This is why I am alone

I have started putting myself out on various online dating services. My reason for doing this is two-fold. The first reason is that I am hoping if I endure enough shame and humiliation by essentially declaring to the world that I am incapable of finding a romantic partner on my own, that a divine force I don’t even really believe in will take pity on me and nudge a man of suitable qualities and hotness in my general direction so that we may, in the words of Marvin Gaye, “get it on” and eventually find civilly unionized domestic partnership bliss (since at this point, wedded bliss is only available to us in Canda, Massachussetts, and a couple of other countries there is no way in hell I am moving to). The second reason is that I am starting to get arthritis of the right elbow, if you know what I mean. You can be sure I'll let you know how the search is going.

DARE to keep your bunny off drugs!

Violent pink space kitty
Caught in the tri-beam haze
The marching matchsticks dance about you then
Collapse into Buddha’s stereophonic smile
Spiraled vortex simultaneously approaching and receding
As we roll over the psychotropic hills
A jagged finger of lightning stabs
Into the coruscating puddle of color
Sparking life

No, to answer the question that has undoubtedly risen to the forefront of your mind, I have not been singing “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”, the only mushrooms I have eaten lately have been portabella, and the doctor has not prescribed something which I have been told by various people at various times that perhaps I should look into. I was just watching the “visualizer” on my iTunes as it belted out “Blame it on the Bossa Nova” by Eydie Gorme and then “Future Proof” by Massive Attack (I have eclectic taste in music; deal with it). As I watched the exquisite dance of colors, lines, and shapes I was inspired, no compelled, to write the poem. I enjoyed writing it; you are not required to enjoy reading it. Although, I will say I am currently enduring the sensation of bugs crawling on my skin, a sensation which is not chemically induced but rather stems from the fact I have just finished mowing the lawn, and the actual bugs that crawled on my skin as I mowed before I gently brushed them away. Oh, and no one will believe you if you tell them that I am actually that kind. Mwah hah hah.

Daddy Dearest

I have a problem. I know, boo hoo, right? Anyway, it’s not so much a problem as an awkward social situation, which I just realized could be acronymized as ASS, so now I have an ASS instead of a problem because it is way more fun to say ASS. Oh, P.S. apparently I am a little spazzy right now. Yes, try and recover from your shock. Anywho, this is my ASS: my last remaining friend living in this county is a single mom because her jerk husband left her after having an affair with a stupid ugly cow and the last thing I’ll say about them is that they deserve each other. Consequently, when I go out with my friend (which is like every weekend) and her daughter (which is like every other weekend since jerk-ass gets overnight custody every other weekend) this is what people see: a man, a woman, and a child. Add these three elements and hello daddy! I know what you are thinking: but you are so gay! Your gayness can be seen from space! How can people assume that you are the father and not see what you so obviously are: the gay best friend? Are they headless? Stupid? What is the deal? I certainly don’t help matters any: I dearly love the little girl so I carry her and talk to her and pay attention to her, probably even more so than many of the other “real” fathers I have seen interacting with their children. But it is so bad, even lesbians are confused. Let me explain that sentence so that it makes more sense. This one time (no, not at band camp) my friend, the baby (she was a baby then), and I had gone out shopping. As I wheeled the little tyke in her stroller, walking towards the shopping area, our group passed a couple of lesbians walking to the parking area. As we got closer, the lesbians looked at us (just as I looked at them; it’s just how gaydar works), then looked at each other. The look that passed between them said quite clearly what they were thinking, almost as if we were in a cartoon and thought bubbles appeared over their heads: “Poor thing, she doesn’t know.” After they had passed a respectable distance, I shared my insight with my friend and we both had a hearty chuckle. However, I have also seen guys who might have been interested quickly look away when they see my friend come up with the baby. And then yesterday at Home Depot, this woman called me daddy twice more even after she had been corrected. I have proposed several measures (all rejected by my friend) to clarify the nature of our relationship to the idle passerby: T-shirts, hats, or gold necklaces that say “fag” for me and “hag” for her. A t-shirt for the child that says “I love my gay fake uncle.” A tattoo on my forehead that says “homo”. For a while, I tried wearing my pride necklace, but that just fascinated the little girl and she would play with the triangles and say the colors as she held each one in her pudgy little hands (she is beastly smart; just three and she is starting to recognize some words and knows most of her colors, numbers and letters). The best remedy, of course, would be for us not to hang out so much, for me to get a boyfriend, for her to get a boyfriend, for us not to be so dependent on each other. So what are we going to do? Maybe we’ll talk about it after she and I go see The Stepford Wives next weekend.