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.

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.

It’s the question that has been on the minds of at least two people: Where has Toby been?
Now, hopefully with this entry, I’m going to dispel a few myths, a few rumors. Let us begin.
1. I have not been injured, murdered, or taken hostage by the Gentleman Friend. All is well on the relationship front – although he did accuse me of being immature when I “threatened” (Is it a threat when no one cares?) to take down my blog and return to a perceived level of privacy not previously enjoyed since early 2001. I don’t feel this would be so much immature as groundless and shortsighted.
2. I have not been dooced. I did, however, give my two weeks notice and will soon be working elsewhere. I don’t really talk about my job on this blog – and, no, there is no “other” blog – so I will leave it at that.
3. I have not passed away from body dysmorphia. Not yet, at least.
Those are the things I haven’t done. These are the things I have done.
1. I have watched a lot of TV – namely, Boy Meets World, 7th Heaven, and anything on the Discovery Health Channel regarding often fatal (and always captivating) diseases. Even my Tivo has lost respect for me.
2. I have been sort of going to the gym and kind of sticking to my 4,000-calorie-a-day diet. Consequently, my weight is about as erratic as my self-image, hovering somewhere between 155 and 160 pounds. This is a source of much frustration for me. At this point, I’m ashamed not of my body but of my inability to meet personal goals.
3. I went boating yesterday with my friends. The Gentleman Friend knows how to kneeboard and, really, it was the sexiest thing I’ve seen in years.
I would now like to address the reasons for my month-long absence.
1. I didn’t have anything to write about. Or, perhaps more accurately, I didn’t have anything I felt like writing about. Or maybe I just didn’t feel like writing. Probably that.
2. I got nervous. It’s weird to have friends, coworkers and strangers read your blog. To be honest, this is more of an excuse than a reason for not blogging, but it’s something I think about.
3. I woke up one day and realized that I am not Toby. I’m not a bitch, I don’t act like I’m smarter than everyone else, and I don’t have a preoccupation with alcohol as would be identified by the CAGE questionnaire. This is a problem because I can’t even go to a party without having already been judged by a third of the people there. Maybe this is partly imagined, but my gut tells me otherwise.
Lastly, allow me to share some of the ways I see my blog evolving over time, beginning now.
1. I might write about my day, LiveJournal style. For instance: Today I woke up at 10 a.m. in the Gentleman Friend’s bed, took a shower only because he told me to do so, and then had him drive me home. I borrowed the Shank’s car and drove to Safeway, where, to my great pleasure, Diet Coke with Splenda was on sale (4 for $11!). Cyber Agatha and I watched an episode of Boy Meets World and ate sorbet made of red wine. I mean, who wouldn’t want to read about this shit?
2. Body dysmorphia and my quixotic quest for physical perfection will be increasingly documented. It’s pretty much all I think about these days, which is both bogus and sad, as Wayne would say.
3. Other possible topics: my landlady, reality television, cystic acne. Blacklisted literary elements: irony (verbal), tone (smug), and conflict (blog wars).
We all need something to be proud of, and for me, this blog is it, baby. Again, this is both bogus and sad. But the world needs me and I need you, so let’s carry on and make it WORK. (Yeah, I forgot to mention that my blog will remain 100 percent hate-crimingly gay.)

Hot as balls, you might say.

A member of my office building’s janitorial staff informed me today that we may experience a high of 95 degrees on Friday. This reminds me of a story …
When I was in fourth grade (1993, if anyone is keeping count), my teacher sat my classmates and me down and talked to us about the human body and the crazy things that happen to it as one grows older. Convinced my testicles were descending then and there, I raced home after school and began what would emerge as the time-honored tradition of staring at myself in the mirror until not one more tear of self-hatred could be shed. Oh, how horrible it is to be me!
A few nights later, I found myself burning up in bed, sweating bullets into my nearly soaked sheets. I had no idea why I was so hot, until it dawned on me: This must be one of the side effects of puberty! I immediately rose from bed and ran down the hall to tell my family the exciting news.
“I’m going through the changes!” I cried to my parents, who surely were bursting with pride and amazement at having successfully reared a child into adolescence. Of course, my mother was the first to burst my bubble: “Toby, it’s 100 degrees outside. That’s why you’re so sweaty.”
Overcome by trauma and confusion, I sulked back to my room, unaware that those two feelings would play a significant role in all future interactions with my parents until the end of time.

At this point, I know all too well I suffer from body dysmorphic disorder, or BDD. People with BDD obsess about a perceived flaw for at least an hour a day, and symptoms frequently include picking at one’s skin, exercising obsessively, and feeling anxious or self-conscious around peers. Before I knew about BDD, I assumed I was just vain; it was not unusual for me to stand naked in front of a mirror and berate myself for whatever physical imperfections I had felt deserved the most criticism that day. But when self-loathing extends to one’s nose, cheeks, eyebrows, chin, lips, arms, chest, navel, feet, calves, thighs, butt, fingers, forearms, biceps, complexion and hair type — well, let’s just say you have a problem. I have a problem. And there’s a name for it: body dysmorphic disorder.
The tricky thing with BDD is that the obsession normally reserved for condeming your body can be displaced — either purposefully or accidentally — to other areas of your life. Do you mercilessly mock others for no real reason, other than that you disapprove with the way they look or act? Do you look down upon minority groups with condescension, expressing little sympathy for their unfortunate and unjust disenfranchisement? Do you “joke” with your friends about how gorgeous you all are compared to other people — when meanwhile, you’re the one who compulsively spends all of his time in front of a mirror? If you answered yes to these questions — as I would have a few months ago — then you might have BDD.
The reason I’m boring you to death with the details of my irrelevant psychological disorder is because BDD has now infected my blog. I call it “blog dysmorphic disorder.” And girl, I got it reeeal bad.
Yesterday, I must have checked my emails at least 30 times. I monitor my hits throughout the day. I pour over my web site’s statistics, comparing today’s traffic to that of a week ago, a month ago, a year ago — you get the point. I follow each referral to see in which context a fellow blogger linked me. Did he praise an entry? Does she say I’m cool? Is he talking shit about me? What the fuck, he said I’m an alcoholic! This complete stranger accuses me of being lonely, of being self-destructive! He rips into Agatha, too! They’re saying I’m a shitty writer! That I have no talent! That I’m ugly!
Do you see where I’m going with this?
I understand it is difficult to treat bloggers with the same respect and civility you might afford to the sales clerk at J. Crew, to your mailman, to a woman you bump into on the street. After all, those people exist in the flesh; I, on the other hand, am merely text on a screen. And so it is tempting — awfully tempting — to rip into me on your web site. To leave nasty comments that insult and attack me. And then proceed to not care that your words might find their way to their subject, hurting his feelings and making him wonder why he even bothers compromising his privacy to garner a few laughs or a smile. You’ll never see me as a real person because all I write about is binge drinking and, um, well, that’s about it — so cleary I have no one else to blame but myself. I understand this completely.
That said, I am hereby officially not giving a shit about what you think of me or what you write about me. Think I’m a drunk? Fuck you! Think I’m not funny? Fuck your mom, too. I don’t give a shit. Not one bit. Not even a little squirt of diarrhea. Nope, I officially do not care.
If you think I’m being dramatic, or hypocritical, or pretentious — whatever. During her performance at my school last weekend, Margaret Cho said something profound, and I agreed with her: “If I don’t make it a point to consistently cross the line, to go too far, then it’s as if I never went anywhere to begin with.” So let me be frank: I’m going places, baby. Get used to it.
P.S. On a much lighter note, I’m going to publish all of the disturbing anti-Toby rants in a special section on my site. If you’ve read any ramblings you’d like to see added, send me an email.

Preoccupied with the thought of my boyfriend and the weekend we’ve spent together, I got off the Metro this morning at Farragut North and headed straight for a park bench. I needed a Marlboro Menthol like I’ve never needed one before.
If smoking is bad for you, then smoking menthols is even worse. At least this is what my friend told me yesterday afternoon during lunch — without a trace of irony — as he puffed away at his Parliament Light. I’ve been warned of the dangers of menthol cigarettes many times before. Allegedly, the menthol molecules crystallize in your lungs and otherwise damage your health. Better to smoke nonmenthol cigarettes, they say.
(Though this tangent is apropos of nothing, I did do some research: According to this article on salon.com, the menthol in menthol cigarettes is no more dangerous than the hundreds of other chemicals you breathe in while smoking. The fact remains, of course, that smoking is undeniably bad for you.)
Regardless of jeopardizing my health, that cigarette allowed me five minutes of oxygen-deprived solitude to contemplate the past four days. I had spent every waking (and sleeping) moment with my boyfriend, and I never got sick of him. Not even once. And that’s saying a lot, because I’m a guy that needs his space. I’m going to miss him like crazy.
My bed is going to feel so empty tonight. Sleeping with ghosts, it’s such a lonely experience.

My boyfriend and I saw ‘From Justin to Kelly’ this weekend. To our dismay, $19 and 90 minutes could have been saved by alternatively driving back to the apartment and placing our hands over an ignited stovetop. This would have served to condense the pain of enduring tedious musical numbers, laughable plot lines, and unspeakably bad acting, into a manageable two-minute period.
In other words, ‘From Justin to Kelly’ made ‘Crossroads’ seem like ‘The Shawshank Redemption’. (If anyone gets this reference, leave a comment.)
I’d like to expand this topic into a 500-word entry, but that must wait until after my lunch break. In the meantime, I’ll mindlessly draft a bunch of case studies as I think about my boy, miss him, and wonder what life was like before such an amazing person had entered my life.

Drive me to the train station (above) so that I don’t have to take the bus, God forbid
Burn a mix CD of cheesy love songs that includes the Captain & Tennille, Linda Ronstadt, and that song from ‘An American Tale’ (!)
Graciously refrain from pointing out how retarded I am when I text message you from a cab to tell you that I’ve missed my train
Graciously refrain from pointing out how retarded I am when I text message you from my new upgraded Business Class train that the seats have pillows and they play Madonna over the loudspeakers
Know the words to every bad pop song ever produced, and sing them unabashedly while driving
Cower in the corner with me as we’re exposed to a woman’s vagina for the first time
Wake up next to me and smile — even though I’m passed out on your living room floor, drooling on your mother’s throw pillows

It’s amazing, the things you miss when you spend every waking minute in front of a computer, either surfing the newswire at work or redesigning your stupid weblog at home. Namely: my sister’s birthday and her one-year anniversary. Oops.
When this occurred to me last night (while redesigning my Links page, no less) I figured my sister would forgive me, seeing as how I’m a busy college student with a time-consuming job and a somewhat active social life who still hasn’t mastered the art of committing to memory essential historical milestones, such as the birthdays and anniversaries of loved ones.
But then I thought: Damn, I’ve been living on my own for two fucking years, and though I excel at meeting my editor’s deadlines, I am somehow unable to mail a greeting card to my sister in a timely fashion. Clearly, it’s about time I rearrange my priorities, placing my sister somewhere on the list above ‘job’, ‘weblog’, and ‘heavy drinking’.
And so here’s what I did: I logged onto Amazon this morning and sent an overnight package to my sister so that it would arrive just in time for her birthday. But I didn’t send her a crappy CD or useless novelty gift. I bought her the book I read during my senior year of high school, the book that made me realize who I was, the book that made me accept the fact that I was — am — gay.
Now, at the risk of tediously reciting yet another textbook ‘coming out’ story… Well, let’s be honest, people. My story is no different than yours. I told my sister I was gay a few weeks before leaving for college, and I told my parents a few months later. Sis was fine with it; Mom and Dad were not. Strangely, it hasn’t been mentioned by any of them since.
I hope that by sending my sister this book, she might better understand where I’m coming from. Maybe she’ll read it, and we can discuss it together, and it will bring us closer. I’d rather not elaborate; instead I’m going to improvise, go with the flow, see what happens.
Here’s the note I included in the package:

God damn it, I’m really nervous about this. Please don’t let me cry at the office.