The Bad Morning After

It all started out as a pretty standard evening.  “Pretty standard evening” meaning that I was drinking bourbon at a bar and hating pretty much everyone.  It’s a lifestyle.

Somehow someone looked at me in my bourbon stupor and thought “Wow, this guy fisting a double bourbon and ginger ale in one hand, and chain smoking cigarettes in the other is an ideal mate that I must talk to”.  He was fairly attractive, a doctor, and most importantly from out of town, so he quickly became Dr. Tonight.

The unfortunate part about Dr. Tonight was everything to do with the next morning.  My weekend diet of 711 taquitos, American Spirit cigarettes, and well bourbon does not equip me for cheery mornings.  In all honesty, I’m probably best described as a fire breathing haggard troll with a mild learning disability on weekend mornings.  I am not the kind of person you want to “get to know” via pillow talk on the morning after drunken coitus.

Still, Dr. Tonight decided that he needed to learn more about the troll that he had picked up from under the bridge and taken to his hotel room.  Do you have any siblings?  When did you come out to your family?  What was it like growing up in the mountains?  How long have you had your dog?  How long have you OH MY GOD SHUT THE F*CK UP!!  The only thing keeping me in place to withstand the barrage of questions was a mild-to-crippling hangover that I’m pretty sure I can collect Social Security Disability for.

After tersely answering his questioning for about 15 minutes, I had finally had enough.  “Can you shut the fuck up so I can go back to sleep?”  He thought I was joking.  “Your voice is the sound of twinks and axes being thrown around in a cement mixer.”  What about this is funny to him?  He begins telling me about his rekindled familial relationships in a post-out world, and I can tell this is the kind of story that takes three therapy sessions to get out, so I reached over and scribbled a message on the notepad on the bedside table and handed it to him.


Oddly, I was asked to leave after that.  Yes, I’m still surprised that I’m single.


The Bad Person

I’m talking about myself.  I am a bad person.

While out at the bar, I kept noticing one fairly attractive man staring intently at me, but never approaching me.  What kind of monster must I be that he would stare at me from across the bar, but not approach me?!  What frightening, murderous vibes must I be giving off that I don’t even warrant a hello?!

Two bourbons later, I decided to approach.  He was either going to talk to me or explain why he wouldn’t.

I ordered a roadie for the journey across the bar, practiced smiling into the mirror, and then strutted over to this aloof mystery in a manner I thought resembled Leonardo DiCaprio making an entrance into one of his grand parties in The Great Gatsby, but probably looked more like Smeagol closing in on his precious.  I made eye contact and blurted out the most vanilla introduction possible:

Hey, how’s your night going?

He gave me a frightened look, looked over his shoulder and nudged his friend.  His friend approached me like a mafia bodyguard and said:

Hey man, he’s deaf.

I don’t know what came over me at this moment.  I don’t know if I felt so invested because of all the eye fuckery that took place earlier, or if I felt some sort of guilt and needed to prove to myself that a tiny little thing like being deaf wasn’t a deal breaker for me because I AM A GOOD PERSON.

I took out my phone, opened the Notes app, and typed the same missionary sex of pickup lines.  He took the phone out of my hands and typed his response.  Communication established.  We spent the next couple of hours passing my phone back and forth at the bar in silence.  I learned that he was a spokesperson (…) for the deaf community after appearing on The Amazing Race with his mother, and realized there was no way I was getting out of this situation now without looking like the vain piece of shit my friends know me to be.  So I took him home.

Now, before you go slut shaming me, you should know that taking someone home does not always mean sex for me.  And in this case it didn’t.  However, he did stay the night.

In the morning, we woke up and continued to text each other from the same bed until he asked if he could take a shower.  I told him of course, and signaled with my hand where the bathroom was (totes nailed the sign language thing after one night).  He walked to the bathroom and I laid back down.

A minute or two later, he came back out and started moving his arms like he was having a seizure.  Seeing no other sign of physical pain, I realized he was trying to communicate with me in the absence of a phone, but I was not picking up what he was throwing down, so he Hellen Keller’ed his best “Do you have a towel?” at me, and I pushed down the outward display of my awful self and directed him to their location.  He went and showered and I took out my phone to immediately text my friend amid muffled laughs:

I brought home a deaf dude last night.  He’s so pretty, but makes the ugliest noises.

I am a bad person.  I am The Bad Gay.

The Bad Bladder

Sometimes you cope with a failed relationship with anger.  Sometimes you cope with a pint of ice cream and a jar of tears.  Sometimes you cope by pissing in their bed and insulting them.

I chose the latter.

Last year, I was casually seeing this guy Fancy Gay™ who seemed convinced that life’s central pillars were completely superficial (fashion, appearance, reputation, etc.), which was kind of surprising given his inherent wit and intellect.  Fancy Gay™ regularly chastised me for my casual presentation, but I give a slight nod to his banter and blowjob abilities, so things ensued.

Shortly after, it became perfectly apparent that things with him weren’t going anywhere but the bedroom, so I began casually pursuing other POIs (Penises of Interest) to put a ring on my finger and bring me pizza in bed.  I kept Fancy Gay™ around for a bit, but decided it best to cut that bitch off. #kcamp

Now, I’m pretty awkward to begin with.  I’m that guy that doesn’t know how to respond to a “hello”, so I dance a hoedown à la Ashlee Simpson.  Just imagine how I react to a compliment.  Or seeing someone in public that I used to be inside.

It’s uncomfortable.

After months of avoidance behavior, Fancy Gay™ and I found ourselves in the precarious situation of having newly overlapping social circles, so Fancy Gay™ suggested that we be friends.  I told him that didn’t interest me.  Still, we continually found ourselves in each other’s company until one drunken night when we went home together.

Honestly, I’m not even sure how it happened.  One minute I’m at the bar, and the next I’m laying next to him in his bed in the middle of the night.  As cognition kicked in, I took in the entirety of my surroundings: we were both naked, my hair was wet, and there were no sheets on his bed.  Instantly, I began ridiculing him for not having sheets on his bed and calling him trash.

However, as it turns out, the reason there were no sheets on his bed was because I pissed all over them.  ALL over them.  So badly he removed the layers of linens and tossed them to the bottom of the stairs before demanding a shower I don’t remember.

I am the bad hookup.


Oops I Did It Again…

…I chased another person away.  I’m batting a thousand over here.

I had met this guy recently, and after he willingly kissed me and expressed the slightest amount of interest, my crazy a$$ was picturing Saturday morning breakfasts in bed, accidental sunset strolls along the water, and vacations in Europe.  Then I was reminded of something I too often forget: they all run after 2 dates.  So after two great interactions, there was a weekend lull in conversation, followed by “bud” and “pal” qualifiers that immediately read “friend zone”.

I’ll admit, I was a little shocked and upset, but more than anything I was in need of a distraction to avoid the deluge of anxious and psychotic thoughts that were building up behind the cracking dam, so I went out, and I went out on a mission.  Now, I am not one to be “on the prowl”.  I find the whole thing uncomfortable and borderline creepy, but I was convinced that the fastest way to get over someone is to get behind someone else.  I ended up spotting this one particularly tall guy that I set as my target, and after numbing my anxious core, I approached.  Anyway, fast forward to him leaving in the morning and giving me his number only for me to realize it had already been programmed in my phone.  Where had I met this one before?  The mystery was intriguing.

That weekend, I decided I needed to solve this mystery in the style of a slutty Angela Lansbury, so I reached out and planned to meet up.  As soon as plans were made, my flesh started burning under my skin and I was sweating.  As alarming as that may sound, that is my normal reaction to anything that doesn’t involve shutting myself off from the world, so self-medication was in order.  Bourbon neat, PRN.  I ended up taking so much medication that my memory of meeting up with him, going to a few bars, going to a diner, and then going back to his place is all pretty hazy.

Anyway, after a brief fast forward, we finally arrive at the crowning moment.  I demanded cold Chinese food, so made him order me a combo dish and put it in his fridge while I went back to sleep.  Upon waking, we decided to eat our cold nomz and watch a movie, but it wasn’t until almost the end of the movie that I remembered why I don’t eat Chinese food around boys: I get gassy.  After a solid 20 minutes of holding in the flood gates, I couldn’t clench my sphincter tight enough to hold it in, so out came the sound of a baritone trumpet echoing off the walls.  I laughed uncomfortably, which, of course, released the gas kraken remaining and a series of notes forming an orchestral sound in his small apartment.  As the auditory beauty died, the olfactory tragedy took hold and singed my nose hairs.  I was marinating in an ass-idic nightmare.  As bad as it may have been for me, the resident of the gas chamber started gagging and ran to his bathroom and started dry heaving.  I took that as my cue to leave and started putting on my clothes.  As he exited the bathroom, I was just putting on my jacket and looked over to see a look of pain and fear on his face, so I said the only thing that could be said in this situation: 

I need to go home because your apartment smells like shit.

And still don’t know where we first met.

Annnd still single.

Why We Need To Stop Giving Kim Davis So Much Media Attention…

I don’t mean to say that I think anything that she’s done following the SCOTUS decision on same sex marriage is OK in my mind.  I would actually describe her as “simple” in both appearance and mental capacity.  I simply mean to draw attention to the implications of directing so much media attention on such hot button issues.

At this point, I just feel like Kim Davis is being used as a figurehead for the “traditional family” agenda.

Instead of focusing on how many times she’s been married or how she dresses herself, we should be focusing on what’s going on right now on the other side of the issue.

Following the SCOTUS decision, Rowan County stopped issuing marriage licenses to all couples, both gay and straight, but it wasn’t until the video of her denying a license to Moore and Ermold went viral that the story gained buzz and grabbed the media’s attention.  The nation began dividing itself on an issue within a county with a voter turnout of under 4,000 in the last general election.  4,000.  Still, sides were taken and that sells in the media, so Kim Davis became a household name.

While the more socially progressive among the general public, especially those in the LGBTQ community, berated her for a clear injustice, we have to consider what happened on the other side.

Kim Davis became the new face of traditional marriage.  

Kim Davis became the new face of religious liberty.  

Kim Davis became the new face of conservative Christian values.

With a scapegoat established, radical and religious organizations supporting these agendas reached out to Davis to offer their support.  While I imagine organizational support came in multiple forms, the most significant came from the Liberty Council, a Christian law firm offering free legal defense of “Christian religious liberty, the sanctity of human life, and the traditional family” (read: “I don’t have to because Bible, abortions are bad, gays are subhuman”).  While I can only speculate what conversations transpired, I imagine they went something like this:

LC:  You’ve gained national attention for your stance on traditional marriage and religious liberty.  The good Christian people all over this nation are singing your name in church and Jesus, himself, is smiling at you.  We believe in your message and we’d like to take your case to ensure that all Christians are guaranteed their religious freedom and able to impose that religion on everyone else!

KD:  I honestly didn’t know about the SCOTUS decision because I don’t have cable in my trailer and I’m illiterate AF.

LC:  Just do what we tell you.

At this point, Davis may have questioned whether or not this was the right course of action.  She may have wondered if her career and reputation were more important than imposing her personal religious interpretation of marriage on others.  However, with the ego massaging from the Liberty Council and similarly-minded organizations, and the support from what I assume was a mass of conservative Christians, her confirmation bias brought her in the direction she finds herself today.

In psychology and cognitive science, confirmation bias (or confirmatory bias) is a tendency to search for or interpret information in a way that confirms one’s preconceptions, leading to statistical errors.

I can’t be sure of how Davis would have responded in a vacuum, but drawing so much media attention to this issue in a county with a voter base of around 4,000 gave conservative Christian organizations the fuel they needed to fire their next initiative in support of their Christian agenda.  A story that would have ended in the exact same manner has been blown up and allowed debate on an issue that was in the making long before Kim Davis was relevant and in follow up to the Hobby Lobby decision:

Can a secular employee deny service to their constituents based on their religious beliefs/values?

A clue: no.  But allowing this debate to happen will undoubtedly result in a chain of similar cases, each varying just slightly, and each blurring the Constitutional lines for someone in our simple…very, very simple…country.

Thoughts While Swiping Tinder

“Eat something.”

“Stop eating so much.”

“Where did all of your hair go?”

“Do you always smile like that?”

“What in the hell happened to your eyebrows?”

“Ugh.  Cargo shorts.”

“You’re cute, but you’re too much of a nugget for me.”

“Oh dear god.  Accidental like.  A match?!  Quick!  Unmatch!”

“You’ve reached your selfie limit, so you’re moving left.”

“That guy is in EVERY picture.  Are y’all just looking for a third or are you still crazy mode over your ex?”

“Your grammar is moving you left, sir.”

“What?  What even are you?”

“Oh cool.  Another female.  Another liberal f*ck who refuses to put their gender on Facebook.”

“Oh I like this one.  No match?  I’ll check back every hour for the next 2 weeks.”