Oh look, there I am, sobbing uncontrollably in my used domestic car. Why, I’m probably on my way to work!

Ha ha, just kidding, that’s not me. It’s the choir teacher with no penis from “Glee.” When I saw this scene last night, I burst out laughing. How many times would you bet I’ve cried alone while driving a car? If you guessed ONCE, then you are WRONG! The correct answer is twice. Once, in high school, while playing No Doubt’s “Simple Kind Of Life” and coming to terms with the fact that I got a B- on the English Regents exam despite getting a 5 on the AP English exam. And another time, during the summer break after freshman year of college, when Avril Lavigne’s “Complicated” came on the radio, a song that reminded me of my boyfriend at the time who I was far too good for!  The only reason there aren’t more examples is because I no longer drive a car.

I’m trying to think of the last time I had a really big cry, in or out of a car. The problem with crying yourself to sleep every night is you typically don’t remember doing it come morning.

Oh god, major dilemma. It’s 10:30 p.m. on a Saturday, and my upstairs neighbor just messaged me on Facebook, asking what I’m doing. Actually, he literally asked, “What are you doing?” – and anyone not born yesterday would recognize that as a booty call. But it’s totally not like that, we’re friends, we live in the same building, we’ve been trying to hang out more, whatever. So I reply, truthfully, “Something lame, whyyy?” And I really was doing something lame. I was lamely laying in bed with my boyfriend’s dog, lamely messing around on my iPhone, while lamely waiting for the Lunesta to kick in. FUCK, the Lunesta! I had JUST swallowed a Lunesta pill, which meant I had 15 minutes before the room would start to spin. And my neighbor was asking me to come upstairs and drink with him and his friends. Fuckity fuck.

So, I do what any rational person would do and head into the bathroom to force myself to vomit. That blue fucking pill was going to come back up whether it liked it or not! Sure, I’d be interrupting its little Lunesta destiny, but I didn’t care! I practically fisted my own throat, all in vein, only to cough up some remnants of my bedtime casein shake. And because I’m as rational as the next guy, I even considered for a moment heading up there, just to play things by ear. You know, strolling in, introducing myself, pouring myself a cocktail, and casually informing the host that I could collapse at any moment due to the lethal side effects of alcohol and prescription sleeping pills. And then I’d call bass guitar on Rock Band.

Miraculously, I opted for bed. You see, even prior to the Lunesta, I had been feeling faint due to this wacky new diet I’m on where I’m supposed to ingest fewer calories than I burn. Not really sure how it’s going so far, but I nearly fell over a few times this evening from temporary loss of orientation, so I guess that’s good!

Because I’m an idiot, I spent the last two weekends gallivanting around the state of Florida, primarily the areas of Orlando, West Palm Beach and Jupiter. The first weekend entailed a Disney vacation with Matt. The second weekend, a “relaxing” stay (It actually did turn out to be pretty relaxing!) with my parents and my sister. These two trips were supposed to be combined, which is where the “I’m an idiot” factor comes into play. I booked the Disney vacation on the wrong fucking weekend, so long story, I had to spend hundreds of dollars on last-minute flights, car rentals, etc., all because I’m an r-word who doesn’t listen, never calls and can’t communicate with others (according to my mother). Anyway, I’m back in D.C. and I’m totally poor!

During the most recent of my Florida sojourns – which consisted largely of eating, drinking, visiting a turtle hospital, and peering at multi-million dollar condos from the interior of a Ford Windstar minivan – I had a lot of time to reflect on things. Am I happy with where I am in life? Not really! I mean, I am very lucky to have a great boyfriend and great friends and a great family and a great dog and a great apartment and great hair – but… everything else (And what else is there, really?) is a disaster. And so, I’ve given myself 25 days to get my life in order, because in 25 days I turn 27.

Basically, I need to determine two things: Do I need to go back to school, and if so, what do I want to study? And what do I do with this blog? I want to return to writing, but part of me wants to start over in a totally anonymous way. So, dear blog friends, please solve all of my problems, thanks!

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.

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]“)

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 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!

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.

Ha ha ha, guess who forgot he had a blog!

In any event, here are some of my resolutions for 2009.

1. Stop biting my nails. This is a laughable resolution, I will never be able to commit to this unless I take up heroin or some other comparably addictive habit.

2. No carbs after 6 p.m. Ha ha ha.

3. Cook at least once a week. I don’t count baking chicken breasts and steaming brocolli as cooking, you see.

4. Spend more time with my friends. More frequent encounters with my friends means that my dramatic weight fluctuations will be less noticeable.

5. Take more pictures. Like, with a camera, not my shitty iPhone.

6. Run. I don’t do any cardio, I will probably drop dead of a heart attack at 28. Also, I’m fat.

7. Start a new hobby. And it ain’t gonna be blogging, ha ha ha!

I got uncharacteristically drunk at the bar last night – I demand to know who allowed this to happen! – and paid the price all morning and afternoon. By the time 7 p.m. rolled around, I concluded that the day had been a total wash and that tomorrow’s holiday could effectively serve as a “do-over.” And that’s when I had an idea: To atone for last night’s excesses, I would perform at least one productive task before “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition” started. And that task, I decided, would be to talk to my mother about my boyfriend.

Now, my parents already know I’m gay. I officially let them in on the world’s worst-kept secret during Thanksgiving weekend of 2001 – specifically, that Sunday afternoon, one hour before I had to leave to catch my train back to college. It was never mentioned again until January of 2004, when they confronted me about some New York gay nightlife pamphlets they found in my bedroom while I was home on Christmas break. I blogged about it at the time. I’m not going to link to it because first I’d have to find it and then I’d have to read it and I’d rather not do that.

Fast-forward to present day. I’ve introduced him to my sister. I talk to my grandmother about him all the time. But only now am I getting around to telling my parents about the person I’ve been dating for the last two years.

Except, I didn’t do it. I couldn’t. My mother picked up, sounded elated to hear from me, and put me on speakerphone so that I could talk to my father, as well. She went on and on about their recent trip to the west coast, their visit with my brother in Los Angeles, their upcoming vacation in the Keys. And then it was my turn to speak. I have no idea what I said, but it was guarded and safe. And then I hung up and called my sister and screamed into her answering machine.

I haven’t cried in a while but tonight really pushed it.

I was at dinner last night with a bunch of friends and a random girl I’d never met, and within a few moments of being sat at our table, the subject of Sarah Palin came up. I made a comment about the somewhat ridiculous rumor of Trig not being Sarah Palin’s baby, and immediately the random girl I’d never met piped up.

“You wouldn’t be saying that if she weren’t a woman!”

Oh Lord, I thought. Here we go. I looked over to see if the GOP talking points were hidden behind her menu, but they weren’t, so I flat-out asked her if she likes Sarah Palin.

“I’m a Republican,” she said.

Now, in some ways, this was a fitting response, as her answer had absolutely nothing to do with the question I asked. But I wasn’t in the mood to engage someone who didn’t despise John McCain, so I just said, “Oh, OK.”

Still, the following morning, I remain disturbed. Barack Obama earned my vote – I didn’t earn him as a candidate. My response to “Do you like Barack Obama?” wouldn’t be, “I’m a Democrat – so, yes.” It would simply be, “Yes.”

I went to a “political fundraiser” last night, and by that I mean my friend is running for reelection in the ANC and a wine-and-cheese party was thrown in his honor. There were lots of people there I didn’t know and a near-equal number of people I didn’t feel like getting to know, but a few proved worthy of the risk of uncomfortable small talk, including this kid I recognized from my gym.

Now, unlike the completely ridiculous Vida that opened on 15th and P Streets last week, my gym is far from a gay discotheque masquerading as a health club. In fact, it caters pretty strongly to that niche market of individuals who go to the gym to – wait for it – work out. No one talks to each other, eye contact is avoided, and military efficiency both in the locker room and near the weight racks is encouraged. And so for me to admit to recognizing a fellow gym member at a party is almost taboo, because it would imply my attention at some point during a workout drifted from the task at hand to the face of another human being. But whatever, I stare creepily at people all the time, so I walked right up to him last night and said hi.

As it turns out, he recognized me as well (obviously) and we debated briefly the hotness level of the male trainers based on height, hair style, and bicep size. I also commented on the fact that he works with a trainer while I do not, feigning a tinge of jealousy, even though I strongly prefer to perform bench presses without looking up the shorts of someone who’s being paid to shout at me. The conversation was going fine, until one of my friends walked over.

“Oh, hey, this is ___, we go to the same gym. He has a trainer, I don’t.”

The unintentional cattiness of my remark was further enforced by my friend, who said, “Really?” and laughed.

I’m looking forward to returning to the gym on Monday, where a 50-pound dumbbell will likely be dropped on my foot.

Can you spot the difference?

Hmm, well, it’s by no means the extreme makeover I was hoping for. But I’ve always wanted to dye my hair a true black, and it was remarkably easy. Nice ‘n Easy, you might say. I think it gives me a guido edge that was previously lacking.

Tragically, the one truly noticeable difference has nothing to do with my face. It has to do with my hairline. While waiting for the color to set in, I went online and started researching ways to clean the dye stains from my face, neck and ears. To my surprise, several people recommended a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. Because I’m an asshole, I found nothing wrong with this and grabbed a fresh Eraser from the cabinet beneath my kitchen sink.

Let this be a lesson for all of my readers: DO NOT SCRUB YOUR FACE WITH A MR. CLEAN MAGIC ERASER. The red abrasions that now frame my face look ridiculous and are the true mark of someone who believes everything he reads on the Internet. Oh, well. If people ask about them, I’ll just say my boyfriend beats me with a belt.

(You can sort of see the abrasions near my temple in the photo below.)

I went to the tailor today to have a pair of suit pants hemmed, and she nearly burst into tears when I walked out of the dressing room.

“What did they do to your pants! They’re two inches too short!”

“Yea, I know,” I said. “I made the mistake of not only buying the suit at Men’s Wearhouse but having it altered there, too.”

The tailor walked over and stuck her index finger down the back of the pants.

“And the waist! It is too small! They did not do this well at all!”

Yes, that’s right – fuck Men’s Wearhouse! They’re responsible for the short pants, and they’re also responsible for the inch I gained on my waist since I bought the suit three months ago. Should have gone to Nordstrom. Bastards.