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 . . .
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 . . .
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, . . .