis: tanning has made me feel like its summer! Its amazing! I'm amazing! It really is time to herald the return of SummerDrunk!

Thursday didn't see me making it to all-you-can-drink-a-rama at JR's; instead I opted for the safety of straight men, and went to the improv to hang out with the boys. I can’t seem to escape the trap of ending up in bumfuck whenever I go out and play with them– the time it was Chris's in Alexandria. I woke up pretty much still baked. Shocking. I made it back to the District in time to party at Lee and Nill's with Ashley.

I was apparently more trashed at the party than I can recall myself (not blackout drunk, just feeling spectacular enough that I had no idea that I was tipping over my beer repeatedly for the sake of stories). I love shots, I really do, and at a point they stopped giving me real shots, switching them with water. It took me a few (3) to realize this fact, at which point I asked for another. Even I know that water is a good idea!

I was horizontal on my couch with my feet still on the floor when I awoke the next morning. There was no Ashley in sight, meaning she made it home safely. Attagir! last thing I remember from Friday night was the vane efforts at watching Alias. Sadly, we were both entirely too trashed to comprehend a whole episode. We must of start and restarted three times.

Umm, ya, it took a lot to get me to work on Saturday, seein’ as how I was still drunk when I woke up. It definatly required Lauren and I getting coffee... I love it when the coffee guy sees me at 4:30, blurry eyed and less than bushy tailed. He gives me my coffee for free! Hee! Anywho, when I got off work, I made it over to Shacha's for a lovely little party. It was already two, but that didn't stop Chris and I from goin' over there and having an absolutely fun time. Or so I think we had. Cause, uh, yeah... I got plastared at Sacha's.

I was drunk enough that I had to call around to find my keys on Sunday morning. I couldn't for the life of me figure out where I had left them. Apparently I put them in the sink, and Chris moved them for me. He knew exactly where they were...

My Drunky McSherlock powers of deduction tells me that Chris knowing where my keys are also means Chris had to put me to bed. Uh oh. This complicates things just a smidge-- on Sunday a friend of ours informed me that I may have "weirded" Chris out. Hee!

It damn well could have been anything. I am just as likely to have fallen asleep with my head in his lap as I am to have tried to make out with him. Either one of those could weird someone out, and either one is as likely as the other to have occured. He hasn't brought it up, and I'm gonna just let my own curiousity on the matter subside, and maybe just forget about it. Maybe. I am awful bruised up and my eye looks like I may very well have been punched– but that could have come from a domestic disturbance with my stairs.

I can’t wait to find out what really happened. There is nothing better than true gossip about yourself that you don't know.

So, anyway, like everyone else in America, I was doin the Super Bowl thing on Sunday. Drinks aplenty, but moderation, too. I clearly had been excessive for days and pace finally started to matter again.

I began my Super Day over at Caitlin, Ashley, and Jeremy's place, but I eventually had to make my way out to Glover Park for Bill's big shindig. Tons of people tons of fud, ya know? Bill’s all the way out in Glover Park, so it makes it a little tricky to get home, 'specially when I don't like waitin' around for the bus. I managed, with the aid of the lovely and wonderful Lil Miss Smokey.

Anywho, after my lovely ride home, I go to play more with Lauren, and she had Kelly in tow. Yay for snuggle buddies! Just snuggle buddies for a little while, though, cause this boy had to go to bed and get up eaaaarly on Monday.

This boy had the catch the Open Bar bus to Pennsylvania at 8 AM. Bailey's took the Improv skiing at White Tail providing us with the yummy open bar bus, ski rentals, lift rentals, a meal, and even booze in the lodge. Fred (Standsinsauce Movetocleveland), Bill, Chris, and I spent all day playing together. We provided the bowl hits on the side of a mountain, the good music, and the great comradery... It really was amazing, we had a wonderful time. See, ya’ll? Booze gives back!

I made it home early enough to go to Showtunes at JRs with Eric and his friends Kaari and Matt. Such a lovelier bunch of people than that one group I went with a couple of Thursdays ago. I practiced pace all day, and managed to not hurt myself or anyone else all day. Kaari and I even got a high score at one of those pushbutton-y games you place at Bars.

So, now after this remarkably long tally of events, lets discuss the damage done:

Ankle: Twisted.
Knee: Cut
Right Eye: Bruised
Right Cheek: Cut
Back: Scratched
Right Wrist: Scratched
Thighs: Sore

Damage from Skiing: 1
Damage from Drinking: 6

I'll let you guess which is from what.

Remember all the bangs and bruises I had a few weeks ago? They told me that perhaps I should find a new passion, a new love.

Gin and I broke up last week.

Gin has hurt me too badly over the course of this year, the realtionship requiring more from each of us with each passing month. I can't do it anymore. The neighbors were going to begin to wonder who was beating me up so badly, and since I can't remember most of the time, I wind up having to fill in the blanks with partial information. You can't say that Gin did this to you. Domestic disturbances are soooo 1997 Lifetime movie.

Lifetime movie or no, after a long bit of thinking I've decided its best if Gin and I saw other people. She needs to get out there and live her life and make new friends. I need to do the same, so Bourbon and I are buddying up.

Bourbons a tough act. He's rougher around the edges than my girl Gin, but we seem to get along well. I can tell that we're having a good time together before I ruin it by spending tooo much time with him and making it all awful.

And, I can still wake up at 9:30 on my own after a good night out with him. How cool is that?

Caitlin: (15:19:15): that's a yes, prepare the bong bitches

Me, a week earlier: AGH! Lesbians on my TV!
Lauren, today: Finally! Fags on your TV!

Showtune for the evening:
From Mame, (go download it!!):

Bosom Buddies

We'll always be bosom buddies. Friends, sisters and pals
We'll always be bosom buddies
If life should reject you there's me to protect you
If I say that your tongue is vicious
If I call you uncouth it's simply that
who else but a bosom buddy will sit down and tell you the truth
Though now and again I'm aware that my candid opinion may sting
Though often my frank observation might scald,
I've been meaning to tell you for years you should keep your hair natural like mine.
if I kept my hair natural like yours Id be bald.
But darling
If I say that your sense of style's as far off as your youth, it's simply that
who else but a bosom buddy will tell you the whole stinking truth
Each time that a critic has written your voice is the voice of a frog, straight
to your side to defend you I rush.
You know that I'm there every time that the world makes an unkind remark, when
they say Vera Charles is the worlds greatest lush it hurts me
and if I say your fangs are showing Mame pull in your claws it's simply that
who else but a bosom buddy will notice the obvious flaws
I feel it's my duty to tell you it's time to adjust to your age, you try to be
pega my heart when your lady Macbeth.
Exactly how old are you Vera the truth
how old do you think
Oh, I'd say somewhere in between 40 and death
But sweetie
I'll always be Alice Tokeless if you'll be Gertrude Stein and though I'll admit
I've dished you, I've gossiped and gloated but I'm so devoted
And if I say that sex and guts made you into a star, remember that who else but
a bosom buddy will tell you how rotten you are
Just turn to your bosom buddy for age and affection for help and direction for
loyalty love and for soothe remember that who else but a bosom buddy will sit
down and level and give you the devil will, sit down and tell you the truth.

I'm a darkly tanned, happy fatty.

I'm so happy. So internally fulfilled, free, and amazing. I have so much to share... the islands were amazing... disjointed memories, making love, and toes in the sand. Sea turtles, waves, whales, Geo Trackers, and memories. So many memories. And a man who took my heart very quickly. His name first Name's John, middle name Henry. He's a steel driving man, and if only I were making that up.

I'm in love with so many things. I can't wait to project my joy on the rest of the world. So much more later. I have to find my keys. I'm home again-- finding my keys is a real adventure after all this time.

And for now, a good old fashioned stalking:

"From:
Subject: hiya
Date: Sat Mar 12, 2005 01:34 PM

i see you in Whole Foods all the time, you're very cute.

and you have cool clothes 🙂

how are you?"

Not such a bad note to find in your box when you arrive home. I do have cool clothes.

Smarter boys would learn to watch what they type when posting to the interweb, but unfortunatly I'm sometimes a bit of a dim discoball. I referenced the Foggy Bottom Alcoholics Anonymous on here and had to explain to someone in real life that I wasn't in AA (not that I shouldn't be). Its a term I use for my friends who happen to go George Washington University, a lovely school in sunny, gorgeous Foggy Bottom).


Fucked up and funny, I can't claim to have coined the term. Last Halloween Julia, Cole, and a few others made T-Shirts that said FBAA and wore them out boozing. Fake names on the back, they took it the whole nine. A lot of people apparently missed the joke while they were out and proceeded to be ghastly offended.

I'm telling you, I could hear the story twelve times and still have beer come out my nose. Fantastic shit, ya'll.

Equally fanastic is the 14th Street Christian Youth Association moniker that we've got going for the neighbors and me. Sometime around the time of Bush's inauguration, the neighbors and I stumbled upon Nascar Poetry through Nill's. One of them even had a link so that we could request a free poem. We couldn't help ourselves:




Date: 1/23/2005
From:
Reply To:
To: qdesigns@islc.net
Subject: requesting free poem

Miss "Trish"-

My prayer group and I were inspired by your eloquent writing and wondering what poetic sentiment you could offer us directly after the auspicious re-inauguration of our wonderful president. Any inspired words you could offer us would be much appreciated!


Yours in Christ-
Michael Hall and the 14th Street Christian Youth Association
<><




So, thats that.

Celebrated Margarita Monday with Markie on the fire escape. We tended to the garden, which is just a' sproutin', and invited people over to partake in our tasty frozen libations. Mark's boyfriend Sean came over and played for a bit before we all went out seperate ways. Thats as sure a way to a friendship as any. He also turned me on to an online comic I'd never seen before: Alien Loves Predator. Word.

[setup]I saw this great little movie that a few people have been talking about...[/setup]



So, ya, Mark and I made it to the midnight screening of Star Wars on Wednesday night. I wasn't super duper impressed, but then again I'm not a Star Wars Junkie. Shiny pretty glimmering funshows always hold my interest, and if I were stoned, I'd definatly watch it again; high praise for someone who thought the first two of these steaming digital dogpiples were nigh on unwatchable (even during the shiny pretties). I'm hunching that if you really dig the heck outta the original 70's SW, you're gonna bust a geek nut all over this one.

Midnight screenings always bring out a hodgepodge of folks, and lets be blunt: Star Wars fans are wook-tarded. I could link my little heart out just showing you a small percentage of that point fifteen times this way of tuseday, but I had my own little bit of asshattery right here in the District. Some drunk bitch totally caused a scene.



Not only that, get this, the bitch totally had to be escorted out with the aid of two managers, a handful of security guards, and even an undercover cop. After she was thrown out, her toolshed boyfriend didn't bother to leave or even see if she was okay. He stayed for the show. Can you blame him?

In the web of all things leaving, I've now left Bertucci's. No more chain pizza for me. We'll see what happens between me and the day job scene. The money lost, while certianly not entirely negligable, isn't make or break for me. This should prove to be a good oppertunity for new things-- outside of the resturant service industry. I guess I'm going to have less friday nights free for a while, but far more long nights out. This could prove fun.

I've been swirling around the month of May in a cloud of happiness and self reflection. I'm now 22 (22 on the 22nd), the same age as all the oldest "older man" from my dating days. I'm Trevis's age, ya know? Thats a little weird. Also a little cool. As a boy told me this week: Welcome to The Race for 30.

Yesterday was indeed the birf-day, if you happened to check the date, and it went off swimmingly. I spoke to all sorts of peeps on the phone, and I did some spring cleaning with Geoff-- good lord if le Cheatu de Ghetto didn't need it. We got it to a state of presentability that worked for a small soiree. In the evening, Miss Lauren, Pam [from Hawaii], Geoff, Nills, Lee, Alex, and Derrick[Alex's Twin] stopped by.

Oh, girl. Lots and lots of good chat-- we left the telecrack off all evening. It was totally a "That 70's Show" pana-rama-cam type o' night. Beers, Rum, Joints, Jokes, Bongs, Stories, and Bowls. Chatting and chilling for hours

The world is good, ya'll. So good, your find your imagination in high gear, and the urge to
tie a towel around your neck and run around a friends apartment overpowering. Being young and full of wonder is still okay, too.

Mark and I shook out the shag rugs today. On my corner. You have to go outside for an event like that, regardless of where you live, but in the country its much easier. Your back yard distinctly belongs to you and only you, but here in the district my back yard is the neighborhood’s posh grocery store. People get uglypissed when they’re attacked by dirt launched from what looks like a dead llama being beaten by a fag in the middle of the sidewalk.

Fuck ‘em. Fifteen shaken, beaten, dirty lookin’ minutes later, and I had clean carpets.

My apartment’s now a cohesive whole, if you couldn’t tell from the shag-shakin’ anecdote. I highly recommend looking in my windows should you find yourself on the yonder side of P or 14th. You can see a giant glowing “M” coming from my bedroom. I hung, oh I dunno, about eighteen feet of super bright rope light behind a 6 foot asian rice curtain that’s stuck to the wall about 14 feet up… so, now everyone’s left with my monogram starin’ up Northwest. It feels good, and is also incredibly, absolutely self important. Word.

I’m no longer inhabiting the Apartment Rowanda—its blossomed. Its all fourteenth amendment up in here, reconstructions going down right here on fourteenth street.Yah, Le Chateau de Ghetto is now a little more chateau, and a whole lot less ghetto. I’ve got curtains, the floors are mopped and the art is not only on the walls, but in frames. Carpets are clean, surfaces are dirtless, furniture is matching, and I’m even cooking in (though, that has more to do with the weight of my wallet than with the allure of local eateries).

I wish my apartment were more of a physical avatar for my inner feelings, ‘cause then my head’d be feelin a little less messy. Unlike my carpets, I still feel weighed down by something. Even going to the gym and going tanning feels like a chore. Maybe its me that needs to be taken into the backyard for a good pounding, ‘cause my sex drive is nill. I’m left to wonder, of course, whether its me that’s down about my sex drive or my drive that’s responding to me. Chicken or the egg, kiddies?

Ugh, listen to me. ”Who is it that I want? And why don’t they want me?” Lord. Sorry to go all Joey Potter on you, but it’s a problem. And that’s prescientology crooked smile Holmes, not the arm candy to crazy couch surfing superstar creature that the Star keeps telling me about. (No, I haven’t seen Batman Begins yet)

I could wax celebrepoetic all day on the vast neurosis of my inner angsterreha, but I’ll let it end here—for the time being. Only boys with boyfriends, both connected to the Improv, seem to want to flirt openly. I can’t (with a clear head) go a nookie-nooking behind some dudes back knowingly. Its just yuck-o. I should totally just go get cats and take up knitting. Uuuugh, I actually already know how to knit. I’m halfway there. Sidebar—Trev, who I learned how to knit with, got a hold of me this week. We chatted. I don’t trust myself not to cry at the end of our instant messages, and I secretly loathe myself for that. I haven’t yet cried, and odds are good I never will, but oooooh if my shrink were here….

Enough, enough, I said I’d stop.

Shits good. The world’s calm. This is no hurricane’s eye, there is no monsoon approaching. Its just stability. Stability is new and really, really scary. Terrifying. Setbacks give you a reason to sprint, and forward momentum is exhilarating, but stability feels way too much like attrition. You wanna know something else about stability? Its boring as fuck. Yah, uh huh, you heard me-- it’s totally not at all interesting. I’m really surprised you’re still here.

Lemmie see if I can figure out something good to tell you. What is interesting right now? Lauren’s gone to San Fran for the week (its pride!), Geoff’s in Boston (for training), and I’m workin’ every show this week at the club. Erin had her Birthday last night at the Ugly Mugg, and I now dig the fuck outta Eastern Market. I had a phenomenal time. JD wasn’t there, but that’s okay, cause I think he and Nelina deserved some good nookieing in their new place (which is in Erin’s building, overlooking Meridian Hill Park). Kelly is back from South Korea, and I’m stoked to see her. The neighbors got a new kitten that’s taken to shitting in their laundry basket. I almost got the kitty, but I decided against it since they liked him, too. If he’s shitting in laundry baskets, maybe I made the right call (but I do want one!).

What else? I worked on my resume and sent it out to a variety of Craig’s list ads in the marketing, PR, and promotions section, and what do you know? Someone’s interested in me. The gigs for coordinating and creating events for a GLBT crowd at straight bars. Bring it the fuck on. I’ve spent so much freakin time getting bombed at the Hunt, the Fox, and the Front Page instead of JRs and the Fireplace, and now I get to refer to all that time as research and interning. Bitchin.

Back to my internship.