If I ever see Mark Zuckerberg in public, I’m going to walk right up to him and tell him to eat a dick. Maybe I’ll punch him in the face. Maybe I’ll just keep on walking. After all, jail is no place for a delicate flower like me. Still, I’ll at least give him the finger. (For legal purposes, let me be clear: I’m not going to attack Fuckerberg—I mean, Zuckerberg. Small joke.) Though, the same thought is present for the dimwit who created Twitter, Instagram . . . What the hell? Let’s throw in the founders of Snapchat, Tumblr, TikTok, Telegram, Grindr, porn sites, and any other app that . . .
Sex and Love and Relationships—Shoot Me Now!
I can’t believe I’m writing this blog article. I can’t believe it’s necessary for me to write this blog article. Yet, here we are: sipping on hard seltzers and gossiping about sex, love, relationships, and the gay community. Fascinating stuff, really. Cue the eye roll. I partly blame myself. If you’re new to my work, shame on you. I wrote an article last year: “Be Careful What You Wish For.” Apparently, though, I didn’t read it. Too many times I’ve wished for a life similar to Carrie Bradshaw’s. Hell, I even refer to myself as “the male Carrie Bradshaw.” So, here we are: drinking hard . . .
I Hate Box
Now that I have your attention . . . I don't think I've ever publicly admitted that I hate box. More appropriately, I hate boxes. You may have already assumed this because, quite honestly, who in their right mind likes boxes? Not that I'm in my right mind, but you get the idea. Boxes are stifling. Boxes take up space. Boxes often times indicate a move of some sort is taking place, and there ain't nothing fun or exciting about moving! Boxes also tend to trap things: clothes, documents, people. And who—in any mindset—wants to feel trapped? Besides, trying to put me into a box is moot. . . .
Nice Ain’t Always My Fucking Color
When Stephen Stills famously sang “Love the One Your With,” I don't think he meant for this long. Depending on who you're currently quarantined (i.e. stuck) with, you might feel as if you're now part of that Rent song. You know the one I'm about talking about: 525,600 minutes . . . and counting! All joking aside, for me, self-isolation hasn't been that big of an issue. I've recently decided that I'm an introvert dressed up as an extrovert (thanks, RuPaul.) What does this mean, exactly? It means that I have absolutely no problem—even enjoy—going out with friends, drinking my face off, . . .