Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Remembering nothing from my Robaxacetted week except job-related loathing

I have just arrived at work and am being flanked on three sides by coworkers having personal conversations ranging from barely audible hush to full Springer melt down.

The latter is an otherwise genteel South Asian lady who I affectionately call Indonesian Dr. Philla. The 'a' is cause she's a chick. The extra 'l' is there cause I'm AMAZINGLY KNOWLEDGEABLE ABOUT LATIN LANGUAGE STRUCTURES. Currently, I'm being unintentionally entrusted with the knowledge that her cousin is back with this cad Antwan, who is evidently "just not a cool guy, you know?" and that he better watch "hisself" cause he played this same game with her friend Monique. It's like I'm working in the projects.

Across from her, another stand up employee is privying me to the knowledge that she's having some credit card debt issues and that the lovely Visa rep just "doesn't understand" that she and her husband are struggling to make ends meet, what with only making $45,000 each annually and that she was under the impression that their 50-inch plasma TV would be a tax write-off as he's an evening manager at Block Buster.

Finally, on the other side, is Black Magic, who is talking about me and the cold shoulder I'm giving her cause she's effectively passed half of her work load onto me. One of the lesser examples but consequently all the more infuriating is that rather than place a letter in the mail room on her way home, effectively requiring to take an additional 15 seconds in her laborious trek, she instead took the time to write a post-it note asking me to do it. Biznatch, how lazy can you get? Well, ladies and gentleman, the answer to that question lies in the size of her ass. I'm pretty sure it's the size of Gary Coleman's casket. One could incubate a baby moose back to health between those cheeks. Our boss seems to be okay with this situation as she knows BM (ahahaha...BM...) is lazy as fuck - trust me, fuck is lazy - and needs the work to get done so she tasks it to the one person currently not on the phone with creditors, recently paroled family members or BFFs named Shanice.

Finally, let it be known that the first two characters were both a ruse and that they're all Black Magic.

Fuck, I hate her so much.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

I'm a lumbarjack and I don't care

Saturday morning, I woke up with the sun, tossed my adorably emaciated legs over the side of the bed, stood up to greet the dawn and threw my back out.

Clearly I'm 52 years old.

As such, I have been on my back on the floor for the better part of the last four days in a hazy stupor resulting from a heady cocktail of Robaxicet, Aleve, wine and Mary J. Hwuana. The latter, it should be noted, was my father's suggestion and required me to locate the dime bag my uncle had shoved in my pocket in lieu of a Hanukkah present last December and that had been living in the back of my desk drawer ever since then. So to my therapist, who may be wondering about my habit of using alcohol and narcotics as a form of escapism, there's another piece of the puzzle for ya.

Some things I have accomplished during my sojourn on the floor:

- Upon discovering tv "on demand", watched an entire season each of The Hills, The City and The Real World: Brooklyn. Bathed twice after finishing each. Douched once.

- Discovered that The Cleveland Show can actually be funny but only when high on the gange.

- Talked to many of my friends and family members only to have zero recollection of these conversations the next day.

- Was visited by a current e-mail buddy who sorta made me wish I was on my back for completely different reasons.

- Created an original dish, a baked layered casserole consisting of (bottom to top): canned salmon, fresh spinach, grilled eggplant, roasted potatoes. bechamel sauce, sliced tomatoes, marble cheese. Tragically, I wasn't even stoned when making this, just really low on groceries.

- Ordered two XL gourmet pizzas from down the street, totalling roughly $60.

- Ordered groceries online. Yeah. It's possible. It was pretty pricey, costing about as much as a Sobey's/Publix but the delivery charge was only $10 and they dropped it off in front of my fridge, mufukas. IN FRONT OF MY FRIDGE. You can't buy that kind of service. Oh wait, you can and it costs $10.

Ok, I'm still a bit high.

Finally, to all the ladies on the subway carrying designer purses and JANSPORT backpacks, a quick lesson:



Friday, June 18, 2010

Ich bin nicht cool

Well, it's 10:12am and I've been at work for an hour and accomplished nothing. I feel this trend will likely continue until at least 4:59pm when I may muster the day's effort in clicking "Shut Down" on my Start menu. You're really only supposed to log off but I like to shut 'er down on the Friday because I somehow thinks this counteracts the 23 story building leaving all its lights on for the duration of the weekend.

Magic Powers: Now the only way left to save the Earth

Whoa. That got political. Anyway, let's move on to the real topic. I know you're thinking that someone who spends most of his employed hours modifying Google-searched images in MS Paint is extremely cool. I am here to disprove this myth.


I'm not going to chock this one up to failure. That would imply that I am failing at being myself, which would be ridiculous. I kick demon ass at being myself. That self, however, is not cool.

As previously stated, I've been volunteering for the NXNE music festival and am reminded daily of how not cool I am. First of all, I've been driving a 12-seater van to transport bands to and from the airport/gigs. No one cool has ever driven a 12-seater van. The bands thus far have taken two approaches to being driven by me. The first involves all of them sitting in the back and not talking to me, as though I am their paid chauffeur rather than a volunteer who just finished MS Paint-ing working for 8 hours at their real job. On one such trip, a single person out of the seven I was driving wearily stretched out his hand as way of introduction. I in turn flailed about and eye-hand-coordination failed. I think maybe two of our fingers interlocked. I am not cool.

I felt cool for about a moment when I got to go up to back stage security and say, "Yo, I'm here for the band," and he nodded me through, but then the manager says, "You're here for the band? Awesome. They're just gonna finish up and then do an encore. Do you want to wait back here?"

Oh god, I am so cool.

"No, I mean behind the backstage area in that stairwell. Great, thanks."

Aaaaaaaaan we're back.

Another super twatty American manager, when I dropped her off, even omitted an "Uch, could you at least open the door?!"

Bitch, it's a 1983 Ford E350 and you're not Miss Daisy. Back. The. Fuck. Down.

The second approach to the Warning:-Not-Cool pheromones I must omit is that the band will just be a bunch of jackasses. In this case, one of them will at least ride up front with me but will ask inspired questions like, " much would you charge to drive us to Dildo Bay?"

"Um, where's that? I just moved here not too long a-"

"Dude, Dildo Bay, Newfoundland. How about Intercourse, Pennsylvania?"

"Uh, I dunno. I'm just a volunteer and I have to work in the morning."

God, lamest response ever. What is wrong with me? I'm not cool, that's what. Then they'll pretend to accidentally blow each other (it's this new thing among comics where they pretend to start coughing and this merges into them pretending to be choking on one of their friends' dicks. It's totally straight. And funny.*), telling mock-racist-but-kinda-just-racist jokes and talking about how amazing their set was.

Um, you're in a Queens of the Stone Age side project - things aren't going all that great for you. Art rock, this ain't.

I am not cool but at least I'm not a delusional asswipe either.

Douchey Bassist: Hey, so, what's the hardest to guys have ever sucked each other off while you were driving them?

Illustrious D: ...

DB: I bet they were from AFI. That guy's hit on me so many times, fuck. So is that gay if I let him?

ID: (trying to be cool) Depends on how much you enjoyed it.

Drummer Who May Be Getting Head From A Groupie: Nah, man, it's only gay if you kiss afterwards.

*It's only one of these things.

P.S. - I left my very first comment on a blog that I love, but failed to omit a key word so it just read, "Clearly, really does hate fags." The writer commented back, "Um, was the word God supposed to be in there somewhere?" and then my internet soul curled up into a ball and died.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

If I may posit for a moment...

You know when you're trying to be all well-behaved and staying true to what you actually want in the long term but then some young thing messages you and is all doe-eyed and a bit emo, which has always kinda been your thing, and he's like Come over and you say no cause that would probably be weird and you're not interested in getting physical with someone you don't have a connection with but then you keep talking and he's oddly confessional in that way that just gets to you and eventually you tell him that you're not going over there but he can come over if he wants even though it's past eleven by this point and you worked/slacked all day and then volunteered until nine o'clock so you're totally beat but he has you curious and so he comes by around midnight and it's pretty awkward because half the time he seems like this lost little kid even though he's 23 which is a solid 4 years older than the ones you've toyed with in recent memory so you're kinda proud of yourself for not pedo-ing it up but then at other times he's strangely insightful in ways you suspect he doesn't realize and so you both start watching a movie but it's pretty awkward cause neither of you is doing that gradually-creeping-closer-together thing and in fact he's kind of put a barricade of pillows between the two of you so finally around one thirty you say that you have to go to sleep and he reluctantly turns off the movie and flops into bed but he just grabs a pillow and closes his eyes and turns his back to you and you think What the fuck? but then you break form and actually tell him that this feels weird and that you're not feeling any connection that you'd both hoped might have been there and he apologizes and says it's been a long time since he's slept with someone (in the literal sense) and then you kiss a little but he says his lips are really sensitive and so you snuggle but he says that your stubble is scratching his back and then he reaches for your junk even though you've said you don't really want to go there (emotional connection, blah blah blah) and he stops but then you start because he's all cute and you're not that strong but then you stop it again and you know you're being an awful tease but you just can't because by now it's past two and you really need to sleep and you're getting the sense that despite the fact that you both claim to want the same thing, you're not even in the same orbit and so you toss and turn all night and you feel totally detached from this body lying next to you and in the morning he won't kiss you cause he's self-conscious of his morning breath but you think There's Listerine in the bathroom, asshole but you don't say that cause it's rude and you think about how you wanted this to work but once again it hasn't and so you both get dressed and talk about stupid, stupid shit (his tan lines, your support of local produce) and then part ways and you go to work and blog about it?

Me neither.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Dear Future Roommate (Part III)

Part I Part II

Dear Future Roommate,

I may switch to vagina.

I'm sorry. That's a bit much to wake up to. But I feel you should really know that your days as best friend to a (debatably) beautiful queer boy may be numbered as I'm thinking of giving up on the unfairer sex and joining Boobie Nation. That's right: I might pull a Cynthia Nixon.

The way I see it, there are only so many times that I want you to find me in delicto flagrante in the hot tub with some barely legal Hispanic or clearly-only-cause-I'm-drunk hairy flight attendant. The fact that I seemingly want you to find me in delicto flagrante in the hot tub at all is disturbing enough. NO ONE SHOULD EVER HAVE TO SEE THAT. I could never in a million years tape myself having sex. I barely enjoy looking at myself clothed. One time when I was 17, my sexual partner at the time and myself made a short video of us making out fully clothed and I had to leave the room when he watched it. So you see, Future Roommate, I really don't think you should have to deal with that shiz. No girl that I plan on dating would EVER give up her flower in a hot tub, so rest assured you will be spared the sight of not only my naked ass but also whatever she's got going down below as well. I'm not totally clear on the specifics as I skipped that day of health class. Regardless, I certainly don't want you and I finding out together.

You folks are just so much more enticing sometimes. You're all soft and smell like meadows and have those great chest pillows on which I may rest my weary, newly-heterosexual head. You brush and floss regularly, rarely have dirt under your nails and we could share exfoliants! Plus, girls are generally more forgiving of physical foibles and I could really see myself getting used to a beer vodka gut. I know you have as much vested interest in wenis size as the homos, but at least all y'all will keep any disappointment to yourself and then bitch about it to your friends. That's called being a motherfucking lady. Plus, I wouldn't have to shave my bits anymore.

I know this is pretty big news, FutRo (cute term, btw), but you really need to get over it. I mean, take a look at the kind of shit I have to deal with:

Reason I'm Switchin': [on Luminato, an arts festival] what have you seen so far?

Illustrious D: I went to Dark Star, a new oratorio about perceptions/history of HIV/AIDS. Amazing. And then the National Ballet's West Side Story Suite + a couple new works yesterday. I might check out the visual stuff on the way home (Atom Egoyan curated something?) and then Rufus Wainwright on Thursday.

RIS: cool you're all up on the culture!

RIS: i'm looking forward to pride

RIS: it's one of my favorite festivals!

ID: what are you doing for it?

RIS: being gay!

RIS: dressing slutty

RIS: it's the biggest gay party there is!

RIS: u?

ID: I'm volunteering for it. Otherwise, not sure yet.

RIS: really?

RIS: why did you decide to do that?

ID: Believe in the cause, good way to meet people, etc.

RIS: for sure

RIS: i haven't missed toronto pride since i first started coming in 2002

ID: What are your favourite events?

RIS: well this year i am really excited for cyndi lauper

RIS: and that i have a boyfriend that loves pride as much as i do. beer and cyndi's songs all around!

In summation: art blah, pride yay, volunteering why? and beer + cyndi lauper = heaven.

Fuck this shit, Future Roommate. I'm skipping over heterosexuality and going straight for lesbianism. Prepare yourself to spend a lot of time around macrame and women named Deb.



Monday, June 14, 2010

Actual Father's Day Card I'm Mailing to the Obese Hungarian

My Dearest Father,

I know what's going through your head: you are pretty impressed with me right now. Sure, my brothers may have gone and bought you "real" presents to show their love, but I invested whole seconds minutes in picking out the perfect (expensive) card*, buying a stamp and diligently walking it to my corner mail box. That is called mother$&%*#ing devotion. Also, you are impossible to shop for so I got you the gift of knowing I didn't spend my hard-earned wages on unappreciated crap. You're welcome.

I'm not going to thank you for "everything" or write an extensive list about all the nifty stuff you do for this family; I'll leave that to the other two clowns that emerged from your loins. Rather I'm going to EXCEED EXPECTATIONS and start my own tradition of perennially telling you one thing I am grateful for. Here is this year's:

Thank you for genetically stepping aside and allowing me to have eyebrows. They've been a big hit so far. All the grandmothers that I know absolutely love them, even if their grandchildren have been completely apathetic thus far. I will strive to carry on this proud tradition and breed children who do not look as though they have juvenile alapecia.

You are more than adequate the best and I love you a lot.


*Seriously. Check out the price on the back.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Metric is playing Lilith Fair? What a bunch of vaginas.

Well, I fucked around with the template and now it's ass. Whatever. I think the devil-may-care skewedness of this "design" bespeaks a casual air that is by-and-large refreshing. Mostly though, I'm tired of pretending like I know anything shit all about HTML. It gives me man menses.

In my attempt to becoming a social creature whose sole friend is not the bottle, I decided to start volunteering. For the record, I ran a volunteer task force of about 800 for a large theatre festival once upon a time and can say with confident if not absolute certainty that volunteering is lame. Nothing requiring matching XL t-shirts is EVER going to be a good time. Still, social creature. No friends with the bottle. So I signed up for NXNE, which is Canada's oh-so-clever-and-not-at-all-trying-too-hard answer to the SXSW music festival, as well as Toronto Pride. Unfortunately for me and potentially humorous for you, they called me at 8:30pm a couple nights ago when I was 3 glasses into a bottle of malbec.

Scene: My bed. Computer on my lap. In the midst of watching the entire back half of this season's Heroes. It is no less stupid when drunk.

[phone rings]

Illustrious D: Helloooooo.

Homosexual Volunteer: Hi, this is Tim from Toronto Pride. Is this David?

ID: Who wansht to know?

HV: Um, Tim. Tor-...Toronto Pride?

ID: Suuuuure you are.

HV: I see that you've signed up to volunteer with us. Do you have some time to ta-


HV: -lk about the roles you're interested in?

ID: Don get frejsh.

HV: Do you have any experience in leadership positions?

ID: Asjh you can see on mah applikashuns, I was volunteer coorjinater fer the winnipeg flinge frestival. So yes...biiiiiiiiiotch.

HV: Ah. Very good. So would you be interested in working in the Pride street fair as a team leader, signing vendors in, directing pedestrian traffic, tasks like that?

ID: I can't sign. Not deaf. We're on the phone, bahahahaaa *burp*

HV: The shift is rather long.

ID: Sizshe does not mattjher to me.

HV: It's about 15 hours long.

ID: Whoa, Pharoah, back the dtruck up. Aiin no way in hall that I'-

HV: You'll be fed.

ID: Deal.

HV: The training has already happened but if you show up half an hour before the start of your sh-

ID: Yerr zexy.

HV: What?

ID: Yerr Mexi...

HV: ...

ID: *attempts to lick own elbow*

HV: Um, I-

ID: ...can.

HV: Yes, well-


HV: Okay, well I think that just about does it for us. Thanks so much again. I'll e-mail your schedule and if you have any more questions feel free to call the Pride Info Line.

ID: Is that thish number?

HV: No.

ID: Then what's thish number?

HV: It's actually my cell phone.

ID: Can I jusht call you?

HV: Call the Info Line.

ID: How 'bout just a text?

HV: No.




Thursday, June 10, 2010

I need a new creative outlet

I know I just posted a month ago about getting a ballin' ticket to a concert and to do so again would make me a braggart. And a turd. But suck it, The World. Turd, I be.

So guess who just scored a front row ticket to MARGARET CHO.

Answer: Veteran character actor Charles Durning.*

Yellow Star: Me, fuckers.

Broken Yellow Lines: Sight Lines of Connection.

Green: People that are insanely jealous of me.

Blue: People that are pretending not to be jealous yet are secretly thinking, "Wow, these tickets are so not as good as they looked on the seating chart."

Purple: Mah new best frienjhz

Red: People that are so jealous that it's like they're burning in their own personal Hells. That's why it's red. Don't even talk to me about those assholes in the loges. They will be jealousy-suiciding themselves like whoa.

*Actually, it's me. Idiot.

Wednesday, June 09, 2010

I need a time code for MS Paint Owning

Sorry, not feeling this. I'm not sure if it's the rainy weather or that Glee is over or the aimlessness of my life or what, but it's a shittastic time.

Work has been ridiculous. Our biggest project of the year is happening today and the last week has been a shit show. This was Black Magic's responsibility and she crashed and burned harder than I've ever seen professionally. As the unions are nuts I'm sure there won't be any really reprecussions but the rest of us had to put in a lot of extra time to clean up after her ass (ew) and while there's been a lot of, "Oh Illustrious D, you've such a huge help. We couldn't have done it without you. Stick it in me," it hasn't really made me feel better. Plus that last part didn't happen.

Other than that, my apartment is in shambles, my legs may as well be props, I've unwittingly entered into a fight with a friend who is acting like the third graders she teaches (proprs to Boo), I started crying while watching the little autistic girl this morning and Lily & Marshall are having a baby.

I want orange skiis

The one bright light is the way my family said goodbye to me over speakerphone yesterday:

Mom: Bye!

Dad: Bye!

Younger Brother: I'm getting a lion tattoo!


Tuesday, June 01, 2010

Of Cocaine-Dusted Cupcakes and Naked Men

So last night at karaoke, some douche kept being given glasses of red by his friends and then got up in front of the whole pub and sang Sweet Transvestite to amazed onlookers. I did not quite catch his name but I feel it sounded something like Shmillustrious Blee.

On to my teasers from last time. I'm breaking it down into three parts so feel free to grant yourself intermissions. I realize that I could just do three different entries, but after a certain amount of griping about lengthy posts, I feel this would just be reinforcing negative behaviour. I don't need your guff.


I was singing in synagogue last Saturday (cause God forbid I go there when I'm not getting paid) and I was yakking it up with a somewhat rotund 37 year old 'mo who I feel wants to git on dis. Our school boy shenanigans have been getting progressively sillier in the past couple months, as we attempt to guess if a certain tenor's underwear matches his prayer shawl or in what decade a certain soprano's ovaries ceased to function. Still, I generally try to stay attentive, following congregational readings in Hebrew rather than English phonetics, reading along with the week's bible portion and not nodding off with my head leaning against a support beam like some people I could mention (Esther Goldfarb). However, mid-way through last Saturday's service it suddenly occurred to me:

Um, who the fuck am I kidding?

I haven't given two shits about this in months, I haven't learned a lick of Hebrew in the past year, kosher has got to be the most illogical thing I've ever heard of and I'm sorry, but the goddamned Jews have been wandering in the desert since February and they are taking for-fucking-ever to decide who sleeps on what side of the Tabernacle!

The fancy to be a singing Jew as a profession may come back at some point, but for now, I'm just gonna be happy that I'm going back to school next year to do real person music Additionally, I plan on SIGNIFICANTLY decreasing my falafel intake.


Saturday night, Slightly Insane Jewess and I got all dolled up and went to the Drake Hotel. What I thought to be the den of urbane hipsterdom turned out to be nothing more than a sanctuary for inane, cultureless Hollister and Aritzia aficionadi. Once inside, we had to stand in line in the middle of the bar to wait for a place on the rooftop patio. During our hour-long sojourn in line, SIJ had to defend our spot against cutters (and not the fun emo kind) no less than three times, including one Dutch girl in a Minnie Mouse-inspired debacle who wanted to piggy-back with us along with her 3 friends, though we did debate momentarily whether we owed a certain debt to this girl cause of the whole Anne Frank thing.

Once on the roof, we managed to score a prime spot perching at the edge of a bench. Keep your jealousies in your pants. This remainder of this bench and accompanying table/booth belonged, in fact, to a homo habilis-faced hetero hick (not heterophobia; it's what he was) celebrating his 32nd birthday. After grilling us for a good five minutes as to the exact nature of our relationship and we were not fornicating, he asked about mah seshualité, albeit in a very good natured way, and upon learning my precise spot on the Kinsey scale, proceed to stand up and ask me to confirm that his ass was "juicy" before hitting on SIJ. She is a mistress of the rebuff and refused him even the slightest bit of kindness even when he gave us two ballin' birthday cupcakes. Throughout the course of the night, we learned that:

1. He'd known one other gay guy, a former roommate who ha come out to him upon being confronted with the fact that the roomie'sculinary skillz extended to more than microwaving a Don Miguel burrito from 7-11.

2. His cop friends seated on the other side of the table, out of ear shot and out of moisturizer by the looks of their meth-addicty faces, were huge cocaine fiends. This is just the sort of information to not share with perfect strangers, though I probably would have tried a line if offered. It's called entrapment laws, motherfuckers.

3. No, seriously, he really wanted me to like his ass. "What, I'm not your type?" he asked, "Then what is?"

"Oh, I don't know, someone more...European."

What I meant: sophisticated.

What he thought I meant: uncircumcised.

I'm gonna award myself a Misunderstanding Win on this one. What is the opposite of shooting yourself in the foot? Healing yourself in the hand? No. That's just stupid.


Sunday morning, I ventured off to Toronto Island with ESLothario and a few of his friends/my acquaintances to gallivant along the clothing-optional/hetero-optional beach, where became pseudo-Nubian after a vodka-aided 2-hour power nap in 32°C weather. The rest of the afternoon was spent reading Sarah Silverman's book Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption and Pee, illustrating once again why I should never throw a ball in public (though I do have occasional luck with Frisbees) and trying not to stare inappropriately at all the boobies and penii strolling down the beach. Oh, I stared. Just appropriately.

Of our immediate group, the two women went topless or au naturel while all three of us gents opted to keep our shorts on. This was no small mercy as I was in no mood to witness what matter of boreal forest is growing between ESLothario's legs nor did I wish to be thrown into a jealous rage at the sight of His Asian Friend's flowy, silky pubes. Also, this alleviated any pressure I might have otherwise felt to go nekkid myself. As previously mentioned, Hungarian Jews do alright in this department (the Department of Peen), but we tend not to demonstrate our full potential unless called to action and thus make poor nude beach fodder. Anonymous sex in the sand dunes fodder = yes. Winners of multiple international shrinkage competitions fodder = no.

Our streak of Modest Men in 20-10 finished with the arrival of HAF's neighbour, a not unattractive if slightly zaftig gentleman in his late 30's who was very, erm, European. He also was not one to let a pesky little thing such as a live-in partner get in the way of taking HAF between his bare thighs and giving him a reverse seated bear hug/grope for two hours.

Okay, I realize he's not technically bear
hugging but that shit woulda been hard so stfu.

This, I just do not get. The point has been that men are less monogamously inclined than women and so two men together could foreseeably have certain personal rules in place, but what's in it for the non-coupled guy? Why the fuck would you ever want to be someone's second choice? I fake-slept for an extra half hour just to avoid witnessing the accompanying visual to the loud, wet tongue smacking sounds of them making out.

The afternoon was drawing to a close, but not before this nude, swishy, late 20's, future skin cancer patient queen decided to squat down right by us Indian-style with his definitely-on-full-display brick brown bratwurst, completely shorn, a mere 2 feet from my face. He/it was disgusting. After hearing all about his "famouth Pride partieth," complete with sling, fuck bench and asphyxiation ropes (!), he then scooched over, took HAF's hands and placed them around his own penis and said, "Here, do you mind keeping this warm for me?"


Hey asshole, this is the reason why the majority of the world sees us as sexual deviants who should never be allowed to have families. This guy was to fags as Sarah Palin is to women, and both disgust me in equal measure.

After the ferry ride back to the city, I returned to my shoebox apartment to soak in a tub of aloe vera and contemplate my weekend. I had partied with straights and I had partied with gays and it turns out that I just hate everyone.

At least I'm an equal opportunity misanthrope.