Years ago, I thrilled the internet with tales of the hot guy who watered the plants at the temp job I had when I was 24. It was...a whirlwind. This was a time of confusion, high-waisted jeans and a plethora of innuendo using the word 'spout'.

Now, years later, my penchant for men in the service industry has not waned. No, no. If anything it has grown even larger. Is it due to nearly another decade of unsuccessful online dating apps? Or perhaps the fact I have more conversations with my paid personal trainer than any friend still on my Facebook list? Who's to say...

Loneliness. Loneliness is to say. Anxiety and Isolation also have some keen words.

Most recently, I went in hard on a young gentleman working at the service desk of a local auto mechanic shop. Now, I know what you're thinking:

"But of course! A car mechanic! It was in front of him all along!"

To be clear, that's stupid. The guy wasn't actually a mechanic, but rather a young, sensitive soul, probably just out of university, who was killing time until his songwriting career takes off. How do I know that he has music industry ambitions? WELL, when the company Christmas card came complete with all their employees' signatures on it, I found his full name, Googled the shit out of it, and came upon a Canadian Idol audition tape from 2010.

So that's pretty much where I'm at these days.

Not even a close friends pity-filled eyes when I showed her his Instagram account and his bio line said "taken" could deter me from my lust. Not actually, that was a pretty big boner killer. Also, her suggestion that I could make an electronic advance anyway was swiftly rebuffed, because here's the things with these fantasies: they stop being fun the second any sort of reality creeps in.

Writing pervy blog posts about strangers? Aww yiss. Actually talking to them in real life? Full-body hives.

And fuck that guy anyway, with his 2,000 Instagram followers, dreamy eyes, and Aryan Nation lookin' boyfriend. I have moved on to an emotionally distant burrito assembler at my local taqueria. His has the beginnings of a unibrow, a slight limp, makes possibly the most shittily-assembled burrito I have certainly ever experienced... and he's perfect.

They'll never love me

I know that no one reads this anymore. Hell, I don't even narcissisticly go and read backlogged posts anymore either. But I just can't have one more slutty tale to tell my friends that winds up being mostly me pseudo-apologising for being slutty in the first place. So hello Floygn my old friend, I've come to talk to you again.

A boy came over last night. 20 years old may fall into 'guy' territory but the entire experience felt very 'boy' so just go with it and stop interrupting me. He is from a small, extremely religious town a little over an hour outside my city. We'd been chatting via Grindr since the previous weekend. He appeared precocious, enthusiastic and far too complimentary to not throw up about a dozen red flags, none of which I saw.

We were chatting last night and the conversation veered into, shall we say, erotic make-believe.

"I'll come over. Right now. I'll do it lol"

We discussed it, I myself rationaling that I was less interested in a late-night hook up than meeting in daylight and just letting things unfold. But no, he was determined, and as exhausted as I was, it was pretty exciting.

He arrived and presented pretty much how I'd imagined. Tall, slender, an oversized hoodie over his gangly frame.

Clothes disappeared quick. Inhibitions soon followed. He responded to every touch like a man quenching his thirst after a month in the desert. The enthusiasm was...appreciate, but probably a bit telling.

After about an hour he came. As the last wave of his orgasm left him, it was replaced by a tidal of guilt and shame that gushed forth, tears spilling down his face.

This was so wrong. I shouldn't be here. They'll all hate me. I can't be gay. I can't. It's so unfair. I'm so alone.

No amount of soothing, physical nor verbal, helped at all. He cried himself to sleep before awaking suddenly, lying stiff as a board in my bed, not wanting to be touched, not wanting to talk. I tried curling around him, respecting his space but trying like an asshole to show that should he just roll over onto his side a wee bit, I was ready to be the all-comforting big spoon.

This did not happen. Instead at 3:30am he got out of bed, got dressed, whispered, "I'm sorry, David," into the darkness and left.

I sent him this message: I know we'll probably never speak again, but if at some point in the future you would let me know that you're alright, I would appreciate it.

But we and the internet know that isn't going to happen.

ESL adventures on Grindr

Holy Shit Balls: Hey

Illustrious D: Hiya

HSB: Love? Big? Love

ID: Pardon?

HSB: Looking for love. What kind of love

ID: Platonic or romantic, long term for both

HSB: Ok

ID: You?

HSB: R u hung? Platonically speaking I'm hung

ID: You're platonically hung?

HSB: Looking for big love Yep .))

ID: What...does that mean?

HSB: And platonically HOTT

*sends me picture of his cock*

Too :))

ID: K thanks

HSB: U going?

ID: Not looking for that kind of love.

HSB: But that was platonic Platonic is not physical Ur def need to be clear.

Pimp my kid

Yesterday, my father offered to fund an eHarmony premium profile on my behalf.

Ignoring the fact that eHarmony is a secretly Christian site that doesn't offer same-sex matchmaking, this was a sweet if horrifically inappropriate offer. Dad essentially wants to be my pimp. He just can't understand why I'm single (as stated many times before here). I love (LOOOOOOOOOVE) the fact that he thinks so highly of his kid that he can't imagine why this would be. It's ricockulously adorable. He also said that he knows I've kinda pulled myself outta the game (true) and that it's time to get back in (perhaps also true).

So taking this under consideration, I decided to redouble my efforts, or because I'd been putting in no effort, simply double my efforts. I bought and paid for a three-month membership at mypartner.com, a site specifically geared to the Gs, Ls, Bs and even Ts looking for something lasting.

My rationale in actually paying for it is this: I invest in school to make me smarter, a trainer to make me healthier, high quality food to keep my body running as best as it can, plane tickets home to see my friends and family to nourish my 'soul'... why not throw a hundred bucks into the ring for the chance at finding something long term?

I read recently that over two-thirds of lgbt couples now meet online. Staggering, isn't it? Seeing as the stigma around it has pretty much come down, alongside the facts that I don't meet a lot of new people and my friends are zero help in this arena (evidently friend-to-friend matchmaking only occurs in Jennifer Lopez movies), this seems like a good shot.

But no more Manhunt, Grindr, even Plenty of Fish. F-in' wastes of time. If I'm making an investment (only $100, I know, but sha!) I damn well want someone who's going to invest in me too. So I'm sending a template message to any and all that seem remotely compatible, casting that wide net, and seeing what happens. This doesn't discredit any of my previous notions of being happy alone regardless. I'm gonna be a fuckin' treat. But might as well see if there's a chance, right?

GRRRRRR SUPERSTAR!

So many tags worked for this one

"I'm scared that I'm going to end up alone. I'm scared that I'm always going to be somebody's friend, or brother, or confidant, never quite somebody's everything. Mostly I'm scared I'm never going to find a guy that I love as much as I love you."

Okay, this is a quote from Dawson's Creek, so first off, fuck you for judging me. Secondly, just shut up and keep reading.

I don't deal all that well with male friendships. I know this is a huge gay stereotype, but as much as I hate having to identify with anything gay (self-loathing homo much?), it's the truth. They make me anxious. Despite having a few close male friends, they're sort of outliers, as though women are my own species and I have a few extraterrestrial buddies on top of that. Whenever I'm with a guy friend, I am keenly aware that I am indeed with a guy friend.

This brings us to the opening quotation. I have a male friend that I am not in love with. This is not remarkable, or shouldn't be at least. I do, however, love him very dearly and in the absence of someone to be in love with, this can muddle the brain at times. This is usually pretty innocuous, little jealousies here and there, an odd dream from time to time. I have these with most of my friends actually, but for some reason when they happen with him...I dunno, they just cut deeper.

I am not attracted to straight men. Not. Ever. This single fact is likely the reason why we were able to become friends and remain that way. Sometimes I think that despite all the various facets of our relationship, if this one fact were suddenly called into question then the entire friendship would be at risk, like the most architecturally sound house being build atop a single brick that you didn't know was holding up the whole thing and one day it crumbles and the entire structure comes crashing down. We can only be friends because I don't believe this brick exists. Still, the house exists and it is on the closest friendship-property I own next to adding the word 'in' before love. If you understand the metaphor I'm going for here then bravo, 'cause frankly it's 1:30 in the morning and I'm struggling to get it.

It terrifies me that I could spend the rest of my life (because this friend is a lifer) putting heavy, inappropriate, misguided internal pressure on this person because, for no other than being wonderful, he has been cast as my occasional closest-thing-to. I've stated before that I believe a person - or, more specifically, I - can be happy being alone during their life and I still believe this is true. However, as someone who is capable of romantic love and has experienced in short yet epic bursts, I think certain elements need to manifest in other, only slightly torturous ways, such as not being in love with your friend but on occasion thinking as if you were. All of it boils down to this: I am capable of loving another person so much, as witness to how deeply I care for this friend, that as great as it is, if this was still only the closest I could ever get and I never found someone I loved more than him, I would look back on my life not with regret but with such sadness.



A couple enders:

1. I've been incredibly scared lately of my social disinterest in love. I've been thinking that I grew out of it, along with the other passions that ruled my early adulthood, from falling deeply into the hearts of virtual strangers to practically destroying my house in decorating for a party. But my heart has been beating so fast as I've been writing this post, and I turned off the lights and told myself to go to bed twice before deciding to just get up and pour this out. So maybe I haven't outgrown my irrational passions. They're heartbreaking but I want them around forever.

2, I've been spending a lot of time recently talking with a friend about their problems and I suspect because of this mentor-mentee relationship that they might have started having certain feelings of one-sidedness about the sharing of their traumas, that because of the advice I've offered that I am above emotional upheaval. If you are reading this, I hope this proves that I am just as weak and scared, and that we're just two people talking.

Of llamas and wontons

Life Tip: Don't be ugly and fat. Just try at least.

Been in Montreal for a couple days. It's been fun. Very chill. Lots of walking, which is great cause I'm only eating about twice a day and it invariably involves maple syrup and some kind of pork. Life really would have been so different and obese had I chosen to move here.

The dear friend I am staying with has a lovely live-in German boyfriend whose friend is also staying here. I sleep in the living room and wake up each morning to the two men speaking in German and so keep thinking I'm in the Magic Flute. I'm all, "Get yer hands off Pamina, you koksaugers!" and they're all *blank stare*.

I make friends awesome.

I went to see a concert with a couple of friends yesterday as their good buddy was playing viola in the orchestra. I was told he is 25, Israeli, gorgeous and plays the viola. They talked about him as though Jesus Christ was just the Putzie and that this fellow was the real Danny Zuko. Afterward, we all went out with a bunch of his friends - perhaps 8 of us total - to a Chinese restaurant he recommended, and I gotta say...additional life tip: Do not hype up your friends if they look like slightly attractive but slightly judgey Israeli llamas. This is not a great plan.

I've discussed "shiny people" in the past; those folks that most everyone is just drawn to like an everyday celebrity, and when you're one of the few that are not so into them...it's real awkward timez, which makes me awkward timez.* However, after about a half an hour, I just thought, "Hey, shiny asshole (He's not an asshole; I'm just being dramatic)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You're pretty eff-ing smudged," so then I regained my power of speech so oft lost around The Shinies and just continued on with the evening. Weirdly enough I had a nice moment with pretty much everyone at the table but him so the big final third life tip here is don't get weird around hyped people cause they're probably not that great and if they are that great then they will find you equally amazing and shiny instead of giving you pursed llama lips all night.

*Everything makes me awkward timez.

Ew Sucha Loser

I feel that I'm getting a little too good at this unemployment thing. Since mid-June, I've pretty much done nothing but watch TV online, work out, eat out (I spend about triple on restaurants what I do on utilities), visit Winnipeg for a bit, chill with friends, and...yeah. I recognize this was not the most sympathetic way of starting this post...

Take two: I am a bum.

I saw ESLothario last night for the first time in a year and a half. He looked good. I looked better. Not saying I'm better looking, but in the "who looks better compared to the last time we saw each other" game that goes on in my head and in which I am the only player, well, I won. Being a bum will do that to you.

I feel so much more at peace with life since I last saw him, and I didn't get all emotionally regressive but still... I dunno if we (I) can ever get over emotional trauma. It's not like we went through a break up or that there was anything traumatic in our friendship (and it was only ever a friendship), but in my head...things got a bit mucky, hence small emotional trauma. I had a hard time keeping eye contact, which, not to brag, is normally my thing *breath on knuckles, rub 'em on chest*. I just didn't want to look at him, like he was an anachronism from a time before I went back to school, stopped being a borderline alchie, and found all that inner peace shit that comes with one year of teacher education (lulz). As kind as he is to me and as well as I think of him I can't help but think it would be easier if I never saw him again. He also smelled really good and had on a sweater that was a nicer version of one I own. Whatever.

NEXT TIME: I spend outside my means.

I am NOT what I eat if I'm a dick

I think there must be some sort of positive correlation between one’s age, the time they have been single and inquiries about if there is a guy/boy/someone special/anyone/new person/dating service in their life.

I have had some form of this question posed to me no less than 5 times this week, 3 of them by my father. He wants a gay-in-law so damn badly. Crazy hunkey.

I had a bit of revelation last month. It’s not all inked in dogma or something revelatory requiring a soapbox. However, after years of everyone and their mom (yeah, moms always wanna make sure I’m getting ass) asking about my romantic life, and me consequently spending a lot of time thinking about it, ye ol’ brain came up with this:

What if it never happens?

Let me say right here before anyone jumps in with, “Oh you’ll find someone,” or, “You’re a great person; it’s only a matter of time.”

You shut your face. Hard. That kind of talk is unwanted here. No, like really hard.

Because, not to be a defeatist, but simply from a pragmatic perspective, what if it just…doesn’t happen? Am I to wander around for the next 20-30 years looking for this elusive thing rather than just being awesome and enjoying the ridiculously cool life I plan on building? F 2 da no, I say. You gotta be okay with just you. Some people get good with Jesus. I’m going to get good with D-sus.

Yeah. That just happened. Sorry.

Two Things

1. My parents went to a royal wedding theme party where everyone was supposed to wear a fancy hat, a fancy top and casual pants. My father later sent me a group photo of the party wherein everyone's lower half was still considerably fancy (full-length dresses, tux pants, etc). I sent an e-mail asking what had happened to the casual bottoms. His response:

"My underwear was very casual. Dad"


2. Today, while waiting in the rain for a streetcar, I decided to check Grindr and guess who was less than 300 metres away from me. Yep. This is my life.

There was a boy I went to school with. He transferred to my elementary school in the fourth grade, distractingly pretty features and slightly effeminate manners. Naturally, the majority of his friends were girls. We never had a class together, but stayed in the same schools until grade 12 graduation and he was always a source of interest for me. He still dated girls in high school, the longest, ironically, being with the girl I went out with...in grade 8. First and only, baby. He had a lightness to him. Not pertaining to his loafers, specifically, but rather that his whole spirit was light. His face shone, his features so finely set. I saw him once after high school, at a gay club in Winnipeg, and we did the "Oh hey! We're both out at a club!" hug and that was really all there was.

Nearly three years ago, he was driving down a street in Montreal, were he now lives. There had been a huge storm the day before and the ground was still littered with debris. A huge branch sprawled across the road in front of him and so he stopped the car and got out to move it. At that moment, another massive bow broke off from a tree on the boulevard and fell onto him, shattering his spine. He lost all mobility below the waist, was told that his chances of walking again are negligible and began a new, twisted version of his former life in a wheelchair. He moved into an assisted living facility for others who had suffered similar injuries. His boyfriend of 4 months eventually broke up with him, understandably unwilling to cope with this magnanimous change in the new relationship.

Less than six months later, he met someone new. The guy was a bit older, not too much, perhaps ten years, but if Facebook photos are any indication, they are very well matched. They got engaged last spring. Engagement photos were taken, white background, my former classmate in his wheelchair, newly huge arms, beaming smile, and his fiance next to him, mirroring that facial expression. They're getting married this summer.

This Valentine's Day, the guy I had been seeing for a few weeks prior forgot that he'd asked me to go out with him and made plans with his friends. Despite being apologetic, no make up plans were made, the only subsequent contact being a text message saying 'hug' around 11:30 that night. This was a guy who broke all my dating conventions (white, same age), was a psychic medium (seriously. That was his business), said wonderful things to me and made no actions to follow through on them. In the first week we met, I was at his place 4 times, taking care of his influenza-ridden body and alcohol-ridden mind, and I was glad to do it. On his end, he said that I was beautiful and that he'd waited a long time for me.

Continuing the outlier pattern established, I ended it, not him, which is likely understandable given what you read in the previous paragraph. I issued myself a little pat on the back with not sticking around longer than a couple weeks after finding out what this person really was. He was cracked, marked and broken, not unlike myself, but in no way seemed likely to patch himself up anytime soon and so I walked, like my friend's ex-boyfriend after his accident, and even more justifiably so.

This leaves me wondering, jackassily: ok, if a guy can lose all use of his body below the waist (ALL use) and wind up happy and engaged a year later, what does it say that I've been going at this with a mere limp for 10 years and can't find someone worth sticking around an entire month for? The decade-old dialogue of "It'll happen when it happens" and "Just be patient" have worn thin and I think it's time to perform a spiritual castration, turning myself into an emotional asexual, existing as the lone member of the species and completely self-propagating. Not a sad thing and certainly not a call for compliments, which inevitably accompany any self-depressive comment in the digital age, but I think it would be very freeing.


I've started a couple entries in the past couple months, but none seem right to put out there. This probably isn't either, but I wrote it out for myself, so might as well post it. I miss reading my favourite bloggers and having those electronic interactions, but things are just too hectic with school. I almost long for the days of an autonomous soul-sucking job, the consequence of which was that I had all this intellectual/humorous build up that needed to come out via posts. But this is how it is for now. Hopefully I'll find my way back.

I had a beer with lunch and now can't think of a title

There have been immeasurable (1) calls for an update, so here it be. Let us classify this as a life update rather than a funny/offensive op ed piece. The reason for my non-bloggitude as of late has been, for those who do not know, that I have returned to school for a rather intense program. Consequently, I will not be blogging with the same frequency or read/comment on my followed blogs for the time being. I know that we're all special snowflakes that deserve all the love and attention in this here blogosphere, but it's just beyond my temporal means at the moment. Selfish, perhaps, but what blogging isn't?

Yep, I call my posts pieces. What…a dickbag.

Future Roommate has gone the way of countless pop stars before her and dropped the 'Future' from her name. In other words, she is now my full-blown roomie. As far as the adjustment from friend to friend-roommate, there have already been smiles and frowns, ups and downs but already I have grown accustomed to her face. While she does not (yet) make the day begin, I feel we've been doing pretty well at communicating needs and wants and she has not yet attempted to castrate me nor I deovarize her, so back pats all round.

Speaking of castration, there are a whole bunch fellow teacher candidates who I feel would benefit from this process. Okay, fine, I'd benefit from this process. Of their castration. Ugh, not blessed by the Witty Hatred Faerie today. Ooh, new tag! I will not list here the full list of homicide-inducing archetypes, but rather will give a top 3:

3. "I'm a teacher candidate who doesn't like getting up in front of a class"
Um, you fail. A lot. And hard. Also, speak the fuck up. Group project partners, this is directed at you. Do NOT get in front of a class of adult learners and say, "Hey, guys… guys?…we're gonna move on so if you'd just like to [flaps forearms in the air, presumably to represent 'quiet' but coming off more like retarded penguin]…"

2. "I'm a teacher candidate who is doing this as a second career and therefore know more about everything than you"
Hey, do you know anything about shutting the fuck up? Didn't think so. Maybe if these jackasses actually listened to the instructor instead of thinking about an answer based on not listening to instructor, they could actually participate productively instead of wasting my valuable-as-that-weird-ass-mineral-from-Avatar time. An instruction to "reflect personally first" does not mean turn to your neighbour and run your mouth off for 5 minutes before asking me in a condescending voice if I'd like to contribute anything. Here is my foot. I would like to contribute it up your ass.

1. "I'm a teacher candidate and I won't shut up about teaching in Korea"

Hey.

Um.

Shut…the fuck…up.

Know who else has taught in Korea? 83% of the world, that's who. If I hear one more asshole (and they're always males) say, "So yeah, when I taught in Korea…" or talk about adding each other on Facebook so they can exchange kimchi recipes I AM GOING TO GO OFF. Kimchi tastes like pickles shit.

In other news, I had a two month thing with a Brazilian (cause I hate the white man) that ended in yet another "You're a great guy and I'd like to keep hanging out but just as friends, no kissing or anything like that anymore " talk.

Hey, Pele: what's Portuguese for "You're not interesting enough to be friends with while clothed"?

Reader Poll:
In the past year, David has cavorted around with a Macedonian, a Portuguese, an Albanian and a Brazilian. What ethnic group should he take up with next:

A) Rwandan
B) Peruvian
C) Latvian
D) None-of-the-above-cause-I'm-gonna-die-alone-and-unloved-ian
E) French

My night was awesome; thanks for asking!

Illustrious D: Hello, Expectations.

Expectations: Hey, Illustrious D.

ID: Well, thanks for popping by. That was really fun while it lasted.

E: No worries, man. I aim to please.

ID: Yeah, I mean, that little Brazilian number that seemed so sweet and cute...OH, and the fact that he seemed really, really into me...THAT was a nice touch.

E: LOL, I know, right? Man, I sure outdid myself this time.

ID: Really did. Thanks so much for another evening spent by the phone waiting for another asshole not to call.

E: Hey, no probz, dude. Totally random thought: maybe you should post this when you haven't had 3/4 of a bottle of wine to compensate for the fact that you will die alone and when you might actually make coherent sense to the two winners that still read this piece o' shize blog.

ID: Nah.

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.

Karmatic Retribution for Talking About Reta-... People With Intellectual Disabilities

A Text Conversation

Young Portuguese* (2:34am): David, I feel odd.

Illustrious D (7:21am): Okay. How?

YP (7:24am): Sorry about that. I was kinda drunk and feeling bad about the...non...way I left things.

ID (7:25am): Do you feel better about it now that you're sober?

YP (7:25am): You know I don't.

ID (7:26am): Not to sound like a dick, but I don't really know anything either way. The whole hot-cold thing was kinda confusing.

YP (7:27am): Bah, it's cool. Just forget I sent anything.

ID (7:28am): Not really all that cool. Forgotten nevertheless. Happy birthday me.


I'd like to issue a formal notice of appreciation to The Universe for waiting a whole 5 minutes after I woke up to fuck with me.

Parental Views on my Singlehood: Part the Second

My mother just called me on my work phone:

Illustrious D: Wha-? Hello?

Slacker Mom: Hi, sweetie. Did you call me at the office?

ID: No...

SM: Oh, then you must have caller ID (<----that's me!) and can see our phone number.

ID: I must.

SM: I'm going to go to the spa with Gloria to get massages on our day off, but I just wanted to let you know that Dad and I are going to dinner and then the theatre tonight so we will NOT be calling you later to say Good Shabbos.

ID: Mmmmokay. I'll try to not add that to the Feelings of Abandonment file.

SM: What?

ID: You look really pretty today. Is that a BumpIt?

SM: What? We're on the phone. Please be serious. But regardless that's not a very nice thing to say about my nose.

ID: No, Mom, I-... never mind. Goodbye.

SM: WAIT!

ID: *waits*

SM: *waits to see if I'm waiting*

ID: *adjusts balls*

SM: So this may not be the best time to talk about this cause you're at work, but lately...I've sensed that...you're...lonely...for a...rom...antic relationship.

ID: Well, Mr. Shatner, that's a very astute observation. Father has posited the very same hypothesis.

SM: It just seems that you could use it right now.

ID: As opposed to the last 10 years I've been looking for it.

SM: Right.

ID: *readjust balls back to original position* It's like you're in my head.

SM: They say it takes about two years so really get integrated into a place and so you're really just at the beginning still. You have the apartment and a job and you have lots of acquaintances (Mom-speak for "I suspect you're a whore.") and a couple friends like Unibrow and the one that looks like a doll, but I just think you should have a really good relationship.

ID: Holla.

SM: Are there any, um, you know, gay Jewish groups in Toronto?

ID: Yes. It's called Kulanu. The quasi-attractive Jew from back in December told me about it before dropping off the face of the Earth.

SM: Well, you're pretty self-sufficient so I'm sure you'll check it out if you want to.

ID: I'm sure I will, too.

SM: Well, this has been exciting. You work on the relationship thing. It just takes a little effort.

ID: Mother...

SM: That's all I'm saying.

ID: Mmmmmmmm-hmm.

SM: I love y-.

*click*

Riding in Cars with Boys

I just bit into an apple and the lower retainer that had been affixed to the back of my bottom teeth since I was twelve broke off. It was supposed to be removed in tenth grade but I stopped returning my orthodontist's calls the previous summer. Consummate professional, but awful lover. Also, I'm pretty sure I just heard my boss say, "That's retarded!" Ugh, so rude.

So the flight attendants...

On Thursday night, I agreed to go out with this guy that I had been sporadically talking with since January. The reason I finally took him up on his invitation? Because he'd offered to drive me and my suitcases from my apartment to the house sitting abode. I am a whore for non-public transportation. After dropping his friend off at a bar, it became apparent that this was not going my way when he suggested Tim Horton's as our destination. For all y'all 'Mericans, this is like taking someone you're trying to impress to a Dunkin' Donuts. This may be more than adequate for some people, but not this americano misto-sippin' G-star. He also chose to by-pass the location a mere block from us in favour of one 10 minutes away just so that he could use his friend's GPS. I'm still on backstory and already the Audible Sigh tag has taken the stage. Granted, he did treat me to my $1.50 cup o' joe (and I mean that; I accept any and all acts of chivalry), but the conversation was about as laborious as that Precious girl's saunter down the red carpet at the Oscars. Anyway, nothing much happened that evening, though he did drop by a couple nights later to hot tub and molest me. It's okay, y'all; I was wearing a really short skirt, so clearly asking for it.

Anyhow, this takes us to Monday. In the afternoon, some random starts talking to me on the msn. Turns out that this is the fellow we dropped off at the bar a few days prior and thought I was cute. I feel that 'cute' in this scenario is code for 'will stimulate the unfortunate looking if bored'. It became clear that the fact that I'd big spooned his friend two nights prior was not a deterant. Neither was loyalty, evidently. Anyway, it soon became evident that this man was reta-... really dumb. To illuminate, I offer this illustrated breakdown of his cranial output:

He kept talking about the two of them picking me and taking me for a drive (No, this is not leading to a three-way public indecency ticket). I received an "Okay, we're leaving now!" pretty much every hour on the hour for the entire afternoon. At 6 o'clock, I looked out the window and there they were, smoking cigarettes and sporting looks right out of an American Eagle markdown bin. For a moment I considered pretending not to be there, that they had the wrong address or that I was out or simply at Hogwarts, but I manned up, petted the kitty and walked outside. Our destination on this balmy Easter Monday eve? Bed shopping at The Brick.

Hear that sound? It's all 14 of my followers swooning in unison. I told them that there were some really great furniture places *cough* a few blocks away, not to mention a Leon's, but evidently the latter was too expensive and the former were not trustworthy as they are not chains (tragic foreshadowing). So we drive north for about 16 hours and the entire time, the newer flight attendant is playing DJ with his iPod. The only problem is that he is only interested in the three aforementioned divas and despite having upwards of 12 (not kidding) remixes of some tracks, cannot seem to find anything he likes. In the 35 minutes it took to get to the store, I'm pretty sure I heard three songs in completion. It was like

"Do you belie-eeve i-"

skip

"If I could tur-"

skip

"Do you be-"

skip

"Music! Makes the pe-"

skip

"Life is mys-"

skip

"Life is a mystery, ever-"

skip

"Life is a-"

Skip

"Life-"

skip

"Life-"

skip

"Cause I'm your laaaaaaaaady-"

skip

"This is a SONG FOR THE L-"

skip

"Life is-"

And so on. Hell, I know thee well. Eventually we reached the hallowed Brick, where the new one was talked into buying a $1,600 king-size bed. At first he protested, saying, "Oh but it's too big for just me," and then pouting in my general direction. You know when a fat person needs pants that are big enough to fit around their waist but they have no butt so they keep having to pull their pants up? Okay, if that's your situation, just go with the king-size. It's alright. No judgey. And you know when a person is so bad with money that they need to put their new mattress on an 8 month payment plan that requires on the spot credit approval? Okay, if that's your situation, you've made some poor choices. And lots o' judgey. But know what garners the most judgey? When you ask me whether your Abercrombie & Fitch baseball cap looks better forward or backward and then flip it around 7 times to fully illustrate. Hey, rotund effeminate men of the world: no.

Things went from bad to worse after I gracefully bit it while exiting the store and the Effeminable Snowman, thinking that I'd merely hurt myself, wanted to make light of the situation and began imitating my walk as he minced down the sidewalk. Naturally, he had no idea that this is actually my regular contribution to bringing sexy back, but still it wasn't awesome. I got pretty quiet after that. Then we got back in the car and drove around looking for a - wait for it - SWISS MUTHAFUKKIN CHALET. For all y'all 'Mericans, this is like taking someone you're trying to impress t-... Wait. There is no equivalent to the devil's own chicken shack. I suggested we go to the Greektown area, because the food is good and the people are hot, but mostly because I wanted to be closer to home when I made my escape.

"It's really nice, kind of like mom & pop bistros and bars all along one strip."

"Well, do any places around there have endless breadsticks?" asked my former tubmate.

"Um, n-..."

"Cause we ain't goin' nowhere without endless breadsticks..."

"Life is a myst-"

"...And dipping sauce."

After another hour of driving around in circles, they decided to meet four other friends for Korean BBQ. I took one look at what was sitting in the front seats, multiplied this by 3 and though, "Nargh, I'm out." Fortunately, it was at this time that my mother called and right on Jewish mother cue says, "Honey, what's wrong? You don't sound so good." I told her that I was out with some lovely new friends but that I was getting one of my chronic migraine attacks. "But you don't have mig-.." I hung up on her.

"Fellas. This has been nifty and memorable, but I'm feeling headachey. Is it okay if I jump out at, oh, say this subway stop that we're just happening to pass as I tell you this?"

Then I dove through the passenger window and called my mom, who laughed the entire time. What a bitch.


Yesterday, the nonsensical softness posted a comment which referred to me as grumpy and a self-proclaimed douchebag. Later, Kama over at Queer In the Mirror pondered about my real life personality versus the one that authors this blog and where the line falls. I told him somewhere in between, as I am generally more caustic and lively in the presence of close friends, but am nowhere near as racist. Some may know London Preppy, a Greek-British blogger who for many years was essentially the leader amonst gay hedonistic oversharers. His life revolved around his body, clothing and various prescription medicated adventures. It read like fiction and after several years he announced that much of it was. In the same way that he his not a complete narcissist, I am not that much of a douchebag as I seem to think. Details and emotions are just often exaggerated for dramatic/humoUr sake. Anyway, the point is that I maaaaaaay have given one of the flight attendants this blog address, so if you're reading, um, hi and I had a great time and, yeah, call me. Also, congrats on learning to read.

Next up: Llama Merkins

Okay, so I just found out the our first lady's first name is Laureen.

CANADA: GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER.


Now then, I've recently begun to enjoy the smooth, creamy stylings of one T.L. Bocina, who waxed nostalgic recently about a former lover and it got me thinking about mine. The infant that has come to be known as the Young Portuguese was in my life and my hot tub for a short while, not a good while, and in that time he was remarkable for no reason whatsoever. Yes, his street cred and lower lip were oddly intoxicating, but he had no real defining characteristics that will stand the test of time except that he is the most recent and therefore at the forefront of my rejection neuroses.

Last night, I had yet another dream in which he appeared and was not an asshole. I would like to issue an edict to stop invading my subconscious with fantasies about his non-assholedom as I know this to be a fallacy. His lopsided spectacled smile has as little effect on me as a Mach 3 razor has on his ridiculous and troubling amount of underbelly hair. I can forgive many things; bad haircuts, backne, occasional racism and psychopathological knowledge of the Going-To-Hell song from The Hunchback of Notre Dame, inclusive. But seriously dude, it's like a fake alpaca stomach weave from Crafts 'N Things. You could make a pashmina outta that shit.This is about as appealing as Ranjit, the accounts receivable guy who regularly pees in the adjacent stall during my daily iPod solitaire break in the employee washroom. (The guy pees and then for a solid minute and a half just stands there waiting for aftershocks that generally occur 15-20 seconds apart. He then does up his zippy and stands there for another bit, I dunno, praying or something. I can't really tell, but why else would someone stick around post-emission? Pro tip: If your god requires lauding and thanks after urination by light of fluorescence, you picked the wrong religion.)

Okay, this was originally gonna be an attempt at being deep but clearly I lost my concentration roughly around "fake alpaca stomach weave." Sorry. I'll try harder tomorrow.

Pimp my ass, Bill Cosby

There are two types of gay men in the world: insanely beautiful ones and insanely beautiful ones that are lazy. I, naturally, fall into the latter category.

It is my belief that pretty much everyone can be beautiful to some degree or another given the right diet/exercise/eyebrow maintenance routines. There are some exceptions but they are all straight. (Please do not log on to any online hook up sites or World of Warcraft tournaments in order to prove me wrong. That's just rude.)

I am well aware that physical perfection is not that hard to obtain. Just jokes, kids; it takes crazy kinds of dedimacation. Still, given that a solid 75% of Toronto's homoyoudon'ts seem to have some iota of sculpture to their form, it probably isn't that ridiculous to undertake. That said, I am ridiculous and refuse to lay a foot on a pedal or a hand on a barbell until such a time as I a) want to impress someone or b) get made fun of . The fact that I refuse to do it "just for me" like all those other assholes claim to is probably a pretty good indicator why Bill Cosby once offered to do a commercial spot for my ass. No, I choose instead to jump on whatever new eating habit is presented to me as gospel and just rock that for a while until Reese's introduces their next limited edition offering (I have tried everyone one for the past ten years; please do not be jealous of my legacy). Given that I'm going to be seeing judgmental Hungarian relatives in roughly 6 weeks time, I might want to get that. On the other hand, I hear that they're coming out with a Peanut Butter Cup/Turtles hybrid, so prolly not. Whatever, screw you, Hungary. Way to get beaten in, like, every war ever. Losers.

In other news*, ESLothario is back with his boyfriend of the last five years and I don't care. Is this personal progress people? We think so. I had a genuinely happy-for-him reaction when he told me and he just seemed so sweetness-and-light about the whole thing that even my caustic jealous ass couldn't turn that smile into a shit pile**. He also said that he wants to set me up with a friend of his. This made me excited for two reasons. First, the only infinitesimal success I've had with dating has come not through the 98% of my experiences derived from online dating sites but rather introductions through friends. The Mennotobans failed MISERABLY in this regard (way to all be in the closet *slow claps*) so bring on the Balkans. Secondly, I became very intrigued as ESLothario has fucking...HOT...friends. Like, for serious. He's pretty much the ugly one of the bunch. So naturally, I had high hopes...until he whipped out his iPhone. Now, I am, admittedly, kinda picky about mah menz, but I do my best not to judge until I get to know someone and certainly never from one picture. That said...really? You have an entire harem of Bel Ami models on your facebook and the one you've chosen for me is the Eastern Block's answer to Owen Wilson? MY DAD THINKS I'M HOT!

Good thing I don't have a live journal cause my emotional state or whatever for this post would be "annoying." Dayuuuum...

*Hey David, it's me, your blog. You write "In other news" like every couple of posts, dude. You write a blog; ALL OF THIS IS OTHER FUCKING NEWS.

**That was my flip take on "Turn that frown upside down." Will it flourish in our vernacular? Only time can tell. Early polls, however, say not well.

I remember as a kid that my friends and I would play all sorts of funny games with ourselves. Some would hold their breath while passing a cemetery and make wishes at 11:11. Others felt the need to chew equally on either side of their mouths. One of mine was played with an apple, twisting the stem while reciting the alphabet and whatever letter corresponded with the stem coming off was the name of your husband/wife/lovah. I still play this game with unabashed vigour. When I'm seeing someone, I hope desperately that the stem comes off at their letter. When I get a seriously good-for-nothing letter like 'H', I curse the heavens. At the risk of alienating the Harrys, Horraces (Horraci?) or Helmuts of the world, 'H' is not a sexy letter.

Today at lunch I had a granny smith. After I passed 'K', I became very excited as one so seldom gets that far before the stem detaches; I was filled with anticipation at which uncommon letter my future domestic partner's name would begin. As I rounded 'T', I began to become afraid. Why would this spawn of Satan apple not release my love stem?! After 'Z' had come and gone I debated whether or not to begin again at 'A'. Peering down at the freshly frayed green ligaments making up the stem, it occurred to me that this stem was a tangible metaphor for the abysmal failure that has been my romantic life thus far, that love was second only to that fucktard Waldo on my list of Things I Suck at Finding. I felt my innocence and sense of wonder slipping away from me all because of poor selection at the local Asian fruit stand, glancing around at the employees of the food court, Chinese each and every one, and felt their souls laughing heartily at my misfortune. Their mouths smiled, encouraging my daily purchase of a vegetarian western omelet with cheese (extra 50+), but their eyes...oh those eyes! "We do not care if you add 'Asians +++' to your Manhunt profile," they seemed to say, "You will nevertheless die alone and unloved and probably more bloaty than you had hoped for."

No, I said to myself. This would not be my fate as assigned by the employees of Pumpernickel's Breakfast & Deli. I gathered my valour, plucked up and dug what remained of my newly-clipped finger nails into that stem and began twisting with all my might.

A!...

*grunt*

B!...

*moan*

C!... D!...E!...

*wheeze*

F!

*pant *

G!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And off it came.


I do not know if finding true love is as simple as putting all one's strength into twisting off an apple stem. I imagine it is not. I surmise that there are any number of feats and challenges that I will have to face before I find what I am after. But, Gordon, I'm coming for you.

Oh hai. That last post was my 200th. Booya.


I may or may not have just sprained my wrist. "How the eff did a suave guy like you do this, Illustrious D?!" you may ask. "Masturbating," I may reply. This is a lie, but it would be kind of funny. Well, at least it would be if said in person. Maybe. Moving on. In actuality, this tragedy occurred at work as I was filing whilst seated on a stool. I scooched my bum back, miscalculating the surface area of the stool and promptly fell off. At first I was rather miffed that I had so foolishly injured my wrist bone, as it is connected to the arm bone, which is in turn connected to the shoulder bone and everyone knows that is my favourite bone. However, it then dawned on me that the miscalculation of the scooch could be directly accounted to a misperception regarding the size of my ass. By this inference, one could deduce that my ass is growing smaller, thereby making this the most joyous event of my day. Praise be.

In what has shaped up to be a banner week for my romantic life, last night I came across a Manhunt profile for what seemed like a totally nice guy: 24, cute, not anorexia-inducingly trim, DJ, couple of tats and the prettiest eyes you ever did see. However, upon further inspection of his primary profile photo, I noticed that he was sporting a LIVE STRONG bracelet. Let us all issue a collective sigh of disgust and befuddlement. Look, if you wear t-shirts from Threadless, describe yourself as a "spinner of phat old school beats" and you are gonna post photos of your badass star tattoos emblazoned symmetrically at the location of would-be man-lines if you were toned enough to have them, please do not counteract these David-attracting qualities by wearing a yellow rubber, 4 year old Malaysian-produced piece of what is essentially pop culture iconography from 2004 rather than an actual charity donation and that was last current when a certain Tour-de-France-winning, alt-pop-dating, alligator-weekend-bag-looking douchenozzle still had two low hangers. I just can't do that shit.

Ugh. Why can't I just marry Joseph Gordon Levitt and be done with it already? He has such good posture.