I’m the type of person who beats a dead horse until it’s, well, dead. And then, just to make sure it’s really dead, I circle back once, twice, thirty-three times to verify. Sorry for the metaphor, PETA. Yet, you can rest easy knowing that no animals were harmed in the making of this blog article. In my previous articles, I’ve bitched about men, social media, phones . . . You’re right: At this rate, we’ll be here for a while. Let’s save some time and say I’ve bitched about quite a lot over the past two years. In writing, anyway. Yeah, sure, in person, too. Today is no different; I’m here . . .
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 once went on a date with this guy. Let's see . . . I have to call him something. We'll call him Mr. Douche, as I want to respect his privacy slash don't remember his real name. That's not true. I do remember his name; that's how excited I'd been to officially go out with him. Before the night of the date, I was extremely nervous. Not taking my SATs kind-of-nervous, even more so than that. I'd say it was like waiting for test results from the clinic after a busy holiday weekend kind-of-nervous. You see, I'd casually crossed paths with Mr. Douche a few times before he officially asked me . . .
For the past few years, I've occasionally slash consistently bitched about different social media platforms for myriad reasons via both my blog and column in Rage Monthly. Now, any sane, rational individual who hates social media so much would, you know, delete Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, and never look back. The jokes on you! I never said I was sane or rational. Perhaps I'm a masochist, crazy, or just a dumbass for staying active on social media? Maybe I want something to bitch about, and that's why I keep an online presence? Could I even be a hypocrite for complaining so . . .
Names are kind of important, right? Without names, what exactly would we call one another? Specifically, how would we refer to those individuals from our coyote ugly-type one-night stands who we're equal parts shocked and embarrassed to become reacquainted with in the morning? For the fools who haven't seen Coyote Ugly: A coyote ugly-type one-night stand is when you'd rather chew off your own arm than risk waking the ugly son-of-a-bitch passed out beside you. If you haven't had a coyote-ugly one-night stand, congratulations. Also, you're going to hell for lying. To be fair, most of us . . .