I feel like my last few blog articles have been heavy. No, I’m not going to make a fat joke here. Surprise, bitch! Yet, it’s obvious, and I think note-worthy, that I’ve gone kind of deep lately. Well, deeper than normal for me. No, I’m not going to make a sex joke here. Surprise, bitch—again! Also, get your mind out of the gutter. Actually, to be fair, in order to enjoy this particular article, you might want to keep your mind in the gutter. That’s your warning to skip this particular piece of content, Mom, Dad, teachers from the past . . . anyone and everyone who may not be overly excited . . .
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 have a problem. Insert joke, right? Because, as we all know (those who stay up to date with my blog and column, anyway), I have more than just a problem. However, the problem I have today, the problem I’m facing this Sunday morning, is—go figure—the gay community. Last fall, I wrote an article on how disappointed I am in the gay community. Well, plot twist, the gay community is still disappointing and disheartening. Or, to be blunt, the gay community is STILL fucked. Let's have an open chat because I'm genuinely curious about something: What is the appeal of posting pictures of . . .
Sorry to disappoint, kids, but this blog article, the very first of 2021, has nothing to do with hooking up with some rando (i.e. “strange”) from a local bar, bathhouse, or Craigslist. You know, COVID and all. But, also, I’m happily off the market. Besides, I was never really into that type of scene, anyway—regardless of who you may talk to later. I always preferred to get to know a guy before allowing things to turn intimate. Well, I’d at least learn his first name (in almost all cases) and tax bracket before taking that next step. What can I say? With me, there is usually slash rarely a . . .
Recently, a friend told me that I was the gay, male version of Taylor Swift. I agreed, we laughed, and then both promptly ordered another round of mimosas. Okay, that’s not entirely true. This bitch is currently off the sauce—six months and counting. We’ll see how long sobriety lasts, because in these dark and trying times (yes, I’m referring to all of the excess holiday weight I’ve gained), nothing quite comforts me like eighteen dirty martinis. Anyway, I’m not exactly sure what my friend and I ordered another round of, but it’s a safe bet that it was something deep-fried. Me likes my . . .