I went into Thrifty's liquor store on M Street tonight and did something I've never done in my entire life. No, I didn't leave empty-handed - rather, I purchased a bottle of vodka for reasons other than drinking!

Drunk with goodness. Twirl responsibly.

That's right, friends - tonight's menu is penne (well, mastaccioli) with vodka sauce, as well as some delicious chicken cutlets, a personal favorite. One cup of vodka for the sauce, another cup of vodka for me to get sauced. (I doubt this was Giada's intention, but I like to improvise in the kitchen. "Eyeball it," as Raytard might say - boy, has that gotten me in trouble when vodka's involved.)

Anyway, I would like to take this opportunity to thank the hundreds of Vividblurry.com readers who not only pointed out the kick-off of Metro Weekly's "Coverboy of the Year" Contest, but expressed outrage and disbelief at my exclusion from the competition. Believe me, I'm as disappointed as the next guy (Hi, Dad!), but the fact remains that I've never in my life been high enough to consent to a "Coverboy Confidential" photo shoot. Thusly I am not eligible to compete - perhaps we can organize a write-in campaign?

For those who don't live in Washington or read Metro Weekly, let me fill you in on the dignity abortion that is a "Coverboy Confidential" photo spread.

It is six pages of "softcore meets Sears Portrait Studio" goodness - a different boy sacrificed each week to the amazement of skeptics who beg, "Who on Earth would volunteer himself for this!" (No, really, who?) A Coverboy has no answer to that question - M.W. asks that you stick to the usual "What's the strangest place you've had sex?" and "What position do you play in the big baseball game of life?" (Just once, I would like someone to reply honestly a k a "catcher." And no, that someone will not be me.)

In short, "Coverboy Confidential" is the breeding ground from which hatch the Reichen Lehmkuhls of the world.

No, The Reichen will not do a "Coverboy Confidential" photo shoot. Unless The Reichen gets a bag of Skittles. Skittles are non-negotiable.

So, why do I love the "Coverboy of the Year" Contest? Because as long as there is a Coverboy of the Year, there will always be at least one person in Washington, D.C., who is a bigger attention whore than me.

Lastly, as I was obsessing over the latest issue of Metro Weekly today, I came across a picture of my future husband. Behold:

Is that a glow stick in your jockstrap, or are you just fucked up on E?

If there's one thing I like, it's a muscle-bound stud who casually wears a jockstrap stuffed with the trappings of a mid-90s rave. Hot!