New favorite four word phrase: “temporary injection site reaction.” It sounds like right-wing jingoism to me. I call it “OMG, WTF DID YOU DO TO ME!!1!”
My mom called me Saturday and asked me if I would drive her to pick up her new teevee. Naturally I said okay, nevermind that I was playing hookie from work for, like, the 7th consecutive Saturday. While she was signing paperwork, I perused computers. Fifteen minutes later, I had been convinced by a 12-months-no-interest special to get a couple of special treats for myself, too.
I had an attack of buyer’s remorse, but that is natural and in true fashion as I’m highly manic and was coming down from the excitement anyway. This is normal.
Now, it’s all good. I know some of you are going to berate a little because it’s not a Mac, and others because it’s an HP, but my first computer was an HP and it was ridiculous how long it lasted. I think it still works, actually. This computer is crazy powerful, and the monitor even moreso, respectably. It’s so bright I had to turn the brightness level down to 10%, and the contrast is low, too.
Now if only I can keep from splurging on a Blu-Ray player.
I don’t really have birthday expectations other than hearing feliz cumpleanos from the regulars. And that’s fine. But, at work, I expected a cake because I’m vain and to have “HAPPY BIRTHDAY SAM” printed on the marquis like everyone else gets, and naturally I was disappointed by the place that never fails to disappoint. I don’t mean that I was literally disappointed; if anything, my expectations were met with unfounded accuracy. But what I didn’t expect was for a motherfucking Golden Girl to die on my birthday. Great, now for the rest of my life, I’m going to be known as that guy whose birthday Estelle Getty died on. I’ll never live this down.
Thank Maude it wasn’t Bea Arthur, that’s all I have to say.
Overheard in the spa at the gym today from a hot mid-40’s guy I’ve noticed more than once:
his chubby friend (approaches and enters the spa): “Hey, have you lost weight?!”
Hot Guy: “Yeah, about 45 pounds.”
his chubby friend: “What are you doing for that?”
Hot Guy: “Hemorrhoid surgery took care of 20 of them…”
his chubby friend: “Maybe that’s what I need!”
Those are some big hemorrhoids! I’m guessing he’s strictly a top these days.
Also got a text message from my best friend that brought an epic smile to my face: “berfday! u haz it!” And thanks to the mysterious snarkster who purchased that album for me on iTunes. He knows who he is.
So there’s not much more to say about the Jay Brannan incident. You know, where he touched me and hopefully left skin cells and/or dna on my body. It’s actually kind of hazy due to either alcohol or adrenaline, but we spoke and he put his arm around me and a photo was taken and all that. He was as nice as could be. The show was awesome and he is oustanding live.
He’s joking about there being very few people at the show - every seat was taken and plenty were standing. And re: that guy in the wheelchair, Brian, I kept seeing him around and thinking to myself, “omg, it looks like there’s a wad of Copenhagen in his face.” GROSS!!1! Actually, before I noticed that, I thought to myself, “wow, talk about a powerbottom with stamina.” I’m going to hell.
Bummed about having to cancel my vacation due to an impending hurricane. But at least I’m still taking all of next week off from work.
Anxiety. Sexually charged post. The gangster stalker finally came out and asked me for my number and I gave it to him. I told him I was busy tonight - I’m not - but he called anyway and I didn’t answer. I’m just not sure how this first conversation is supposed to go; doesn’t he know that sexual innuendo is best left to texting? It should go like this.
” do u like the cock?”
“yes, luv the cock, very homo, read my blog”
“want sck ur cock?”
“sure, sck it is good”
“u sck mine 2″
“duh”
“fck u n ass? hard?”
“i dunno bout all that. if 2 big, sck is all, sry kthx”
I prefer that. Then I can stop being coy and staying naked for a long period of time while I change so he can stare at my junk. And he does - every single time. I found out today that he’s 23. I’m not sure if I revealed this in the earlier post and I’m too lazy to look, but he has a girlfriend and a kid, too. And if he wasn’t outrageously cute, I wouldn’t even be discussing this. But who am I to deny myself of him, or better yet, him of me? This is so DARKsided.
Hit me with your moral judgments, though I’m not sure they’ll have any effect.
My ass is noticeably larger. Meatier. I feel the meatjiggle when I go up the stairs now, as opposed to the fatjiggle I had grown accustomed to over the last year or so. I’ve had the nonjiggle before (in 2005 for about 8 months), but the meatjiggle is wholly different. In a low, subtle and sexy voice, the meatjiggle says to you, “lay your hands on me, for I am meaty.” And it was good. The nonjiggle is like a historian. It says to you, “here is where we fought the Battle of KY, and over here is where the Hills of Thunderdome used to be.” And the fatjiggle, it kind of sounds like Barney from The Simpsons. You don’t listen to it but you know you can’t block it out completely.
Also: the gym is a very gay place. Very. I have contributed. That is all.
Today I realized that I do, without a doubt, have something that I’ve always wanted: a stalker. At the gym, of course. Times before, I kind of figured he was…interested… but today, all the cards were on the table and he is, without question, stalking me. I mean, it’s weird because he has several gold teeth and I think he might have once been a gangster, but he is otherwise hot and clearly (believe me) wants a piece of this (points at self). And he could very well get it, heh. If he wasn’t hot, though, I would be totally repulsed. I am not completely without soul, conscience or standards. Heh.
Most of the time I wait for someone to show interest in me and that never gets me anywhere, but when I know for sure that someone wants a piece, I can be forward and aggressive. Reckless abandon and all that… why not, if I know for sure? It happens so rarely.
Whatever, as long as he doesn’t turn into Alicia Silverstone in The Crush.
He works out M, W, F and Sunday, which is good because Thursday I am getting the reward/incentive for myself that I described in the last post. And by described, I mean went on endlessly about. I put a deposit down on it tonight. Grr, it’s so exciting… taking a chance like this… not knowing exactly what could happen. I’m so Celine Dion right now. What do you saaaaay?! You’ll think I’m stoopid with two o’s after you find out what it is, but for the moment it is exhilarating to do/get something that I’m almost SURE I’m going to regret. Suspense and all that.
Well that last post was stupid. I promise not ever to get remotely serious again. In fact, tonight I wear my sarcastic hat. Again.
I just read this article about how to be a quality gay man. Or at least how to be perceived as one, so that you can find others with whom to pair. There were ten things you simply must do, or be, etc. Apparently I’m three down with seven to go, and those three are arguable. I have a lot of work to do, not the least of which is going back to school to finish of a degree of some sort. Any will do, apparently, because it will reflect that I am educated, motivated, driven and career-oriented. This is non-negotiable.
I also have to manage to find a job or a career that fulfills me because having one that doesn’t will cause me to behave negatively, and “nobody likes a whiner.” If for some reason I am “stuck,” I need to make the decision to “make the best of it” and “not complain.” Until I do this, I am considered low quality. I am a Kia. I am cheaply made by Korean toddlers, and my long warranty is only more indicative of my shoddy quality.
Between that and my regular activities, it is also recommended that I spend a lot of time at the gym (”not 7 days per week”). I don’t need to be “6′2” and 190 with a tapered waist,” but I have to at least “show that I make an effort.” I’m 6′2” so maybe that adds to the aura of my quality or lack thereof, but the tapering will take time. Also non-negotiable.
It is recommended to me that I set a goal to run a marathon and spend a year training for it. Because, between working to support myself and going to school and the job hunt and all that time at the gym, what I need is a marathon to take the edge off. This will also facilitate the aforementioned tapering effect.
I must join clubs, possibly a gay men’s knitting circle.
I also have to volunteer and “give back to the community,” because it has given so much to me, including but not limited to: OCD, depression and the time-honored tradition of body dysmorphia. I owe the gays so much.
My skills of sarcasm were, however, endowed by my creator. A gift from The One True God.
And on Thursday nights when I am taking a break from school and work and the gym and training for the marathon and volunteering to do whatever, I will have to “get out more often” and “go to new locations.” I cannot, however, go to the stereotypical gay places like bars or clubs; the ones in the community. The likelihood of me running into a quality gay male in said locations is slim to none, nevermind that I have yet to achieve quality gay status myself. Or at least the perception of quality gayness.
In other words: Be the gay you wish to see in the world.
There’s really no good reason that I, too, can’t become a quality gay. Or at least be perceived as one. And maybe by the time it happens, I’ll still have one good hip. I make fun only because a lot of it is true, but I still think the author of that article to which I will not link should be bitchslapped hard, fast and repeatedly.
Meg, co-worker: “C’mon, just tell me if you’re gay. Are you or aren’t you?!”
Me: “Don’t you think that if I were gay I’d have a better job and be much better looking?”
Meg, co-worker: [long pause] “…That’s true, gay men do have a lot of money…”
This is just one more example of why I don’t like communicating with people in any way that doesn’t involve daggers coming out of my eyes. And I walked right into it, as I usually do. That’s another one of those convos that bounce around in my head long after they’re done (at least a month for that one). Anyway, I don’t mind people I work with knowing about that, but I do make an effort to not have gay sex on my desk during work hours. And it’s easy, considering how often it happens in the first place.
I think I’ve mentioned Work-twink here before, but I’m too lazy to… Work-twink is 20, a complete closet-case, and has a “girlfriend.” I don’t even know what he does there at our workplace. He waves at me a lot. And because I’m a nice guy, I wave back even though I’m trying to look away or do any number of things that involve the swift and necessary extraction of my person. But, really, I am a nice guy. I’m like… a Niceness Cappuccino with Extra Super Foam, but liberally sprinkled with Queen Bitch’s Nutmeg. Seriously.
So anyway, Work-twink has this thing for me which makes me uncomfortable because 1. he’s so fucking awkward, 2. being 20, short, and completely assless and rail-thin to the tune of a Sally Struthers infomercial makes him not my type, 3. he walks with a limp and nobody knows why, which draws all kinds of skeptical intrigue, and finally 4. which was just added to the list will be revealed in the following paragraphs.
Four is a physical kind of thing so -GROSS- that I don’t know if I can write about it, much less think about it. But I will… for you. Last Friday, a day which I do not enjoy to stay late at work, I was driving by the front of the building as he walked out and I offered to drive him to the back of the parking lot because it’s a long walk, and, you know, Niceness Cappuccino.
Long walk, short drive. I could handle it. Because I’m NICE.
We pulled up behind his vehicle and I was thinking “yay, he’s going to get out now.” But he didn’t. He kept futzing around with things and asking questions. Questions like “so, do you have a girlfriend?” “How old are you?” “Don’t you want to get married and have kids?” I should be flattered since it’s rare that males take any positive interest in me whatsoever. But I’m bored.
It drags on, and other co-workers are driving by, seeing the scene and waving goodbye and laughing. Meanwhile, I’m trying to astrally project myself into a sunny meadow. Failing miserably, I finally looked at him to say “HAIL no I don’t want to get married or produce offspring” when I noticed something…strange. Something wasn’t right.
In fact, something was very, very wrong. So wrong that I died and was immediately reincarnated as whoever won the gold medal for Extreme Vomiting (I didn’t just get the medal, I had to die first… you see?) . He was sending a text message. Oh God, I can’t even find the words here. Fungus. Nail fungus. On all his fingers. Worst I’ve ever seen. In fact I’ve only seen people ever have it on their feet, not that I’m looking for it or ever will. He doesn’t have fingernails, he has tree bark - probably from a California Redwood or maybe one of those 1,000 year old Oaks. Some very large, very old tree’s bark… that’s what he had there. And this is hilarious to my co-workers because, naturally, I was the last to know.
And by that point, he had been in my car for twenty minutes. Aside from being severely grossed out and wanting to go home, I was now convinced that both me and my car, Maximo, were contaminated. I can’t bear to do a Google search to find out how it spreads, though my inner voice tells me “hard, fast and repeatedly.” I do feel badly for him, though, and (sparingly) wonder what kinds of conditions led to that for him.
At least when it’s on your feet, I guess you can wear socks and nobody will know, and by default, no one will care. As for now, I have found my germophobia, and it starts with fungi and ends at the door of my vehicle.
I know there are worse things, but this is so typical. Finally a guy likes me, but he’s practically a teenager and obviously a demon.
Monday night was the big CT scan. I decided that it would be useless to update until all the barium sulfate had exited my system. We’re hoping for that time being now. All in all, it was a relatively benign procedure, if you discount all the radiation my cells were bombarded with. If you know me at all, you already know that the biggest complication was when the nurse left me alone to change into my gown. She left two of them, and I couldn’t remember what she said to do with the other one because I had to pee so badly and the bitch wouldn’t get out of the room. I thought maybe I would put one of them on backwards around the other, so as to leave my asscrack completely covered. I opted to just leave the spare in the dressing room and hope I wasn’t too naked when I made my debut.
I was handled by a cute guy named Julian who loved more than anything the sound of his own voice. It was a nice distraction from the IV insertion process, at least until he randomly decided to name, in alphabetical order, a list of common blood thinners. All I could think was “there’s pineapple shrimp, lemon shrimp, coconut shrimp, pepper shrimp, shrimp soup…” and my eyes glazed over.
The iodine injection was fun. I love the feeling of fire in my veins. It was like that time I was (19 and) chugging vodka from the bottle. Luckily it didn’t last very long, because if I had felt that hot feeling betwixt my loins, I guess I would’ve been leaving the hospital with my gown tied around my waist. Also, don’t know if raging erections show up on a CT scan and don’t want to find out the hard way. Har.
As for now, there’s no news from the scan. But the following day, I did receive a phone call from my “regular” doctor telling me that we have a diagnosis: hypothyroidism. In short, this explains a multitude of symptoms, not the least of which is my chronic menstrual bleeding. Actually, it could explain nearly everything that’s wrong with me, things the doctors don’t even know about: mental fog, stuttering, anxiety, mental retardation. We can even blame my hair loss on it, although I’m sure it’s more of the “male pattern” variety. I’ve been buzzing it for years anyway. Ahem.
He called in a prescription that day and I began taking the new pill yesterday. It’s not terrible. I had already decided that I would accept almost any diagnosis that didn’t require the acquisition of a bone marrow sample or the insertion of a catheter - both of which I am still adamantly opposed to. Shiver.
