Illness, Injury, Busted GaydarBoy, that last post was a corker wasn't it? I probably got more excitement whipped up by not posting about D.C's largest private event than I did by doing it.
Some people reacted strongly (and publicly) in the negative to the content of that thing, claiming that they felt insulted. Well, really. Way to validate my bad habits, people.
Just because someone throws a flaming bit of dog poop on your doorstep doesn't mean you have to stomp it out barefoot, now does it?
I have a big problem with people sport dating and blabbing about it to the Web at large. I'm sorry if my statements hurt the feelings of anyone who does that on a regular basis. It's just, you know, I didn't think you HAD any feelings in the first place.
But enough about that.
Since I've spoken to you all last, I've sprained an ankle and contracted a scorching case of food poisoning, which is probably blogging about the fantastic date IT had in my stomach and intestines with a bile-spraying skull cracker of a hangover. All this within 36 hours while in San Francisco for a friend's wedding. So it's not like I didn't suffer a little for my smarminess.
Also: the girl I was weakly chatting up at the wedding turned out to be a super-cool, laid, back, creative and attractive lesbian who loves making guy pals. Despite illness, injury and broken gaydar, I had a hell of a time catching up with all of my college housemates out in S.F., which is essentially the Bizarro version of D.C.
As soon as I returned from S.F. I had jury duty, which was totally unremarkable except for two things:
1) The cafeteria lady at the D.C. Courthouse deals with her moustache in a really unusual fashion. Rather than wax, pluck, or straight shave that sucker, she's trimmed it into a dainty, elegant Prince 'stache. It's impressive. And for some reason, nothing makes you feel loved like buying industrial food from a woman with a moustache who calls you "baby."
2) This dude sittingnext to me in the hallway rapped along with his headphones for a whole HOUR. For real. He rapped himself out of breath and kept rapping in the inhale. That's right: even his gasps were funky. Eventually he rapped himself to sleep and slumped over onto himself dribbling rhymes down the front of his shirt.
I'm working on another writing prokect at the moment and will be out of commission for a while. I've given this project a lot of balloon juice to all my friends and family, and now I've got to deliver, which is always the hardest part. Writing sucks, actually, and I hate it. It's the having written that keeps me going.