I don't feel that old because this suit was from the kids' department. $90 DKNY before my discount, bitches.
I am 26 now. 26 is how old Channing Tatum was in "She's the Man". 26 is when you have to be on your own crappy health insurance. 26 is not fun. 26 is gay 72.
The theme of my birthday party was "Lordy Lordy Jakey is 40" because I wanted it to rhyme. I reserved the party room of my building. I expected 30 people to show up. Six did, including a random old lady who sat down on the couch and watched "Mean Girls" with us. "Mean Girls" came out eight years ago. If that does not make you feel old, congratulations. I can still recite the entire movie.
Rachel McAdams was 26 when she filmed that movie.
Still, I learned that you should measure friendships in quality and not quantity, and while my best friend is selfishly teaching children in Haiti all summer instead of celebrating with me, I truly am blessed. Wednesday night I went to Chuck and Peter's house. I thought I lost my wallet, but it turns out Peter brought it to work on accident. Shit happens. It was Chuck's birthday and he had to work, and that made me sad. I took five days off work, and I never want to complain about my job for at least two seconds. I do, however, want to get promoted because my goal in August is to only use "real" money and not "fake" money. I spent as much money on my birthday weekend in Minneapolis as I would have had I gone to Miami.
The next day, Chuck and Peter came over and walked to Lunds with me. Peter carried the groceries on the way back. Then they hooked up the HDMI cable to my TV that I bought a month ago but never opened. I do this thing where I buy things because I know I need them, but then once I have purchased them, I don't actually use it. On Hoarders, they call this "the high of the buy".
Friday night at The Saloon, I met a guy on the patio and he said, "Hi, I'm best friends with Gay Oprah." Gay Oprah was nowhere near the vicinity. It made me think that they are maybe not best friends. I do not go up to every local comedian I say and tell them that I once picked up Colin Kane from the airport. I wrote a whole blog about it instead, because I am classy that way. I mean, I totally commented on Jessica Roscoe's Facebook picture when she tried out for The Voice because she just might win the whole damn thing, but you don't hear me bragging about it like it means I'm something, do you?
Buying my outfit at Rosedale Mall on Friday, I was recognized from my fake comedy career twice. If I am going to be anything in show business, I need to stop doing clubs and just put a microphone in the JC Penney juniors department.
I spent a lot of time with Liam, and he is a hoot in a half. He is the master of the back handed compliment. These are my favorite gems:
"That shirt you were wearing last night was really cute. Some of the stuff you wear, I really don't think is cute at all."
"You dress really masculine for such a big bottom."
"Is he a Republican?" Devin: "No, he's just a fat-ass."
Devin is dating two people at once and that just sounds soooooo complicated. He came over and helped me with my suit and my make-up, and we had birthday brunch at Lush on Sunday. Even my mom came and lost her gay bar virginity!
I put this on Instagram and it got 33 likes on Facebook. My mother is a bigger celebrity than I could ever hope to be. A man there was very drunk and raucous and pretending to be a server, and he bussed our table. He went on Grindr and shouted "WHO IS 17 FEET AWAY AND DOESN'T HAVE A PICTURE?!" Devin and I got birthday shots from a guy and his very drunk sister, and their friend was hot and beefy. We dicussed where we live and it turns out he lives in my building. Whatttt??? God bless you, Loring Park. Then they dined and ditched and I felt terrible, but not terrible enough to pay for it. IT WAS MY BIRTHDAY.
The pinnacle of my birthday, and perhaps life, happened the day before. I can only describe it in five words: Gay. Baseball. Player. Car. Wash.
No, seriously. Come with me on this trip. Gay. Baseball. Player. Car. Wash.
At first I felt awkward about sitting in the car. Would I look old and perverted? Was my car even dirty enough? I asked Devin if we should stop at the Holiday gas station and pour a Slurpee on my car first.
"I just want beer," Devin said (the club hosting the car wash was also doing a beer bust).
"No!" I cried. "Stay with me! I don't want to look weird." Devin and I were both wearing matching pink Express T-shirts and we didn't even plan it.
"Okay, fine, I'll stay with you," Devin smirked. Two seconds later, he got a mischevious smirk. "I have to pee."
"Devin!!" I cried, and he bolted out of my car.
"Pull it up," said a shirtless man made out of granite.
"I don't want to run you over!" I yelled. It would be the ultimate D-list moment to kill a hot baseball player.
Before I knew it, five shirtless men of various ages, races, and builds were scrubbing my windshield. One of them I recognized from a previous party scene, at a moment in my life when I didn't feel worthy to talk to people like that, and it somehow made me feel less awkward. But I still felt gross and pervy, like an old fat dude in a Cinemax movie.
"SMILE!" one of the baseball players yelled, and that is when I decided to live in the moment. I found a random Channing Tatum poster in my back seat (what, you don't have a random Channing Tatum "Fighting" poster in your back seat? Well, I never) and sat him in the passenger seat. Then I flirted with a 19-year-old who I assume was the shortstop.
"It's my birthday tomorrow," I told him, "And this is the best present ever."
"Congratulations," he smirked. "How old are you gonna be?"
"In real years or gay years?" I asked.
"Uh, gay years," he grinned.
"72," I explained.
"72?" he asked. "I don't know a lot about gay years." Was this Abercrombie model straight? I would fall for the only straight dude at the gay. baseball. player. car. wash.
"Do you take tips?" I asked. "I have $3." Then I found a Hanson Middle of Nowhere cassette tape. "Do you like Hanson?"
"No," he laughed. "I don't have a tape deck in my car."
"WHAT'S IT LIKE TO BE YOUNG???" I yelled before speeding off, and then I wanted to drive my car through an oil rig so I could do it all over again.
Saturday night I walked to Jetset, because it is a mile and a half walk from my apartment and I decided I wanted to burn calories if I was going to fit in my birthday suit (by birthday suit I mean the DKNY, not my naked body). If you ever want to be ignored by muscular gay men, go to Jetset. On your birthday. Seriously, Jetset. Not even the girls on the porch cared that it was my birthday. The drinks there are GOOD, though. $11 Grey Goose lemonade and worth every penny ....
I finally walked to The Saloon. I lost my purple Express shirt there on Friday. BOOOOOO. Two men tried to make out with me, but I was strangely not feeling it, and then I walked home and I started feeling sad, but it was my birthday, I had no reason to be sad, but I was, and at the age of 26 I realized it was because of a boy. I know that life, especially the older you get, does not come with Hollywood endings, but I didn't even get an independent movie ending with him. We hung out three times, I felt we connected, at least as friends, and he fell off the face of the earth, and while I knew the real reason, I still should have heard it from him and not as gossip. Then I started crying because I knew that I sounded like a 15-year-old girl.
I liked a boy! And he was really nice and really cute! And then he just STOPPED. CALLING. ME. Let's go to the mall and eat cheese fries!
I made it home, drank more, and went on my slutty iPhone apps. I am a Grindr/Jacked tease, meaning I go on these sites to see if I ever get messages, and then it boosts my ego, but I rarely write someone back, and if I do, I stop the minute they write "What you into"? I am not interested in casual sex. I only want flirting. Maybe a guy could put on his best jeans, and we will go dry humping. I will wear my Rock and Republics.
Anyway, I am sitting in bed at 4 in the morning and I am on Jacked, and they have this thing that is like how "Hot or Not?" was back in the day (remember that, boys and girls? Christ, I am olllldddddd), where they just put up random profiles of dudes and you click if you are interested in them or not, and if they click on you and say they are interested, then you are a "match" and then you either get married or fuck like rabbits, I'm not really sure.
And at 4:15 A.M., on my birthday, of allllllll the people in the world whose profiles could show up on this stupid thing, is the boy I was crying about ten minutes ago.
You know how some guys will see a girl walk by and be like, "Yeah, I hit that"? I Drunk Facebooked the shit out of that.
This was not like the time I drunk added Star Quarterback, said "Hi, I met you tonight!!!!" and then deleted it the next day (speaking of Star Quarterback, HE FINALLY EYE FUCKED ME. Or maybe he was making fun of me. I don't fucking know. He's so weird. JUST SAY HELLO TO ME, STAR QUARTERBACK. I JUST WANT TO KNOW YOUR HOPES, YOUR DREAMS, YOUR PHONE NUMBER). This was not like the time I drunk "poked" Brett Popp when I was a freshman in college and then every time I walked by him for two years I would feel like I was two inches tall (sidebar, it was *always* on days when I just rolled out of bed, was wearing my clothes two sizes too big, and looked like I had been hit by a cement truck). Comedy rule of three! Who else did I feel weird about drunk Facebooking? Oh! When I e-mailed Corey Cooper when I was in Superior. He did not write me back, but he didn't call the cops on me, either.
I really went off on a tangent there. My point is that I did not send anything generic, or "poke", or simply request him as a friend. No, this was drunk Facebooking at its finest.
It's my birthday and that means I can do whatever I want (besides shooting people or littering in front of a police officer) and I lost your phone number because I lost my phone three Fridays ago (but then I found it in the back seat after I went and got a new one) and you do not owe me anything but I just wanted to say hello to you because I *platonically* miss hearing from you and I sincerely hope you are well and I do not mean that in the generic high school yearbook way. I am going to end that sentence because I know that text speak and run-on sentences drive you crazy. Anyway, if you do not wish to speak to me ever again that is *completely* your perogative and I do not judge or question it, but if the opposite is true -- or something close to it, anyway -- feel free to write me back and I'll take you to lunch. Be good.
When you are a senior citizen, you kind of stop giving a hoot. You curse more. You fear less. You don't worry about people's opinions. I went to a boy's apartment last week and we discussed the movie "Up" and then he played the opening theme on his piano, and I watched the rain hit the window and I realized that if I have learned anything in my 26 years, it is to always stay in the moment.
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