Check out this post by DC Cised. It sort of reminds me of my own writing from back in the day.

Not that I ever really cared for pumpkin, but after watching tonight’s episode of “Hoarders” – which featured an elderly woman named Jill who couldn’t stand to part with the seeds of an entirely unsalvageable rotting pumpkin carcass that had made a home for itself on her living room floor – I’m not sure enough time will pass before Thanksgiving for me to enjoy a slice of pumpkin pie ever again.

Interestingly, Jill and I have completely opposite problems. Whereas she holds on to eggs for over a year and insists that it wouldn’t kill her to eat them (or serve them to her son), I throw them out the second the clock strikes “sell by date.” I also dump any remaining milk five days after I’ve opened the carton – although I know for a fact that this is what you’re supposed to do.

Sigh. What would it take for me to become a full-blow hoarder? Of course, who am I kidding – my boyfriend would never even let me hoard episodes of “Hoarders” on the DVR, let alone bags of coagulated cabbage in the hallway. (Hint from Heloise: Cabbage is very “forgiving” as it rots from the outside, according to Jill!)

Matt and I go “shopping” today and of course I manage to find the one deep V-neck T-shirt located in the entire men’s department of Bloomingdale’s. Heather grey with a screen-printed rainbow on it. And it was on sale for only $15 – imagine that! I buy it with only the faintest intention of ever actually wearing it.

Walking past Abercrombie, the topic of the prosthetic arm lawsuit comes up and I say to Matt, “Would Abercrombie hire me?”

“Probably,” he says.

PROBABLY?

“I mean, yeah, I’m sure they would.”

Um.

“They probably wouldn’t hire you because you’re just so BIG.”

Ding ding. Now we’re talking.

On an unrelated note, I have isolated spots of cystic acne all over my face. This is what happens when you stress out about stupid shit that won’t even matter in six months.

I have a hard enough time seeing my friends in eye-rollingly meager whisps of Lycra at the pool, so you can imagine my discomfort when stumbling upon photos of my friends doing sexy times on the Internet.

This very thing happened to me the other day when about 300 people e-mailed me links to a porn blog that featured still frames of a mutual “friend” (To be honest, I barely know this person, he showed up to my boyfriend’s birthday party one year and was perfectly nice, I’ve probably interacted with him three times since then.) pounding out the veal with his considerably less attractive “co-star.”

As with any disaster – be it one involving cars, acts of nature, or, in this case, an individual – it was impossible to look away, so I scanned through the images, experiencing a tingling sensation that was entirely unfamiliar, given the situation. No, it wasn’t arousal; it was faint admiration.

Indeed, how empowering it must be to allow photos of the most private aspects of your life and genitalia be posted on the Internet for the world to see. To live without a thing to hide – I’m not sure if I have or will ever experience that. I’m always covering up something: my emotions, my tenders. ESPECIALLY my tenders. No Lycra swim trunks for me.

You know, blogging really is sort of like doing porn. You’re putting yourself out there, exposing yourself (albeit figuratively) to the judgement of family, friends and strangers alike. Of course, blogging is far less lucrative and usually doesn’t involve getting your taint waxed.

I recently discovered Girls Aloud through their latest single “Untouchable,” which is played on Energy 98 all day long. It is the official SONG OF THE SUMMER, at least in my head and also in my boyfriend’s car, where I whine and complain until he caves into letting me plug in my iPhone and play the damn song. (I always choose the seven-minute extended version because I’m an asshole.) Anyway, I love this song, and I love Girls Aloud as much as one who has never actually handed over money for a Girls Aloud song can.

Knowing my interest in shitty music, B___ sends me a link this afternoon to a music video by some group called The Saturdays. I had heard a little about them and assumed they were some indie hipster group. But when I pull up their Wikipedia page, I discover the familiar formula of five attractive women, each with varying degrees of skin pigmentation and stylized hair. They look just like every other girl group – SO OF COURSE I BECOME OBSESSED WITH THEM.

Their video for “Work” is pretty much perfect and adheres closely to the standards and practices outlined in Girl Group Music Videos 101:

• Leather outfits
• Posing disguised as dancing
• Hair extensions
• Balls of fire
• Wind machine
• Sparks falling from the ceiling
• Overexposed closeups
• Fake dance floor with a runway
• Spotlights
• Stomping around on a wet floor
• No plot
• Sexy face

God, I’d give anything to be in a girl group. I’d even volunteer to be the ugly one who isn’t trusted to sing verses.

On Saturday, I choose my outfit very carefully. It is S___’s 30th birthday and he’s hosting a party to celebrate and I need to wear something that’s tight enough to make myself feel sexy (and others uncomfortable) but loose enough to remove in a moment’s notice should I be asked to throw on a pair of heels and sequined “gown” for the inevitable booger drag show. The winning selection: a black T-shirt and jeans. Imagine that!

One hour and a quart of iced tea vodka into the party, I’m standing around, minding everyone else’s business, when the male apotheosis of GLAMOUR enters the room in a garment that, at the time, could only be described in breathless sighs and seething stares of jealousy. Since then, I’ve identified the proper term for this woven wonder: JORTS.

Yes, jorts. As in, jean shorts. I haven’t seen anyone wear jean shorts since, well, yesterday, when I saw a pack of Midwestern tourists on the Metro. But I haven’t seen a GAY person wear jean shorts since, well, Latino night at Apex last week BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT.

I am not an elitist but jorts, no. Just, no. There’s another name for jorts and it’s “boner killer.”

(Interestingly, the ever-reliable Wikipedia reveals that July 25 is National Jorts Day. Also, jorts are “extremely prevalent in the state of New Jersey, which actually leads the nation in jort sales. [citation needed]“)

My self-esteem instantly cripples
At sight of your abs and their ripples
But still you’re a douche
Who’s hooked on the juice
With bacne and two puffy nipples

Like three 19th century convicts deported by the British government to the penal colony of New South Wales, S___, K___ and I were ravaged by a work week’s worth of physical punishment and medical neglect.

But with most spates of excessive labor comes an eventual reprieve, and for us, Friday evening offered such an opportunity to forgive Australia for its cruel sun and backbreaking coal mines and, instead, indulge in the healing balm of its yeast-based cuisine.

A journey to the south and to the west – a journey traveled so many times by so many – over the bridge and through what was once surely woods, to Outback Steakhouse in Arlington, Virginia, we go!

There was a 30 minute wait at Outback, so we went to Olive Garden instead.

Presented with a menu of perverted Italian fare, I chose the Apricot Something Chicken, which the ristorante’s website later revealed as having just 380 calories.

S___ and K___, on the other hand, each opted for the gastronomic Tour of Italy, a 1,400-calorie junket that typically includes an abrupt stopover in the bathroom.

I was pleased with my choice, although you’d never guess based on how fat I’m feeling at the pool today.

I just posted a new About Me page. It’s been a while since I’ve written one of these! I used to have a really good one from a previous layout, I’ll have to dig around to find it.

I leave the coal mine at 6:30 p.m. and lumber to the gym, where a bunch of tools are finishing up a CrossFit class. CrossFit is this new thing where you run in circles and lay on the floor and jump up and down while someone yells at you and it basically seems like the worst thing in the world. And people pay for this! There are suckers born every minute. Suckers who, unlike me, enjoy being challenged in the gym.

And then the class lets out because I’m in the locker room and these guys come in and they’re all sweaty and grunty and I’m like, Congratulations, you are all MANLY MEN!

It’s Friday, and C__ is back in town from Brussels, whatever that is, and I am SO EXCITED because we’ve made plans for a ladies night out at FUEGO, D.C.’s hottest gay nightclub for Latinos and the men who fetishize them. Although I qualify as neither of those things, both C__ and our friend R__ do, and besides, who am I to deny my brothers a night of passion with someone who lives in Alexandria, wears Old Navy boxer shorts, and doesn’t speak English.

As it turns out, Fuego is not exactly located in the most accessible of neighborhoods. In fact, it’s not really located in a neighborhood at all. What does one call the 1800 block of New York Avenue NE? The Arboretum District? Because that’s what’s across the street. Oh, and it’s housed in the same building as the United Cerebral Palsy headquarters. Perhaps PN Hoffman will build a condo there and a bunch of intrepid douches will start a “UnCePal” listserv.

Anyway, we pile into a cab, and after 20 minutes of watching the meter climb to an alarming $20, we pull up to our destination. “This is it!” R__ says, pointing at an awning with the United Cerebral Palsy logo. Somehow, this is reassuring. The driver pulls away, and we find ourselves alone in the middle of fucking nowhere.

Ah, but see, out of the darkness emerges a gang of Latinos, which might have proven a wee bit unnerving on any other given night, but on this night they inspire sighs of relief. And they’re cute! Perhaps our Fuego adventure won’t be as much of a pig fuck as I had expected. We follow them into the club, where we pay $10 for cover and get hammered.

Well, that’s oversimplifying things. I had three rum and Cokes, which were essentially glasses of rum with some ice dropped in as a perfunctory gesture. I took off my T-shirt because it was just so damn caliente in there. My self-tanner was dripping all over the place and left orange smears on several unidentified objects/people. Someone winked at me, the way an uncle winks at his niece after he abuses her in a Lifetime movie. We left in a cab and went to the gay McDonalds on 17th Street, where I traded in my remaining scraps of dignity for an eight-piece McNuggets meal. Then I called my boyfriend and made him pick me up. I watched a few episodes of “Three’s Company” (”Where’s Susan Sarandon’s character?”) and passed out at 5 a.m.

The next day I went to the public pool, but that’s a story for another time. All of my friends wear Speedos and I have no idea why.

I’m on a train to New York. While boarding, I asked if a certain car was business class. The black conductor said, “No, it’s a car for white males only. You’re a white male, aren’t you?” Ha! The conductor is my hero.

I skipped happy hour today and went to the gym instead, because if there is one thing I dislike more than brunch, it’s happy hour. BUT. I did accept an invitation to lose at Killer Bunnies, a card game I first played in Rehoboth a few weeks ago that is essentially Magic: The Gathering for gay urban nerds (aka my friends). I am completely obsessed with this game but not obsessed enough to be the one who pays for the expansion packs.

The gym was interesting because almost no one was there. Wednesday is usually an “off” day for me, as I now imagine it is for many other people. Not even the hairy 20-something government worker who wears compression shorts longer than his gym shorts (WHY?) and routinely pisses all over the toilet seat (I SEE YOU.) was there. Maybe he was hit by a bus.

And this is what qualifies as a “good” day in my nonstop thrill ride of a life. No, really, it was good!

So, wow, the hottest crystal meth addict was on “Intervention” last night. In terms of crystal meth addicts, I thought it didn’t get any hotter than Jeremy Jackson, but Aaron the former mixed martial arts champion is really giving him a run for his money.

Here is a picture of my new boyfriend/project Aaron, sporting two hallmarks of a classic Jersey douche: gelled hair and a landing strip. In all seriousness, he really is quite handsome.

Oh, and did I mention he is an actor?

Yes, that’s right! Aaron has performed in over 1,200 adult videos under the name Dick Delaware. (Click here if you’d like me to save you the time of Google Imaging his NSFW photos.) Unfortunately, he has retired from the business, choosing instead to spend his twilight years injecting speed and masturbating for 10 consecutive hours a day.

I know what you’re thinking: THE PERFECT MAN! A great face, a bodybuilder physique, a literally insatiable sexual appetite. If only he weren’t straight. And addicted to methamphetamine.

Predictably, Aaron completed rehab but relapsed after three weeks. The show portrayed him as a damaged individual who allowed himself to get caught in the endless cycle of porn acting and drugs. I’m afraid this sudden exposure will serve only to open more doors for deadend opportunities in porn, but perhaps I’ll be proven wrong. At the very least he should drop that stupid Dick Delaware moniker.

Is it possible that I’ve forgotten how to write? I’ve been staring at the computer screen for the last 10 minutes, starting a sentence and then deleting it and then starting it again. (Granted, the sentences were largely terrible, but hey that has never stopped me before!)

I honestly thought that blogging was like riding a bike – an innocuous hobby that, if unchecked, can quickly advance to an act of self-righteousness that annoys anyone who doesn’t quite share an interest in your “quirky” obsession. Oh, and that you never forget how to do it.

Now, if I haven’t forgotten how to write, then I’ve certainly forgot other things. Like, my niece’s sixth birthday, And, say, MY DREAMS.

God, remember when I dreamed of writing a book? Ha ha ha – how quaint. A book! Maybe if I actually read books, I’d know how to write one! But, no, I’m too busy reading blogs – and stupid blogs at that. (I am not entirely to blame here, as most of the good blogs rarely update anymore.)

Of course, there is one dream I haven’t forgotten – my dream of being 200 pounds. And I achieved this dream!… by, um, becoming fat. But still! Technicalities.

At the end of February this year, I clocked in at 200 pounds. (For reference, I weighed 172 pounds in January 2008.) I was huge. No one could mess with me! And when I went down to Florida with my family, my mother leadingly asked me if I planned on staying at “this size,” and my brother-in-law accused me of using steroids. Finally, I was getting the attention I deserved! I loved being big. I loved being not skinny.

But dreams can’t last forever. Realizing that I was puffy and quite literally water-logged, I went on a “diet” and dropped 10 to 15 pounds. I do not know what I currently weigh, I sort of don’t care. (Lies!)

Anyway, the lesson is: Dreams. And writing. I’ve forgotten how important these things are to me, and I think it’s time that we got seriously reacquainted.