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!

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!

I wonder what went through his head as he navigated his Blogspot settings and deleted me from his blogroll.

Gosh, I remember being 19 years old and getting into retarded “blog wars” with people and refusing to link to my perceived enemies ever again. Deleting someone from my blogroll – well, that was the ultimate “fuck you.” To be honest, my reasons for doing this were usually immature, misdirected, and based on an irrational desire to have control over someone. I never deleted someone from my blogroll because I stopped reading his blog. I would delete him because I wanted him to feel as unlikable and disposable and forgettable as I felt about myself.

Of course, it’s possible that he simply does not read my blog anymore, which is fine. But I still plan on reading his, so he stays on my list for now.

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’m calling bullshit on this.

He says he isn’t going to write a “typical last-post-ever entry, where I would say ‘my heart’s not in it anymore,’ ‘I’ve run out of things to say,’ ‘I’d rather end on a high’” – but this is exactly what he does. And in the process, he concedes that – despite the thick layer of self-deprecation that tempered nearly every post – blogging has definitely gone to his head.

I like to think there is some solid reading material that stands alone outside the blogging world.

I realize that London Preppy is a brand, a brand that holds some power in the gay blogging world.

I like my three quarters of a million hits, thank you very much.

Hmm, OK. Well, have fun writing your book. It’s a shame because I feel partly invested in your life and even though you’ve been quietly leading up to this with all of your “Read these other blogs!” recommendations, they all suck.

In other news, stupid Liz got the ban hammer from Rusty! Lulz!

I have just received word from a reliable source that the Hot Pants Guy is on the loose at JR.’s! And not only is he wearing the same fucking pair of black hot pants as per usual, but he’s gone a step further and accessorized them with SUSPENDERS and a LIZA MINELLI HAT. Seriously, who the fuck is this person? And where the hell do you buy a Liza Minelli hat?

I’m completely serious when I say that Hot Pants Guy needs to be stopped. May god help me if I see him tomorrow night because I will totally call him out and if you think I’m joking, I’m not.

The inmates are running the asylum over at Why I Hate D.C., where readers are begging Rusty’s successor to hand over the keys to someone who – gasp – actually has hatred for this city.

In the two weeks since Rusty left, “Liz” has proven herself to be charmless, unlikable, and, well, sort of a bitch. She offended many readers with her very first entry by failing to offer a personal introduction of any kind and instead launching into a confusing editorial on Chandra Levy. Since then, Liz has taken to deleting the bulk of reader criticisms in the comment sections, pleading for respect while simultaneously insulting Rusty’s readers as “whiny” and “entitled.”

Liz is fighting a losing battle with her inherited audience, as her comment sections have devolved into pleas for her swift resignation. Recent comments include:

Liz, you’re unbelievably bad at this. … you can back away from the blogging table now. No one likes you, no one wants you, you’re not cool, and you’re goddamn fucking pathetic.

Oh for pete’s sakes, someone give Liz access to the Late Night Shots forum or something, this is getting ridiculous.

you really sound more like a snotty, privileged brat rather than a true hater. i really don’t think you’re cut out for this gig.

Wow. Liz royally sucks. Truly a shame for all of us D.C. haters.

And it is a shame. Though no one could ever truly replace my dear friend Rusty, we certainly deserve someone better than Liz.

In the meantime, might I point my readers in the direction of The DCeiver? Starting today, I’ll be commenting on The DCeiver’s blog and, surely to her pleasure, leaving Liz the fuck alone.

I would be nervous about creating a website devoted entirely to my boyfriend, myself, and our upcoming nuptials. Why? Oh, no reason.

When I stepped into line at 6:30 a.m. at the Apple Store in Clarendon, I just knew I was a sucker.

Fast forward four hours later, and I’m still in line. If it feels like the line is moving, then it’s only because people are bailing. I bail, as well. Screw this. I have better things to do than subject myself to Apple and AT&T’s complete in-store abortion of the activation process.

Lots of coverage about the “iPocalypse” on Gizmodo and Engadget. I’m not sure when I’m heading back to the Apple Store, but I know that when I do, I’m sure as hell walking home with a god damn activated iPhone.

After my boyfriend revealed to me on Sunday that his body poof is at least three years old – I’ve been dating him for only a year and a half – I knew it was time to head to Target. Lord knows where that body poof has been or who it’s touched. Ew.

So we drive to Target and, lo and behold, the new Axe Detailer is waiting for me. According to its Amazon.com description, the Axe Detailer knows that “when girls check out guys, they notice every part.” Ergo, the need for a heteronormative body poof! I gave it to my boyfriend and demanded that he buy it for me.

Not surprisingly, the Detailer is terrible. It is far too abrasive, it doesn’t generate a good lather, and the tire-like rubber grip is cumbersome. Honestly, it’d probably do a better job at scrubbing pots and pans. Not a bad idea, actually.

The reviews on Amazon are pretty hilarious. I pulled some choice quotes below.

“I am beginning to question the overall quality of the product.”

“I’ve done fine for many years without something like this – probably because I have a desk job and just go jogging every day.”

“I wish if it had some kind of an extender to reach my back.”

“It strikes me as more appropriate for elephants, rhinos, and domestic cattle.”

“What’s next, deodorant shaped as a carburetor?”

Met a few douche bags tonight. Let’s review.

1. Random twink at JR.’s. Gets his drink at the downstairs bar, then proceeds to stand there while the masses of humanity behind him clamor for the bartender’s attention. Life is too short to deal with this shit, so I say to him, “Are you done? MOVE!” I push him aside and proceed to order my second can of Sparks. “Someone’s angry,” he lisps. You have no idea. Back off.

2. Doorman at Cobalt. Why I even go to Cobalt tonight is beyond me, but the point is that the doorman looks at my driver license and gives me a hard time. “This doesn’t look like you,” he says, dumbly. No shit – that photo was taken when I was 16 years old. “You should really look into updating this photo. I might not let you in next time.” Is that a promise? Because you’d be doing me a favor. And to those of you who say he is just doing his job, well, he isn’t doing his job at all. If the validity of my license is as dubious as he claims, then he shouldn’t let me in. As a doorman, he is a failure.

3. The Underwear Contest plant. After four average-looking guys admirably strut their stuff on Cobalt’s stage for a chance at the $250 prize, Joe Eight Pack shows up, emulating the saccharine “Who, me?” humility of Amanda Melinda Doolittle and basically coming across as a huge asshole. Predictably, he wins the contest. Forgive my ageism, but is this what 30-something gym rats do? Show up at Cobalt and upstage the underdogs? He should be embarrassed for himself. Put your clothes back on and go home, dick head.

4. Me. I was kind of a d-bag to everyone tonight. Sorry about that.

Logan Tavern supports the Tap Project. I know this because there was a little Tap Project placard placed on our table when we were seated. What this means I’ve no idea. Is Logan Tavern donating money to a charitable cause? Well, good for them, I guess. Now where’s that glass of Pinot grigio I ordered?

While waiting and waiting and waiting for my wine to show up, I took a closer look at the placard, which explained that the Tap Project “celebrates the clean and accessible tap water available as an every day privilege to millions, while helping UNICEF provide safe drinking water to children around the world.” In case you were wondering, the Project is funded not by Logan Tavern but by its patrons who volunteer to donate “one dollar, or more, for the tap water normally served for free.”

I have so many problems with this that I don’t know where to begin. How about with the fact that our own damed water isn’t even safe to drink?

1. “AP: 41 Million Americans Drink Water Contaminated With Antibiotics, Anti-Convulsants, Mood Stabilizers, And Sex Hormones.” So, the Tap Project wants me to “celebrate” the water Logan Tavern serves for free, which recently tested positive for six pharmaceutical drugs. SEX HORMONES IN MY BRITA. DO NOT WANT.

2. Furthermore, did you know that our federal government doesn’t require any testing and hasn’t set safety limits for drugs in water? I wonder what the Tap Project has to say about this.

3. I’m growing a little tired of being solicited for charitable donations everywhere I go. Safeway is by far the worst offender here. “Would you like to make a donation to find a cure for breast cancer?” Well, yes, but you asked me the same question yesterday, the day before, and the day before that, when I was picking up all the odds and ends I forgot to buy during my previous trip because your store is so awful that I can’t stand to be in it for more than 20 minutes.

It’s awkward to say no to these unsolicited solicitations, and a lot of people (granted, not me) are too nice to say no, so Safeway ends up guilt-tripping you into making a donation to some charity you’ve never even heard of or truly care about. Personal donations are just that – personal – and this trend of making consumers feel somehow guilty for consuming (“Water is a privilege!”) needs to end immediately.

4. Logan Tavern went the extra step of placing an additional Tap Project placard in with our check. In case I didn’t get the hint when I was seated, the second placard featured a photo of some kid with his hands cupped under a rusty outdoor faucet.

If you think this tugged at my heart strings, you’re wrong. I can’t help but be indifferent. Blame all the mood stabilizers in my tap water.