I recently decided to conduct a survey. Nothing official, of course. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to do something like that. Also, too much work. Unpaid work. Like Todrick Hall says, “I don’t work for free; that’s not the tea, hunty. No, ma’am!” No, ma’am, indeed. Therefore, when I say I “conducted a survey,” I really texted a handful of random friends and asked for their opinion on a certain subject matter. Don’t worry random friends who may be reading this: I’ve kept you all anonymous. Anonymous, like that one time . . . You know what? A story not appropriate for sharing. So, . . .
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 don’t often talk about the writing process—more specifically, my writing process—because I don’t find it that interesting. Everyone who writes has a different process; there is no right way or wrong way to write. As long as words somehow magically get down onto the paper, then the process is working. Simply put: If it helps you write, do it. If it doesn’t help you write, don’t do it. End of story. I write every single day. Well, try to write every single day. Fine! I have the intention to write every single day. So far, that seems to be working. I’ve managed to somehow write numerous . . .
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 . . .
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. . . .