God, You're So Old and Stuff...

Happy Birthday G2!

And this is the part where we recount, for the 79,000th time all the ridiculous shit we've ever said or done back in the "heyday" that only we think is hilarious.

Want some cookies?

Gorgeous cufflaaaaanks.

Oh God, what an ugly baby!

Ryan, Ryan, Ryan?

Is that a dick drawn on that headboard?

One hundred whole dollars (each) -- ours, all ours!

Red, chellow, blue, green -- what is your favorite color today?

Cool fucking rock at my windshield, Kirby.

That fool left his block heel Skechers and you threw them in the utility closet.

Speaking of utility closet. Yes, we just threw that coat in the real live garbage dumpster.

Raw ankle. Said while watching a random music video.

Yup, horse tranquilizers. Black Iago but he's a banker on the side.

I don't care what you say, that skull shirt was cute. Fuck you and fuck Tim.

You left that painting on the plane.

First class all the way back to Coach with the Mormon missionary. He. Won't. Stop. Talking.

Under the Tuck-son Sun.

So, like, what's it like being the ugly twin?

Dude, I don't think you can say that.

"Excuse me, don't you see there's a whole person standing here!"

He hates being picked up. No, for real.

Shortest man alive. He loves you boy. You're the best thing that's ever happened to him. He can't believe this shit!

Cool leg.

Dude, is that Gwyneth Paltrow? CRASH.

Golden cherub.

White.

Chimichangas and bunny slippers. We could have totally had Britney Spears' number, but noooo.

Cool producer.

Number 9 with orange drink.

Going to get sushi. Never came back to the bar.

"You're blonde. Go get us in."

And then she grinded her butt all in the robe and we were like...

Would you go out with him? How about one million dollars? Fine, yes.

Come on in, New York. Come on.

The Civic.

Mexican trinkets.

You just ate a Red Vine! I heard you!

CODE RED. Uh yeah, I'm driving home from the grocery store right now.

She wore brown pumps to the pool. Chime in -- with tassels.

The mother-daughter cleaning team. Bitch left a shirt in the half-made bed. You have to move a couch to clean under it.

Hey baby, I see you look at me.

Why, Greg, why don't they get it?

Why, G2, why? Is it that only we think its funny?

Plucking crunk fruit from a crunk tree.

That was fucking David fucking Schwimmer, asshole.

I know better than to let them go.

I won't be a-fraid to cry.

Even Ron Jeremy said no.

Yes, he ran down the street with the key. Ran. He was running? Run-ning, bitch.

The shower. Uh, that's a fucking billboard. WOW. You're stupid. I kept telling you. But noooo.

All the outfits. All the belts. Those Brazil pants.

We can't have this conversation again.

Ovah and out.

P.S. You're gor-gee-ose.

Almost Famous...

Screw it.

I have to just tell the truth. I know I’m supposed to act like I have this mysterious Nashville halfway famous (as my Granny would say) life. Like I just go to parties, rub elbows with the famous (i.e. get elbowed in the head because tall people refuse to acknowledge that smaller people may be right behind them), cash all my checks. Okay, I do some of that shit although running into Pier1 in flip flops and an anti-poof treatment on my head and getting asked if I’m that kid from That 70s Show is hardly as glamorous as you might not imagine. I was just at Target last night and I saw some famous folks. They’re crazy. Target was playing Chaka Khan and not one of them were grooving to it. What person doesn’t groove to a Chaka Khan song? That’s illegal in some countries. Celebrities. What the fuck? Needless to say, and really actually needless to say (don't you hate when people say that and the thing that they said was actually a necessary thing to say in order to move the conversation along?), I was grooving hard.

Ahh, so speaking of famous, could I get more famous if I made a nasty tape like Paris Hilton and of course, Cameron Diaz! Can you believe that shit? You see, there are small gifts that the one upstairs gives me. She can’t just have 45 bazillion dollars, have the world think she’s the baddest white girl in all of the motion pictures and on top of that she used to be kissing Justin Timberlake all up in my face. That would just be rude. To me! And what have I ever done to her? So long ago (to be sung like Luther) she made a nasty S&M tape that critics have hailed as not that sexy (That’s what they said) and for years she’s been fighting the release of it blah blah blah and now it’s out and available. Dude, what is the problem? What’s a little bad press for someone who has everything?

Who cares about bad press when you've got all the cash! So Mary-Kate's possibly a coke-sniffer? Even if so, she's a multi-millionaire coke-sniffer with an insane shoe collection, so snort it up MK. None of this shit will matter when you're lounging in your bungalow in Brazil, getting paper cuts counting that cash. And you'll always have Ashley. People do need to leave those two alone. They've got empires to build.

Shit, I’m about to make a nasty tape with Doogie Howser or something. Then can I have the money? Then can I get on the VIP list? Well Fuck You Leslie. That’s my new thing. Everything is Fuck You Leslie. Monster. Get on the train. Phew! For a moment there, I was feeling like I lost my shazaam.

So yes, I plan on making a nasty tape. Acting like it pains me to have it released. Release it. Get all the checks and then what? Can I buy a house? Or will that be another layer of my own demise? Will no one buy the nasty tape of Greg and Doogie Howser? I mean, it is Doogie Howser. Come on. I wouldn’t say anything bad about his ass. That fool can sing. Little old Doogie Howser. Wait, did I just say I’d hump Doogie Howser? That’s a little sexy, I guess. Well, not nearly as sexy as the dude that tried to lift my arms to smell my "armpit" (a word I don't recognize in the English language) so that he could enjoy my "pheromones..." but that, my cancer-free friend, is another story for another day. Who says armpit and why are you trying to smell me? Craziest comment ever. Another day though. For now, take this and I promise I'll try not to disappear for too long. Website? Update? Who?

Throw Your Hands Up At Me...

This picture doesn't have shit to do with shit, I liked it though!

DISCLAIMER: I am not complaining, I’m merely observing and appreciating the irony of the situation, but I had a post that was about how advice pretty much always sucks and there’s no point in giving it because no one really offers an explanation on how to literally take said advice, and somehow that sparked an influx of people calling me offering advice of that exact nature. I did ask a question and asked for an answer, but still… No, seriously, I thought it was the weirdest thing. I even got calls from people that gave the exact examples that I used of "advice" that totally sucks, like "have fun," and "don’t worry about it," and "don’t think about relationships or meeting anyone." Isn’t that so weird? Maybe my last post sounded like I wanted to hear those things. Did it?

Not all of them. I loved all the calls and e-mails I got, particularly because they were all kind, but also because witnessing the patterns was the absolute best.

Every person I talked to that is going through something similar – break-ups, momentary depression, loneliness, or just plain wanting to get ass, but having a hard time finding any – well, those calls and e-mails were so full of compassion, and never offered one piece of advice. It was all, "I hear you, dude." Then the happy people – the ones who aren’t in relationships because they seem to hate relationships or are in perfect relationships, they’re full of advice. Very much, "Hey, look at me! Chin up!"

So, here’s my question, and you don’t have to answer this, but feel free: Why is it considered pathetic to want a boyfriend/girlfriend? No, seriously. One friend referred to herself as co-dependent just because she found that being excited about another guy would help get over the last one. I think that’s perfectly normal. Another person said that I’m "obsessed" with relationships. (Sidenote: I couldn’t talk about relationships for the first couple years of having a blog/site/journal because I was in a relationship of some sort, and I didn’t want that person reading what I thought about them online. This is my first opportunity to talk openly about everything I never could talk about, and it’s my favorite thing to talk about, so I’m making up for lost time.) An independent man or woman is seen as so strong, so lucky, so to be admired, but is it admirable or is it just one of multiple lifestyle choices that some prefer? Maybe those independent people really suck in relationships, so they’re single because they don’t know how to be sane as a partner, while some partner-types don’t know how to be sane without another half. But I just don’t understand why one is considered better than the other? Why is it okay to suck in a relationship and be awesome single, but not okay to be awesome in a relationship, but suck as a single?

I think you are co-dependent or obsessed when you’re the type of person who can't be alone. Let me define "can’t." I mean that the person would rather be with the wrong person, and horribly wrong at that, than be alone. This person who can't be alone won’t go out of the house without someone with them, won’t eat alone at restaurants, would never consider seeing a movie by themselves. This is a person who doesn’t like their self unless guy/girl likes them. This is the person who has no opinion of their own because they adapt to the opinion of whomever they date. This is a person who thinks they’re pathetic and ugly if they’re not having sex with someone. This is a person who fears an empty bed.

I am none of those things. I sleep sprawled across my bed these days. I haven’t done this yet, but I’m sure I’ll go to movies alone by choice. I eat by myself all the time, and I often prefer it. I think I’m plenty attractive even if I don’t have a boyfriend. I pay my own bills, I buy my own shit, I have fun on the weekends, and I have a pretty full life even though I haven’t started singing again yet. So, IF I were to want a boyfriend, why would that make me an asshole? I’m not saying I’d want any old boyfriend. I’d want a good one. Somehow, that makes me a pathetic, weak, obsessive, co-dependent.

So, the advice rolled in – Hey, you’re free, enjoy yourself. Who said I’m not enjoying myself? Trust me, I like going wherever I want without running it by anyone. I love the fact that no one has the power to not call me and have that ruin my day. I love that someone else’s bad mood doesn’t have to become my bad mood. I love that I can flirt with whomever I want, and I never have to feel bad about it. I love that if I get sloppy drunk one night with the roommate, no one is going to give me shit about it or make me feel embarrassed. I love that I have no one to get into a fight with at the end of that drunken night. I love that I don’t have to babysit the feelings of anyone. I love that I don’t have anyone to disappoint me regularly, which a boyfriend kinda tends to do. I love that feeling of spotting a group of single boys and enjoying the moment of wondering if any of them will be attractive up close. I love that I never feel jealousy. That emotion is just monstrous, and I’m not worried about it now as a single. I love that I never have to wonder if I’m being cheated on. I love that I’m not terrified of losing someone. I love that I don’t have to feel that awful aching of the very first moment when you realize the person you’re crazy about is slipping away. I love that I don’t have to apologize to anyone ever. I love feeling when I go out that even though I really don’t think I’m going to meet anyone who excites me…I juuuuust might. I do feel liberated, but that’s because these are all the awful things I’ve experienced in prior relationships that are experiences I hope not to repeat if I’m with the right guy.

The right guy will be fucking awesome. And I can’t wait to meet him because he’s there, out there somewhere looking for some to be awesome with. He’s going to be fun. And he’s going to sound fucking happy to hear from me when I call. He’s going to look forward to seeing me. He’s going to flatter me. He’s going to give me little surprises. He’s going to be spontaneous and think a trip somewhere would be fun, or even better – if I want to go without him, he’ll think that’ll be fun for me and he’ll do his own thing without feeling abandoned or jealous. I won’t ever feel jealous because he won’t give me any reason to because he has the common knowledge of what’s not appropriate when you have a significant other. He won’t annoy the piss out of me. I’ll be attracted to him. I’ll love the way he smells. We’ll be excited about the future together. We’ll make plans, we’ll go on trips. He’ll think all my friends are hilarious. This fucking guy is out there. There might be a couple of them out there like that, and it’s not that I feel like I’m this loser because I’m not independent enough, I’m as independent as they get. I’m just so fucking excited to meet this man. He could be anywhere – in the grocery store, at a wedding, living next door… Ok, maybe not so much the next door thing, but you get the idea. My favorite person in the world exists, and I haven’t met him yet. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with reeeeaaallly looking forward to it.

The rest of my life is in order. I do concentrate on my career. I will start performing again. I have amazing friends. When the majority of your life is in order, you don’t sit around and talk about it – particularly on a blog. You talk about what you don’t have, why you don’t have it, and what you want from it. The one thing I don’t have is my significant other. So I live my life to the fullest every single moment I’m not typing to you people, and then I take this time here to analyze what’s missing. That’s it. That’s all.

I'm Feeling A Little Nostalgic Today...

I’m in the mood to reminisce a little. Let’s talk about Kelly Clarkson. I saw her in concert about a year or so ago. Here’s how it went down.

First, there were three non-ridiculous outfit changes and no lip-syncing. Can’t say the same for Onyx Hotel, Britney. Well, Kelly did come out in an asymmetrical band jacket at one point only to trump that with a G&R blouse. But she’s Kelly Clarkson. She can do that. How cute is she? Go Kelly, you go.

I was in the sixth row on the floor level. I could throw a drink at Kelly and get her a little wet. I wouldn’t throw any drinks though because those bitches cost $31. For two drinks! I was like, this shit better be some magic potion that makes me fly or something. That price is outrageous. I could have javelin-thrown myself on stage though. That’s how close I was. I was in a semi-celebrity section (Some guy from Idol season 1, a TV news anchor, and Taylor Hicks, he wasn’t famous then… I still hated him though!) so that automatically means good seats. Did I mention yet that these tickets were free? Yes, girl. Free tickets to good seats at Kelly Clarkson. The only way this experience could be any better is if Kelly paid my rent.

She sang all the good songs. Since You Been Gone, Miss Independent, Behind These Hazel Eyes complete with an encore with the wedding dress. She just kept dancing around in it, and by the time that song came on, some people in my row left (Why?) and my friend Alex and I used the extra space to really dance. Oh, we were dancing. Dancing as if a man behind was cracking a whip on our backs if we didn’t. We just couldn’t stop. I made love to the seat in front of me more than a few times. 2 Live Crew style, get arrested Bobby Brown style. Kelly Clarkson just brings it out of me.

Now, let’s talk about the part of the show where some folks from the audience get to come on stage. They had to be plants. Like Kelly’s cousin and the drummer’s auntie or something. They simply were not excited enough. Just not excited enough. Kelly got really close to one guy with the microphone and he just took it and sang all the right words. Who really knows all the right words to say to a Kelly Clarkson song? I get my mumble on to most of the songs, so how is he knowing all the words and, and, and! not having a heart attack? I would have sliced Kelly’s neck open with the bracelet I had on that night, grabbed her eye out of her face. I would have to at least take her aside and be like, “What’s up for tonight?” None of that happened and a ten-year-old boy was dancing up there with a band uniform on. Totally had to be somebody important’s nephew. Nepotism. Why is no one in my family in the Kelly Clarkson’s camp? Why do none of the Howards work for the Oscars or the Grammys? What do we Howards do? I don’t even have an in at the post office.

I broke my neck a few times to see what Taylor Hicks was doing. Staring at semi- celebrities at a concert so much easier to pull off. He was messing with his shirt half the time. But he was dressed reasonably. Like his momma picked his clothes out. His face was all washed. Come to think of it he looked good that night. Almost makes me want to give him a call. Not really, but still. My friend he was dating was out of his mind to let him go to Kelly Clarkson by his lonesome. Out of his damn mind. If I were like a couple inches taller, I’d be right over there with my stank face like take one good look at your past (Holding a picture of his ex) and we’re out. I lie! I would never roll up on Taylor Hicks***. Not in this life and surely not at the Kelly Clarkson concert.

If you have an opportunity to go see Kelly Clarkson, you just have to. You’ll lose your voice. Your butt will hurt from all the dancing, but it’s so worth it. She’s the shit. And wear flip flops. Don’t be trying to be cute in your little shoes because bitch you won’t be sitting down the entire time. You will be on your feet like Gloria Estefan told you to do it. I would so be Kelly’s boyfriend. We could share clothes.

*** NOTE: Some of you may or may not believe some of the stuff I have written about Taylor Hicks, but he did date a friend of mine for awhile. I’m not going to go into the drama that went down, but I can’t stand that little two faced bastard. But, girl, I sure had a crush on him back in the day…***

Oh, Before I Forget...

This goes out to my roommate who specifically asked me to make sure this made it into my blog today!

Look Slick, It's Cindereall Cho!

Trying to Live My Life Like It's Golden...

I’ve noticed a lot of my entries here are depressing as shit. I’m aware of this. Why? Because it’s pretty much only when I’m feeling darker, reflective, introspective, and sad when I feel in the mood to really express myself instead of telling some random ass story or something. Personally, I find it obnoxious when I’m reading about how happy another person is. Why? Not because that person is obnoxious, but just because I’m jealous of people who walk around happy and thankful. I know it’s a good way to live. I wish I could be that way. I know it’s an active decision I make on a daily basis to not feel that way. I’m not sure why I decide to be so unhappy or unfulfilled. Maybe it’s the same reason why I don’t always eat healthy, why I have a beer when I hate drinking, why I skip working out when working out feels so great. It’s because I’m a wallower. It sucks. It’s not very nice to be around. I’m choosing to be that person, and what will it take for me to chose otherwise? Well, though I would love to write something really depressing right now because I can and because I’m feeling sad about 8 million things that all have to do with just myself, I’ve decided to compose a list here of little and big things that make me happy. Maybe not dancing-on-the-ceiling happy, but the kind of happy that passes by you in the moment, temporarily lifting whatever pain you’ve been causing yourself. So, here goes:

* Being in the middle of a phenomenal book that you can’t put down.
* Looking around my clean apartment and knowing that it’s finally CLEAN.
* Crawling under my covers when I’m exhausted and knowing I can sleep as late as I want the next day.
* Watching a movie for the first time that is way better than I actually thought it would be when I bought the ticket, and knowing I’m only partly through it and so much more is to come.
* Receiving my paycheck.
* Remembering something or someone fondly.
* Being remembered fondly.
* Buying a new CD.
* A perfect piece of beef jerky
* That first cigarette of the day.
* Having a deep and fascinating conversation without someone who knows me and loves me as much as I know and love them
* Rediscovering an old song I used to love more than anything that I somehow had forgotten
* Telling a story well and making people around me laugh
* Getting dressed for a night out that I’ve been looking forward to for a while
* A spontaneous plan to do something fun on a night I thought would sure to be boring
* Staying in a hotel
* A relaxing manicure and pedicure
* Knowing I can afford that particular day to get that relaxing manicure and pedicure without worrying about the next bill
* A much needed hug
* A much needed kiss
* Receiving or giving good and thoughtful surprises

Have a nice day.

Microwave It Jack Ass...

I’m a total asshole when it comes to doing anything in the kitchen. I’m going to be one of those people who lies to the spouse about the meal “I” prepared. How long will I be able to keep up the masquerade? I’ve proven that I am just not meant to be alone with an oven. Some people aren’t cut out for cooking you know. Am I a disgrace to my mother’s womb? Yes, of course. But I’m not good at computers either so there might be something there. I just suck at kitchen shit.

Put it this way. About six months or so ago, I was trying to prepare a nice hot marshmallowey cup of hot chocolate so that I can get a long quiet night’s sleep. Um, yeah, I nearly burnt up the whole fucking house. It was all going down in flames right before my eyes. I was watching TV like a jackass trying to figure out that National Treasure reality show thing.

Anyway, I thought I smelled something funny. I thought, wow, maybe the heater just kicked in. Smells like fire. I just kept doing what I’m doing because I’m fucking insane. Well, a minute later I remembered the milk on the stove! The milk on the stove! Why am I boiling milk? The microwave is an appliance that is friendly to someone on my skill level and I should look into that option more often.

I ran to the kitchen and there it was. My entire life flashing before me. The first thing I remembered was the time guy butchered my hair saying that I’d love it. I hated it, those rotten ass crooked bangs, and I hated him for an entire summer. And then I saw the light and as I started walking toward it like Carol Anne, I came to and realized I had better fight for this life. This fabulous life in Birmingham where I could go on a date with a great someone only to find myself uncomfortably having the "Cool it now... We’ve got to slow it down... Ooh... Watch out," talk because he just inappropriately asked me to – get ready -- return his rental car the next morning. That should be read aloud, screaming actually. It really blows my mind. Such a shame. I really liked him. Does anybody else think that's weird?

But hello, you can’t really talk about your dating life on the Internet and then expect to date some more. Even if you do speak glowingly of a person and I can speak quite glowingly of Rental Car. He was cool. I can’t talk about this. Well, shit, all that shit I just mentioned above happened to a friend of mine. That crazy friend of mine. Dating is off the chain, and my friends all suggest I keep doing it specifically to write a book about my luck, or lack of, with it. Fuck, I should ghostwrite that. Oh yes I am. For my friend as I said earlier. My friend.

Shall I attempt to make another cup of hot chocolate?

I'm Just Trying To Help Y'all Out...

Okay, so I’ve done a fair share of dating in the past couple of weeks, months, years and I know some boys might read this website and I’d like to help you with the dating (Be it dating the mens or womens). I want to help all y’all, actually. Ladies and gentleman, cats and dogs and lil’ children. There’s just some shit you should not do. Please. We want to like you so much, but when you say or do stupid shit, we tell our dads and roommates and then they don’t like you which, in turn, makes it harder for us to like you.

I know when you’ve snooped around in my medicine cabinet. What are you some kind of drug fiend? I don’t have any anti-convulsants, anti-anxieties, anti-depressants, no medical marijuana. And I don’t use the term “vikes” so get the fuck out of here, crack baby. If you’d like a big ass bottle of Curve Crush from four years ago to drink yourself into oblivion, go ahead, but you should ask first before you go snooping through my things. I got shit going on in there. Don’t worry about what I do with that big ass bottle of lotion. I have brand loyalty, okay. Purposefully, I’ve rigged that arm to the door of the cabinet to jangle a certain way specifically to knock shit down and I hear you in there snooping, so stop it. As much as it is a joy to have my bathroom super close to my bedroom, it’s really annoying for when guests visit. Lots more shit to hide, I mean, clean up. Ladies and gay boys, don’t let a man go up in your bedroom while it’s fucked up. They act oblivious, but they notice everything. Ironically, the same dude that will notice I wore these shoes twice in a row is the same dude that doesn't know that Paris Hilton's hair is sometimes fake. Why do guys not know how to recognize fake hair? It's so annoying to me. HELLO! Hair today, gone the next. Don't you see?

If you drop me off at my house, please have the decency to wait until I get inside the house before you peel out. Screeching your tires and shit. I mean, I’ll be damned if you roll off and a mother fucker can’t find her keys. This shit has happened to me. And like an asshole, I sat on the front porch in a t-shirt, waiting for backup. Food coma setting in. Knees getting ashy. (No, calling him back wasn’t an option because then what? I’d have to stay at his house and ain’t nobody humping around tonight. Oh no.) You should be walking me up to the stoop like 227, but I understand the parking situation. Trust me. When you walk somebody to the front door, they think about this shit and they say good things about you to their friends. “It was like, he had manners or was raised right. He walked me to the door. Said he had a great time. Said he’d call. Girl, it was crazy.” Yes, that’s how far away we’ve gotten from chivalry. We now get excited when you do shit you ought to be doing because your mama taught you better that. I’m not going to blast you on the Internet or compromise my Christianity because my mama taught me better than that, but don’t be an asshole. Wait there. To this day, when I drop a girl friend or a dude friend off, I wait. And I give a courtesy honk if it’s not too late in a residential. This is optional.

When you see a fresh batch of the prettiest flowers on my dining room table and you didn’t get them for me, don’t ask me any questions. You don’t want to know the answer. Just assume they belong to my roommate and move on about your business. Even if they did belong to my roommate, you still don’t want to know the answer because then what? You still didn’t bring them over. And I don’t want to make my stank face. I really don’t. I can’t control it sometimes either so this is a fair warning. You could bring a bunch of wildflowers over here (for little old me?) and then you’d know the answer for yourself and we wouldn’t have these problems. As my friend G2 would say, step up your game. (If you're a dude, and you just rolled your eyes to this statement, you've got a long way to go in the Nice Guy department. I'm not saying you should have to get your other half some roses, but fuck dude, it doesn't ever hurt.)

If I’ve taken your keys away because you’re drunk, I’m trying to help you. Don’t bother me for hours about the where's and the whys of the keys. Go lie down in the living room. Take this Advil, drink this whole bottle of water and most importantly, shut the hell up. The guy downstairs is a Metro cop, so please help me help you, bitch. And don’t be calling the police talking about I kidnapped you, jackass. I don’t want any police up in here. Trust me Ned the Wino, you’re destroying my evening as well. You think I want to sit up here and listen to your drunken babble for another three or four hours while you sober up? No, I don’t. You think I want to let you stay your ass at my house only to have to get up at the ass crack in the morning so you can get your car? No, I don’t. I just want you to arrive alive. And why are you drinking that cheap ass beer anyway? What, are you at the Kenny Rogers revival tour?

Um, when a game show is on, you no longer have control of the remote. I don’t know how you got the “mote” in the first place. Never a clicker, by the way. I’m dead serious, and you’re pissing me off. If I miss any of the questions, I’m doomed because Lord knows I don’t know shit about the second round of questions. Put it on channel 4 and don’t be all surprised when I display my disappointment in you. It’s my one half hour with the television where I need silence. You can talk through Ugly Betty or Grey’s Anatomy all day because I’ll catch it again. But my game shows!? Do you want to break up? What’s this about? And I’m not uncool about shit. You can watch The Simpsons all day. Two episodes back to back. I don’t give a fuck. You can watch that Cinemax late at night where they pretend to hump even. I don’t care. Just don’t mess with my game shows! You could make it easier on yourself if you just come over after 8.

How about keeping your shirt on in the community areas of the house? I don’t need my roommate walking into the kitchen in the privacy of her own home looking at your chest hair while you scratch your butt, moving the expired egg nog from one place to another looking for something to eat in my refrigerator. This is not a hostel. Are you hungry? Just ask me and we’ll solve the problem together. But first, put your shirt on. How’d that come off anyway? I surely didn’t take it off of you. It’s midday, what do I need your shirt off for?

And for the little boys running around here obsessed with girls’ breasts. Yes, I know my roommate has a great set of boobs. I see them. They are rather glorious, I know. You, my dear, don’t see them. Matter of fact, you can’t see them. Why, does she even have breasts? That’s what you’re supposed to say. No. You say nothing at all. Period. But nothing, dude. You were just noticing what? It’s not even about insecurity. It’s about appropriate conversation and that ain’t it. You know what? I don’t give a fuck if you like Carmen Electra’s, Pamela Anderson’s, Britney Spears’, and don’t even say a word about Halle Berry’s. Just keep that shit to yourself. If I ask you whether or not you like some lady’s boobs, you’re allowed to answer and I won’t give you shit. It’s not a secret test. I really just want to know. Similarly, I will not jump off of the couch in joy when Justin Timberlake or Brad Pitt’s butt and abs and teeth and face flash across my screen. Not a peep out of me. You, boo, are the hottest thing happening here at Casa de Greg.

And no. You cannot smell my underarm area. No, I said. I sleep with a knife under my bed, okay.

What's It Like to Be Me?

It’s a bummer being a sap. Seriously. I look at other people’s blogs, and they’re so…not like mine. Maybe that’s why some of you come here, I don’t know, but I feel silly about it. They never have any errors. It’s a finished product. I can never seem to avoid those typos, no matter how many times I proofread. Typos everywhere. As far as a good vocabulary – not so much. I recycle my five favorite words, and they’re not even impressive. They’re like…"terrible" or "strange." I just find these words fit accurately to whatever I’m feeling, but I should try to branch out a little bit.

And I’m dramatic. I don’t mean that I sound dramatic, I mean that I am. I also don't mean that I create drama. Yes, there is a difference. Maybe I used to, but I haven’t recently, okay?? Shit, maybe I wasn’t being dramatic. I was just reacting to the situation. A totally difficult, bullshit, rejection of a situation, so I was hella sad about it, and still get bummed on occasion. So what? We all get that way when the really sad things happen to us, don’t we? I’m sincere though. These last posts recently have been genuine. Real pain. Real fears. It’s just when you click over to anyone else’s site, it’s so funny and happy and put together. Then you come to mine, and it’s like a picture of me with my hair messed up, mascara running down my cheeks, and sitting slumped over in a bed covered in tissues and tears. Not. What a drag.

I mean, I’m proud of myself for just laying it out there, even though it’s bizarre that I would do something like that. Expose my vulnerable side, and why? Isn’t this the shit you’re supposed to hide behind closed doors? Isn’t this the way you don’t want people to know you feel? Aren’t you supposed to pretend like he didn’t hurt you, like it was nothing? What’s funny is that the "last one" never saw this side of me. If he read this, which I don’t think he does anymore, he wouldn’t know this half. Probably a good thing, right? Yeah, no, he just saw the fun side, and though you all don’t get the chance to see it, trust me, there is one.

And then again – that’s the point. He never saw any side of me, really. I was as much of a stranger to him as he was to me. So did he really make such a sacrifice giving up a stranger for the demons of his past? I mean, would that really make any sense? Actually, yes. Because though he didn’t get the chance to find this out, I’m actually 10 times better than he got to know. No, seriously, fuck you, I’m not kidding. I know me pretty well, and it’s true. That’s right, fucker. You thought you liked what you saw? You didn’t see shit. That was just the start of it. So, you didn’t think it was worth the risk, so you went with what you already knew. Safe. Didn’t work before, but hey…it’s cheaper to repair then buy a whole new car. Forget how many times it broke down in the past, I’m sure it won’t again. Buddy, you should have gone with the whole new car. (Ugh, that wasn’t very attractive of me.)

I’m feeling better. That may be obvious. Sorry to get all, "Well, FUCK YOU ANYWAY!" but I’m feeling clearer. I hate being all I’m-the-best-and-you-missed-out when I was the one who got dumped. That does seem ridiculous. I get dropped like a stone, and I’m like, "Oh yeah?? Well, well…whatever! Screw you, man. Your loss!" Retarded. Makes me look like such an ass. Probably because if he heard me say this, which he won’t, he’d be like, "Umm…great. So…good for you. I’m going to go make love to this guy over here, so…later!" Ugh. Why did I write that? That was a mistake. I feel sick again.

Back and forth I go. I have to keep doing this. I have to keep getting myself angry and strong and shit because the bad thoughts just come on their own. I have to make the good ones happen. As soon as I let my guard down, a voice whispers to me, "He didn’t miss out. He never saw himself happy with you because he could never imagine loving anyone like he loves him. He didn’t want you. So, now you have to believe he’s not worth it, because you don’t have a choice. He didn’t think you were that special. He is happy you’re gone, and probably wishes he hadn’t wasted as much time on you as he did." That voice is mean. And it’s ever present. It’ll get quieter in time, and I know that, but…it’s still there, you know? Last night in my dream, I was driving somewhere, and his car was in front of mine. He saw me in his rearview mirror, and I waved. Not a happy wave. More like, "Well, shit. Umm…hiii." I think I cut people off to stay behind him, but he shook his head and took off. Too easy to analyze. Not going to bother. Get out of my head, bastard. You don’t deserve to be there.

And why did a mutual friend keep telling me he’s a nice guy? Are you kidding me? One – not that nice right now. Two – why would you say that to me? Why? So I feel like I’m the fucking one missing out? Damn it. I hate break-ups. I hate being dumped. I hate all this bullshit. It’s getting old. Am I really that easy to get over and forget? I kind of hoped I wasn’t.

Anyway, life is changing, so you know. I have a new focus. No, it’s not another boyfriend. Well, nothing has actually changed yet, maybe just me, but wheels are turning. I’ll talk to you about it when there’s actually something to talk to you about. For now, it’s just…hypothetical. Working on it though. Shit, it’s nice to breathe deeply again.

Clumsy Ass In The House!

That's right, bitch, I'm hero support and proud of it!

I'm clumsy. So clumsy, especially lately, that I think I have a secret death wish. Maybe not a death wish, maybe just a seriously injured wish, or a partially burned across 1/3 of his body wish. I don't know what's going on, but it's just Clumsy City up in here.

I don't remember being clumsy as a little boy. I mean, I've made stupid decisions. So yeah, between bad decisions and clumsiness, I am just itching to go to heaven these days.

Take for example, this misadventure.

I was living in Birmingham at the time and had come home from a night out. It was okay. I mean, there were some good local celebrity sightings like Queen Apollo who wasn't blowing me up with any love. In fact, she was sitting on my borrowed jacket and she knocked over my hat that had all my shit in it. Its belongings, you ask? Oh, those were under the table getting trampled on by Air Force Ones. My cell phone, my credit card, all under a nasty table where some people decided to dispose of their still burning cigarettes. Yes, I was fully crouched under the table smacking folks' legs up collecting my belongings. DJ Tank was there on the mic talking about, "Get your fat ass on the dance floor" and some drag queen I had never heard of was there with a great tan. Harpo, who that drag queen is?

So, yeah, I get home and I am starving. Starving my head off. I, being the classy gay of twenty-three years, decided to bake a little pizza. They were 4 for $5, can't beat that. So, I baked one. Ate it. And damn it, I was still hungry. So, I was about to bake another one! Piggy boy. See, baking a pizza is great. I highly recommend it, but don't bake it if one or both of the following has or will occur:

1. If G2 has dismantled your fire alarm a couple days before, don't bake a pizza. We were baking cookies and the fire alarm went off and he snatched that thing off the wall so fast and threw it across the room. I didn't discover its whereabouts until after I really needed it to save my life. Plus, it's all fun and games; it's hysterical (Not really). G2 just snatched my fire alarm off the wall and threw it! And I had no reason to look for it. I mean, that would mean I was being a responsible person who wants to live.

2. If you are about to fall asleep, don't go baking a pizza, okay.

So, yeah, I put that second pizza in the oven and set the time for 11 minutes. How was I to know that I'd fall asleep before those 11 minutes were up? How was I to know how strong those drinks were? I only had a few sips of this horrid champagne (Tell you that story in a second) and a fruity lemon drink that was in a small container meaning not that much alcohol. Well, somebody lied to me. I was definitely down for the night. Plus, I read somewhere that some people lack an enzyme to break down alcohol meaning, you could get loaded from just smelling that cranberry vodka. Gross. This is why drinking is bad. Don't do it. Not even casually. This is also why I never go out. What's the point?

Well, I don't know how much time passed when I woke up to quite a fog. I rubbed my eyes and I said, "Damn, it's foggy up in here. Shit." So then, casually, I remembered the pizza. Because I was unable to know how much time passed (Silly me, what's a clock?) I went into the kitchen thinking I was about to eat a semi-burnt pizza. I mean, rubbing my grubby little hands together and possibly salivating. I would have eaten it had it been salvageable. It wasn't. I opened the oven door, and the pizza was a small black kidney stone, just a tiny little shell of its former self. I was too tired to realize that I was suffocating on gas fumes and smoke, so I simply turned the oven off and hopped into bed.

The next morning, I looked at the pizza again. Judging by the looks of the blackness, I could have died. I am saving that pizza. I am getting it framed in a shadow box, with just the word LIFE engraved on it.

On to the champagne story. This is another reason why I will never leave the house again. Boys are so rude. There was this alcohol table in the “VIP section” of the club. I was standing in the “VIP section” (Hey, somebody official looking told me to go over there), minding my own business when someone put an empty champagne glass in my hand. I assumed this meant that we were to help ourselves to the drinks. I had my empty glass in my hand for a long time before I decided to actually have a drink. I didn't want to rush in while all the greedy jackasses at the table were getting theirs. So, finally, I took the bottle of gross alcohol fluid nasty flavor, and I started pouring it into the glass of this lesbian standing next me who also had her glass up. It's rude to pour for yourself if someone else has her cup up. So, I poured hers and as I proceeded to pour mine, this fool took the bottle out of my hand, poured some for himself, handed the bottle to his homie, and he poured some for himself and then tried to hand the EMPTY bottle back to me. Rudest shit I've ever experienced in my life. In my life. I left that dumb “VIP section”, especially after one lesbian appeared in it wearing a white turtleneck dress and high heel hiking boots (Not the Manolo Blahniks, which I find to be repulsive as well, a hiking boot high heel?, That's like wearing a rain boot flip flop) with a fuzzy pink purse. Turtleneck mini dress? Her friend was wearing an all-denim (That gross dark denim with the sandblasting) airbrushed outfit, a mini and a small jacket with silver glitter on her eyes to match her silver glitter ponytail holder. I was waiting for the third party to the poor man's 3LW to appear, but to no avail. I decided I had had enough, but everywhere I turned there was a fashion casualty.

Speaking of casualty, since I'm not one, I'm glad I lived to tell the story. Take my advice, stay inside and don't touch anything.

I Gotta Shake It Off...

I'm a mutha fuckin' Super man now, bitch!

Moving on from one relationship to the next will almost always be a messy situation. Shortly after high school, I had a healthy mathematical equation for the breaking up process. I wouldn’t consider dating anyone seriously for at least three months after a break-up. I would spend the next three months going through the appropriate order of motions towards complete mental stability and independence. It wouldn’t always take three months to actually get over the person, but I wanted to leave in time for the fun part of being single before jumping back into the beautiful bullshit that is a monogamous relationship.

Ideally, we’d all only enter relationships with a clean slate and an open perspective. No one has any baggage. No one is willing to settle, but everyone is open for reasonable compromise. Everyone is honest. Everyone has completely learned from all their past mistakes, and everyone is ready for a commitment. Sounds awesome. I’m quite sure this never happens.

So the question I’m asking is – when is it right to begin a new relationship? The questions that all branch out from this one include: When is a bad time to begin a relationship? When is it too soon to start up again? How do you know if you’re ready?

Some people believe that the best way (or the only way) to get over your last love is to start dating someone new. There is a whole lot of gray here. Yes, when you start to get excited about someone new, it occupies your thoughts, your mind, your body, and it definitely reminds you of a couple things:

1. You’ve still got it.
2. There are other fish in the sea.
3. That you absolutely can feel great again because for a while there, you weren’t sure if you were ever going to stop hurting.

It’s the absolute best form of distraction, but more often than not, it is just a temporary fix. Whatever real issues you need to work out either in your life or just in your own head and heart will come crawling back to haunt you and potentially make life worse for yourself and for whatever poor soul you sucked into your miserable web to help you “get over it.”

I won’t say though that the new relationship cannot work. Sure, it may have started subconsciously as just a distraction, but real things can absolutely happen when you were not expecting them. Like the Jets sang about in You’ve Got It All, “Ohhh, don’t let him worry you so. Once I met you I let go.” If you find someone who was way better than the last, it’s possible to move on…if your heart is open to it. There’s always that chance that you do find someone better than the last, but you’re too blind to accept it. That, or you’re too chicken shit to take the risk, and you’d rather bear the burdens of your past than move forward.

Others believe you should never begin your next relationship unless you’re totally over the last one. Easier said than done, but a noble goal, for sure. Actually, they never believe this for themselves, they just believe that’s what other people should do. Right now, I’m in this category. Get over your shit and then call me, dipshit. I don’t feel like babysitting your emotions until your momma comes home. It’s better for everyone involved when you’re “ready.”

So, what does that mean to be ready? Well, for one – you’re not angry anymore. When Carrie started dating Burger on Sex and the City, I found it to be a hairy situation. His ex-girlfriend Laura left a message on his voicemail while Carrie and Burger stood there, and he gave two middle fingers at the machine screaming, “FUCK YOU AND FUCK YOU!” When they discussed it later, he said that his ex had cheated on him, it killed him, and he was dead…until Carrie came along. A warm thing to hear, but the flags should go up right there. When a relationship ends because someone did something and you’re angry, then it is considered unresolved. That anger can fade, my friends, and people are willing to forgive. In some cases, a second chance is earned. I’m not advocating cheating, all I’m saying is that in some situations, it’s even grayer than gray. Not all. Some. For example – the classic Ross and Rachel we-were-on-a-break scenario. Still, I think when a flag goes up, the breaks should go on…maybe not to stop, but at least to slow down. This person has got baggage, and it’s still sitting at the front door. He may just pick it up and walk right out.

The goal is to find happiness is singlehood. When you learn how to actually love your life, take care of yourself, and find your bed to be warm and wonderful when you’re the only person in it – the chances of finding a healthy relationship increase. Why? Because you know who you are. When you know who you are and you like that person, then you’ll make better decisions on who you give your spare time to. You know you’re worth the best, so you might actually be okay to make sure you get it rather than taking whatever you can find to avoid being alone. People often stay in relationships because they are afraid of being alone. Right now, I’d rather wait.

I remember one distinct time in my life I was happy to be single. It was for most of my junior year. I was living in Huntsville. I had gotten dumped by a guy who went back to his ex for purely geographical reasons. He went to school with him, I was 2 hours away. He openly admitted (to me, not him), that had I lived closer, he’d be with me instead. Sucks for him. Talk about default. Anyway, I was totally crushed, confused, and annoyed by the break-up, and promptly launched into single mode. I was not interested in any bullshit. None. I wanted to have fun, kiss boys, and keep them as far away from my pants as possible. No sleepovers, no cuddling, no interest. It was liberating. Since then, I’ve been in a series of relationships, and though I never intended them to be back to back, it just sort of happened that way. Did I mean I was afraid to be alone? I feel like I can honestly say no. I don’t regret dating the guys I dated… Ok, not all of them. Life just sort of happened that way. Now, I’ve entered a new chapter in my life, and I’m going back to the old equation. Time to be alone. Wait, let me rephrase that. Time to be on my own.

I was telling all this to a coworker, and she replied, “But what if you meet someone great really soon? Are you just going to not even try because you’re all about being alone?” I said Yes, I’m not going to try. She said that was stupid. Look, I have no idea what will happen. What I can tell you is that for now, my only interest in romance and relationships is confined solely to the idea of taking a holiday to a beautiful resort – to disappear from the entire world and have all kinds of fun in borrowed clothes with poolside drinks. After that? Who knows, who cares? Nashville holds the secrets to my future. So… We shall see…

So I'm 0 for 2 in the State of Tennessee...

Everyone has the answers. It’s that simple. You have a problem, you tell anyone, and they’ve got the solution for you. As obnoxious as I know it is, I’m the same way. Somehow, I manage to juggle not knowing a damn thing with having every answer in the book – the former regarding my own problems, the latter – everyone else’s.

But what I find most interesting is how if you dig into anyone’s advice deeply enough, and I mean down to the nitty-gritty of how exactly to do what they suggest you do, you end up with exactly what you thought you would – NOTHING. You get handed a whole pile of bull like, "You just know," or "you just do." That’s how you know that no one knows shit – because no one has a real answer to any question you ask them.

For me, my biggest problem is my brain. Yeah, it’s kind of a big problem. As you all know – I think. I think. I think, and then I think some more. And no matter what, about 80% of my thoughts are on matters of the heart. There’s not a damn thing I can do about it. What advice have I received? The following:

Don’t take it so seriously.
Just enjoy life, don’t analyze it.
Think about something else.
Keep yourself distracted/busy.
Get over it. (A classic)
Move on.
You shouldn’t feel that way.
Just relax and have fun.
Stop thinking so much. (My all time favorite)

There is no doubt that this is all great advice. All of it. I fully agree, but find me one person who can actually tell you how to do any of it. How does one stop thinking? Seriously. Now, this advice can actually work for certain moments. I’ve been in situations with G2 when I drifted into a bad place, and he watched it happen from across the room (probably as all the light started to fall into me and disappear like a black hole), and he ran up to me to say, "STOP! Don’t think about it!" And then I could almost physically shake it off, and concentrate on something else for little while. But I’m talking about overall. The overall "not thinking." It’s impossible, and here’s why…

It’s only when you are trying to not think of something do you discover how much time there is in a day to think. You can watch a movie, go dancing, run an errand, or make a phone call. Sure, this stuff may buy some time, but really not that much. You can unintentionally squeeze in about a billion thoughts before, after, and during every task you have in a day. Then there’s the time you’re falling asleep. Reading a book, watching TV? It’s amazing how slippery my mind is that it can drift away from any distraction and fall right back to matters of the heart. And I’m not unique. Not by a long shot.

To be honest, if you asked me six days ago where I would be (mental-health-wise) by this time, I would have told you that I would be completely, 100% over Hustle & Flow (who will no longer be mentioned on this blog after today), that I’d be perfectly happy to be single… again, and that I’d be in great shape – with work, with friends, with family, with my body. Okay, I’m still pissed about Hustle & Flow, and some of you know that. "You know I’m not gonna diss you on the internet…because my mamma taught me better than that." – Destiny’s Child. Fuck you, Beyonce. I’m surviving just fine, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have the right to stay pissed as long as I want. Sorry, tangent. Let’s go back. Friends = AMAZING. Work = pretty great. Body = eh, working on it. Going to work out hard core tonight, so that should help. Single though…Permanently. Well, the jury’s still out. Being without all the bullshit = brilliant. No one to cuddle = kinda sucks.

Anyway, the point, advice doesn’t help. Sometimes getting advice only helps just because it’s nice when it’s clear someone wants you to feel better. And as long as it’s given with that intention and not because that person thinks they know it all, then it feels good. But what’s so much better than advice is just hearing that what you’re going through is hard, and that it’s okay to know it is. It’s nice to hear that what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking – that it’s not weird, and that you’re not a loser for feeling the way you do. Every once in a while, I beat myself up. A thought will cross my mind, and then I’ll hate myself for thinking it. And I won’t tell anyone I thought it because I’ll think they’ll give me a hard time for it. With that on top of already hating yourself, ugh. It’s just rough. So I just try to take the good advice and stop thinking, and stop dwelling, and becoming healthier than I am, but I just wish I knew how.

And it’s so strange, because I sit here feeling in a pretty good mood. I had a decent weekend. I fixed up the dining room, so I’m thrilled about that. I got a lot of stuff unpacked so my house isn’t so inundated with boxes. That kind of shit is really fun. But there’s just this odd, lingering sadness that in no way penetrates every detail or moment of my day, but still…exists, like a current streaming through my thoughts regardless of my conscious acknowledgement of it. It’s not remotely debilitating. It doesn’t keep me from going out on the weekends and having fun. It doesn’t leave me in tears. It’s just there. A perpetual pall.

Now, on an unrelated note. Once upon a time a straight guy told my ex (They met through Myspace and are apparently dating now, if what I heard was true) that he liked the way I wrote, but that I was proof that gay men are crazy. I was only slightly offended by the comment. Point is, I imagine that most straight men don’t talk about relationships as often and as openly as women or gay men do with each other, and most straight men don’t seem that open to discuss the relationships that much with the women with whom they are in the relationship. Therefore, I wouldn’t imagine that most straight men would want to hear me, the king of the crazy gays, go on and on about my feelings on it. I usually talk to my roommate about the interesting things I learn about men based off what men say in my office. But I have heard that there are a couple of straight guys who read this blog, so I’m asking you guys to hit me up with a comment and let me know what you think!

Let Me Clear My Throat...

Ok screw it. I’m going to start working hard to change my perspective on all of this crap. You know what? Only about three or four people I actually KNOW reads this, so I’m not going to even bother worrying about who’s looking at this. I’m airing shit out because I don’t care, and it’s fun.

I think Kristen from Laguna Beach had a good thing going – no interest in anything, no attraction to the drama of obligation towards any guy, so what was the end result? Many men, lots of fun, and always having the upper hand. Can we really learn something from a high schooler? Apparently so…

I have four guy friends that any man would be lucky to have. A director of operations at a major retail store, an interior designer, a pharmaceutical rep, and another in grad school for speech therapy. They are all between 24 and 29. They are all funny, fun, beautiful, sexy, happy, kind, and generous. They are also super attractive – I mean, more so than the average person. The five of us are single, but wanting to find the right guy. No matter what mood we’re in – be it happy to have no responsibility towards a man, or ready to find the man of our dreams, I’d say that each of us are more than willing to spend our spare time dating around, kissing boys, and going out on the town.

The fact that I know that there are men like these friends of mine that are single at all when they are such ridiculous catches says SOMETHING about this day and age. Seriously, we need to go back in time to the South where there would be appointments for multiple suitors. Wouldn’t that be nice? I could just sit there being lovely in a tight, uncomfortable suit that is intended to be conservative but has my junk pushed out and heaving while one by one, young, available, and successful men would come over for tea, desperate to take me out for a walk by the river bank, competing for my hand in marriage. Then I select one. Nice. Sounds sweet. Sounds damn easy too.

But alas, we are in the day and age where cool, hot guys are regarded as "intimidating," and the boys we kiss are more than likely just that – boys. We are living in a time when we are forced to distract ourselves from everything, keep a good distance, and remain "unavailable" so that when we finally do get a piece, we must look at it as just that – a piece of ass. No need to dwell on much more. God forbid any of us attach meaning to a good hook-up because if and when we do, we get burned. Maybe burned is a strong word. More like…disappointed. How do we avoid it? By not having a single expectation of anyone. This way, we get what we want, but we leave room pleasant surprises. Honestly, how often will that happen though?

So, the question remains: How does one go about changing their perspective? How do you transition from the hunt for a One to dating many men where you have no passionate interest in any, but enough interest to enjoy yourself and want to see them again one day…like in a week or two rather than the following night? How do we become players when we’re truly the commitment type? Is it possible? I can tell you one thing, it’s sure worth a try.

This woman I used to work with read a book that says that single women should have 5 men in constant rotation. I suppose this is much like the character Helen in Kissing Jessica Stein. She calls one when she’s hungry, one when she’s horny, one when she wants to see a movie, and etc. Of course, this situation is empowering, but never as fulfilling as being in love, but I’m not trying to beat out love. I know by now that nothing does. But look, we can’t all be in love all the time, can we? So what do we do to enjoy our lives in our spare time? We discover the joy of power. We rediscover our love for…variety without obligation. I’ve never ever been able to pull this off. Wait…I take that back.

For some reason in high school, I was able to be a kissing bandit without ever getting hurt. Sure, there were times where I was interested in more, but when it didn’t work out, never a single tear. Never a second thought. On to the next. What was so fantastic is how in control I was. I never took the hook-up very far physically because who needs that scare when it means nothing? I was always incredibly honest with my "prey." I told them how far it would go, and gave them the option to leave if they had a problem with it. Man, those were fun times.

For some reason, there were a handful of options that were recyclable. I liked the guys fine, but never liked them, liked them. I loved bumping into them on campus. There was never an awkward moment. I liked hanging out with them at parties. I just…enjoyed it. Truth be told, I was always a bit lonely though. As much fun as I was having, there is a different level of joy when you’re falling in love with someone, and when you know what that feels like and know that it’s lacking, then there is a limit to how happy you can be as a player. Basically, it gets old.

But it shouldn’t be old for me yet as I haven’t even yet begun. Maybe I should try it out before I get exhausted by it.

The problem is that it’s posing a deeper question. Is life just about experiences to learn what it is that we want? And if so, if we’ve already learned what it is that we want, can we enjoy experiences that won’t get us there? Basically, if I’ve done the kissing-bandit thing, and I already know that I’m not excited about dates that don’t really go anywhere, then could I actually be capable of shifting my interest from wanting a One to enjoying the toys? Is making an effort to date casually and kiss randomly a way to open my mind to new perspectives and enjoying a single life, or is it an attempt to change who I already know that I am?

Here is a quote from Sex and the City. (With this show in existence to succinctly and intelligently pose life questions, I wonder why I bother posting here at all.) "According to certain scientists, whenever a woman has sex her body produces a chemical which causes her to emotionally attach. This chemical may also account for a series of terrifying questions that involuntarily pop into our minds after just one casual trist. Questions like, ‘Does he like me?’ ‘Will he call again?’ and the classic, ‘Where is this all going?’ When it comes to men, even when we try to keep it light, how do we wind up in the dark?"

The development of Samantha Jones’s character interests me because she stayed so monotonous, though entertaining, for nearly the entire series. There was no predicting the role Smith Jared would play. This is the episode where Samantha realizes that Smith means more to her than she had thought. Basically, Samantha represented free love, independence, and self-security. She never apologized for who she was, and she adored her life. I don’t doubt that she would live it the exact same way if she could do it all over again. People all over the world watched her character and gained a new comfortable respect for themselves for being their own Samantha Jones in a society that often teaches us that settling down is the only rational route to follow. However, her heart eventually opens to a man she last expected to love, someone who understands her, loves her, and stands by her through everything. In an attempt to remain the woman she had always been, she has sex with her last love, Richard, which she immediately regrets. This is the turning point for her character. Though she was never interested in falling in love and committing to any one man, she discovers a comfort and a beauty in a partner.

Her situation is ideal for the people of the world who secretly fear they will never find anyone special. She enjoyed her life not looking, and when she least expected it and didn’t even necessarily want it, she found him. Even better, he found her. Can a person actually live a life like that if they really do hope to commit?

Look, I don’t know if anyone can "change." I analyze things until I can’t see straight, and my whole life I’ve tried be easy-going, free-spirited, and completely light-hearted. But maybe that’s just not who I am, and maybe that’s okay. I worry about the future. I plan ahead. I love loving, and I’m very good at it. I get upset when someone hurts me, and I get sad when someone rejects me. I think about everything, and I could talk for hours without taking a breath. I over think as a way of life, and even if I weren’t writing to you now, even if I weren’t sitting still in my seat, I’d be over thinking. It doesn’t stop. My mind races so fast sometimes that I can’t even carry a straight conversation on the phone because there are too many directions I need the conversation to go. And you know what? Not many men can’t handle this. It’s fucking adorable at first. They think I’m a peach. Give it time, my friends. After enough of it, they’re ready to shove a sock down my throat and may not even care if it kills me. It’s a sad, sad truth. Of course, none of these were Ones. I’m just going to hope that one of The Ones will be defined by maybe nothing more than still being interested in what I have to say after 400 hours of my talking. Awww…like you guys! Anyway, there’s no way of knowing if the guy you’re dating will one day get sick of you. You just ride it out, stay the same person, and hope to God that they still think it’s cute down the line.

See, I digressed…again.

Let’s roll back now to what I was saying earlier and try to look at this another way. Can’t someone truly enjoy something even if it’s not what you preferred? I love cookies and cream, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy mint chocolate chip.

I discussed this new perspective with my best gay over spring rolls and pad thai few months ago. When I asked him what he thought of the 5-guy-recycle, he replied, "Yeah, but if I’m going to date, I’d rather just be with one great guy." My response, "Well, of course. That’s what I prefer too, but I’m talking about what you do when that great guy isn’t here yet."

Then I asked an old friend over the phone. I talked to her about my kissing buddies that I had in high school. Her theory was this: Once you’ve graduated past that, you can’t go back, and anybody who lives that way now is either total bullshit or they’re just a completely different person. My response to her: "Well, don’t you think it’s worth a try? We don’t have anything else going on."

Her response to me: "Greg, how are we each going to find 5 guys when we’ve been going out and can’t even find one?" Excellent point, AH.

I checked my email when I got to work today, and a friend wrote me that I should just stop thinking about relationships and have fun. It’s a weird thing to say. It’s not like I don’t understand what someone means when they say that, but isn’t that like telling someone to cheer up? Also, who’s saying I’m not having fun. I’m having great fun. I’m just tossing out ideas here.

So, we’ll see how it goes. We’ll see what happens. I’ll write more about this later.

1st Blog of 2007...

Ugh.

I just read about this poll where 84% of us think that Tom Cruise is great and it’s the media that sucks --

"We at Parade found this a little bit fishy, so we did some investigating. We found out more than 14,000 (of the 18,000-plus votes) that came in were cast from only 10 computers! One computer was responsible for nearly 8,400 votes alone, all blaming the media for Tom's troubles. We also discovered that at least two other machines were the sources of inordinate numbers of votes. It seems these folks (whoever they may be) resorted to extraordinary measures to try to portray Tom in a positive light for the Parade.com survey. There is even a chance they wrote a special 'bot' program for the sole purpose of skewing the results, rather than casting the votes by hand on a computer." Page Six

I’m outraged. This is a grown ass man trying to manipulate some shit that is already so far destroyed. Tom, it’s over for you. We don’t like you anymore. You’re out of your mind. And it’s not even the Scientology thing. That’s just whatever – be you. It’s the intensity with which you annoy. And poor Katie. Kate. Sorry. Her tell-all book will be so good, so good. Amy Fisher good. Jermaine Jackson good. Any family member of Whitney Houston good. Okay, not Whitney Houston good. And not even Jermaine Jackson good. Nothing tops hearing from Whitney’s sister-in-law saying that Whitney be seeing demons! And in those photographs of Whitney’s “drug den” there’s a can of Budweiser. Amazing. And Jermaine talking about Michael loves wine. I bet he drinks the boxed wine too. I bet he does!

All this got me to thinking about the future in celebrity gossip/stalking. I was on my way to lunch and I saw a mother of two big ass kids was running while pushing her double stroller, I got to thinking the future of the celebrities and their already-famous-been-photographed-even-in-the-womb offspring.

If you’re not into celebrity gossip, this won’t be for you. Or if you want to get involved, just open up a Google box when you don’t know who I’m talking about because I am not explaining. Which is part of the problem. I’m on a first name basis with this dumb ass information and I can’t stop. Is this an addiction? And if so, can we please talk about my addictions. I think (hope) you might be able to relate.

Okay…

Like, will Maddox date Apple or be forbidden to date Apple because Brad and Gwyneth had broken up all those years before? Is Zahara going to be so smoking hot on the Naomi Campbell tip and be a bitch about it? Or is she going to be hot if she tried but she doesn’t because she’s too busy saving other orphans? Will she be an amazing lesbian that brings Angelina Jolie to the preview of her first documentary on the suppressed sexuality of some hidden tribe in a remote part of Australia? And all the lesbians swoon when they see her mama because all the polls say that women would “go gay” for Angelina. It’s not even about “going gay.” Angelina is just a fine ass specimen in the rudest possible way. So much so that if she propositioned a fucking raccoon, the raccoon would lick his lips like LL, I mean Todd Smith and be like “what’s up, ma?” That’s how hot she is. I mean, for one person to be blessed with fame, fortune, intensely good looks and Brad Pitt? That shit is just off the chain crazy rude and inappropriate. I can feel my self-esteem plummet just looking at her face. It’s a terrible thing but I love her and I screen saver her ass. See? I have a problem. But I function day to day like a normal person, I swear it.

Will Chris Klein appear on Maury Povich’s show demanding a paternity test? Oh, Chris, please do. Then when the results say that you are, in fact, the father of Suri Cruise, please jump up and down, landing on the dirty carpet to rest your head only to come up in a full rage to point your finger in Katie’s face and say, “Bitch, I told you. I told you. He ain’t about shit! I told you!” Then, hopefully, Tom will walk off the stage where he will be held at the side by some lowly stressed-out PA before security comes. And Katie will be crying. Oh, will she be crying but they will be tears of joy because next week, she’s about to blow it all through the roof with the tell-all book and she ain’t tripping because she got half of what Tom is worth anyway in the divorce. And that big ass picture of Suri that is on the projector screen in the back is so Chris Klein’s baby and we all knew that shit but the show is so good and it’s not like anything else is on. I mean, you decide. Rachel Ray or Maury Povich’s SPECIAL on the paternity test results for Suri Cruise?

Will the money and/or attention run out one day on Paris and Nicole? Like, to where they are forced to go on Oprah’s final taping of her final season (for real this time) and discuss the falling out. And Nicole will be all healthy and regular because ten years previous to this event she finally came out like Calista did and said, “Yes, I have an eating disorder and I want to share with you my recovery…” and we go on a ten-episode shot on film documentary with her as she throws trays of burgers at the nurses and says, “I can’t do this! Fuck you people! Ana is my life! I’m the thinspiration for girls around the globe. I’m Nicole Richie and this is a lifestyle, not a disease Jesus H. Christ you people will never understand!”

But then by the last ten minutes of the show the rabbi from TLC’s Shalom in the Home (who blew up like Dr. Phil) comes out and consoles her and before the credits roll, she bites into that burger all tearful and then, through the tears she lets out a simple giggle and says, “Do we have any ketchup?” and everybody hugs.

Oh, and Nicole, on The Oprah Winfrey Show will say, “Sorry I showed your sex tape girl. It was childish and hilarious, but still that was so wrong…” And Paris -- with her new nose because she had to get the septum repaired when it collapsed on that last and final coke binge that she has yet to openly discuss with the media (I know right, she’ll say anything and do anything but she won’t talk about that plastic surgery as Star Jones is her witness) -- will say in her baby voice, “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have made that tape anyway. I mean, it’s like whatever.” They’ll hug and it will be anti-climactic. So Oprah will renew her show for another season so she can have a better ending still because nobody puts Oprah on the ass end of the ratings war. NOBODY!

My imagination is stupid. Furthermore, I must say I read celebrity gossip daily. What is my problem? Is it because it’s always there so I just think this is a normal part of my day? Or do I have a real problem? Is this an addiction? If so, I need to stop now because that is so embarrassing. Addicted to useless information about people I’ll never meet who probably aren’t even really that cool in real life in the first place? That is so gross. I mean, Oprah is the only one worth giving a damn about. And even she really likes celebrities but she likes the bland ones like Jennifer Aniston or Maria Shriver Skeleton Face.

Well, let’s back up. Growing up, my mother always had a People magazine in the house. Now the People is only good halfway through. And then right as it’s getting good, it switches gears from celebrities to real people and sadly, I am not interested in the real people.

This can’t just be happening to me. At the hair salon, the Us Weekly is always all ruffled up and abused like it’s been rifled through a million times. No one reads the bridal magazines or the home care magazines. Surprisingly enough!

Shit, celebrities read about themselves! They gobble it up at the newsstands. They hire people to know what is said about them. It’s someone’s job to collect every piece of press ever for them, archiving every photo, every mention, every blurb. So do I really have a problem?

I need to get another addiction.

Am I alone in this? I’m hearing crickets. Please someone help me.