The following is an actual conversation between a friend and I during Ethics Class...
Campeau: You know, if we're gonna discuss the Ring of Gyges, we might as well watch Lord of the Rings.
Me: Ew, Lord of the Rings? Gag
Campeau: What's wrong with it?
Me: I dunno, I guess it's an okay movie, I just don't think it deserved the Oscar it won. It's also pretty gay too.
Campeau: What the hell are you talking about?
Me: That movie is pretty gay, dude. And this is coming from a gay who has gay sex. In my butt.
Campeau: Well, that is true.
Me: I could fly with rainbow wings over Brokeback Mountain and I STILL would not be able to match the gayness of that fucking movie.
Campeau: Brokeback Mountain was way gayer than Lord of the Rings.
Me: Are you kidding? If you took Brokeback Mountain, Philadelphia, The Birdcage and The Boys In The Band, threw them in a blender of gayness, it still wouldn't be as gay as that movie.
Campeau: Seriously, how is The Lord of the Rings gay?
Me: The Eye of Sauron is purposely shaped like a vagina, which Sam and Frodo must defeat with their gayness.
Campeau: Sam and Frodo are not gay, they're just two men who love each other and would do anything for each other...Oh wait, that is pretty gay.
Me: Also, Legolas looks like a chick.
Campeau: That he does.
Me: And Gandalf the Grey? More like Gandalf the GAY! HEY-O!
No blogging tonight. Mostly because I've been busy blogging on other places and I'm now on the border of completely burning out here. For realsies, yo. My index fingers have been reduced to bloody little nubbins, and my wrists now look (and feel) like they're made of peanut brittle and toothpicks. Well, that and the fact that I'm still trying to get over the fact that the only guy who's ever showed even the slightest interest in me has fallen for a tranny with a crappy jug-job. I'm not being mean, just honest. They face opposite directions. Like a hammerhead shark.
Anyhoodle, you check out the post I did yesterday for Pornstar in the Kitchen on Red Velvet Heartbreak Cake. True story: Brent Everett apparently decided to do his own naked cooking show. I may or may not have sent him a letter bomb. Brent, if you're reading this, try not to open any international mail for the next week.
Also check worthy: Stacey took a sick day today, so she let me cover things on Webster's Is My Bitch...On the day after Kanye acted the douche on Taylor Swift and everything went to gossip blog shit. Even vicariously he's annoying. Christ on a cracker.
Huh...Guess this is a blog after all. Oh the irony. Check out Junior Senior's video for Move Your Feet now before I inadvertently blog about anything else. Also, it has a daredevil squirrel. Holla.
Okay, so you may have noticed on the post about my kinda-sorta-maybe-boyfriend that we are now actually kinda-sorta-maybe-just-friends. Well, here's the story behind that.
After spending three days with him just hanging out, he left for work on Thursday to go to work, while I went to class. I figured after three days, he'd probably want to go home, so I just spent the night at home. At around midnight when I was in bed, I got a call from him. He told me about how much he made that night (a fuckload), he proceeded to drop this on me.
"I think I might have found someone tonight!"
While I've never stepped on a landmine, I at least have a metaphorical idea as to how it might feel. Namely, like someone just punched a big, gaping hole through your stomach even though you thought you were in a good place. Kinda sucks, don't it?
Well, it gets better. The next day in the middle of an impossibly long three-hour Anthropology class, I got a text that from who I assumed was (Oh, let's just call him) Jason (even though that's not actually his real name). He asked me if I still wanted to see him again and that I had seemed distant last night. After momentarily wondering if he knew how I actually felt, it dawned on me that he wasn't Jason. He must have been the guy Jason met last night. To make matters worse, he thought I was Jason. I would have thought this hilariously ironic if wasn't soul-crushingly heartbreaking. For reasons completely beyond me, I agreed to tell Jason he said hi, as I am the world's most wonderful little doormat.
Cut to tonight, when I tell Jason that the guy called and was wondering when he would see Jason again. As it turns out, this wasn't who he met, but rather an obscenely wealthy client Jason had given my number too since (A) he was staying at my place, and (B) he didn't have a cell. No, as it turns out the guy he met was, in fact, a tranny with a bad boob-job.
I know the saying has pretty much been run into the ground, but fuck my life. Imagine trying to put on a happy face and be all supportive knowing the guy you have feelings for has fallen for a tranny with wonky hooters. Draining.
Well, maybe it's for the best. I may have wanted a boyfriend and all, but...I dunno, maybe a friend is good enough for me. It is sort of my fault for getting the message wrong anyway. It's not the meaningful relationship I was hoping for, but maybe this is what I deserve for the moment.
So I was casually surfing the gay porn blagonets the other day when I happened upon this... That's right...I BE ON FLESHBOT, HOMESKILLET! Seriously, I'm in between Matthew Rush, Francois Sagat and Vincent DeSalvo...Mind you, not in the fun, sexy way. Well, yeah, I suppose it IS in a fun, sexy way, just not the fun, sexy way you would think. Not that I'm complaining, because I consider this to be massively awesome. And so I bequeath the good people at Fleshbot with the Free Beej coupon. Hells to the yeah.
As you've probably noticed, my posting has been getting pretty fucking sporadic lately. I've been posting almost daily for a while, but lately I really haven't been writing as often as I wish I did lately. But there is a totally valid reason for this shit.
I think I might have a sorta-maybe-possibly-boyfriend. HIGH FIVE! No, really, I have a boyfriend (Possibly). We met at work, we talked a little bit, he came back to my place, yadda yadda yadda, and we've spent the last three nights cuddling up in bed. Hells yeah. A couple things I know thus far:
He loves Futurama and Arrested Development.
He drinks Pabst Blue Ribbon and Dr. Pepper.
He's very protective of me. For reals, if you give me 'tude, he will drop you.
He likes getting his back massaged.
He looks like Jason Statham. No, really. EXACTLY LIKE HIM.
He grew up on a farm, and he totally rocks the "sexy cowboy" look.
When he wakes up in the morning, he makes these weird, sexy growling noises.
Which means at night, I get to fall asleep next to a big, sexy, growley Jason Statham. Hopefully now, you can sort of see why I've been neglecting my posting duties. My bad! UPDATE - Yeah, so as it turns out, it looks like we're sorta-maybe-possibly-just-friends. Well, it happens. Shut it down.
#10: Despite what CNN would have you think, there is not NEARLY enough news to last for 24 hours. Hell, there's barely enough news to cover five posts (plus Snaps, naturally).
#9: Gossip tends to be overwhelmingly about women, rather than men, even though they tend to do the exact same shit. Because everything is wrong if you have ovaries. High Five!
#8: Lady Gaga does, in fact, have a vagina. If you give a shit, congratulations! You have no life whatsoever!
#7: Theoretically speaking, if Paris Hilton never existed, the resulting space could be used for something better. Like Candy. Or puppies. We need to snuff Paris Hilton out of existent.
#6: While it is totally okay for people to mistake Zooey Deschanel for Katy Perry, never mistake Katy Perry for Zooey Deschanel, or she will turn into a total fucking bitch. Well, more than usual.
#5: Woman simply adore Chris Rockway. A lot. I'm assuming it has something to do with his abs. #4: Apparently, all you need to do to become King of a democracy is to change your name so "King". Because that's how both Monarchies AND democracies work.
#3: Everyone hates Heidi Montag. Everyone. Even the people they pay to like her secretly hope she dies of chlamydia.
#2: People will not let go of the whole Michael Jackson thing. Seriously, he's dead. Let the guy pass away with a little fucking dignity here.
I know I've been a tiny lackadaisical about the blog lately, but there's a good reason for it: Long story short, I'm working on starting up some much needed therapy. It's not like I have a raging drug addiction or a severe case of kleptomania, but quite frankly, I have some deep-seated rejection issues I have to get through. This really shouldn't come as a surprise to, like, anyone. At all.
Well, granted, there was a catalyst to it all. On Thursday, I ended up revealing to Matt that I happen to be a compulsive liar (Once again, not a surprise) and one thing lead to another, he ended up telling me something that he's been keeping from me for about five months to spare my feelings. Naturally, this lead to me downing half a bottle of wine before work.
I spent the better half of my day attempting to dance around sexily while the room spun. Eventually, I found my way upstairs where I served as a sort of pseudo therapist for one of the other dancers. In return, he offered me half a QT of coke, assuming that I was (A) in my twenties, and (B) already a recreational drug user. Once again, compulsive liar. Party foul on me for that one.
All I can say is WOW you should not do coke. Like, ever. Seriously. Withing 30 seconds my eyes were protruding cartoonishly out of my head, and within five minutes, I was hanging from the chin-up bar in the changing room gym like a koala bear tripping some major balls. It was at this point that the guy started catching on that this probably WAS my first time riding the white pony. Needless to say, he was feelin' the guilt pretty hard.
After spending five minutes talking me down (literally. I was clinging to that bar for a while), I decided to sleep off the half-QT, while a room full of incredibly well-muscled strippers sat by watching the skinny white boy vibrating on the couch, making sure that he didn't inadvertently OD on barely enough coke to up a five-year-old. Oddly enough, having a drug-induced freak out is a GREAT ice breaker. I wouldn't recommend it though.
After returning home, making tortellini in record time and listening to Merriweather Post Pavillion (Animal Collective makes so much more sense when you're on drugs), I ended up fessing the whole thing to Matt. Thankfully, he gave me a number he got from a friend to help me sort out my issues.
Anyhoodle, I'm not proud of any of this really. I really should not have done that coke. Or that half bottle of wine. And I really should have gone to see someone about my rejection issues a LOOOOOOOONG time ago. But whatever, cut me some freakin' slack here, homeskillet. I'm finally gonna work on sorting my various fuckeries out, and all it took was a little bender on my part. Hooray?
To be honest with you, the past couple months, I've felt like I was really just sort drifting by. As much as I've done, I've kinda spent the past five months wondering what was wrong with me, questioning every little thing I did...Basically, the not-so-fun stuff. Anyway, I'm going to try and sort that out, and once I do, hopefully I'll be able to keep doing what I'm doing, but with a little more feeling.
This is what I would look like as a zombie. Well, sorta. I just smeared a bunch of flour and ketchup on my face to make myself look as dead as possible on a dare from Rocco Giovanni. Normal people probably wouldn't have done it, but then again, normal people have things like "Dignity" and "Self-Respect". Neither of which, you should probably know by now, I actually have. Well, that, and let's face it: Zombies are AWESOME. And I look totally hot covered in blood/ketchup.
Hello, I'm Jeremy Feist, and I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing. For now, I'm juggling my family, my life, and my new career as the world's most unlikely gay porn star. It's complicated.
