Now, Isn't that SPECIAL?

Confirmed: Bachelor

I was sitting on the A train tonight and began to play my everyday game of "If this train were to stop RIGHT NOW and we were all about to DIE in 15 minutes, who would I FUCK."  Sadly, the answer came up, "Nobody."  There were no possible candidates of even marginal fuckability on that sad sad little train.  So, there I was, the world about to end and so very alone.

I was coming back from a particularly rousing session of therapy with my hot, yet stern, the-rapist.  My therapy sessions are on Thursday at 7:45 pm, so I kind of plan my whole day around it.  I KNOW I'll be in Chelsea, so I take the opportunity to engage in some retail therapy as well.  I go to the 6th Ave Barnes and Noble, the Bed, Bath and Beyond, Ricky's on 23rd and, and if feeling particularly weak-of-will, partake in the odd yellow-trash Boston Market 1/4th white chicken feast with macaroni & cheese, sweet potato casserole and a pittance of cornbread before my session.

Afterwards, usually go to see a movie which none of my friends wants to see...this week was SUPPOSED to be I Know Who Killed Me starring that lovable coke-whore, Lindsay Lohan, but somehow I resisted my natural leaning toward kitsch and went for something a little more meaningful...Namely, Parker Posey's new film Broken English. 

It was the first time that I have cried at a movie since my last home viewing of the Color Purple, y'all!

Those who know me well know that I have almost EVERY line of dialog EVER SPOKEN by Miss Posey memorized.  Hell, I even copied her hairstyle from the House of Yes. But, furrealz, this is her best film ever.  Yes, she is hilarious.  Yes, she is quirky. But, in this movie she is also so very REAL. 

Forget judging a movie by it's byline or summary.  This movie is for those of you longing to simply find someone to validate your existence, it's for those of you who are happy to remain single and independent and it's also for those that believe in being one half of a fulfillingly functional couple a la Hedwig's "Origin of Love"...this movie is sure to hit a nerve.

If you don't believe me, read this review from the more-hit-than-miss movie review site, www.pajiba.com , which touts itself as a site containing "Scathing reviews for bitchy people."

This movie does not preach a sermon or try to sell you any specific ideology. I don't really know more about "who I am" or "what I want in life", but I sure as hell feel less like an anomaly of human existence and more like a normal, modern, struggling AND YET still functioning human being.

Lol-han

Now I know for real that Lindsay Lohan and I are somehow cosmically linked.

She just dyed her hair raven dark dark brown AS DID I two days ago.

Some may remember way back when (last fall) when I dyed it black after being inspired by La Lohan:




Then she went to a transitional too-light sorta red:





As did I. Listen, I am not proud of that.  But unfortunately that's the color you get when you try to strip black hair dye out of your hair.  Well, that bitch Lohan is irish and a natural redhead, whilst I just looked like a ghetto-banging asian J.Lo wannabe for a day.

And then my personal favorite for easy breezy spring/summer, medium chestnut brown:



Now we are both back to an almost-black locks for the impending fall season. Whats bizarre is that only the initial midnight black color was me directly copying La Lohan. The rest were all chance and the fact that she and I are (for better or worse) cosmically linked somehow.

Just my luck.

Eye Spy a Queer Eye

So guess who just happened to sign-up at my little gym today?



Yes, it's Kyan Douglas from 'Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.'

As I was ascending the stairs I saw him in all his err...glory...he was really quite ordinary looking in person. I then proceeded to get on my fave treadmill and have a silent gay vs. gay cardio-race.

Kyan on elliptical vs. Kyle on treadmill.


It was pretty epic. My ass was very sweaty by the end of our mother-loving battle because I was prancing at a much faster pace than I usually do. If we end up being at the gym at the same time everyday, I am going to be one svelte-ass fatherfucker.

My next train of thought was, 'what the baby's fist is Kyan doing at my gym?', which is the nicest one in Williamsburg, albeit a far cry from a luxurious homo harem. I mean, there is only a small steam room which is usually occupied by only one very swarthy sausage of a man.

After 2 minutes of exhaustive internet research, I found that he lives with his gay rights activist lover-man in Brooklyn. So that explains it.

Now my big dilemma is, do I act like I have no idea who he is, thereby granting him the anonymity that he probably so dearly craves...or give into my girlish desire to fawn over him while he is alllll stinky?

AA

It's finally time, my friends.

I seriously need to cut the recreational drinking out of my life. At this point in my life it just makes me very irrational although prone to highlarious antics. Last night I was mildly frustrated and thus started having a few drinks at Laura's work place, Pure Food and Wine (which, by the way, is the place to go if you are in serious need of a BM, because they only serve raw, organic foods. Some of the most satisfying and earth shattering dumps I have taken have been the direct result of a night out at Pure Foods.)



Well "a few" turned into "a bunch" which turned into "Baartenderr giive meee anozer!" On the way home (and 2 pieces of pitty-pizza later) I decided I was going to go on and get even more blitzkrieged...alone...at my house...LUCKILY instead I just fell asleep right away and awoke an hour later with a clear mind.

My life is pretty awesome right now and me thinking anything else is a booze-influenced hallucination of doom.

SO THATS IT. I am not going to drink myself into oblivion because it always makes me either A) send naughty myspace messages B) eat raw hot dogs or C) create embarassing blog rants that contain confused mumblings that I have to delete later.

Don't look at me that way, I know I know...I am not quitting the bottle completely, but a girl can get her kicks without getting sick.

Following is a photo tribute to some of my more regrettable, yet hil-a-ious drunky moments.


This was the night of my last St. A's Pledge Formal EVER...the theme was Grimms Fairy Tales and I was the Golden Ball from the Frog Prince. Unfortunately, I drank waaaay too much (exhibit A: me desperately grasping both the bottle AND glass) and blacked out shortly after that pic was taken. I am told my ball/hat came to good use as a puke vessel tho.



This was the night Carucci, Jerch and Jenny crashed the Moat Party at some frat house, and after drinking straight gin for hours, I made it my mission to steal a pair of undies from each frat boy. (exhibit B: Big bag-o-undies)






Going in for the kill. One of many drunken games of spin the bottle. No heed. (exhibit C: Look into his sweaty pitts. That girl is mesmerized.)



Seemingly desperate consumption of both ciggies and pizza usually follows such a binge. (exhibit D: Cancer. exhibit E: Fat)



Anyone want to guess what happened that night? Probably all of the above. (exhibit F: bloated face, blood-shot eyes.)

Jeez...if thats not disgusting and unflattering enough to plant my ass on that good ole wagon, I don't know what is...oh wait, yeah I do:


The fear of turning into this drunky mcdrunkster.