I'm not entirely sure if it's a preconceived notion tossed upon us once we hit our twenties or just simply the gay factor, but for me, the idea of getting older has always been met with abhorrence. Specifically, the day, hell—the minute—after my twenty-first birthday, there was this feeling that I'd hit my expiration date. That's right: The milk had turned sour, the bread stale, the red lacquer worn off the bottom of a Christian Louboutin boot. I'm not exactly sure why, though. While it's been stated more times than Jennifer Lopez (who wasn't snubbed for an Oscar nomination for her role . . .
It's officially 2020, a new year—hell, a new decade! As if you needed my blog to alert you of the fact, right? Thank God for that, too, seeing as I haven't blogged in . . . Well, let's just say it's been a while. And while I'm acknowledging that elephant in the room, the one where I only produced three blog articles last year when it was my resolution to write at least one article a month (oops!), let me address another elephant: me! Yes, the other, much bigger elephant in the room is me, myself, and I. Unfortunately, yet noticeably, I've put on a little, fine—a lot—of weight. What can I . . .
As an adult, and I use that term loosely, I fully—kind of—understand that shit happens. By “shit,” I mean accidents. Off the top of my head, I'm thinking of accidents like forgetting to pick up your kid from school or drinking one too many Belvedere martinis at happy hour. You know, accidents no one can really predict or prevent. Then there are the accidents that can and should be prevented . . . like taking a big piss on my bedroom floor. Wait! I've gotten ahead of myself. Let me backtrack a tad. Do you ever get that feeling? You know the one: It's a Saturday night, you haven't been . . .
Back in May 2017, I wrote a column for Rage Monthly titled, “Another Lesson to Learn.” I'm sure you all read it, right? I mean, how else do you fill your day? For those of you who need a refresher course, the article centers on how even as adults, we're constantly tested or quizzed—essentially, there's always . . . another lesson to learn. Large consumptions of red wine, Coors Light, and the occasional hit of wacky tobaccy may have caused cobwebs to clutter my mind, but any gay worth his salt-on-the-rim margarita keeps receipts. At least the important ones. Or the expensive . . .
The first month of 2019 is over. Holy shit! Does the fact that January 2019 disappeared faster than a Keanu Reeves movie at the box office scare the hell out of you? It does me. Time is running out, people. If you've got something to say, say it now. If you've got something to do, do it now. And if you've got someone to do, well, do them twice. You know, in case the first time doesn't take. Or if it's really good. In these troubling times, who can afford to pass on a good dick-down? Even a mediocre one. But I digress. Whoever wished for time to speed up should be forced to . . .