Dear bestest buds,
Lots has happened since I last wrote. It was my birthday and my friends had a party and played pin the firecrotch on Lauren. More on that in another post. And because they’re mad crafty, they also made T-shirts in my honor. Also more on that in another post. And I got some prezzies. And I kicked ass at yoga. And I went foraging for ramps with a 10-year-old. And my head popped off. I also went to see Talib Kweli at Higher Ground. That was my birthday prezzie to myself.
This is Talib and me after the show.
Dear better than best friends,
Disclaimer: This post most likely constitutes oversharing. Oversharing is the wave of the digital future, if you didn’t know. It’s where ordinary people like me write on the Internet about how they got drunk last night, woke up pregnant and had to get an abortion. Or how they got drunk last night, barfed in a potted plant and slept in the tub for five days straight. Or how they got drunk last night, took pictures of their boobs and sent them to their boss’s nine-year-old son in an e-mailed titled “4 yr eyez only.” Anyway, since this is what all the kids are doing these days, I thought I might as well try my hand at it. If you are squeamish about unmentionable parts of the body, such as the anal sphincter, I suggest you read no further.
Dear friends who may or may not be the best,
First, I’d like to ask the loud mouth with the radio announcer’s voice sitting a few seats away from me to pipe down. I haven’t gotten my noise-cancelling headphones yet (birthday present hint, hint, hint), so I still have to listen to your insufferable gasbagging, which, incidentally, is the only sound that permeates the tunes I’m jamming out to. For the love of all that is awesome is this world, like slip-on shoes, pandora.com, Necco wafers (yes, flipping Necco wafers, son!) and musical theater, put the brakes on your yapper.
Thank you, BF’s for indulging me in a little rant. But how am supposed to churn out hilarity when my thoughts are being drowned out by the extreme verbosity across the room?
Dear BFFs (until someone better comes along),
This past weekend, I went bowling. It’s sort of a little out of character for me to participate in any sport that requires using communal equipment since I’m interested in good hygiene, particularly my own. But when anyone asks me to do something on a Saturday night, I’m more often than not game. Beats sitting in a dark living room on a tapestry couch that smells like wet dog crying my eyeballs out about the fact that I have no friends while the Ween (aforementioned dog) likes the tears from my cheeks. Anyway, so hell yeah I was game for bowling. Plus, I haven’t won at anything in a while and I figured, when I assessed the crew I was going bowling with, that I could surely come home victorious, even if I didn’t stick my fingers in a bowling ball all night long.
Dear Gay Porn Stud,
Thank you so much for following me on Twitter. I am flattered that someone of your great esteem would care what a nobody like me has to say in 140 characters. I have to say, I was somewhat surprised when I got the notification in my inbox- “Gay Porn Stud is now following you on Twitter.” I mean, I’ve never known a gay porn stud before. Especially not one who is the “no.1 Gay Porn Stud!” as you purport to be. I mean, you’ve already been in “several hardcore films so far!” I’ve known some gents who fancy themselves gay porn studs, but I try to tell them just because they wear T-shirts with slogans on them like “Cock Hunter,” doesn’t actually make them studs who are involved in porn. Those just tend to scream gay. Based on your Web site gay4free.info, it’s pretty clear that you’re making a pretty penny off of your “erotic” “work.” Like only a penny. But it’s pretty and so shiny.