51 DAYS TO GO: Will Work For Free Internet Access.

The powers that be at work are on to me. This morning I tried to log on to my blog and it came up blocked. It used to be that they would block all blogspot pages, but I had the option of clicking a button to view the page for “work related purposes.” (As in, “yes, I hate working, and I would like to waste some time.”) But today, there was no such button. My heart began to race. Was I breaking out into a cold sweat?

Calm down, I told myself, you can live with out blogspot at work. Remember when they took MySpace away, and you thought it was the end of the world?

Yeah, but MySpace is dead now. Who cares. I need my blogger! Also, you’re forgetting about how they disabled g-chat and rigged our e-mail so that we can only check it 3 times a day for intervals of 10 minutes. These people are sick bastards who have no mercy!

Quick, just log onto something else. Entertainment news awaits!

I tried my two favorite websites ew.com and imdb.com. Both came up blocked. I could feel my knees getting weak and my eyes rolling into the back of my head.

Nooooooooooooooo!

Honestly, I don’t know how I am going to survive 8 hours of actual work. And since I don’t have internet connect at home anymore, I was really relying on my work internet access to feed my addiction. Now the only place I can surf the web is in the park next to my apartment. And while I consider my neighborhood to be pretty safe, I don’t think I want to be in the park with my laptop late at night. There are enough crack heads there in the daylight, like the guy who stated making awkward small talk with me last week, and then proceed to bow his head and whistle like a bird, telling me it was the highest form of respect that one human being could offer up to another.

Maybe it’s time to start looking for a new job…

52 DAYS TO GO: Dear Mr. Liver.

My Dearest Liver,

You poor, sweet thing. Oh how I have abused you. I was unusually kind to you Friday and Saturday night, drinking only in moderation. But then, on Sunday… Sunday, bloody Sunday… I sure made up for lost time.

First there was brunch with some of the improv gays, where the white Sangria flowed like water. Next was a “meeting” with my future roommates R. and J. And by meeting I of course mean 2-for-1 drinks at Nowhere bar in the EV. On our way home from our “meeting” R. and I decided to stop at ye old local gay bar for a few more refreshments. Once I finally got home, I kicked my feet up and put in some Netflix, thinking that I was done for the evening, only to have my roommate come home two seconds later and suggest that we try and crash our neighbor’s BBQ next door. Of course, what sort of party crashers would we be if we didn’t bring over our own beer, which I then had drink so people didn’t think that I was being unsociable.

Sometimes, dear Mr. Liver, I think it’s funny that I work in the Transplant Department at the pharmacy. I worry that the pills that I dispense to people with new organs, will someday find their way into my medicine cabinet, in case I ever kill you and have to get a new Mr. Liver.

Sorry if that’s a scary thought, Mr. Liver. You know, sometimes the best way to get rid of a bad or scary thought, is to drink it away. So let’s just finish riding out this buzz, and not worry about the future.

Lovingly Yours,
B

53 DAYS TO GO: Break It Up… Or Not.

Tonight was date night with Old Man River. Despite the fact that I had promised myself to put an end to our relationship the next time we hung out together, nothing of the sort happened tonight. But honestly, how can you break up with someone after they just paid for your dinner and a movie? Not to mention that he asked me to house sit again for him next weekend.

Am I a bad person for not breaking up with someone because I want to take advantage of their A/C and cable while they’re out of town? Yes, I am. But we should all know that by now.

Honestly, even had he not brought up the house sitting, I doubt I would have gone through with the break up. I’m too much of a pussy. The only way I know how to break up with someone is by being cold and emotionally unavailable. And so far that has only been misinterpreted as being quiet and shy.

On a more positive side, I did have a good time tonight. O.M.R. and I saw Hairspray, I movie I didn’t think I’d have much interest in seeing, but felt obligated to go to in order to keep my membership card to the Alliance of Gays.

I was pleasantly surprised to find the movie quite enjoyable (with one exception.) Below is my review:

ADORABLE:

DISPICABLE:

GAY:

GAYER:

PHONED IT IN:

MUST BE A VAMPIRE BECAUSE SHE HASN’T AGED:

DIDN’T HATE AS MUCH AS I THOUGHT I WOULD:

DID’T HATE AS MUCH AS I THOUGHT I WOULD, BUT STILL THINK SHE’S A SLUT TRYING TO HIDE UNDER THE GUISE OF BEING A “FUNNY” GIRL:

SURPRISINGLY DULL:

SURPRISINGLY FUCKABLE:

54 DAYS TO GO: Happy To Be Me.

Lately I’ve been really, really tired. Blackout tired. Like when you get a seat on the subway ride home after work, and your head starts to bob and your eyelids become really heavy and then, just as you find your happy place… BOOM! A bolt of lightening shoots through your entire body and you jerk awake. You look around to see if anyone saw you. Yes, you can feel your cheeks grow red with embarrassment as you realize that everyone saw you.

Today I left work a few hours early. It was a slow day and I felt like I had busted my ass enough earlier in the week to justify getting a head start on my weekend. When I got home I contemplated taking a nap. But often naps just make me feel more tired. I wake up feeling like every last drop of blood has been drained from my body. Like a zombie. So instead of eternal sleep, I opted to watch a few episodes of The Closer.

As the sun began to set, it was time for me to head back into the city. Tonight there was a small gathering for Beta’s birthday. I love drinking, and I love Beta, so of course I was going to go. I took a power nap on the subway ride over to the bar, which sort of helped. And at the bar I limited myself to two beers. I was already feeling punch drunk before I had my first sip of liquor, so I figured that I shouldn’t add actual drunkenness on top of that.

After the bar we all headed over to the UCB to check out the Del Close Marathon. I know that the DCM is supposed to be a crazy-fun time, where people stay up 3 days straight and watch improv until their eyes bleed, but I just wasn’t feeling it. However, not wanting to be the Debbie Downer of the group, I stuck it out for a few shows, until Beta and her sister were ready to leave.

On my walk home to the L train, I was beginning to wonder what was wrong with me. When did I become such an old man? I can remember my early days in NY (waaaaay back, almost two years ago) when R. and I would spend all night out at the bars, drunk senseless. When was the last time that I did that?

But then I saw two things that made me feel like maybe it was okay to be a bit of a fuddy duddy:

1. At the corner of 8th and 16th I saw an Asian couple (not that their race is really relevant to the story) sitting on the hood of car. The girl had her body draped around her boyfriend, who was cradling her in his arms. Oh gross, I thought to myself, they’re gonna make out. But then, as I got closer, I saw something every grosser: the girl had vomit dripping out of the corner of her mouth.

2. One block down, as I turned the corner to enter the subway station, I noticed a guy sitting outside of the entrance. That’s odd, I thought, why is that homeless man wearing an expensive suit? Upon closer inspection, it turned out not to be a homeless man, but rather a young, power executive, passed out with puke all over himself and the sidewalk.

As I walked down the steps to the subway, I smiled and thought to myself: I may not be cool like Lindsay Lohan (before she became a total trainwreck), but at least I’m not covered in my own vomit.

55 DAYS TO GO: Everything’s Coming Up Patti.

I’m usually not a big fan of my own birthday. But I don’t mind other people’s birthdays. Especially when they get presents that they can share. Tonight for her b’day, the most wondrous Beta got tickets to go see Patti LuPone in Gypsy. Tickets. Plural. Her saintly sisters bought extra tickets so that Beta could invite her favorite people… namely, me.

The show was, of course, amazing. (Picture me saying that with my arms outstretched in front of me and my voice an octave up, extra gay.) Pattie LuPone was the shit. The audience went retarded for her. She could have taken a live baby on stage, ripped it’s head off and ate it, and she still would have been met with thunderous applause.

Speaking of mentally handicapped patrons, the woman behind me was a real douche. During intermission she approached me and asked if I could perhaps slouch a little bit during the second act. I told her that if I slouched, then I wouldn’t be able to see the show. She gave me a look that said, “I’m rich and I’m used to getting my way.”

I calmly explained to her that “it just must be the way the theatre is built,” and then went back to intensely studying my program. I made sure to sit up extra straight for the rest of the performance. I’m a bitch like that.

The final number “Rose’s Turn,” was of course, earth-shattering. (Picture me saying that with tears in my eyes and a dick up my ass, extra, extra gay.) Unfortunately some d-bag audience member tried to ruin that too, by deciding that the 11 o’clock number was the perfect time to get up from his seat and walk down the aisle, making his way to the door so that he could beat the crowd while exiting the theatre. I was surprised that out of the 8 million Patti-LuPone-loving-fags at the theater that night, none of them attack said d-bag.

It didn’t matter though. No matter how hard they tried, no one could steal the spotlight from Momma.

56 DAYS TO GO: Stay Tuned.

This evening a near miracle occurred.

My Netflix discs were all still en route to my house via the US postal system. My television doesn’t get a lick of reception. And my neighbor’s WiFi was being too fickle to be able to leisurely surf the internet.

I may as well stepped into a time machine and set the dial back to the Stone Age.

Normally, I probably would have gone for a run. But my muscles were still too sore. I thought about reading, but I just finished a book last week, and I didn’t want to upset my timetable of reading about one book every six months.

Not knowing what else to do with myself, I decided to sit down and write. Although I blog every day, I still consider myself to be going through a bad, almost two year long bought of writer’s block. Sure I wrote a sketch show last spring, and I was working on a one act play for a friend earlier this month, but it was like pulling teeth. No, worse than teeth. It was like pulling pubic hair… and then punching myself in the balls.

Last night I wasn’t working on any sketches or a play. I was working on the TV show that I would like to some day write. And you know what? I was actually having fun doing it. I got back into my old writing habits from my playwriting days. I put on some chill music (Iron & Wine, Rachael Yamagata), dusted off ye old book of baby names, grabbed my notebook and pen and began writing.

What is my show about, you may ask? The fuck if I’m gonna tell you. I never like to talk about my shows until I feel that they are complete, or close to being somewhere near done. And considering that this show is for television, a medium that I have no connections to, it’s at least 10 years away from being “close” to anything.

57 DAYS TO GO: Titty Talk.

I promise not to make every blog post about running, but life is pretty boring this week, so my apologies.

Didn’t do much today besides feel the pain from yesterday’s 10 mile run. My quads hurt. I’m not even sure if what I think are my quads, really are my quads, but I feel butch saying it.

Worse than my quads are my man-tatties. That’s gross, I know. For some reason the combination of wet, sweaty cotton + my nipples = lots of pain. I almost cried in the shower this morning. I was cupping my bosoms, with a look of anguish on my face. I probably looked like a rape victim, trying to comfort myself while washing the stink of evil off my body.

I’ve been trying to come up with ways to prevent nipple burn for my next run. So far I have:

A.) Stop being such a Sweaty Betty.
B.) Wear band-aids over my ta-tas.
C.) Cut holes in the nipples of my running shirts. Like this.

Seriously, I don’t know how they can still be tender 24 hours after the fact. I guess I now know how that hottie James McAvoy felt at the end of The Last King of Scotland. Only I didn’t almost die from impregnating the kings 3rd wife. I just went running.

58 DAYS TO GO: I Think I Can, I Think I Can…

After a busy week last week, I was looking forward to coming home after work today and doing absolutley nothing but lying around and letting my fat ass get fatter. However, once I got home and realized that there was nothing to do but watch Netflix, I felt a little depressed. It’s summer. I shouldn’t be holed up in my room like a young Anne Frank hiding from the Nazi. So I decided to embrace my freedom and go for a run. A long run.

It has been my running goal this summer to run 10 miles. When I started my run off tonight, I thought that I would keep it short, 3 or 4 miles. It was already late and due to a small bought of insomnia the night before, I had only gotten about 4 hours of sleep. However, my body was feeling pretty good and I had just downloaded the new Chemical Brothers CD on my Nano. So I decided to push it. Push it real good.

After I passed what I knew was my 6 mile mark I kept on huffing it. I didn’t know how long I had to run to meet my goal, so I just went for as long as I could. Nothing could keep me down. Even when I literally fell down while making a sharp U-turn. Although my rhythm was thrown off and I could feel my body getting ready to shut down, I kept on keeping on. I had more inspiration inside of me than a Lifetime made-for-TV movie staring Tracy Gold.

After about 90 minutes, and a few quarts of sweat, I finally stopped running. I came home and checked my mileage on Map My Run. Thankfully, I had met my goal with 0.25 miles to spare. I felt good. Like I could accomplish anything. So I decided to set some other goals for myself. Bigger, life goals:

1. Find an apartment.
2. Find a job in my desired field.
3. Fix my love life.

Obviously, #1 has top priority at this point. And I’m not looking to accomplish #2 & 3 anytime soon. It took me 4 months just to train and work my way up to being able to run 10 miles. It will probably take, at bare minimum, 4 years to get paid to write and not be afraid of men. But at least tonight, I feel like anything is possible.

59 DAYS TO GO: Thou Hast Cockblocked Me Shakespeare!

Early this afternoon I went on my mini-date with the Australian (who, for the record, looks like a less manicured Julian McMahon.)

We met up at the park near his place and then went out for coffee and dry pastries. He told me that I have a nice smile. When guys tell me that, I begin to think they’re compulsive liars. In my opinion, my grill is messed up. I really could have used some braces and flossed a bit more, but my parents decided that my sister would be the only metal-mouthed child in the family, and I’m lazy when it comes to dental care.

He also said something about my eyes, but the baby at the table next to us was crying, so I didn’t hear him. I pretended that he told me they were delicate and squinty, like a china doll’s.

After our brunch-lite he wanted to “show me his place,” which is code for “let me see if you’re a big whore.” Lucky for him, I am. Soon enough we were in Makeout City. Unlucky for him, however, I had a friend’s show to catch. So I had to leave my bloke behind for some Shakespeare in the park, which actually, was probably a blessing in disguise, since I’m trying to be less of a whore.

Sorry mate, but I’m not that kind of girl anymore. You’re gonna have to wait until our second date to put your shrimp on my barbie. And yes, I hate myself for that god-awful innuendo.

60 DAYS TO GO: Soon You Will Be Mine, Oh Sweet, Sweet, Reality-TV.

Tonight I got a taste of what my life is going to be like in two months when I move into an apartment with cable TV and TiVo:
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And my personal fav:
AND IN OTHER NEWS:
I’ve now passed the 300 mark on number of posts. Woo-hoo, only two more months to go! I checked my StatCounter again and was delighted to see that when someone googled “tylenol pm used as a roofie” they were directed right to my blog. Also, remember when I was bitching about how someone had googled “brian kennedy countdown to 30″ to find my blog? Well, to the a-hole (most likely Jeffrey Marx) who googled “brian kennedy countdown to 31″: you’re not funny.