Pootie

Don't let the sweet, pretty face and cute pooch fool you. This little lady is as feisty as they come, and to top it off, knows how to shoot an array of guns and crossbows. Besides that, she'd be the woman I'd try to marry if the world had of made me a man that was looking for a woman to marry. Nonetheless, she has a beautiful blog that you should follow right here

You know when you just feel like this?

I wish my deaf dog understood sign language, because I'm always worried that I hurt his feelings.

hellla gayyyyy

So, I have made an observation of my life. It seems to me that the only people I really get into altercations with in my adult life, are other gay men. Do I know why this is? No. Do I know where this hostility manifests itself from? No. Do I know why the gays are always in attack mode and ready to pounce on another gay at the drop of a ten calorie tic tac for lunch? Maybe.

I've noticed a major difference in the ways that the gays fight as opposed to straight men. Yes, there are instances where a homo can throw a beer bottle at another or "throw some bows" as my man Ludacris so eloquently puts, but it always stems from the same basic gay fighting tactic. Which I believe is making you feel like shit on the inside, rather than making you feel physical pain on the outside. Think about it, these sassy stanley's are skilled in the art of verbal assaults, probably learning from years of torment on the playground and a thick skin that not even the sharpest stiletto can puncture. All it takes is that one look. You know the one, the one where eyebrows get furrowed, the eyes travel up and down your entire body, and then the not so subtle scoff as they lean into their friend laughing while still looking at you. And then all of a sudden the insecurities flow like a stampede.

"What are they laughing at? Is it my outfit? Is it my hair? IS IT MY FACE? I thought I looked nice tonight. Don't I look nice tonight? Mike? Mike, I'm talking to you. Do I look nice tonight? Well, it's just they're laughing at me. No, I'm not projecting my insecurities. Fuck you. Just tell me I look nice, bitch. DON'T I?! .......thank you. Yeah, fuck them. FUCK YOU! Yeah I'm talking to you, Sally. I said fuck you. Don't....don't you fucking point your finger at me."

That's always the second stage of the gay fight. The finger lift. It's as if an invisible magic wand is being lifted in the air and the index finger comes up, not pointing at you, but more so raised towards the roof so you are essentially looking at them holding up the number one, while making a stank face. And that finger just WORKS IT. It is used so intricately to gesticulate on all the right words.

i.e. Fat. Bitch. Slut. Queen. Loose.

And then a finger is used in retaliation. So much so that if someone hearing impaired happened to be watching it would appear that two queens were trying to out do each other in a Mariah Carey impression.

Of course, if all of that fails to scare the competitor the testosterone levels can't be ignored and here come the beer bottles, drinks thrown, claws out, fists clenched. But I am always impressed with the devious, strateigical mind games that always preface the physical violence. It, to me, is truly more frightening than throwing some fists around.

Solooo

So, my friend Molly (who has herself an awesome, witty blog right here ) has already put this song either on her blog, or on facebook before, but I don't care. This past month I have been re-reading, and finally finishing, one hundred years of solitude, and everyone should REAADDSS IT.

Unless you're in a bit of a slump. Despite the beautiful language and magical story, the passage of time and somewhat sad endings to some of the family members' stories can be a bit of a downer. Especially if you're a recent college grad who is being forced to realize that EVERYTHING CHANGES.

So....there's that.

Aargh.

Pirate Dreams

Needles and pins, Needles and pins,
Sew me a sail to catch me the wind.
Sew me a sail strong as the gale,
Carpenter, bring out your hammers and nails.
Hammers and nails, hammers and nails,
Build me a boat to go chasing the whales.
Chasing the whales, sailing the blue
Find me a captain and sign me a crew.
Captain and crew, captain and crew,
Take me, oh take me to anywhere new.

— Shel Silverstein


God Shel.....write mah lyfe why don't you?

Draaaaank

These are the dashing gentleman I got to spend my past weekend with. I feel like no photo comes so close to our relationship as this one. Because obviously I'm the classy one, Titus in the middle is the charming one, and Nicholai Steen on the right is the alocoholic.

I just returned to Las Vegas after spending a weekend in San Francisco auditioning for graduate programs. So...we'll see how that turns out. On my travels back home I spent a good portion of the morning walking in the rain looking for the train station to take me to the airport, finally getting there soaking wet and learning my flight was delayed an hour and a half. My solution to this problem obviously involved me drinking four tall glasses of beer, followed by a mix drink on the airplane while I watched Jersey Shore, delivering me to my mother in a nice drunken state. Being that it was Valentine's Day, my concubine Derek suggested we go out drinking to a plethora of bars down on the Las Vegas strip, launching me into a state of utter intoxication, exhaustion, and delirium. Its as if all the overtly stimulating experiences of my weekend and travels home mixed together in what felt like a lucid dream but happened to be reality.

For example, I truly believed at one point in the night I was talking to Ronnie from the Jersey Shore, and in my efforts to confirm this I proceeded to take a step back from him and stare at him with one eye closed so that he would stop multiplying. My friend Dylan calls that move the drunken pirate. Then, if falling asleep in the back of the cab ride home wasn't enough, I got yelled at by my mom for making a racket in the pantry at four in the morning, and didn't understand why she failed to remember that I was a gladiator and had an important fight the next morning. When I woke up, I was greeted with a loving, "you were eating raw noodles at four in the morning again."

I attribute the gladiator fantasies to my indulgence in the series (porn) Sparatacus over the weekend. Who doesn't love a show full of bare breasts, man ass, and frequent decapitations? And today, it was the only thing distracting me from checking my e-mail every ten minutes to see whether or not I got the next callback to these graduate schools. I think I now can relate to a crack addict who is waiting on a call from his dealer. Gotta get it gotta get it gotta FUCKING GET IT.

meow.

Bafroom

A little known fact about me is that I have a strange affinity for bathroom stall graffiti. One of the top three I've ever seen is "I have herpes and I used this toilet..good luck!"

This one I took a picture of because I appreciated how concise and simple it was. This guy is a straight to the point kind of dude. I respect that. Wherever you are red pen graffiti man, I pay homage to you.

TSQ

The only thing better than this song is the "most liked" comment underneath it that reads, "I want this song playing as my backround music when im outside doing stuff. :D"


It would make the scene in which you ride over to your friends house on your razor scooter a lot more substantial, now wouldn't it Tomajm24?

Ketch-up

So, I am apparently not quite sticking to my resolution of updating my blog multiple times per week. This could easily be blamed on my procrasturbation tendencies, or more so that I never feel quite productive when I'm at my own house. I don't know if anyone else feels this way, but even in college, being in a residence that I associate with sleeping, eating, drinking copious amounts of alcohol, and (besides my parents house) having the occasional romp in the sack, just doesn't equate with productivity and working in my mind. So, this requires me to make the effort to get out of my house and go to one of the 9 million Starbucks establishments that litter the continent. Which can be tricky because I like the sit and write for sometimes around an hour, but for some reason the Starbucks think its trendy and hip to close at 8, and the only one close enough to my house that stays open until 10 has only two outlets for me to plug my computer into, which are always occupied by Japanese girls on their macbooks. That's not being racist, it's being observant. Add to this the fact that I feel like I have to make myself presentable before I go to a coffee shop because I am just convinced in my mind that I will meet an attractive stranger, proceed to make sexy eyes at each other, and later go home to check missed connections to find the add that reads "cute ginger in the tight jeans," and then finally have a relationship for the first time in eons.......well, it's just HARD.

Speaking of "missed connections", I sometimes peruse it for my own enjoyment and have made an observation of most people's attempts to avoid impostors in their quest to find their potential one true love they checked out in an Arby's parking lot. They make it an absolutely ridiculous quiz.

i.e. "To the cute guy I saw in the whole foods. I think you're really hot and have great style, would love to meet up and talk more. Message me back and tell me what three different kinds of organic produce were in my canvas satchel and we can set something up. xoxoxo"

Seriously, if it's not something as ridiculous as that it isn't far from. I think I one time saw one that asked the person being sought to give his license plate numbers in order to get the chance to meet up with the seeker. Okay....I couldn't even tell you what I had for dinner last night, let alone tell you what brand of white bread you were holding when you checked out my package. This is why you're single and trying to mend unrequited love through craigslist, for chrissakes.

And obviously I'm single because I mock you for it.

What happened to romance goddamit? What happened to love letters and gentleman callers and lighting someone's cigarettes? What happened to telling someone you wanted to sleep with them when you were actually in their presence?!

So we can't find a solution to save polar bears from drowning but we can spend the time to make an application to tell us how close the nearest gay guy is to us, whose name is punkrboi69 and is "down to party, get drinks, and whatever lol"

For shame, America.

Dayley

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Im glad my reintroduction to the daily show started with this.