Friday, May 3, 2013

Loring Park Episode #28: Healthy Boundaries

Previously on Loring Park: Jakey told Wesley he liked him, and then his colon exploded. This episode is sponsored by Colace.

Everything has blurred together in this recent chapter of my life. I talk to my mom a lot about it lately. We didn't get along well when I was a teenager, but now that I am a 26-year-old man with the brain, mind and body of a 16-year-old girl, we have a solid mother/daughter relationship.

"You just need to establish healthy boundaries," she told me. In an episode about healthy boundaries, I am going to begin by publicly sharing on the Internet that I broke my butt.

It did not happen from sex. I have the sex life of a nun. Nevertheless, I went to my general practitioner. Fortunately -- or unfortunately, depending on your take on it -- my general practitioner is a dreamboat and looks like he could be a token husband on Army Wives. He is of the belief that my angry asshole is a combination of my IBS and anxiety, the latter of which is woefully not being treated.

After everything was, erm, examined, I sat down and he looked at me with his soft, cobalt eyes. "Has anything else been going on?" he asked.
"My job has been stressful," I said.
"Okay," he said softly. "Anything else?"

I would have elaborated, but I decided to stay silent. The man had already had to examine my booty. To tell him my novel of emotional affairs and juvenile feelings would have just been cruel.

"Do you have any questions?" he calmly asked, and I felt like a pre-teen getting a "grown-up" talk from my father or surrogate parental figure.
"Can I have sex?" I asked him. He knew what kind of sex I was talking about.
"No," he said. "If I have a broken arm, I'm not going to give you a hi-five." He laughed sheepishly. Then I wanted to ask if he wanted to practice kissing.

He gave me referrals to a psychiatrist and a gastroenterologist, and four days later I went to see a G.I. specialist, who recommended I get a colonoscopy. I have never had sex with the same person more than once, but I will have had two colonoscopies at the age of 26. Maybe colonoscopies and I should go steady.

Later, at my mom's house, we watched about four hours of Judge Judy. My mom DVR's it and then waits for the library to be full, and then she sits and has a Judge Judy marathon with her cats. The woman is living the dream! If you've seen one episode of Judge Judy, you have seen them all. There is always a young woman who is ostensibly intelligent and has her shit together, but she meets a man and then her mind turns into Play-doh. She either co-signs a lease, or a vehicle, or sells a vehicle, or lets a man drive her car without a title, or lets a man move in without paying rent and then he damages things so she has to forfeit her security deposit, et cetera. She never sues him until they break up and she realizes that she was blindly in love and needs the money. There was even a lady from Duluth who gave her boyfriend four thousand dollars to buy a race car, and then he did one race and decided it was not going to be his passion. Judge Judy rarely rules in favor of these women, save for the one who legitimately sold a $6,000 car to this scrub in expectation of being paid with his tax refund, and Judge Judy refused to buy his claim that she was giving him a deal on the car and only expected a grand for it.

"These women!" I cried to my mother. "They meet these men and they lose their brain cells!"
"Hmm," my mother said. "That sounds like someone else I know."
"That's different," I pouted.
"Really?" my mother asked. "How is that?"
"You haven't seen Wesley in a T-shirt," I pouted.
"Well!" my mother cried. "That must explain everything."

We are about to discuss the next episode of The Wesley Show Loring Park:

I was both relieved and embarrassed that my feelings were now out in the open. At the risk of sounding silly, I really didn't think about the fact that sometimes when you write blogs about people, and post them on the Internet for all to see, the subjects of those blogs will sometimes read it.

I don't want to get to "meta" about the fake reality show that is really a manifestation of my mental illness and immaturity, but I will say that all 28 episodes of this "show", and the posts in between, have always been my therapy, and my way to seek humor out of awkward and sometimes painful situations. I never meant to put people on blast or to passive-aggressively flaunt my opinions of them in a veiled public arena. Everyone who has discussed this blog with me *knows* who they are -- hell, some of them I even allowed to pick their code names (Liam even has a secret last name! It's Sorensen!). Also, you must understand that the last romantic debacle I had was Kevin, and one time when I stayed at his house he was showing me old papers he had written in college, and the only writing I had to share was this blog, and I even showed him episodes with him in it (the early ones, the fun ones!), and he didn't make it through two paragraphs before declaring it as "asinine". I am used to that reaction. I'm not used to a main character actually reading this and commenting on this, and if they do, that is fine (and they are welcome to!), but I also can't let it stop me from writing it the way I have always done. Yes, perhaps details are cloudy because I am looking at them through a sober lens. Maybe something happened on a Friday night and I wrote that it happened on a Thursday night. Perhaps when I wrote of people's intentions, I was erroneous, but it was my perception of them, and I will not apologize for it.

Also, Wesley is very handsome and funny and a good friend and doesn't have any character flaws at all.


The nights, they blur together. This whole month blurred together. What did I get out of it? The nights were fun. They were exciting. They felt different. I liked riding in a pick-up truck. I am a selfish Peter Pan in most of my friendships (seriously, Chuck has come over a few times just to vacuum), and I enjoyed that for the first time in my adult life, I was in a friendship in which I felt that I was needed for guidance.

The days blur together, too, but in a more melancholy way. As I said last week, this recent mess was not a grown-up kind of heartbreak, but a ridiculous high school kind that I should have had ten years ago (and sort of did, when my heterosexual crush once went on and on over AIM about his romantic night in the woods with a girl who was so dumb there was an urban legend about how she couldn't spell her own name, and we all believed it). For two weeks, I woke up crying. The first week it was instant. The second week, I would be awake for thirty seconds before I remembered that I was sad, and then I would cry again. It was never dramatic sobbing or wailing. It was quiet, classy-lady crying, like on soap operas and interviews with Oprah. I listened to "Stay" by Rihanna and "Sad" by Maroon 5 on constant loop. "Sad" is a really good song, though. I'm still not sure what's more sad -- its lyrics, or the fact that I was voluntarily listening to Maroon 5 on a regular basis.


I was excited to see Willam, Detox, and Vicky Voxx at The Saloon, but their performance was postponed due to weather! Perhaps it was a mixed blessing, as it meant that I didn't drive to Edina for an appointment at the Hair Club for Men like I had scheduled. They re-scheduled instead of cancelling, and Willam retweeted my post about it! I can die now. We went out that night anyway, and I was surprised by how crowded the bar was despite the tundra. We stood at T.J.'s bar for a while, because Wesley had been flirting with the idea of being a bartender.

"You'd have to put up with getting hit on a lot," I told him.
"That's fine," he smiled.
"LUSH pools their tips and often makes you work doubles," I told him.
"I can do that," he smiled.
"You have to take your shirt off a lot," I said.
"I don't care," he grinned, and then I felt kind of woozy. A part of me hopes I never do have to see Wesley with his shirt off, because I will probably faint and crack my head open against the concrete. Conversely, that poor boy has seen me half-naked more than he would care to, because I tend to take my shirt off when I have had tequila. That part comes later.

Then I found out that T.J., my sagacious bartender/therapist whom I always thought was 30, is 22. I am Peter Pan. I know nothing.

We went out again on Saturday. We were to meet at LUSH at 9, but I was first there for 3-for-1's with Chuck and his new man friend, Cassidy! Cassidy is cute and twinky and has seen me do stand-up. I didn't have my face on, so I told everyone I wasn't staying long because I had to go home to put paint on my barn. Chuck was perturbed by this, as he often derides me for always wearing make-up and insisting on always being clean-shaven. I take exception to this because Chuck looks a good ten years younger than his real age and has a tan and a three-pack going on, so whatever. I told him that while Wesley and I will always be platonic, I just don't think our friendship has reached that level where he can see me without bronzer on. I wore one of Chuck's shirts and Chuck wore Liam's shirt that was at my apartment, and we waited to see how long it would take for Liam to notice it (not very long, and he texted me from across the table). I still have the shirt. I am terrible. I want to wear it, but it's short-sleeve and I haven't Naired my arms yet.

I drove home, then took a cab back to LUSH at 9. Wesley didn't get there until 9:45, and in the meantime I was adopted by two men in their fifties. I should have asked them about aging so I could use it as fodder for my Fringe show (They Shoot 25-Year-Old Gay Men, Don't They? has 5 performances at the Rarig Theater at the University of Minnesota! SHAMELESS PLUG!), but one of them was on Grindr the whole time and then he asked me if I had any naked pics. Wesleyyy where the fuccckkkk arrreee youuuu???

Wesley arrived and we both shared secrets we had never told anyone else. I can't say what they were, because then they would not be secrets. I will substitute them with different ones.

We were sitting at the bar, and he just said it to fill a silence.
"I put a tampon up my nose!" he yelled (not his real secret).
"I sniff rubber cement every day!" I yelled (not my real secret). "I felt I had to say one to make you feel better."

We vamoosed to The Saloon, but totally forgot it was an event with $10 cover. The event was called WERQ, and as T.J. would later tell us, it brought out all the "circuit gays". Shirtless buff men with pectoral muscles the size of my head were all around us, and Wesley kept losing me on the dance floor. It would have been fine, but a buff black man kept trying to make out with me. While I appreciated the attention, I'm not the kind of girl that just makes out with you on the dance floor, at least not in my old age. Whatever happened to romance and courting? It's a double-edged sword, too. If you make out right away, you're a slut. If you don't, you're an asshole. Wesley wouldn't hold my hand (he may have been on the prowl himself -- which is fine), but he has yet to grasp that a) I am little, at least when it comes to being in crowds, and b) shocking as it may be, some people want to get up on this.

I later shared my frustration with Running Back, my unofficial dance instructor, as we gyrated on the whorebox.
"Wesley doesn't get that I'm little!" I cried.
Running Back grimaced.
"Oh, not like that," I said.
Running Back grimaced even harder.
"Oh my god, Running Back!" I whined. "You are such a guttermind."
"I didn't say anything!" Running Back cried.

I went to the bathroom, and when it was time to wash my hands, who should arrive at the sink but Star Quarterback! OH NO!


He was wearing a blue tee with matching baseball cap and we were the only ones in there. How was this possible on such a crowded night? My life.

"Hey, chico," Star Quarterback said, because apparently he is Razor Ramon. If you get that reference, I love you forever.
"Hi, kids!" I said. Did I mention we were the only ones in the bathroom? This is why I am single.

Back at T.J.'s bar, Wesley was mingling with Sonny, the "doll face" that Cagefighter has a crush on. I didn't want to intrude on anything, so I was trying to give them their space. But at the same time, other people were crowding around Wesley -- people whom I know are shady and don't have good intentions. It was a difficult scenario for me; I want to give him space and not be the psycho cock-blocker, but I also want to be a friend and protective of him. I decided to hover with caution.

Finally, it was 1:30 and I was standing in front of a cage. "Hey," Wesley said. "I will be back in five minutes."

Five minutes passed. Then ten. A frenemy was staring daggers at me, but I didn't say hi to him because I knew Wesley doesn't like him and I didn't want him to be crabby when he came back. The buff black man tried to kiss me again. Then an obese man groped me. This was happening. For the second time that night, my inner monologue screamed, Wesleyyy wherreee the fucckkkk arrreee youuuuu?? What if he left without me? What if he was making out with Sonny? What if he was getting gang-raped in the bathroom?

I looked around nervously, and the nice buff men were asking me if I was okay. This is when I realized I was being too much of a doormat. Here I was, surrounded by gorgeous muscular men, and I couldn't enjoy myself because I was too worried about the well-being of somebody else. This was not having healthy boundaries.

"DANCE!" a man with pecs yelled.
"SMILE!" a man with biceps yelled.
"FUCK YOUR FRIEND!" Pecs yelled.
"HUH?!" Pecs asked. Bro-skis, gay or straight, will always be slow on the uptake.

Wesley finally showed up at 1:55. "Where in gay hell were you!?" I asked. Before even getting a response, I decided to dance on the whorebox again with Running Back, as the crowd had somewhat thinned and I would be able to find Wesley later. I had so much energy! I had no idea how! Then Star Quarterback danced with us! OH MY GOD.

Sonny and Wesley continued chatting. I wanted to hate Sonny, but then my drunk ass couldn't get my hoodie back on after six failed attempts, and he helped me dress myself, and if I have a litmus test as to whom I can and can't hate, I guess that would be it. Go on with your bad self, Sonny. You deserve it.

I had a short shift at work the next day, because I was in a comedy contest at The Pourhouse! Wesley and I had made a pact that after this night, we were not going to drink for a week. He had to fly out for a job interview, and I needed to focus on my mental and physical well-being. I felt healthy already!

The comedy contest was done Star Search-style, so I only had to be "better" than one other comedian (I hate using that word, by the way. I really don't like the "competitive" aspect of contests. It's not like I'm the Funniest Person in the Twin Cities or anything). It was done by audience approval, so my strategy was to play to the table of drunk 22-year-old girls. That's my demo! My gamble paid off, as they appreciated my jokes about boys with pouka shell necklaces and Channing Tatum. Later, I mingled with other comedians. My favorite comedians are the ladies in their forties or fifties who started later in life. They're inspiring to me, and not just because sometimes they give me a ride to my car.

Because I cannot budget to save my life, I took a cab to The Saloon, then realized I had to charge my phone, so I took another cab to my apartment, and then laid down for half an hour. Mommy was exhausted! I walked to The Saloon, proud of myself for getting exercise. I was ready for a night free of drama.

I walked in, and the crowd was sparse, but right there at the front of the bar, was Wesley ... and Quinn, the latter of whom I had not seen since the weekend of vomit and crying on the toilet.

Because I am mature and able to conduct myself like an adult, I checked my coat, then walked right by them without saying anything or looking at them.

At T.J.'s bar, I stood next to Ben, whom I know from Twitter. I decided he would be my therapist for the evening.

"It's going to be a soap opera," I told T.J., who could not be dramatic if he tried. I, on the other hand, felt incredibly anxious, even more than usual. This was going to be a Real Housewives-style "sit-down". Was I Danielle Staub or Caroline Manzo? Was I Adrienne Maloof or Lisa Vanderpump? Was I Kenya Moore or Phaedra Parks? Holy crap, I watch way too much reality TV.

Now it was time for our episode's biggest plot twist.

"Lemonade?" T.J. asked, as I always get Three Olives Pomegranate with lemonade and cherries from him.
"No," I said. "I need tequila."

Wesley was texting me wondering where I went. Quinn was texting me saying there was not going to be any drama. I told them I had to finish my shot and I would be right there.

They met me at T.J.'s bar, and I ordered my second tequila shot. I stood next to Ben for insurance, as I enjoy his sense of humor, even his awful puns. Wesley ordered a Mike's Hard Lemonade.

"Mike's Hard Lemonade?" I snickered. "Really? Are we sneaking into our parents' fridge in ninth grade? Way to drink like an adult, Wesley." Then I turned to T.J. "Wait, do I do salt-tequila-lime, or lime-salt-tequila?"

Quinn stood next to me and told me that there was not going to be any drama tonight, and that he still wanted to have a heart-to-heart with me. I took him at his word, and enjoyed mingling with others. An hour passed, and they were soon yelling at each other again.

This show needs new writers. Also, I have a new computer so I had to get all new .gifs, and lately I'm *obsessed* with Abby Lee Miller. I can't begin to tell you why.

It was always going to be the same fuckery, but I wasn't as upset about it because I think tequila releases serotonin (it also makes you have to order bottled water, but that's beside the point). During their argument, I managed to network, and even found an actor to be in They Shoot 25-Year-Old Gay Men, Don't They? I have known who he is for quite some time, but I never officially "met" him, and I was frankly surprised when he agreed to do it so quickly. I have to get that script done, y'all. The actor in question will be playing a variety of roles, but most of them will be the quintessential twinks at the bar, and I am relieved that he seemed nice. I learned in the commentary of Mean Girls that you have to cast a nice person to play a mean character.

Quinn announced he was leaving, but I didn't necessarily feel a sense of triumph. Running Back flirted with Wesley while I ordered a Tequila Sunrise. When Wesley and I went to go Froot Loop, I tried to introduce him to other people, but he told me he didn't want to meet anybody new anymore. We sat down at a table and sad music cued.

"When I am nice to guys, they think I want to fuck them," he said morosely. I get it now. To any straight guys reading this, *this* is why the hot chick at the bar is always nasty to you. She has seen the song and dance before. You see her for just the piece of ass that she is, and unless her willingness to fuck you is mutual, she has no time for you. You can call her a bitch or a tease or whatnot, but it is what it is, and Wesley is no different. Wesley is 2002 Stacy Keibler finding herself at a bro-ski bar.

A present to all three of my heterosexual male readers.

I teared up but did not let him know I was. I told him that I felt that, as the liaison to the Minneapolis gay community, then I had let him down. I did not introduce himself to the "right" people.

"Y'know what, Jakey?" he said. "If I move, I still want you to visit me. When I come up here, I want to have beers with you". His poor soul doesn't understand that I only drink vodka, but bear with me. "Throughout this whole experience, whether I choose if I'm gay, bi, or straight" -- I did not interrupt with an opinion that you do not choose such a thing -- "You have been my only friend through this whole thing. I'm gonna go."

"Can I have a ride home?" I asked quietly. It was the least I deserved. On the way home, we discussed memories of seeing each other in high school, and I felt sad that I didn't remember hardly any of them. To be fair, I was on a lot of pharmaceuticals in those years, and in the subsequent ones I self-medicated with alcohol. My brain probably looks like bubble wrap.

I finally felt validated and acknowledged, which was all I could appropriately ask for. And yet, when I got home, I could not stop crying. And whyyyy???? He does not like another boy. He is going home by himself. So long as he is not making out with someone in front of me, I only want him to be happy and have peace, in spite of his complicated past. DAMN HIM. DAMN HIS BLUE EYES AND ANGRY EYEBROWS AND ABERCROMBIE HOODIES AND HEAVING PECTORAL MUSCLES. The epitome of love --or whatever I thought I was feeling -- is selflessness, but damn if it didn't hurt after switching vodka with tequila.


The following week was to be Sober Detox Week! In all honesty, I have not gone a week without drinking since 2005. I know. I tried once when I moved back from New York, but then I watched a wrestling pay-per-view to distract myself, and I ended up choosing Royal Rumble 2008, which was from Madison Square Garden. It was the night that John Cena, thought to be injured for close to a year, shocked the industry by being the surprise #30 entrant and winning the damn thing. I got depressed because I could have been at that show, and then I got depressed because I screwed up New York, so then I drank. But this week would be different! I even envisioned myself having Diet Coke at my comedy show the following Thursday.

Because this season has been horrendous with weather, Minneapolis had a blizzard for the second week in a row. In April.

After work that Wednesday, Wesley texted me saying that his flight got cancelled and he was going to cope by going to LUSH. And I declined to meet him! Because I had to work early the next day! Because I was tired! Because I had to do laundry! Because my butt was broken! Because a cab to and from LUSH would be a good $40! Because I was establishing healthy boundaries!

Then I stayed up until 3 A.M. anyway and didn't even do laundry. Instead, I chose to be all worried about who else is at LUSH and who he is talking to and who is hitting on him and is he okay and is he comfortable and is he having fun, or does he need me, and is anyone asking him about me, and is he getting too drunk and saying things he shouldn't, and is he going to drive home tonight, and I hope if he is drinking he is not driving, especially because it is going to be icy, and I told him to call me if he needed a ride home, even though getting out of bed at 2 AM to pick him up would not exactly be healthy boundaries.


The next night, I had a comedy show at The Corner Bar! It was called the Think Fast! Challenge, and the concept is that you don't do your stand-up act; instead, another comic writes your set list, and you just have to wing it! I left work early because I was nervous about getting there on time, as there was a blizzard that afternoon. I didn't have time to get a cab to the show, so I drove myself. A lot of my college friends planned on attending, but I wasn't upset about their absence considering the weather. So it was to my great surprise that my friend Jess made it to the show!

As for my setlist, I was swapped with comedian Trevor Wade, so my set list consisted of

  • Sarah Palin vs. Michele Bachmann
  • Cocaine & Taco Bell
  • The first time you had sex with a black man/woman
  • Facebook Stalking

I forget the fifth one! Oh, that is gonna drive me crazy all night! For Facebook stalking, I just talked about Kevin (he is so boring to Facebook stalk, y'all. Before he got a boyfriend, the only posts he had would be automatic sync-ups to his PlayStation 3, and still I would look, as if I would somehow learn something).  As for the third topic, I just told a horribly inappropriate but true story that I couldn't even fathom to print here.

I bid farewell to Jess and miraculously drove myself home in the tundra. Wesley still wanted to go The Saloon! I found it ridiculous, but I wasn't strong enough to stay home. I did decide to wear my Sexy Snowflake T-shirt from eighth grade, because I decided that it would be funny and that hardly anyone would be at the bar anyway. It's not flattering on me (it's way too big. Was I fat in eighth grade? Don't answer that), so I wore it over a Quiksilver sweater. Wesley agreed to pick me up, and our ride there was terrifying as he almost ran over a biker. Why would you be on a bike in a blizzard??? Fucking A, Minneapolis.

We were in the parking ramp when he dropped his bombshell. "Quinn's gonna be there," he shared.

How can you *not* love this one? Thank you to T. Kyle at for always brightening my day!
 "Why didn't you say that before?" I said. "I could have stayed home and done laundry." I haven't had matching socks in a week. And it's not that I didn't want to see Quinn; he is always going to be in my circle. I just did not want to deal with the combination of Quinn and Wesley doing the same thing every night. It was not my idea of fun.
"Whattt?" Wesley asked. "I was texting everyone I knew that was going out."
"Uh-huh," I said. Then I made some joke about how I was 170 pounds and Wesley totally believed me. I CAN'T EVEN.

On our way out of the parking ramp, Peter called me!
"What's up, girl?" he asked.
"I'm on my way to The Saloon," I said.
"You are not," he said, and I could hear his disappointment. Nevertheless, he was going through something and needed to be talked down (he's 19 and transferring colleges! His world is in orbit!), and Wesley went in without me while I was on the phone. First of all, it was far too surreal to be watching the bouncer shoveling snow off the sidewalk during the third week of April. Secondly, I was happy to have the conversation. Peter is seven years younger than me but miles ahead of me in terms of maturity and self-actualization, and I felt lucky that I was able to offer support. It was also a welcome distraction from the repeating shenanigans of my own life. We talked for ten minutes before I let him go, and it was time to put on my game face.

The three of us were at Muscle Mary's bar, and I had a tequila shot. My acquaintance Anthony was at the end of the bar, and I talked to him for a bit. I wasn't trying to avoid Quinn and Wesley -- I knew how immature that would look -- but I also thought that maybe they needed more time by themselves.

After my second shot of tequila, I realized that it has truth serum in it. "I just want you boys to know," I slurred, "That I don't care if you're fucking each other. It's none of my business. It honestly does not mean anything. I broke my butt, anyway." Muscle Mary looked at us, and the bar was empty enough that he couldn't pretend he wasn't alarmed. "I didn't even break it having fun! I broke it because I have OCD and I kept giving myself enemas like Howard Hughes!" Then I ordered a Tequila Sunrise.

"I still want to have a heart to heart," Quinn said.
"Of course," I agreed. "Boys come and go, but friendship is forever." That needs to be stitched on a pillow. But it's true. I think we both have things that need to be said to each other, but I don't think they can be said a) at The Saloon b) when we have had alcohol c) when Wesley is in the same venue.

Do I even have to tell you how this night ended? Would you be shocked to find out that Quinn and Wesley started arguing again? Wesley got angry to a scary level again, and I distracted myself by going on Facebook and reading about the events of the Boston manhunt in real time. I also spent time talking to Anthony, whom I have known casually for a few years. Like many boys at The Saloon, he is a few years younger than me but much more mature than I am, and he was able to view the situation for being ridiculous.

Quinn went home, continuing to exchange texts with Wesley throughout the night. It was not until I was mentioned that the combination of tequila and emotions hit.

I tore off my Quiksilver shirt, blinded the few who were present at The Saloon, and put back on my Sexy Snowflake T-shirt. Snowflakes should not have to deal with being besmirched.

Wesley stayed the night, and I told him I could sleep on the floor. Nevertheless, we had the same bed, but I have a double bed now so there was absolutely nothing romantic or sexual about it. I couldn't sleep, so at first I was watching coverage of the Boston manhunt, and then I looked over at Wesley in his tight undershirt, and then I felt like the girlfriend in a crappy Mark Wahlberg movie. Then I watched Babe because it was On Demand and not that long of a movie, and I completely forgot how sad that movie was.

I went to The Saloon the following evening. Quinn and Liam met me there, and both looked dapper. There was no drama! I was upset because, before their arrival, I was supposed to meet Wesley and his friend there. I enjoy The Saloon when I know people, but my "nights" are typically Thursdays and Sundays. Fridays and Saturdays is a bit more of an older, more sophisticated crowd, and I fit in better with the retail gays and the college students. That's my demo, y'all.

When Wesley and his friend finally walked by, I didn't say anything, because I am in high school. We met up about 20 minutes later. "Why did you just ignore me?!" he asked. "I didn't see you," I lied into my drink. His friend seemed nice yet bored, but I resisted all urges to throw shade. It's bad karma. I threw shade at the boy Kevin was with last time I saw him, and they'll probably be engaged next week

Wesley and Quinn got into an argument again, Wesley finally left with the high school friend, and my friend Doug tried to dance with me but I was too upset to enjoy the moment. It was a vicious cycle. It was not healthy boundaries.


All of these shenanigans ended on the night of April 25th! I did a fun show at the Comedy Corner Underground called Clips 'n' Bits, and then cabbed it to The Saloon to finally see Willam, Vicky and Detox!

I don't want to use the word "obsessed", because that sounds like a stalker. Although I have only watched RuPaul's Drag Race via Tumblr, over the past two months, I surprised myself by becoming a superfan of Willam Belli.

I don't ever want to be a drag queen, but Willam is a comedy superstar who happens to be a drag queen. His banging body is also an inspiration (he is four years older than me and was obese as a kid, so there's no good reason why I can't look like he does, provided I actually work at it), but he also exudes a level of confidence that suggests he is smarter than everyone in the room and in on the joke before anybody else realizes that there is one. I have idolized him in my head over the past few months, and the possibility of meeting him was ridiculously exciting.

Before the performance, I was at T.J.'s bar with Wesley and Quinn. The dynamic wasn't as uncomfortable as it had been, and anytime they started arguing, I excused myself or chatted somebody else. What would Willam do? Willam would not give a fuck. Willam could read social cues.

Unfortunately, The Saloon does not have a VIP area, and I was in line for 90 minutes at meet and greet, constantly being shoved into a table.

They fought again. While I was in line and unable to get a picture, Wesley texted me that he was on his way home. I realized that was okay.

I realized that it was important to always live in the moment. It does not matter that your hair is thinning. It does not matter that you don't have abs. It does not matter that certain relationships are never going to evolve the way you want them to. It does not matter that every month, paying your rent is a creative challenge like you're on Starting Over. It matters that you are trying your best and that you are appreciating the moment when it is yours.

I think it's a metaphor that he is blurry. He is constantly *moving* somewhere, y'know?

I spent the rest of the night flirting with Ryan Robertson before I realized I lost my wallet. I will be a hot mess forever.

Next week: One of the most disappointing weeks of my life, and it has NOTHING to do with a boy! This is called progress.

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