Up to R Street and over to Wisconsin, I jogged to Georgetown today. Two and a half miles from the lovely confines of my Logan Life, an Einstein Brothers resides. This was my third attempted trek to an Einstein's, the first resulting in a popped tire for Krista, the second landing Pam and I at some Punjabi Einstein Express inside GWU (on freshman move in day!), and this one finally proving fruitful. I felt truely Arthurian, seeking my salad-in-a-stone or holy grail, this time embodied in the leafy greens of a much coveted Jerk Chicken Salad (with mango vinegrette!). My hunt for salad felt epic. Gosh, I'm a dork.

I won't wax epicurian for terribly long, but the whole chunk chicken with the kickin' mango dressing, tossed with fresh pineapple, mango, and mandarin oranges made for a sweet summery treat. I'm glad I coupled it with the half sandwhich, in hindsight, because while tasty in its own right, I can see myself being disappointed with the actual heft of the salad. The Cali Club panini made it a well rounded occasion, and with all the extra dressing they politely put on the side, I was blessed with a sweet dipping sauce for the sometimes too dry panini.

So. Fucking. Good. Get yourself to an Einstein's while they last!

I've been catching up on Firefly over the past few days. Its been more and more enjoyable as its gone on, less cliched, and the characters seeming a touch more human. It gets the motor runnin' a little, knowing that there is a big budget flick to follow, and I think its a shame it was put to pasture early. Then again, maybe the flick will provide a fitting end. I'm in no real position to make such guesses, though, since I'm only like 5 episodes in. Thats less than half. I'm pacing out my episodes now so that I can watch the last two I have right before the newest repeat on Sci Fi.

In regards to television, I have Rome tivo'd but haven't watched it yet. I'm hoping its good-- I've been bombarded by some sort of urban viral marketing campaign for it all through my neighborhood. They've hung up flyers saying "Ever City Has Its Secrets" with a tear-off number for you to dial, much like a room for rent posting would have. When you call, it gives you some low-grade moviephone bullshit playing the opening sequence. It sounds just like that stupid friend of yours' voicemail when they play 50's "Candy Shop" or some such nonsense. Good campaign, lousy pay off. I hope the end product makes up for the thirty eight seconds of hell before I hung up.

We shall see.

I took Pam to her first Hookabar yesterday after Geoff, Tara, Pam, and I went to Asylum for 25 cent Tacos and Beer night. Mondays are good for the Tacos, and good for the 2 dollar Shiner Boch. Yum-o. Pam and I mellowed out over Double Apple Shisha and just kinda rapped to each other about all the bullshit swirling around in our heads. Satisfying, if not productive. But, the shisha high was fabulous, and I'm glad to know that there is a place to smoke some good tasties right in Adams Morgan. I really need to track down Omar.

The paparazzi have been out in full effect this week, but I haven't gotten the photos to share with ya'll yet. I'm a slacking bastard, mostly, and haven't followed through on the follow throughable. Whatever, they'll get here when they get here. The photogs snapped a click-click or two of Krista and Myself in various regalia ranging from matching deconstructed looks to daniel and I as Truman Capote and Cowboy Queer. Three guesses which I was. Krista's visit coulda gone better, the poor dear. Her tire blew out, we never found einstein bagels, and our appointments ran long.

On the bright side, we did make good in the fat-kid section of Target.

Ugh, couple the negatives with a fabulous Mother Dearest-y hissy fit I threw on Tuesday, and I'm a raging star of self abuse and self involvement. I've been less than 5x5 for the past week or so, kinda down, less than bubbly. I don't know why, exactly, but of course it means that I'm a bit distant and cold. As someone who is both warm and mean at the same time, its often hard for those around me to know that when I'm cold and mean, it has little to do with them. Thats gotta be hard to take, and kinda just plain wrong of me to ask. And of course, a good rule of thumb for that, don't add alcohol.

So, I've bundled up nicely. Bought some pot. Stayed in. Went dancing on Thursday. Spent the weekend stoned. Its been nice. Lots of television catch up, and time to take care of the sick puppy.

He doesn't know he's sick, but he is. He's got really bad diarreha and whatnot. It could be from all of the shots he got last Monday, but I don't know for sure. Daddy's worried, and taking him to the vet tommorrow if he doesn't have consistantly firmer stool throughout the day (it was better yesterday). I'd take pictures of that, but honestly people, me in a daisey dukes is a far better sight. And besides, wait 'till you see Seb in his superman t-shirt Daniel gave him-- soo f'n cute, you won't know what to do with yourselves.

I went to the middle of nowhere to get away from it all.

I'm back in the District. Sebastian gets to wear a bandana around his cute little puppy neck now, he's earned it-- he's a good country dog. He had a puppy play date with Caroline's doggie Annabelle, and he is smitten with her. She with him, too, I imagine. The Snead is doing well, as am I. Very little to report-- nothing but mirth and merriment all around.

I bought Lauren a yellow polka dotted dress for her birthday.

For those paying attention and don't seem to know.

Agnes and Steve, Left and Right. Respectivly. Spelling properly optional.

I love the smell of spray paint. It harkens back to a younger era of me in the country, bein' bad. I can always tell when someone's done a really fresh tag or when they've marked up the sidewalks somewhere for maintanence-- it throws me back to Colonial Beach before they paved the roads. A smell that I know equally well is that of ganj, a scent that harkens back to, oh, I dunno, about twelve hours ago.

I got all Taint-y with Alex on Sunday, and she had to twist my arm to get me there. I was zonked the fuck out from working all week, and had it not been for her insistance, I wouldn'ta made it. We were gonna go for a little drinky-drink, a little dancey-dance, and then just be-out. Two Sparks later, I had found my energy.

If you ask Alex, she'll tell you it wasn't the two Sparks, but the two boys, who got me moving.

Oh yeah, Alex and I got taken home from Taint. The boys, Joe and Dave, were both service industry folks. Joe's a little older, maybe early thirties, balding but cute, with a personality that was too blunt to be called catty and to catty to be called blunt. Facial hair and gauged earrings, light skin and darker features, he just wasn't quite my type. He checkeed a few boxes on the list, but really, his lack of boyish charm, and my Kathy Oversaturation, somehow warded off whatever spell he wanted to cast on me.

Dave, on the other hand, was much closer to my age. He was also much closer to Alex's height-- and Alex isn't a spectacularly tall girl, by any stretch. Not quite a stepladder makeout, but closer to 5'8 than to 5'10. Great arms, dark hair, and a fun smile. Funny as it is, Dave barbacks at Saint Ex, and remembered my drink that I had ordered all of once. Dave was being the wingman for Joe, and asked the normal litney of questions. I didn't give the answer Joe probably wanted. Thats okay, 'cause I'm fairly sure I gave the answer Dave wanted.

Puppy kicking and cruisey gym humor later, we had both made each other laugh. We moved from family guy to adult swim, and then he fessed up to liking Teen Titans. I told him that I dug on the Trigon storyline, and he misheard Trigun. We had both succesfully outed ourselves as nerds.

He invited us over, and on our way out (to his car), he told me that someone had to take shot gun.

"Shotty," says me. Like duh.

Alex, Yama (a third in their circle), Joe, Dave, and I smoked a ton of pot and watched a coach bag full of TV. We laughed our asses off, and enjoyed more Kathy Griffin on Bravo. "...Not Nicole Kidman" is a scream, and comes recommended. I didn't end up with either boy's number, but I liked my sit-next-to-session with Dave on the couch. I feel like following up or something, but we'll see. Its the start of the work week.

oh, speaking of work, I went out on Monday and saw The Aristocrats with a bunch of heads from work. Since we work at the Improv, we got invited to the sneak preview session. Enjoyed it fully, but the best part was with the old batty bitches midrow couldn't take the vulgarity anymore and dipped. That alone was as funny as the movie.

I was cranky all day Monday, but made it through. Feruza Balk and Return to Oz helped. Six Feet Under didn't. The second anniversery of Emily's death came and went, and I didn't totally break down. I was just salty at strangers. I also went a-googling Emily's name, and found out that the truck driver who hit her totally got four years in jail. Mary Washington also established a scholarship in her name.... the funny thing? She wouldn't have qualified.

She'd drink to the irony of all that.

Agnes (ag-nee) thinks Sebastian and I look alike.

Harumph. I may have Lauren find the resemblence with her camera.

My mother, being both sentimental and batty, insisted on purchasing holiday eating utensils at every oppertunity. Every Thanksgiving, along with the stuffing and the jiggly canned cranberry, we had cartoon turkeys on nonlinen linens. Christmas had wrapping paper and hollyberry bev-naps. The plates, cups, and especially napkins were purchased for anniverseries and birthdays, halloween and graduation.

It was the napkins, in retrospect, that always seemed to make a special point of lingering around. Like the last of the wassle, or the slowly consumed black jelly beans, it was these functional tchochkies that made it the longest. It was a rare occurance indeed for all of the special little lint leavers to be used up by the end of the celebrated season. It was not uncommon in my household to use Happy New Year Napkins come the third of February.

I cleaned up Sebastian's mess today with a Class of 2001 napkin. Sometimes those silly napkins stick around to remind you of what a glorious year you have ahead, and sometimes they haunt you like unfulfilled promise.

There has been a sketchy-scary in my neighborhood harassing me for about the past week. I'd say he's roughly 39, looks 29, and is hella ripped, if on the lean side. His body is developed enough, and he's shirtless in the neighborhodd enough for me to have noticed, that I can't imagine he got that way outside of a gym. I believe him to be homeless, and with that said, I see him three or four times a day. He's been threatening, verbally abusive, sexually offensive, and just downright scary on more than a couple of occasions. We've had a yelling match (or two) and for the past few nights I've carried my mace securely in my freehand, safety off.

I shoot off my mouth and have to back it up-- he doesn't get away with talking shit to me, but I'm not out to pick a fight. I don't want to get fucking stabbed.

Last night he apologized to me on my walk home from Geoff's. Weird. He thinks we run into each other too often to have animosity. I don't disagree, and appreciated the sentiment, even if I'm still scared shitless. How do you take something like that at face value?

You fucking don't.

We ran into each other once again today while I was out running errands. He asked me, "Do you wanna hook up?" "No," I replied, not into fucking those that scare me (excluding for now the empirical evidence that proves otherwise). "It doesn't have to be sexual," he countered, finally saying "Do you place chess?" I again answered no, and told him that those weren't the kind of things that I was looking for. He wished me luck on finding the things that I was looking for. I wasn't rude or standoffish-- He then hit me up for a dollar, and I gave it, pleased enough that I didn't feel as though he was an immediate threat any longer.

I say "immediate threat" without any sort of color coded Ashcroftian slant, but if there was one, I'd still say that we're on level lemon. I managed to make lemonade once, but I don't doubt that this could still end sour.

Not too much decadence this weekend, kiddies. Flip Orley, the comic hypnotist, has been at the Improv all week. He's a hoot, he really is, even if he stays on stage longer than Cats ran. Its been okay, though, I worked most of the heavy drinking out of my system on Tuesday. When I said that we hit DG for Happy Hour, I meant that we simply started our drinking at 6-- we eventuially bopped off to the Hunt, where I continued to drink like a Kennedy. And we smoked, of course. Alex even made it over, and it was with her that I stumbled back to my place. We watched quality television and were just kinda drunk at each other. We had a ball.

Can you figure out why this chair is hardcore chained to a street sign outside of my apartment? Lauren, Geoff, and I couldn't-- granted we were (you guessed it!) drunk.







Speaking of street signs, on Wednesday one fell on me. No Standing or Parking. Whats sad is that I wasn't doing either, I was walking. 9 Foot Tall Fucker. That pretty much truncated any exercise from Thursday on (though it's back to the gym tomorrow). It also kept me outta the bars and clubs, and let me spend Thursday in, which I fully dug. Alex kept me company in my ouchies state.

I got to see Wendy at work tonight. Stevey Snakebite fucked up his knee playing softball today (we'll worry after the rest of the tests), so Wendy covered the shift for him. I was too drunk to be a good listener when I saw her on Tuesday, so I got to hear the stories from her and Zarah's trip to New Orlean's a second time tonight. Fab. She brought me back a choco-cocko-pop with nuts in the nuts. Frickin' sweet.

Zahra dubbed me Gay-Lo for my Paparazzi Protectors and eurotrashy shirting.





I don't know if removing the shirt made me more of less Gay-Lo, but who cares. More than a new shirt, I need a new hat, and I think I want one of either Fernando Alonso or Jenson Button. Alonso is way hotter and a better racer so far, but Geoff's into Giancarlo Fisichella, and I fear that its too gay (literally) or something for us to have almost matching hats. I may just wait for Scott Speed to make his debut for Red Bull Racing next season. His car is dope, he's adorable and American-- plus his name has to be fake, right? Formula 1 kinda rules... Fast Cars, Hot Guys, and Apparel. You know you want in.

So, the green pawed puppy and I spent the day running errands and being responsible. I bought myself totally tubular new sunglasses, as evidenced above. Tell me those aren't fabulous. On the way back from the gym, though, someone decided to torch their car. Rad.

Here's the proof.





Later on Geoff swang by la chateau and reminded me that we'd been invited to a Happy Hour down at David Greggory's. Meg, Geoff's sister, was resposible for the invite, and of course I forgot. I shminked and then we booked it to Foggy Bottom. On our way there we ran into Merideth, an old roomie of Nelina and Fred's. As it turns out, Mer is a client of Geoff's... Her Corporate Executive Board to his Nortel. We all got along famously. Also in attendance were Rick (Meg's ex), Philip (Meg's Current), and PJ (Meg's old roomie of about 3 years). A friend of Shania's, Michael, was managing that evening. We chatted him up.

Adorable.

Ahoy Hoy!

Sebastian Cole takes after his daddy more and more every day. Aside from runnin' all goofy-like, he also has an interest in gardening. Yes, little Bashers decided that he just couldn't stand my schaflera tree any longer and decided to dig it up. Seven and a half gallons of potting soil later, my kitchen looked like the start of a mud wrestling ring.

I had moved the ailing flora to the kitchen hoping that the better lighting would allow it to thrive, and now in hindsight, I'm glad I did. Much easier to sweep and mop the kitchen as opposed to the shag.

I've got no clue as to what time the puppy started digging, 'cause I found the mess this mornin. It had to be after Mark and I had dinner, but before the puppy was crated. I'd have a better idea if I hadn't already tied one on that evening-- Bellinis are delicious.

Speaking of bellinis, Mark and I have crafted an easy and delicious sparkling treat that also will fuck you up. Nothing like class and trash, right? Mash up about two slices of frozen peach and throw them into the bottom of a champagne flute. Add a shot of Absolut Apeach (delicious in everything!), and then fill the flute with your sparkling wine selection. Perfect-o and delicious. You can prego me later.

Oh, also in the naughty pet department, the neighbor's new little kitty decided to shit on Caitlin's bed this weekend. It was my fault, I didn't shut her door all the way when I went and raided her stencil stuffs. I made Lil Miss Mo a birthday stencil for the back of her work shirt so that she could roll in a little extra dough for working on her b-day. The shirt came out okay, but I wish it hadn't been at the expense of Caitlin's new sheets. Alas and anon, I'll be washing her linens this evening.

Back in the land of Stencil and Mirth, I'm almost done with my Sebastian stencil. I'm totally gonna put him on a wifebeater. I may also tag his likeness in some spots around town now that the infamous BORF has been caught-- someones gotta get prolific with the guerella art.

For now, this one's definatly going on a shirt and a wall:

I wouldn't be surprised if every single post for the next few whiles starts with some adorable picture of Sebastian. Like the one above. We love Sebastian.

The Fourth of July festivities went off mostly hitchless, if not bitchless. Dana, Krista, Tabby, Cherese, Janine, Norma, Uncle Pappy, Uncle Mark and Aunt Karin, Aunt Debbie, and a few others came down, and everyone behaved exactly as they always do-- take it or leave it. For those who I'd rather leave, I cry bullocks. For those that I enjoy? Glorious.

On Friday, Julia called and asked if I wanted to get a little afternoon drunk. Duh. Well, afternoon drunk turned into a revolving door of people in and out of my house, killing off 3 cases of beer and eight bottles of wine. My friends rule. I was D-U-N done around 2:30am, but made it another hour. Woke up on my couch with a put away puppy, so the party counts as a complete success. 12 hours of solid drinking? I don't care if it was unplanned, that counts as a frickin success.

Works fucking sucks big wookie right now. I hope it turns around-- but in the meantime, I reckon I'm day job hunting. We'll see. I'm skeptical that things'll change, but I don't wanna jinx anything. I'd rather look at silver linings. Like yesterday, getting cut early from work because we only had 60 tickets sold, that was a blessing (though, I'm still really, really, really pissed about the whole thing). I got to take the puppy to his Uncle Geoff's to go play inside. He went totally nutball cornwallace crazy with all the new things to play with. He also tinkled on the rug TWICE. Puppies are not allowed at Geoff's anymore! Not until he's a big good boy (not just a little good boy).

Its so early, but I'm not to be pittied.

This is what time Sebastian Cole Hall wanted to get up and go for a walk-- I've had until 8:45 the past few days of the week, so this was a hair unexpected. The Medicine Man levels of rain going on right now have now twice thoroughly soaked Sebastian and me.

You take you good,
you take the bad,
you take it all,
and there you have,
the facts of life.

The Facts of Life. Oooh, Charlotte Rea! You're gettin in the way of telling 'em about my gorgoues, sweet 9 week old American Coonboxer. My sexy, sexy man of dog came into my life on July 5th, the same day that quit smoking.

May I present to the world Sebastian Cole Hall, King George Pound Puppy Extraodinaire!



Is this even cohesive? God, I'd proofread, but its so frickin early. The puppy didn't go poo, so I have to go put him back in his C-R-A-T-E for an hour before we can try again. I wish it weren't cold out, so I didn't have to wear the sweater. You'll be seeing more pictures of the adorable doggie soon... that photo up there just doesn't do my cutie pie puppy dog justice.

New subject, before I conpletely square out.

I went dancin for a tiny bit last night and when I came home, even my asymerical vinyl tie felt a little more soaked through than I'da thought possible.

Oh yeah, and I have fourth of july stuff to talk about, too. But I'm three different ways of tired. Maybe in an hour I'll post again, once the puppy is done pooing. I'll get back to ya'll-- the puppy crapping and my writing's promptness are directly proportional.

Okay, back to bed. Arf!

I found it very funny that the Department of the Interior's building is illuminated by kick ass lamp posts, yet they can't keep them lookin' good with bulbs and all. There were like 12 bulbs out. There's a message in there.

Its not raining. Shirtless, 14th and P.


She's not sober. Wasted, Eastern Market.


Thats not right. Illuminated, 14th and P.


Thats 12 feet up. Where you wanna be, La Chateau de Ghetto.


Thats not wrong. Enlightened, courtesy of Mark.

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.

[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.

I find it a touch giggle-worthy that my favorite parties in town are Blowoff and Taint. Alex and I rocked out with our (proverbial) cocks out, danced and dallied with the best of 'em.


One of said best just so happened to be Markie, who convinced me to go to Blowoff instead of Nation (sorry Delroy!). His influenced was appreciated, I had a bitchin time. Between cocktails, Pina Coladas, and good ol' fashioned hang outs, its been a bitchin weekend.

Not a lot to report, kiddies. No news is good news, or so Mom used to tell me when the mailbox was empty. Its an empty mailbox month so far. Just playing with the Logan Circle family, relaxing in Dupont Circle on the nice weather days (even climbing trees), and making new friends (Geoff).

Geoff and I jogged down to the Capitol earlier this week, and thats such a quintesential DC type thingie that its worth mentioning. I hadn't done it in a while. Word up hey.

Remember that movie with Jude Law and the kid from the Sixth Sense? In it there was this bitchin' teddy bear that I wanted so badly, and now I think they're making something like it for real. It may even trump Clocky in the department of cute things I want now.

Check out this groovy article about robocats, and go to paragraph 7. Teddy Bear robots! Granted, the cats were described as "some come-alive stuffed animal from a high-end horror movie," but that really is fine with me. I doubt my teddy will come a knifin'.

I did go a knifin' last night at Skewers, though. I went with Geoff, my girl friend Meg's brother-- he's a logan circle hood rat, too, and we're buddying up. We smoked at his house before going down for grub, and I was handidly baked. No questions asked, no fuckin' around. The foods was good, and I was shocked that it had taken me so long to go there. Its right above Luna Cafe, so its not like i don't eat over there all the time anyway.

Well damn. You silly sons of bitches. How did ya'll miss Taint? Its not that far a drive-- and I worked my shit. You guys shoulda, too! Phoenix, Alex, and Mike Cooper did. Flordia, New Jeresy, Boston, Virginia? You all missed out. Just sayin'.

I'm spellbound by both Grey's Anatomy and Desparate Housewives. The former for its very real portrayal of how relationships go down (as I remember), and the latter for the sheer candytainment. Well written, engrossing. I'm on edge for each new episode. Markie was right, we are at the new coming of television.

This was a banner week for bruises in the land of Mike. I mentioned the twin extra long, and I guess I should have referenced its girth, too. Sore Mikey. Then, on Tuesday, I was jumping a fence to get to Columbia Plaza (go have a look, and see that big highway thingie? thats got a fence)... well, it had just started raining, and my foot slipped. As I was launching myself. I fell and flew about four-ish feet and also busted my ass on the pavement. I also hit a spokey-spoke.

Black and blue, strawberried, poked more than once and bleeding, I was a tore up fatty. I was crampy, bloody, as well as mostly jovial in re: to the whole matter. Lets be honest, kiddies, its a good story. When I was finally able to climb stairs like a normal human being, I awoke with a gunky eye. Apparently, three months of one contact set will do that to you.

I'm all healed now, my vision is fine (though the glasses are natch), and I can behave like a normal member of society. I, like any well trained mutt, have righted most wrongs and maybe even fixed the root source of all these problems.

Lack o' Lube? Uncheck. Fence Jumping? Uncheck. Permacontactcs? Uncheck. Pavlov, of course, had a bell. I have pain and suffering.

On the bright side, I'm really cute in my glasses.

Of course I'm a cingular subscriber. Their motto is "More bars in more places."

Are you fucking kidding me?

Thats my fucking motto.

Larry Poon, lounge singer, drinks. And blogs. And, as the name would imply, sings.

He also talks about my alter ego, Skippy St. Croix.

I'm sure it'll come as no surprise, but I've been fired from many a job. If I were a professional bag go-througher, I'd more than likely get terminated for something like this.

So, its not the weed. Its the email.

Mickey Mouse is only gonna be in town for 5 more days. Thats a little disappointing, its been nice having 75 of his likenesses runnin' around. They've all kinda denned up over at the Reagan building, which hosts the outdoor dance party I like so much. It must be the cats pajamas for my sass to the south, Bikutoria, to constantly have a little bit of rat-itude.





Instead of cute and kitch, I'm gonna have the straight up oddballs that this swamp city brings out come Spring. Like this chucklehead, who was headed north on Connecticut the other day. Mmmm, argyle socks.



Or like this wacko who's coming into town on the 14th of May.



Yes, you are, princess. Yes you are.

Speaking of all things Jersey, I've got Pam (she of Hawaii and dance partner fame) coming into town on the 20th of May. Work it out, birthday present.

So, its gotta be the weed?

Trite sonofabitch.

Jesus, who let me go on about the past five years? Really? I sounded like some sort of Tracey Gold meets Ghost World Afterschool Special. "Quick! Hide the exacto-- he's a cutter!"

Jeeze. Work somehow managed to mumbo-mojo me back into good spirits-- one part tobacco and one part good company. Libations later signed and sealed my happiness, as I ended up at the Hunt after work with Chris, Smokey, and JD. Anita was working for some reason, and Lauren wasn't, so things were a little old school. Totally weird to be there with Anita slinging cocktails-- she hasn't done that in forever. Lauren was actually who took Anita's place last year as Miss Anita became a MF9to5er. It was like summer of last year all over again.

Fall down drunkardness ensued, so thats why I'm referencing yesteryear. Don't worry, I'm not gonna get all Afterschooly again. Anita and I stayed at the Hunt for a bit after hours, and that put me in a position to meet a tall cute AU boy, who just happens to be named Mike.

Word up, hey. It's been well over a year since I had a sleep over at an AU dorm, and the idea of a twin bed sounds like it would be almost as fun as coalwalking, but for a hot boy you do whatcha gotta do. If we end up seeing more of this boy, we're gonna have to call him M2.

Anyway, for good faith in my noncuttery, here are some adorable ass baby penguins being screened through security before their flight.

This all will mean little to nothing to most.

Sophmore year of college was a very, very long time ago.

I spent 2001 learning where to put my feet and how to stand.
I spent 2002 loving, hating and forgiving.
I spent 2003 broken and addicted.
I spent 2004 growing, healing, projecting and realizing.

2005 seems to be the year that I learn to let the hurricanes pass by. The Isabelles. I don't want to think of a faceless nothing in regards to this year, but I can't name my hurricanes anymore. I hope Phoenix, Trevis, Andy, Dan, and Kate Brock are doing well.Omar, Tiffany, JC, Suzanne, Michelle, Lindsey, Omar, Ashley, Basham, Sarah Shay, too.

You're hurting me, you're taking me over.
I didn't ask for your extraction, I didn't call for your execution.
I didn't ask. I didn't want.
I'm pulled, you're pierced, and somewhere so am I.
soul mates never die.
(thx placebo)

4/20 has come and gone, ya'll. I hope everyone celebrated well. The 420 High Council convened, but no new decrees were set or smote.

Biotech Companies are thinking about pharming underground in caves. I find it one part facinating and one part shit-tasticly creepy.

Before Trev[PaEx] moved to Shippensburg from Harrisburg, we spent probably four hours on the phone together a day. Minimum 2. This went on for just about a year. Who knew that it was art?

Pam from Hawaii and DC is coming to visit on May 20th. That means she'll be here for the entirety of my birthday celebration. Booyakasha, ya'll!

Krista's coming down on the 14th (of May) for HFStival. The Line Up?
Billy Idol, Sum 41, Social Distortion, Garbage, Foo Fighters, Good Charlotte, Coldplay, The Bravery, Citizen Cope, Jimmies Chicken Shack, New York Dolls, Unwritten Law, They Might Be Giants, Louis XIV, Echo and the Bunnymen, Interpol, The Stereophonics, Pepper, and DJ Rap. You can pick your pussies up off the floor now, I realize this is gonna be sweet. I'm gonna try to convince Dave[Crazy] to carpool with Krista and me. I think it'd be fun.

Markie came over and installed some new bluetooth stack on my computer today. Good for him. If he hadn't, I wouldn't be able to show ya'll the Garden of Babylon or the Sparks-and-Absolut fueled afternoon that created it.

For your viewing pleasure, Mark and I gardening:

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.

Yesterday was Nill's birthday. Kind souls that Nills and Lee are, they invited the 14th Street Christian Youth Association (read: Caitlin, Ashley, Jeremy, and I) over for Tapas. In true fourteenth street fashion we arrive noticably late for a guest list that only plus-one'd one more-- Miss Maria. Thankfully, fatties need not be worried, the food was just coming off the stove as we arrived. Hearts of Palms, Cajun Shrimp, Meatballs, Melon and Prucheutta, Asparagus, Potatoes, stuffed mushrooms... Jesus, it was fatkid paradise.

UH. Total food porn.

The libations flowed, and when we all had gotten good 'n tipsy, the dancing and shakin' moved into a homoeroticism that even I couldn't have expected. The problem? All the straight boys were busy with each other. Isn't that always the way?

Yes, ya'll, I can't help but feel like there is more HoYaY going on between my my heterobuds than between any of my homo ones. Go figs. Its prevelant enough that there is a pattern!

After watching many gender combos bust a move, Caitlin and I made our way down to the black cat for indypop dancing and beer drinkin' fun. I believe us to have had a lovely good time, met some nice folks and pretention was at a minimum. It was superduper nice having a Saturday off!

Technology came to my door this week in the form of an itty-bitty bluetooth dongle. Its adorable, the little dongle, and I can't help but gush and make googly eyes at it-- it's smaller than Fetus Spears. The hope was to get my phone a chat-chat-chattin' with my lappy top, eventually setting up a photoblog not totally dissimilar from Mr. Mark's. With hope comes uncertainty by default. I suppose it's enough that I finally have a phone again, but really, the fact that I can't figure out how to get my phone talking to my laptop kinda pisses me off.

At least I have a phone again. It'd been since the end of February for crying out loud! Having a cell phone again means that its possible for boys to call and ask me out on dates, and clearly I like that. Cause they are calling. And last weekend I had a date. The talapia was good, and so was I. Behavior wise, that is(and only mostly good, anyway).

Dating, huh? Its about time.

Just a moment of zen from a recent conversation:

I am betting that the average number of threesomes my gay male friends have had is higher than the average number of total sex partners most of my straight male friends have had.

Myself included, hell.

Making efforts to be dirtier than Anna Nicole at the generous geriatrics nursing home, the Mid City Market directly below me has been indundated by something a little unpleasent. Something a little gross. Hell, lets just come out with it: I've shit on the market. Yes, kiddies, the minute you give me running water again, I go and break the pipes. The kitchen of the fishies store is now filled with floaters of a different kind.

The plumber came on an emergency call at like 5 in the afternoon this past Wednesday and I was just getting ready for my wednesday shift at the 'prov. He comes in, decides there ain't much he can do, and goes along his way. Friday morning, my property manager woke me up by coming into the apartment with three plumbers. My boxer clad ass, sexy at any given minute, was up and moving with out an ounce of frazzle. The good mood and sexy legs, not fear and reprimands, may have been what I remember for that first forty-five seconds, cause I somehow managed to put the bong and weed away the night before. Heck, the property manager even said he like what I'd done with the walls (painting was a bit of a no-no).

And, also luckily, there weren't any strange boys in my bed and there certainly weren't any lesbians on my couch. Pretty much the cleanest and emptiest you'll find my house, all things being even. There wasn't even a straight boy in the bar!

It's 7:15. I've just lost an hour of sleep due to Day Light Savings Time.

I woke five minutes ago and franticlly put on my pants and socks and got ready to run out the door, for fear that I was already an hour late for work. Oh, I've definatly only slept an hour.

It's definatly not night time. The lights are on and its a little dark because its early, not ytt.

I'm going back to sleep.

Kelly, of the she who gave my keys to an asian fame, hasn't called me since I've been home. Not since she knew I found out, not since I confronted Lauren, not since my plane landed have I heard shit from her. I don't know what I think about that. She hasn't given me an apology or offered me an explination, though through the grapevine I've heard she's offered these things to Lauren. Are you fucking kidding me?

For Fattentinesmas, I gave Kelly a gift certificiate for a full modern facial at Blue Mercury. Pore sucking, dead cell exfoliating, muscle massaging... the whole god damned nine.

Here's where I get horribly rude and inappropriate. I want to go down to Blue Mercury Salon, debit card in hand, and have them cancel her facial and transfer it over to me. This, of course, is hindered by my naturally attractive good side. I gave it to her because I wanted her to have it, I know this, my good side knows this. The evil part of me really wants to have smaller pores. Smaller than her.

The important part is smaller than her's.

I'm not going to take the card, but I did think about it in fantasy mindset mode for almost 10 minutes.

[via boing boing]

Its soooooooo a blowdryer! I want one! Real, real bad.

*Mike double fists a Sparks and Puja's Heinkein 24oz*
Puja: Can I hit it 'fore I hit it?
*points to Heinkein*
Mike: No, I'm enjoying my trashyness
*Puja reaches for the bong*

The folks had their 23rd Wedding anniversery last night; it doesn't get more romantic than the first day of spring, ya'll. They're coming into the District this evening to hang out and have dinner and I'm really very excited, not having seen them in a few months and all. They should be here around 7:30, which means I am gonna miss happy hour on my only day off. I'll manage.

Puja is going to be returning my cell phone to me tonight after I go to dinner with the family. She's had it since February 26th-ish, so I'm really, really excited to have it back. I can't believe I went nearly a month without it, without killing myself.

I've spent most of my time with the improv kids, the neighbors, or the neighbors and the improv kids together, so its made the lack of phone calls much more tolerable. I know what its like to just go a knockin' on my friend's doors now. Its like the olden days!

The weather smells like spring, so much so that it almost made me cry as I went trekking to Whole Foods. I'm never again going to be at Mason when this type of weather hits, when the skirts come out and the boys go shirtless. It hurts a little inside, I'll never sit outside the Johnson Center with Omar and peoplewatch. Its enough to make a boy tear up, I tell ya.

My life is very different now, and will be very different next year. And the one after that. But, it'll also be the same. And that makes me smile. And cry.

I'm happy inside, I hope ya'll are, too.

PS: Pics from Hawaii are comin', I promise.

Sorry, princess, this is my house.

When I came home from vacation there were beer bottles on my coffee table, my pasta had been eaten, cocktails had been made and not cleaned up... my house was worst than how I left it (which is sayin' something, bitches).

Lee broke in through the fire escape and stayed the night one night. He cleaned up after himself and refilled ice trays. Exactly as I would have expected him to. The neighbor girls came over and watched TV another night. They drank a little, but came back to clean the next day. Exactly as I would expect them to.

When they arrived, windex and paper towels in hand, the door quickly locked-- deadbolt and doorframe. When they knocked, no one answered. Yet, obviously, someone had just run to the door to lock it! The neighbors yelled in "Lauren, it's just us! We're here to clean up our mess!"

After some presistance on my neighbors part, some asian bitch with short hair answered my door in a towel and wouldn't let them in. Wouldn't even open the door at first. She told them to go away, that she'd clean up. That she was a friend of Kelley's.

Kelley does not even have a key to my apartment.

Lauren left her keys with Kelley. Who then gave them to Amanda for god knows what reason. Amanda, the asian bitch with short hair, let herself into my apartment. Who knows for what reason or for how long. Fucking whore. I'm livid. Not only did she not clean when she left, she lied to Kelley (or I hope she lied, and that its not kelley doing the lying) about the way shit went down, and I feel kinda violated.

Clearly the amount of people in and out of my apartment, sans bitch, lends you to the notion that I'm really not super troubled by guests. I'm not. If you are welcome in my home and I gave you a key, and I happen to be in Hawaii, please let yourself in. If you don't have a key, you call and ask if you can come over while I'm gone, I'll put you in contact with someone who can let you in for whatever reason. Or I can say no. This stupid fucking slut of a human doesn't even know my last name and certainly doesn't even have my cell phone number to give me the courtesy of telling her hell the fuck no.

Hell, the person she said she was a friend of doesn't even have a key to my apartment! If you're breaking into my home and lying to my friends, please AT LEAST know who's key your using to break in! Being 4 degrees of separation away from me does not allow you into my personal spaces. Thanks.

She also didn't leave a note. You always leave a note!

So, last night I went to Julia's for a little shindig. Never been to her place, its over in Washington Circle-- totally way fun. She lives with Cole, my ex's ex. Weird, but lovely good time.

They all went drunk diner-ing afterwards, and seeing as how I ate a peanut butter hamburger while in Hawaii, I needed not a bit of Diner. That said, I rode with them up to Adams Morgan from Washington Circle to hang out on the way (and the cab fare is less expensive from U street). We took a friend of there's ride. I made the executive decision after getting out to go home instead of eating, and the group told me to hop back in the car and catch a ride home with their friend. So, I went to the SUV hopped in and the dude asked me where I lived.

Soooooo wasn't their friend. STILL took the ride.

Yep Yep.

I'm trashy, ya'll. And I think he was straight. Nothing happened-- but god damned.

Its good to be home.

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.

I'm leaving for paradise in about four minutes.

Long flight, but long stay.

See ya'll in a week.

When the streetlights outside hit the trees, and the shadows reflect onto one my windows, sometimes it looks like a monster waving just inches from the pane. The trees on P Street really are comforting, both in the day and at night. I don't mind the monster waving at me-- its like an old friend saying "Hey."

The snow has melted quickly, though its not as if the inclimate weather made much of a dent on my weekend. I made it to the National Aquariam with Marky, and we saw some excellent fatty invertibrates. Petrochirus diogenes, apparently. Just a good long day with a friend who I haven't spent a helluvalot of time with in a while. We even made it up to Adams Morgan to attack Toledo Lounge, catching up with Jordan and the boys. Mark and I won bragging rights by guessing the most Oscar Winners correctly AND we also have the high score on Q-Shot and Wordster. Granted, we were playing against straight men, but whatever. We're winners.

Good stuff. I guess this has been a swimming week for good buddyness.

Hawaii in two days.

Science has decided that the kilogram is now anachronous, and in need of a lovely new retrofit. Two competing theories are vying to be the new canon, and I won't tell you too much about them lest I run the risk of subversively educating, so all you need to know is that we want Avogardo's Model to win because it has a much neater name than "Planck." We're not pirates or algea, afterall.


Intellectually, I'm all for changing the model for which we base the kilogram, if its currently built around an unstable base, but I have to wonder-- what happens to the drug trade? Will the base price for a kilo of pot go up or down?

I do all of my business with pot on the ounce level, kind of side stepping this GramGate by virtue of not buying too high of quantity or too low of quantity, but I'm sure that there are folks who do deal with it in the larger weight who will either have to pass the savings on to me or charge me more for their new overhead, and that could lead to some interesting situations.

Will it fuck with old school potheads forever? By 2007 the change looks to be in place; does this mean that all of the dealers have to go out and get new scales if they're relying on digital metric ones now? Will the phisheads cry foul?

Seems like a sticky-icky situation to me.

Inbetwixt the haze of smoke and the yummy manjo fruit salad, Puja and I spent a whole day catching up, gabbing, and basically giggling at one another. Hell, we even made that fruit salad. And went to dinner. HUGE dinner. God it was good.

Good, good stuff.

Puja told me that I need to leave the opening of ethnic fruits to her. She's wise, that one.

For all creeps, romantics, shyguys and shiesters, Craigslist and the City Paper offers an outlet for every missed chance with the random hotfolk and facinating. The "I Saw You's" are printed in the Washington City Paper every week, and Lauren and I used to read them religiously. Lately, as the printed word is slowly dying to me, I've been reading the craigslist version more religiously.

For the first time, I'm a Missed Connection!"

Word!

I'm gonna respond and see what happens, 'check yes or no' so to speak.

February 22nd came and went without any real problems, and all is right with the world. Kinda like if the only potsmokin quaker, Smokey, I knew came into work with a bag full of granola and a copy of Gandhi in each hand. Oh. Wait. She did.

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 had tasty steak today for dinner.

I can't remember the last time I had red meat. I think it was this summer at Hamburger Mary's-- a freakin' hamburger. I grilled and seasoned my steak all by myself this time! Word!

Mark had to help me dethaw chicken the other day, and today he brought me fresh baked rye bread made from scratch. Jeeze, he's talented.

Anyway, red meat for red blooded boys. I'm off to the bar to flirt unabashedly.

Tonight at Taint (superfun) I went to the bathroom. Not an unusual occurrencefor me at a bar-- clearly. In the bathroom a boy was fixing his hair in the mirror (and in the sink, he may as well have been bathing. That boy, before allowing me to use the mirror, told me that only people who show their belly button get to use the mirror.

I showed my belly button.

He said "That is a great belly button," and then rasberried said postumbilical orriface. He told me I'd done good work with it, and then let me fix my hair, heading out before me.

Word!

Markie and I have the same family guy character.


Which Family Guy character are you?

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?

I hope everyone had a great Fattentinesmas!

Until next year, ya'll!

Fatty Claus, out.

Ugh. I woke up at 8:30 this morning, after having gone to bed at midnight.

Since the skitrip I've been waking up early for a variety of reasons, but on my day off I shouldn't have been wide awake so fucking early. Does this mean I'm going to be trapped on a too-early sleep cycle for a few days? Boo on that.

I've got some good news. The woman responsible for the sherry enema is pleading not guilty to manslaughter. Thank goodness! Atta girl! I was worried for her well being, the mans been addicted to enemas since he was a child. Heck, he even had recipes-- the man was legitimatly a mixologist for the ass.

Who can't respect that? Who? Who!



Lad-da dee la da da.

Today is laundry day here in the land of Mike, so I have to find something rewearable and not heinous to do laundry in. But first, I need to shimmy up the fire escape and get clean. Why up the fire escape? I haven't had hot running water in nearly a month and a half.

The UN says that running water is a basic human necessity, so basically, I live in Apartment Rwanda right now. I've had to go to Uganda (re: Cait, Ash, Jer's) to hygienate my self. Yum! At least I've been able to call my living room Gitarama in good jest.

The light at the end of the tunnel (or more appurtenant, the water at the end of my pipe) is that the plumber will be here on Tuesday at 9am. I'm so fucking thrilled. I may actually be able to have a normal, clean, bath again. Honestly, the water pressure in the tub wasn't a damn thing worth writing home about in the first place, so now that I'm getting all new pipes, I really am looking forward to my new Bath-Time Barbie abilities. Yay!

Gosh, once upon a laxidazical, the idea of a lounge and a dentist’s office were wholly disparate notions. Alas and anon those days are gone. On a drunken stumble home, I noticed that Exhale Club and Lounge (motto: “Come in and Exhale”) was literally within two feet of an emergency dental office. The proximity conjured to mind other venues that maybe shouldn’t necessarily be so close: Amphetamines and glass blowers; ketamine and cat hospitals... that sort of thing. I expect more from my Adams Morgan, frankly! Adams Morgan should provide Cocain and Chimay; Sparks and Darvocet. Big Slice Pizza and self induced vomiting. But that’s it.

For all cotangled crackheadings, I am still glad that I can be honorable and worth knowing to a variety of people who have seen me falling down drunk (or otherwise out of my ever loving mind) in a massive way. Especially if those people caught that same state within a day of each other (re: I have a black eye still). At my most embarrassed for myself, its good to know that those friends who got to see you at that point of inebriation will still ask for your company to a movie or your company as a roommate, should they need it. All within two days of making an ass of yourself. Thank goodness.

I remember a thing from back in grade school when I was being bullied: negative attention and positive attention. Guidance counselors can’t be wrong– and a car that stalks me for two blocks, rolls down its window and has its driver shout to me “You need a ride” is clearly one of those aforementioned types. I’m gonna guess its negative, but I still like to think of it as postive... Without a valid quandary, I am left with two immediate and disparate thoughts: reach for your mace; be flattered. Both are equally valid, if not good. Important, if not right, as well as honest enough to each column of thought to allow myself pride and pleasure in going on my own skippy way. Without the ride.

I made it home safely last night.

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.

Now that Julia Child has kicked, we can let the sherry flow free for merriment! Oh, sure, sherry's fun to cook with and its definatly fun to drink; I even hear you can get really fucked up off of sherry if you try hard enough. But what happens when you're an ulcer ridden alcoholic who can no longer swallow? Do you give up the sauce? Or find another means? I have less than fond memories of bootybumping intoxicants, but certainly you can't do that with sherry... can you?


LAKE JACKSON, Texas (AP) — A woman has been indicted on negligent homicide charges for allegedly giving her husband a sherry enema that killed him. -- via Canoe


Is it gross that I wanna know how much she gave 'em? Don't worry ya'll, I'll stick with my Coors Light in a pint glass.

What, with Martha's new Apprentice spinoff more than likely going to be done in shackles, her anal swallowing South Park gig, and the mental images of beerdouching myself to death, I'm now afraid to go into my own kitchen.

"An administrator at George Mason University demanded $10,000 from a 17-year-old youth last summer in exchange for keeping the pair's videotaped sexual encounters secret from the teenager's parents, the boy testified in Fairfax County juvenile court yesterday... But when police started examining the tapes, they discovered six other people -- at least three of them juveniles -- having sex with Sinacore, prosecutors said." -- via Lauren, full article @ Washington Post.com.

Jesus.

I've only ever made one video, knowingly, and I have the only copy. This news totally makes me wonder what the hell else is out there. I was fucked up when I made my video with PennEx, but the likelihood that I was in intoxicated and in a situation where someone could have had an actual video camera is quite, quite high.

Afterall, there have been pictures taken without my permission or knowledge. There’s prolly a video somewhere. Whatever.

The rumor mill says that the boys’ sex with the dude was consensual, but lets be honest. He was between 50 and 55 when that shit was going down, they were 16-17, so I have sneaky little hunch that he paid them for services rendered… that said, what services could I have been rendering when I was too fucked up to see the blinking red light?

Scary thoughts. I was just being slutty, not whorey, but you still don’t want that shit floating around. How very, very Paris Hilton.

Speaking of scary, my night at JR's last Thursday could have gone better. Neighborsex was there, as were a bunch of his friends. Catty fucking faggots (read: his friends), those with less hair and more money than me, seem to think its acceptable to rag on a twentyone year old.

Jerks. I don't want to get into too many details, but there were negative references to me and Chris Robinson (Black Crows), shit talk about my my facial hair. Oh, yeah, and White Lion discussions specifically designed to exclude me. FUCK WHITE LION.

Put this on record: I don't care about White Lion. I missed Cyndi Lauper's Hey Day. I will not feel bad for never, ever owning vinyl. And its okay that I’m more Killers than Depeche Mode. Thank you.

*phew*

So, backhanded compliments being what they are, after neighborsex left (without saying goodbye no less), the boys stopped being catty and starting blatantly flirting with me.

Long Story Short: I got plastered and made them promise to be nicer the next time. They promised.

They made me feel like a person with social anxiety disorder, and I know that I’m not. What a yucky, unwelcoming air to hoist upon a newcomer.

Jerks. The lovely PennKim thinks that I should drag her kit and caboodle out with me the next time I have to face them, but I think I might have to do this one on my own, or with the help of another fag. We shall see!

Jung Explorer Test
Actualized type: ENTP
(who you are)

Some 28 year old college chica just got 18 months probation for selling faux Duff beer. She was forced to reimburse the purchasers, to the tune of nearly 2k. I wonder what beer she used to fake it? I guess it doesn't matter, aside from the 18 months, they're makin' the bitch see a shrink. I still think its a good idea-- whatever.

In real beer news, apparently Coors Light and Molson are thinking about merging. Don't fret, you didn't miss the memo, both are still lame. I mean, think of the list of beers that you get with this new SuperBrew company? Molson Canadian, Coors Light, Carling, Keystone, Aspen Edge, Zima, Rickard's and Kaiser... would you honestly wanna order any of those? Ugh, bring me a Chimay!

Coors, Miller Lite, Zimas... they all kinda fall into the same category in my mind, watery and cheap. Little Miss Smokey said it best: "I drink Miller Lite when I'm actually thirsty and at the bar. Its not like I'd order it if I ever wanted a beer." Word. It is drunk water as far as I'm concerned, but if I'm ever near an avalanchable area, I'm gonna be sure to bring plenty of one of the new SuperBrews. It could save my life-- over somewhere in Europe (where is the Slovakian Cock from, anyway? Czech Slovakia? Ugh, I'm dumb) a man drank 60 beers and pissed his way out of an avalanche that covered his car. Apparently he drank and pissed so much his liver and kidneys hurt.

Buddy, I know your pain. Hmmm, how can I work this into casual discourse? I gotta go melt the snow?

I woke up just now very upset... I had a very vivid dream that I forced myself out of.

The dream starts in an apartment, and someone in that apartment is telling me how truly talented people are always crazy. He then began discussing a woman who could speak french, and then about this same woman's painting, and how it wasn't even what she was most amazing at. I can't remember (now) what she was supposedly best at. In the dream, I recognized the art work as my neighbor's, Caitlin's. We're a little older in the dream. Some things had changed.

I identify the art to the man as Caitlins, and return to working on my own painting. Caitlin is there now. It begins to rain, and the paintings begin to become wet, both caitlin's and I's. Shes there, and faces appear in the paintings that are getting rained on. Its beautiful, unintentional, and lovely.

The dream itself feels like complete reality. There is something going on across the way, in the dream, that requires caitlin and I's attention. I immediatly fear the worst, that something's happened to ashley. I think, in the dream, that she's dead. We run to where the ambulances are. Dream Caitlin is very worried, too.

We get there, things are fine, and the homes that have the emergency are rows of trailers, not unlike the trailer parks I recall from my youth. Caitlin chats up the firefighter, I chat up the other, nothings wrong. I realize I can't remember anything from Real Now to Dream Present Day (the dream, again, is in the future).

The dream goes on, I don't remember now for how long, and I'm now with Caitlin's mom. We're having an intimate time together, the three of us, I think over dinner. I confess that I may need a shrink. I also admit that I don't remember the past four months or so. Not a thing.

I ask them to tell me what happened, what had transpired in the time that I'd lost.

Her mom worries that it will upset me greatly. She, in the dream, is very close to me apparently.

I ask what happened, what I was missing.

They agree it might be time to tell me.

Caitlin hesitantly tells me that a very close friend betrays me. I am told I have nothing to worry about anymore. She tells me it happens on Feburary 22nd. I, in the dream, think thats Mark's birthday. She doesn't confirm or deny anything. She relates that I fell off crystal wagon, hard, and that I'm lucky to be alive. She also tells me that I don't have anything to worry about anymore. I ask if its what I fear, and she says yes. I think that means (in the dream) that I'm HIV +. I, in the dream, get upset, and she tells me that I am just plain lucky to be alive. It is implied that the betrayal and the HIV are related, I believe.

I realize, in the dream, that this can't be real. That I can't have lost THAT much time. I force myself to wake up, and I do.

I go to the kitchen, now in real life, and its flooding. At some point I left the kitchen sink on, or I slept walk and did it.

Weird, right?

Do I start fearing Feb 22?

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.

The next time I'm doing a sold out show somewhere, I'm going to include high grade marijuana in my request sheet, just like Snoop.

He had this shit flown in to Utah because he didn't trust the quality of the bud out there.

Fo' Shizzle, lil Nizzle.

Oooh, JRs. You fun, oft-pretentious fag saloon, you! This boy never drinks beer, but oooooh, three dollar pitchers will do it.

Yee-Ha I got drunk. Eric the ex is a bad influence!

Not the getting drunk, just the beer. Empty calories, I tell you!

I suppose I could go on teh beer diet. That works, right?

I need to learn to set the alarm before I leave, not when I get home, too, by the way. Cause, um, yeah, I fucked that portion of the competition up. The internal clock saved me, but booyakasha, I was scurred.

Oh, by the way, were you aware that there's a plethora of nascar poetry on the internet? Since when do trailers have high speed?

Ugh.

I've got me a a little heady-ache. I think it was the Gin.

Why is it when I drunk blog I sound overly snooty?

I think I'm gonna go watch Alias with the neighbors. They prolly have acheys and ouchies, too.

Snooty or not, though, I hauled and dumped trashcans of TOILET WATER. Fuckin' shitcreek over flowed for reals, and I volunteered to help clean it.

I'm sure the water ran clear after a while, but it came up for a reason. Too much poopie is my hunch, and thats gross. I eat asshole, it shouldn't bother me, but it kinda started to after I got a mystery blister on my hand. I think the water did it!

So, today was eventful for no good reason. I spent the day before yesterday with Dave Atell and random drunkeness-- can't complain, after all the man has a TV show. I certainly don't. That bein' said, tonight was a drunken revelry of a great magnatude...

Especially because Mel and I spent the end of the evening hauling trashcans full of bathroom water. Yeah, the bathrooms flooded and we got stuck with carrying the trashcans full of shitwater to the main sink in which we could safely dump them.

Fun times.

I made out with Lee, my straight good friend, on a sort of dare/"I'll make out with her if you make out with him" type deal. I won't mock it because Lee and I both now think that the other is an excellent kisser, and thats dope. Because he is. And so am I. And we have no reason to lie.

So, yeah, last night actually was Caitlin, Jeremy (the neighbors), and Lee's joint birthday party, and we had a drunken revelry. For a last minute shindig, the turnout was fairly nice, and we had a good time. I got to make out with a straight good friend of mine who could kiss well, and I got to go to work today and play with Dave. Dave's super fun, and a huge ol' drunk. Word.

That all said, it's now kinda sunday morning style and I'm going to smoke a bowl and watch adult swim. I can't compain. I'm glad Jordan sent me home with a bowl pack. And these are the days of my life.

Republicans! Be on notice!

I'm a pedestrian, I walk places. You... you in your boots and cowboy hats, black ties and long scarves, you evil motherfuckers... this is my town, and you are a guest! Again, I repeat, you are a guest!

You fucks. I realize that where you come from its okay to wear your self-importance on your sleeve, you have more cows than people. But! But! If one more of your goddamned limos, stretch hummers, or fancy-shmancy cabs are in my way when I try to walk across the crosswalk, I will beat the living pulp out of your car. And run. Quickly.

"Crosswalk," bitches.

I know the alleys, you don't. You will not catch me, and your car will be in a state befitting your soul. Dented and mangled. You can show your disrespect and deign for the common man, thats fine, but I need not civility in my disobedience.

Be on notice!

And, think of it as payback for the 17 mil we're shilling out for you to hit our pedestrians while wearing your cowboy hats and tropywives.

92% of your neighbors want you gone.

How 'bout that.

Goal:



I'd hit that.

What? It'd be masturbating.

Yah, add shag and chops to that, and thats me in two months.

I'm on day four of Little Miss Smokey and I's Total. Body. Challenge. Yeah, we got suckered into health and fitness, but listen, this time its okay. Really. The only thing I'm actively giving up is fried foods and full calorie beverages, so its not like I'm eating every four days and doing lines of crystal off of my bedroom mirror like my last 'body challenge.'

My body dysmorphia might taunt me when I'm alone and in bright lighting, but this may actually prove fruitful.

As my loyal readers are aware, this boy doesn't have a gym membership at Washington Sports Club anymore. I neglected to mention that I'm an awful dirty whore who got kicked out for getting head in the steam room, but whatever. Needless to say, I'm not allowed back. So, thank god Discovery Health gave me an 8 week membership to Bally's.

Bally's is kinda gross, I gotta say, but its also mostly hetero (correlation?). This loosely translates into far more focus on my abs and pecs, and a lot less focus on my dick and ass. Maybe. We'll see.

The sauna's all glass and the showers don't have curtains. I don't see any nookie occurring, but you never know. I'm resourceful. And slutty. Same difference.

Anyway.

Yeah, so, Little Miss Smokey has brought into my life a world of fitness by actually making plans with me so that I can't bail out like a pussy. I've got about 7 more weeks 'till I'm poverty jetsetting to hawaii, so we'll see what sorta shape I'm in when I get there. I'll post before and after pics, too, if you're lucky. Or maybe just some of me naked in hawaii.

We'll see.

Its still snowing, and I'm slightly damp.

I didn't stick around too long at work today, 'cause my manager pissed me off pretty much as I walked through the door. Granted, I'm nicotine free and not drunk, so I'm a little irritable, but still, I was entitled to this pissiess.

I was the second person to get to work today, and I ended up with a section I don't particularly like, so I tried to change it. Reasonably fair, right? In first, seniority, a bunch of different reasons for it to be okay that I change the floor plan. The hostess didn't feel comfortable doing that, since she didn't actually make the seating chart herself, so she went and asked Ennis, the slovakian cock, for permission.

(The hostess had already put someone ahead of me in rotation, stupid bitch, but I digress...)

Anywho, the slovakian cock told her a resounding no, so I went to confront him. I, acting like Madonna when her publicist told her to give up acting, told him to give me one reason why not. He didn't have a reason, but still wouldn't change it. I called him a shitty manager, and told him I would speak to his manager. It wasn't a faboulous drink-throwing bitch-down, but it did make me feel better. I asked if I wanted to leave, and here I am.

Jerk.

Maybe I do have an attitude problem.

Its still snowing.

Damnit all. It's snowing.

Not that I don't love that floatly white stuff, but couldn't it have waited for me to get to work? I don't wanna walk down Rhode Island Ave in this.

Yick!

I couldn't walk down 14th Street this weekend without walking into a large, scary looking leather daddy, a slave sans ballgag, or a horrified tourist. Good Times. Yeah, the Mid Atlantic Leather Conference was in town, and I actually went on the "Meet the Meat" bar crawl this past friday. I knew that I could have gotten myself into real trouble, seein’ as how I dressed up like a gay 70’s teensploitation movie character. I was all sorts of varsity football jersey, shaggy hair, and rope handcuffs. Lets not forget the belt buckle in the back that Caitlin decided was just straight up “pornographic.”

Bitch was right, and I was hot.

Miss Meg came with me dressed in a sequened scoopy bra and leather pants. She looked hot as fucking hell, and honestly, the girl's body is ridiculous. I couldn't have asked for a better drinking buddy, seein' as how the minute we go to the Washington Plaza the straight bartenders were buying us rounds. We made one hell of a pair, tricked out football player and awry cheerleader.

We stayed at the Plaza long enough to get macked on by older gentle men, but no one of note decided I was the hotness, so we moved on. My fragile little ego needed to be stroked (yes, ego, not that) so we hit the Green Lantern and Titan, too. Lantern was excellent, and I made out with a boy for fun. Figures, he was the only one there who was clearly not there for the leather scene. He had gotten lost on his way from JRs, I imagine. Poor cute, tallboy.

I’m lame enough that the fact that his name was also the title of a Newbery award winning book made me want to make out with him even more. I suppose if I was going for the self-referential grade school sex look, a Newbury winner would be perfect.

Alas, bad kissers sometimes have great names, so it was back home and back to Yums for detox and rehashing. Meg made her way to the bathroom to relieve herself of a cocktail or two, and managed to sleep for a short bit on the bathroom floor. Yikes. I passed out somewhere between the Tivo and the radiator, with a jug of water next to me. I found it in the morning, but couldn’t find my voice. I reckon that’s why the slaves didn’t have ball gags, one night out, and even this loudmouth couldn’t talk the next morning.

One of the hot things about last night is that there were quite a few pictures taken of Meg and I, so somewhere someone is ogling us in posterity. Hot.

Coral, the oft-crass, bitchy, class-of-her-own anti-hero has surely begun to piss me off. I'm predisposed to really liking Coral, seeing as how she and I shared some Cheetos my sophomore year of college, but Fattie pride is being strained. Coral's been steppin' to my girl Ruthie. You don't come out swinging against my Ruthie, we have far too much in common.

As we all know, if there is on thing that you don't do while I'm around, its kick the drunk out of a game. And, seriously guys, you don't do it to a dominating drunk, like my girl Ruthie! Miss Ruthie, I can relate. I've been kicked out of games before-- those girls were just scared when they kicked me off the scrabble table, much as they were scared when they eliminated you. Tell me 'superboulous' isn't a word.

Bitches.

Triple word score.

Oh ya, speaking of bullshitting for extra points and sophomore year, Mason got hacked. As a former member of the GMU community, I'd like to take this time to formally say goodbye to my social security number and hello to spam. And, of course, a warm welcome to the person who decides to steal my credit. Please take care of a lil sumthin' sumthin' for yo'self you'll be happy you did.. pay that really old cox cable bill I've let sit for the past couple o' years... honestly, they're really persistant.

Thanks! And enjoy the 27% APR!

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.

God love ya, Paris. You finally get to partake in one of the greatest, vainest thrills a gay young man can discover: calling out your own name in bed. Getting nailed hard has never been so fun and meta.

Honestly, though, isn't this a lil dangerous for the universe? I fear for the trapped souls that are bound to be tied up in the whooshing sound of Paris gettin' drilled.

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.

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.