Tag Archives: Straight Boyfriend

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

Days Until Halloween: 342

I throw up when extremely angry.

This action is not often coterminous with this emotion, but they happened to coincide on an eventful week.

After making nice with Weather Man I was extremely excited for his visit over Halloween weekend. We had a good fight, which meant the only piece of the puzzle left to fill in was the make-up sex, which I’m pretty sure is the best part about getting in fights. 90% of the time I apologize is just for sex. You do the same thing. However, I had a few days left before Halloween on Friday. I still hadn’t put together my costume, as my friend’s veto-ed my idea to go as Tiger Woods for the millionth year in a row. And my suggestion of dressing as Seal and Heidi Klum was a no go, considering none of my accompanying friends were blondes and I didn’t feel like putting my face into an inferno. Plus I can’t sing.

My lovely work friend Tilly decided we should brainstorm a few costume ideas for the both of us as we downed a few beers with the rest of the work assistants. However, once we left worked and arrived at Publichouse we found a bar dressed up as a personality-less pit stop and waitresses already in costume as Stoli Girls. I don’t really like girls, but I’m a huge fan of stoli, so a few friendly jokes into the conversation and I found myself getting free shots from women wearing fur caps. Tilly was downing the wine and next thing I know I’m revealing terrible pieces of my past to coworkers who can barely stand up straight. In fact, the only people not teetering were the Stoli Girls, who got us all into this mess! Tricksy russian vodka women and their sneaky free liquor ways… While explaining to a coworkers exactly what amount of mushrooms constitutes “trafficking” I took a moment to turn around and check on Tilly, who was attacking our co-worker with her lips. Poor Brendan has been harboring a crush on Tilly for some time now, and he did his best to resist.

Brendan: Ummm, I’ve got to tell you that I’m not comfortable with this. I’ve only had two drinks and I’m pretty sure you won’t remember this.
Tilly: (Surly) Ummm, I’m pretty sure you’re cute.
Insecure Brendan: Um. Thanks, you’re cute, too.
Tilly: That means you’re comfortable with it, I won’t tell.

And that’s the last thing I really remember. The next morning I woke up wearing my shirt and tie on top of my recently purchased bedsheets and surrounded by McDonald’s bags (Oh, Burkeman, I know better…). That morning at work wasn’t as dreadful as expected, and I received my official invitation to join the Tuesday sales meetings, which means the management sees me as becoming a full on salesman within the next year! I was enthused, though groggy, along with the entire assistant task-force who was reeling from the night before, most of us not entirely sure if we embarassed ourselves or not. Accept for poor Tilly, who was completely unaware of her behavior. Lucky bitch. My McDonalds shame was unavoidable.

Burkeman: Do you remember making out with Brendan at the bar?
Tilly: …My eyes hurt.

That night I ransacked every second-hand store I could find in the city to find tiny women’s shorts and a white polo shirt (along with some sweat bands). After surviving another day at work I threw on my costume and met up with Weather Man, who had made his way to NYC for Halloween!

With my tennis raquet in hand the conversion was complete, I had officially become Arthur Ashe. Only with shorter shorts and sass. Arthur Ass, maybe. Whatever. Weather Man didn’t feel like putting together a cohesive costume, so when people asked why he was wearing a cape he would explain that he was Dracula. The next person who asked he would explain that he was a Cardinal. Then a Count. And so on. By the end of the night he was drunkenly telling people in Splash that he was versatile. The costume took a life of it’s own.

Weather Man and I went to watch the parade, which was the wonderfully debaucharous spectacle that I hoped it would be. People dressed as Batman and Robin were classic, Joker and Sarah Palin were unoriginal, robots were retro fun, and anything home-made was awesome. Although I’ll admit, the vampire with the upside down blow-up doll caught even me off guard. And the over-sized hairy ass (complete with hole, for viewing purposes) was in such poor taste that it was delicious. The crowds were epic, the night was reasonably warm, and the booze weren’t hard to find. Only once did a complete stranger touch me inappropriately. Victory.

With a sexy Spartan, a thong clad Gladiator, a glittery GI Joe, a versatile “dracula”, and one very realistic naughty school girl (who happened to be off the boat from Japan), I paraded my Arthur ass all the way through Manhattan as the tail end of the parade, sliding under the barrier to join my friends who had been marching for hours already. The waving crowds from the barrier cheered for costumes they enjoyed and the lights and sights all blurred together until I found myself inside an overrated dance club with a devil who’s pitch fork was a little too close. Fortunately I escaped my dance hell without a problem and the next thing I know it’s November first, I’m safe in my bed in Brooklyn, and I’ve shaken a hangover off with some hard earned make-up lovin’. I love Halloween!

That morning I sat in the living room, still wearing my sweatbands, chatting with Straight Boyfriend (who hadn’t shaken off his hangover after spending the evening as a Zombie Hunter a la Shaun of the Dead) and BYOB along with her Boy Du Jour, who had been watching movies all night. Our chats turned into long conversations and the next thing I know it’s late at night, we’ve watched Rosemary’s Baby and just started Shortbus. Early in the movie (when Jamie cums on his own face in the opening montage) my roommate’s started to realize this movie wasn’t the standard popcorn flick. And perhaps they realized that Weather Man, who bought me the movie, wasn’t the standard visiting boy. It’s strange how unimportant moments (like movie cum shots) help illuminate something deeper (like the depth of the relationship your roommate has with another human). I think that’s the point of art, to express things in unexpected ways. Sometime during Shortbus the graphic sex acted as a Jackson Pollock, and that evening BYOB actually went out of her way for the first time ever to admit that my life wasn’t as two dimensional as she had thought. I might not be a real person to her yet, but at least she sees me with 3-D goggles these days. She had even skipped a friend’s b-day party to watch movies with us.

The rest of the weekend was spent with Weather Man and Georgia Ann, touring Manhattan and eating brunch and buying scarves from roadside stands and whatnot. We saw the Christmas sights in Manhattan; the ice rink at Rockefeller Center, the site for the soon to arrive 3 story Christmass tree, the Radio City Music Hall (home of the Rockettes!), constructed our own adorable Build-A-Bears, and even tried on clothes at Saks 5th Avenue (the jacket I wanted was only 800 dollars… right). Saks was a bizarre experience, as I have spent enough time avoiding wealth in Brooklyn that the sight of $500 hats in Manhattan threw me off my game entirely. I cannot earn my sense of superiority until I own that jacket!

Monday night I was just getting used to be without Georgia Ann, Weather Man, and wealth when Straight Boyfriend and I got a strange phone call from BYOB. Or at least from her phone, apparently BYOB had gotten incredibly drunk and some complete stranger pulled her off the subway and walked her partway home. We rushed out of the apartment to collect the pieces (and stray chunks) of BYOB from the stranger, thanking her for being kind enough to bring our roommate back and for being extra nice by ensuring that a more rape-friendly stranger hadn’t plucked her off the subway.

In what shall now be known only as Vomicon ’08, BYOB barely made it into the apartment before spewing all over the bathroom: the sink, the tub, the floor, pretty much everyone except for the toilet. Hours later I was trying to clean up chunks of Wendy’s fries and pulling a nearly unconscious roommate out of the bathtub and dressing her for bed. The next morning she hadn’t cleaned up a thing (or regained consciousness) and I began to get increasingly irritated. What was this girls problem? She discounted my relationships as trivial and sexually based, talked exclusively about herself, ditched friends in exchange for passing relationships, and got so wasted on a Monday that she couldn’t get herself home (without giving second thought to how easily her safety could’ve been compromised). But now, not even an apology. My anger began to stir and as I turned on the shower water I started to brew.

Unfortunately so did the stew-like chunks of vomit that were collecting around my feet, and as the steam rose it brought the smell of hot re-heated up-chuck with it. I was so angry I had it up to my eyes, or at least up to my throat, as the smell of puke triggered my own gag reflex and sent me straight to the toilet to mimic BYOB’s early antics.

At least I made it into the toilet.

By the time I made it into work I was calm and collected, almost glad to be at work. I had somehow even beat all of my bosses into the office, which never happens! But I quickly realized I hadn’t beaten them into the office, they had beaten me into the board room- I missed my first ever sales meeting because I was busy heaving last nights dinner! FUCK!

A cup of coffee did nothing to calm my nerves and anger, so I grabbed an emergency cigarette (hidden in plain sight on my desk) and headed outside to watch my stress go up in smoke the way my morning had. Until I stepped out of the building with a Marlboro light in my mouth and see my manager, Hundo, outside as well. That’s when it becomes acheing clear that my secret smoking habit isn’t so secret in Manhattan. Vom.

[i gotta get my shit together, cuz i can’t live like this forever. i’ve come to far and i don’t want to fail. i’ve got a new computer and a bright future in sales]


In Search of Lost Time

Days without an update: 18

Wow, time flies when you’re on drugs. At least I think that’s the case for my opioid addict boss, Hundo, who didn’t realize that it was no longer August. He was blind-sided by the Jewish New Year and took off for the holiday, leaving me a few work days without visiting every Duane Reade in the city. Happy New Year!

I haven’t behaved much better than (allegedly) Hundo has, with my alcoholism lapsing into black outs all over the city. Thus the lack of updates, time for both blackouts and recovery is all my social calendar can handle.

About a week ago I cleared time in my social calendar to meet with Georgia Ann, Times Square and a few other friends that I’d been neglecting. We all met at El Rey Del Sol on 14th and enjoyed ourselves, along with a pitcher of margaritas. Part way through the evening we began to notice that the seasons were slowly changing from summer to fall, that we’re all becoming more accustomed to the city, and that the guys sitting behind me were very attractive.

Ten minutes later I had become BFF with Carlos and whatever the other guy’s name was, and found my conversation at their table leading very promising places. My gaggle of friends decided to move on to Flannery’s (love it) and I decided to stick around for ten more minutes and a cigarette (which is practically unveiled code for “let me seal the deal first”).

The next thing I know, its 6:30 in the morning and I’m on the E train in Queens. No cell phone, no iPod, and no idea how this all happened.

After only an hour and a half of sleep in Harlem, the Harem awakens me and informs me that moving day is upon us, just like autumn weather and the winter of my discontent. I pushed through a brutal headache and managed to drag my roomies belongings down the steps of our fifth floor walk-up and into the moving truck before nearly passing out on a subway train to our new home in Brooklyn. Unfortunately surviving one headache meant sucumbing to a new one- Straight Boyfriend’s bed was too big for our staircase and could not be pushed up the one flight of steps into our new (huge and awesome) apartment.

There was a brief moment when I pulled the box springs over my head that I worried I might faint, but when Straight Boyfriend literally threw his bed and I caught it by the loose fabric and pulled it over our second story balcony everything turned out ok. Then I immediately collapsed on our new couch, physically exhausted from moving and mentally not quite sure what happened the evening before.

Eventually the clues fell into place- my friends had called all night because I had simply disappeared (though I lost my phone and couldn’t call them), my hangover never included the slightest twinge of nausea, my memory lapsed for an epic 8 hour span, my bar tab never increased during the night, and I only had two drinks of the margaritas…. at 9 pm! That does not explain feeling entirely out of your own body at noon the next day.

Too confused and perturbed to venture out on Saturday, I chatted with a friend over mimosas and goat-cheese omlettes about my night. The conclusion: rohypnol. Perhaps GHB. Either way, fantastic.

Less than a year in a city and I already can’t remember the boys I’m going home with.

Jokes aside, the entire event does shake your confidence. Nothing of the evening was out of the ordinary, nothing incredibly dangerous or unwise, just incredibly bad luck and the complete ignorance/naivety of a midwesterner attempting to meet new people and have some margaritas. The strange marks on my arm have healed, I’ve retrieved my phone after a lengthy time out of touch, and my friends have forgiven me for disappearing. I have all my money, I am disease free, I was not forced to ingest anything illegal, and I wasn’t sold into black market slavery (that would RUIN my night). I am pretty lucky for all of that, though. The next few weeks have brought a sense of normalty, and the new apartment is coming along nicely. I’m *this close* to buying a real bed! Party.

It’s a shame for the boys though, I would’ve spent the night without the drugs. Bummer.

[everything it seems i like is a little bit sweeter, a little bit fatter, a little bit harmful for me]

The Fuck-Up

Day 100!

New York City kicks ass and, not surprisingly, no city kicks your ass quite like New York. The good days are great, and the bad days are so frustrating that you find yourself considering the benefits of someplace remote like Russia or the Northwest Territories or even Jersey. My bad luck in the past few days is actually karmic retribution for poisoning my body with booze and no sleep lately.

The weekend went well enough, with my good friend Trivial Pursuit visiting from Chicago to destroy my liver. After a hard night of partying in Brooklyn and waking up in a cramped trough full of lesbians (don’t ask), I drank my day away with Trivial Pursuit and learned of all her continuing boy problems. She has a knack for choosing losers who seem like assholes but can be quite charming when alone… or at least that’s the story she gave. This time around a combination of pizza at four am and a discussion about indie pop music left her near tears. Apparently Trivial Pursuit’s latest widget is a member of the Hush Sound, an altogether wonderful Chicago band that clearly has good taste in women. The tears kept flowing as I heard stories about tour buses and love triangles, of course in my mind the entire scene was scored with the song “Honey” being played over and over again and all the characters were actors from Almost Famous. Brilliant! I’m told most of the band is very nice. Still, it’s hard to believe when the smartest girl you know is balling her eyes out on top of a perfectly good piece of drunkenly purchased Fat Sal’s.

After an entirely too early brunch meeting with Trivial Pursuit on Sunday we parted ways and I sat in my new Harlemn-centric apartment until receiving fortuitous news from my roommate, Straight Boyfriend, who had stumbled upon free tickets to the fucking US OPEN FINALS and happened to remember how I loved tennis. More than I even love nicknames! I even got to call Georgia Ann and rub it in her face that she wasn’t at Arthur Ashe while I was drinking vodka tonics (on a Sunday, thus the karmic retribution) and getting ready to see Serena kick Jelena Jankovich’s ass… then I called Georgia Ann back just to invite her, as yet another ticket was available. The entire experience was more incredible than I had thought; cheap food and fantastic seats shared with good friends and a great match up. I gave the over-under that Serena would take it in two sets, while a friend bet me a few drinks that Jankovich would take it in three. Georgia Ann was in a state of euphoria the entire time and never put her camera down, as we each yelled at the umpire whenever we felt it was appropriate. And somehow I accidentally ate a strangers entire bucket of waffle fries. Not quite sure how that mix up occured, but it was a tasty one!

By the way, Serena Williams and vodka-tonics were the evenings winners.

The next morning my body began exacting its revenge. After more than 3 months of constant social misadventuring and exploring a new section of the world known was Manhattan, my body has finally given out. Then again, it could have more to do with the fact that I’ve survived on four hours of sleep every night for over a week and drank 11 out of the last 14 evenings. That last statistic doesn’t bode well.

Needless to say, when I woke up I felt like I had lodged two golfballs in my throat (and not in a sexy way). Five hours after waking up I still didn’t feel like I had woken up at all, and the excess coffee that I chugged to catch a quick buzz proved to only wake up my slumbering intestines, which meant running to the floor below me to purge my alcohol saturated gullet (no one on that floor can recognize my fabulously scuffed up shoes). I survived the day at work and immediately went to my apartment where I could relax in peace, alternating between mini-marathons of Family Guy and the bathroom. Glamorous.

Turns out being sick in New York is just as dreadful as anywhere else. Only with people in the way. Which leads me to my next bout of bad luck-

Dear Bryant Park- please get out of my way. Your fashion week is likely fabulous (and accessorized with too many zippers) but you attract hordes of crowds who know nothing about fashion and instead far too much about Carrie Bradshaw, thus the bitchy gawker girls in Bryant Park who stand in my way while I go to work. Don’t these women have real jobs? And why doesn’t the city give you a complimentary battering-ram when you move here? I forgot about my bus ticket to DC this weekend, which might be emotionally damaging, but it will be nice to walk in a city without the urge use a flame thrower against the slow-moving public.

On yet another day of being ill while in the office (Office Illin’ as it has been dubbed by Steen) I discovered that I am quickly climbing the ranks among the more long term assistants at the company. Also, I discovered the new Jenny Lewis album doesn’t come out until September 23… the internet lied to me. I want the damn album now! I also want my lunch hour back, Barnes and Noble! Anyway-back to work. After the Jenny Lewis lunch time disappointment I got to meet a few clients from Seattle and had my first opportunity to swear at an assistant on the phone! It’s like being Ari Gold only with much uglier clients. And I don’t have my own Lloyd. I am Lloyd… sad. My toughest boss even complimented me today, and as we both put in a little bit of time after 5 o’clock it seemed for the first time that I was sure my no-shouldered boss liked me. He handed me a personal order he had sold and asked me to imput it as he grabbed his coat to go, and even stuck around a few minutes to talk, socially.

And that’s when I cost the company $52,000 in 30 seconds.

The mistake seems to be irreversible and no one is sure how it happened, but at 5:15 it became clear that I destroyed two orders that are (were?) each worth 27-thousand dollars. My boss, who’s comission went up in smoke, was not happy. Our friendship, coincidentally up in smoke, quickly devolved. The next 30 minutes were spent with my boss angrily trying to fix my mistake as I scurried about grabbing papers and making phone calls. He yelled “Lloyd!” and I scuttled my gay ass into his office for yet another assistant-like task. Fucking up paper work, pissing of the boss, all things I dread. Combine that with occasionally disappearing to the 21st floor to go to the bathroom… wreched.

US Open induced sickness, 3 months of over-extended exhaustion finally taking it’s toll, Bryant Park fashion gawkers, the great Jenny Lewis lunch time disappointment, a pending weekend in DC, and a 30 second mistake that may cost twice my salary. This is all Jelena Jankovich’s double-fault.

[why must I spend my time filling up my life with facts and figures that never add up anyway? they never add up anyway]

Fight Club

Days back in Michigan: 5

My computer blew up. Ass.

Home is an extremely bizarre place. There are entire fields of grass for absolutely no reason. There are stars at night… STARS?!?! And you can hear crickets when you’re trying to sleep on the couch of your entirely uncomfortable living room couch (not to mention that the house is without air conditioning). It’s kinda nice, though.

Needless to say, I am back in Michigan for a week before heading back out to the city. In a few short days the new job begins. Exciting! Until then, baseball games and Dominicans and ice cream and Project Runway. In that order. It is a far cry from the life I grew to love in New York, which culminated with Burkeman (yay!) and Dude Mathews drunkenly hailing a cab to La Guardia at 5 am. Bars in New York close at 4, so staying up the extra hour at a diner was no problem. Finding my ID in my bags while drunk in line to pass security, that was a bigger problem. When I tripped and fell in the Detroit airport during my layover I realized perhaps I should’ve slept a little before arriving home. Nothing says “you fucked up” quite like eating shit in the middle of a magazine store in an airport. Note to self: drinking on a flight is great. Drinking for six hours and then catching a flight- not so great. On the upside, the crying baby next to me on the flight stood no chance against my binge-drinking coma. I slept like that baby should’ve. However, that only lasted a half hour before arriving home, where my family was mildly horrified that I reaked of Jameson and hadn’t bathed in a few days. New York turns scion into a slob.

There is one large change between home and the city that I’m not adjusting to very well, I admit- my computer. Its on the fritz and cannot be revived until I am back in Manhattan. Only problem, I might not be going back to Manhattan…

While walking home on a Sunday evening Straight Boyfriend (of the Harlem Harem, a group I recently elected to live with) ran into three large men on the street. Well, he didn’t run into them so much as their fists. Multiple times. The attack is believed to have been racially motivated, as Straight Boyfriend is a large white Alaskan dude in the middle of a largely Dominican section of Harlem, but his attackers weren’t Dominican.

Forunately the incident was stopped before it could become to brutal, but he does have some bruising on his face and a severely broken desire to remain in Harlem. Thus the Harlem Harem may soon become the Brooklyn Brigade. It will be a journey.

Oh, and Weather Man will be back in the city when I arrive on Saturday. AND I’m living with the Femme Fellows in Hoboken for the month of August. And work, the first day of the rest of my life, starts on Monday (same day as Drag Queen Bingo).

It’s about to get very interesting.

[we are adventuring, we are adventurers]

The Futurist

Day 52

For a few years now I’ve been involved in an abusive relationship, and in the last few months it’s gotten even worse. My boyfriend, Alcohol, let’s me pound on him all night, but in the morning he treats me like shit. It’s a vicious cycle that neither of us are mature enough to escape. I’m guilty of using him, he (literally) makes me sick. But what are we to do?

Fortunately he’s a great date to almost any occasion. Last week a friend’s girlfriend provided a free pass on the VIP list to a MLB All-Star viewing party at Webster Hall, where my new boyfriend was already awaiting me at an open bar. Considering Tuesday had been a Red Letter Day for me (an interview that turned into a tentative job offer) I celebrated with some Red Stripe. And rum and coke. And rum and coke. And rum and coke. And I lost track eventually, but it ended with rum and coke. Regardless, the evening was perfect- I got to watch some baseball (hot), some baseball players (hotter), and had my free reign over an open bar thanks to a shinny little badge (hottest). Plus, a few of my favorites were there, and I wound up chatting with my friend Bad for Your Organs Brooke- perhaps my closest friend in NYC and also the only other individual I know who’s as intimiately acquainted with the world of binge drinking. Anyway, BYOB and I started chatting and the night blurred past quicker than ever. We had a riot laughing about … I don’t even know, everything. I even got to chat with her roommate, the inevitable Straight Boyfriend that I don’t yet have. He’s great, Alaskan, and entirely easy to ply with drinks. BYOB and Straight Boyfriend share an apartment together in Harlem (thus now known as the Harlem Harem) and by the end of the night I escaped Webster Hall with a VIP pass to become the newest member of the Harlem Harem- BYOB and Straight Boyfriend are performing a hostile take-over and removing their third roommate, thus making the way for Burkeman! RIOT.

Within the course of 12 hours I was offered the perfect job and the perfect apartment, for a starter New Yorker. Needless to say, the next few hours were going to have to go down hill from there. And then some.

Vaguely hungover but entirely chipper at work, I got some good advice from Jersey Queen who suggested I play the field. Considering Jersey Queen has played both sides of every field at this point, I’ll take her word on it- at least when it comes to apartments.

In Brooklyn that night I met a nice guy named Borwen, who was less than amusing but incredibly kind. He offered me the apartment on the spot; I was forced to admit that I had actually committed to another place and was just checking this place out to play the field. And honestly, the two meth-heads on the stoop and the myriad of broken fire-hydrants on the 90+ degree hike to his place didn’t tempt me enough to stray from my Harem, even for 50 bucks less a month. Meh, we’re both hopeful we can still be friends….

That weekend I brushed off my apartmental infidelity and let some friends whisk me away to the trashy beach. Literally, garbage everywhere, beach. I lost my Coney Island virginity on a hot day in July with a bunch of girls and a live band that sucked, which probably isn’t too far off from where most people lose their virginity, anyway. The park was fantastic, Coney Island is perhaps the biggest what-the-fuck location of all time; literred with fat chicks, hot dog stands, economically priced french fries, and life guards who blow whistles and wear needlessly enticing swim-suits, it’s as if the park in Pinnochio (where all the boys became donkeys) was recreated in New York as a tourist attraction. PS- the Cyclone is over-priced and hazardous for your health. The Cyclone is disturbingly like anal sex-unnecessarily rought but if you ride it multiple times, it gets better.

My day soaking up the sun on Coney Island passed all too quickly, as has my time as a fellow at *B&, the major network that has been providing me work lately. The acceptance of a job at a major sales orginization has brought an onslaught of *B& employees out of the woodwork to wish me well (aka buy me lunch in attempts to build loyalty for when I’m hire-able in 8 years). It’s been a generous outpouring, and I’ll have no qualms about returning to the network in a few years, especially if I can get a few more free meals out of it. The president of national television sales took me out for lunch, bought me a margarita, and then told me his daughter was troubled. I’m not sure what that means, but I had a free margarita!

As exciting as beaches and guest lists and working-margarita-lunches with executives can be (more lunches in the next week, yay!), it is impossible to overlook how frighteningly straight these last few weeks have been. After nearly two months in (arguably) the gayest city in the nation, I’m still play-less. What’s that about? Not even a kiss. Ouch. I exchanged digits with Cute Clerk a while back, but after ignoring Facebook messages and never calling him, it’s clear I’m not about to redeem that one (oops). However, a friend from DC is traveling to the City this weekend, perhaps with intentions of changing this situation. After a year of being close “friends” it is clear this friend, Weather Man, and I are going nowhere very quickly. As my emotions subside, his begin to swell… typical. Which means while he’s traveling to NYC to drop the L-bomb, I’m bunkering down in my apartment in hopes of surviving the fall out.

Meanwhile, my feelings for our mutual friend, Great Scot, have taken a surprising turn into the “maybe” category. Of course all of this is further complicated by the fact that both of these men are significantly older than I am… extra typical. And the additional fact that Weather Man may have cancer, and that Great Scot is having brain surgeory in a few weeks, makes for a rather decent checklist of reasons I shouldn’t have gotten myself this deep in either of their lives. Crap.

Elsewhere, I’ve found myself debating crazy things with a few of my friends. Tonight at a brewery, Dude Mathews and I were discussing marriage and my belief that forever simply doesn’t exist. Only today exists, and a promise to try again tomorrow. However, my beliefs are about to be tested… if Great Scot fairs well through brain surgeory he hopes to stay in the US, which means finding his green card one way or another.

Turns out Massachusetts opened a whole new chapter on man-on-man immigration, and as a born-n-bred American, all of the sudden I have post-brain surgeory marriage to consider.

First things first- Weather Man has invited me to a dinner party with his friends. And it’s my last weekend with my fellow fellows here in NYC. Which means two things- drinking with gay men and drinking with straight friends. Fortunately my abusive relationship boyfriend will stay by my side all weekend, otherwise I’d have to take responsibility for the mistakes I’m about to make…

[danger! danger! high voltage]