Houseguest

Having never lived with a woman, I've never really understood what that was like. I didn't know the challenges of this arrangement.

In this particular case, having to deal with random long brown hairs lying in my house. I feel like I am one clump short of a mohair sweater or a Chewbacca costume. These long hairs belong to our houseguest Kate, who is staying with us for a month.

Sometimes it irks me when I am lying on the couch and I find a strand of hair sticking to my face. It burns me up. I think dark thoughts about her, this good friend of mine, soon to be not-so-good friend if this keeps up.

I feel a twinge of guilt about this because it's not like she can help that her hair falls out. I can't help myself wishing horrible things would happen to her, like a plague of split ends, so she has to cut her hair off. I look for signs of anorexia because I hear it makes your hair fall out. To prevent this, I pour out her two-liter bottle of Diet Coke and fill it with regular Coke.

But I love her dearly, which is why Brian and I let her stay with us for a whole month. We were in agreement in this. And when I say 'agreement', I mean that I used emotional blackmail on him. I would've threatened to withhold sex instead, except that after being together nearly five years, we only have sex about six times a month, if we're lucky. If somebody forgets to wash the dishes, that dwindles down to two. So I am hesitant to use that sort of power. I reserve it for one of those really rare and special occasions, like when the cat has diarrhea.

If I had more experience, I suppose these things wouldn't surprise me.

One day, as I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom, I happened to notice that there was something in the trashcan that looked odd. It was something wrapped in tissue paper, one edge looking damp and red.

At first I thought, it was the leftover steak I grilled last night. I thought, why would Brian throw that out? There was enough to make a perfectly nice steak sandwich garnished with roasted peppers, arugula, and a little garlic-mayo spread on ciabatta bread. If I were a different person, I would've fished it out. It was wrapped in tissue.

Of course it was a tampon. You can't make that into a sandwich. Unless you were a vampire.

This made me think about how blood is such a part of women's lives. I get queasy at the little blood that comes out when I pop a zit. But women bleed, man. This stuff pours out of them every month. If I popped a zit everyday for the rest of my life, it wouldn't even come close to how much blood comes out of a woman in a month. To be a woman, it's like...murder--but with nice handbags. No wonder they're cranky. I think if I were a woman, I would have a lot of nice handbags.

We men will never understand this, or why women use chocolate ice cream as medication for their ails.

I tip my hat to you straight men. Women are almost a different species. You take the differences between the sexes and you make. it. work. Tim Gunn would be proud. Some of you even take it to the next level. You take a woman's period and you make something beautiful with it. I think you call it a "rusty nail"?

It's been three weeks, and I think I have learned a lot. I think I am becoming more attuned to Kate. I have learned a lot about women--some important lessons in life--like the double-edged sword of beauty, learning to live with pain, how to properly use an eyelash curler. I also learned the wiles of how to get a man to pay for dinner: by dating only rich men.

A few more days, she will be on her way. Just as our spiritual menstrual cycles were getting in synch, she'll be leaving. I wondered about what that would've been like, whether it would've taken our friendship to the next level, brought us closer together as friends, and whether I would've needed to start stocking tampons too.


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Check out some of my other friends:

Things That Might Drive Joe to Crazyville - Or, let's get to know Joe by reading his rants. Wanted: Friend - Determined never to go solo again, Han makes his move. My First Time - Annie's first guest post. But who cares when there's a pic of her boobs? Special Dispensation - Only the Pope, or my friend Matt, can grant me a special dispensation to date Kevin.

Hardly Knew You - Doug went out for lunch... and never came back. Guest Blogger - You'll be surprised at who made an appearance. If I Could Turn Back Time - A custody fight for Patrick between me and a famous sitcom star. #1 Single - Lisa Loeb and I are this close. The unlikely friendship of a popstar and a blogger.

Exhale

It's hard to show your enduring love with celery sticks. Picture this: the warm glow of candles, soft mood music, you gazing deeply in your lover's eyes, whispering sweet nothings over a plate of celery and low-calorie ranch dressing.

See? It doesn't work.

Romance is all about excess: scrumptious food, lavish gifts, spending money you took from his wallet while he was asleep. The whole point is to lull the object of your affection/unwitting victim into complacency. And once your lives are impossibly entangled, through cohabitation, vows of commitment or blackmail, you reveal your true self.

The good news is that this ritual only lasts about six months. The bad news is that in six months, you could find yourself twenty pounds heavier, no longer the size fourteen (the size zero of drag queens) you once were. It creeps up on you, this weight, like a cold sore or megalomania.

I think you can pick out the truly committed relationships. They have a glow about them that comes from mutual trust, mutual support and mutual funds with a double-digit annual growth. They are the people who have eschewed the superficial; they don't live on a strict diet of celery and tomato soup to keep their abs rock hard.

The elastic waistband is an ally, a defiant fashion statement. These people are the shining beacons of the highest potential of humans. If you see them walking down the street--stop them--see if you can learn something from them, like the directions to a decent all-you-can-eat buffet in the Chicago area. Really, I would like to know. Please send this to me via e-mail.

My waist is slipping from me. My boyfriend is complicit in this. We eat lavishly, then neglect to go to the gym. This past Thanksgiving is just the gravy on the mashed potatoes. I ate all that. And the morning after, I stole into the refrigerator and ate some more.

But you can't really lie about your waistline. The signs give you away: your inseam, that fabric that should lie flat on top of your zipper, puckers open like a botched lipo scar. Your belly fat floats on top of your waistband like an inner tube in a swimming pool.

It's like for years and years and years of being 30, I found myself shopping for 32-inch jeans. I could no longer lie to myself or anybody else. That's not true. I may be a 33, 34, but I refuse to even consider that. No no no no no no way.

I wish this was like lying about my age, which I can perpetuate as long as photoshop and myspace exists. I'm quite popular on myspace. I just got an "add" this morning, which now makes my grand total of friends to four. It would've been five, but my mom refused to add me as friend. I'm so popular that as soon as I signed up, some dude named Tom wanted desperately to be my friend.


Saturday night, a rare stint at the bars. It's crowded. Gay men and women are slowly decompressing from their deep dive into the homestead, imbibing alcohol to fend off the bends.

I am standing among the perfect, the pretty. I am holding in my stomach, holding in my breath.

I had to do this, to squeeze into my jeans. You know the dance: a quick intake of air, then jumping about on hot coals. The inch from the button to the buttonhole, a marathon route; my navel caught between scylla and charybdis.

Even then, my stomach bulges out like foam threatening to spill over a piping hot latte. I hold it in to keep it flat, drawing only short breaths. When I talk, it's amazing I don't sound like Spongebob. Or Meg Tilly.

I've been here forty-five minutes and already I want to go home. I can't wait to get out of these clothes, these jeans.

And to exhale.

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Posts about the food in my life:

Starvation - The long way home is paved with very little food. Fake Plastic Food - The airplane food finally arrives. Discharged! - An obstruction in my bowels lands me in the hospital. Rock Bottom - An Oreo Story. When you've fished food out of the trash, then you know you've hit rock bottom.

Girl, Interrupted - The story of a lost girl and the media uproar. Love On An Empty Stomach - Food lulls you into falling in love. Comfort Food - $1.50 for a bowl of rice is insane. Bagel Sandwich - I could've been a millionaire but for a bagel sandwich.

I am holding my breath until you join the mailing list!

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Undateable

Kevin, you have become undateable to me, ever since you put up that picture of you smiling, shirtless, stroking your fleshy, pink hard-on in your online profile.

Now, why did you go and do that? Did you really think that we could still whisk away to happily-ever-after, after you've put up these pics? Could you have at least cropped your face out of the photo? Then at least everybody who sees it online will just assume that the picture is fake and belongs to some skanky 80 year-old geezer in a homophobic red state. That's what I did on my online profile.

I mean, who can tell anyway? These profiles, these pictures never tell the truth. When I first put up a pic of an asshole on my website, my ex-boyfriend hired a lawyer to remove the offending picture of his face. Since I won't be dating you, you won't ever have to worry about me sending your boss your naked picture when we eventually break-up. Our relationship has ended before it started.

I realize of course that dating doesn't have to end up in a relationship--and many people who go on dates don't--but I don't think that I even want to spend an appetizer or a movie ticket on you. Normally, to lubricate our way to the path between your legs, I would've at least would've bought you a cocktail garnished with the date-rape drug du jour. But now, not so much. You've proven that you don't have the self-esteem to lie on your profile and put up fake pictures. I can't date you--what would my friends think?

I had been harboring fantasies of you and me running off away together, ever since I first found your profile in gay.com. I imagined the two of us adopting children together from fashionable third-world countries: China, Malawi, Compton.

I imagined sophisticated names that will look attractive on a vellum business card or a glossy porno box, like Rafe or Britney. We would all adopt your last name MusclJock, as stated on your gay.com profile. If you prefer, we could hyphenate: No Milk MusclJock-Please. Or does No Milk Please-MusclJock sound better?

Sigh. In my mind's eye, I could see Britney, Rafe and I playing with my collection of Barbie dolls, still mint-in-box. We would gleefully dust and catalog the Barbie collection and bid on rare items on eBay. For Halloween, Britney would be a beautiful pink princess. Rafe could be one too--it's not like we'd need to shave his legs until he's thirty if he takes after me. If he takes after you, we may want to start saving for his depilatory/college fund early.

These dreams are slowly dying; it breaks my heart not to be able to drag our beautiful kids to soccer practice, recitals or a sweatshop, if we needed the extra cash for a suede couch.

I could put up the picture of you here for the people who occasionally read this blog, so people can admire your pink member, but I am afraid that you will get mad at me. Because even though we won't be dating, I would never, ever, want to jeopardize the possibility of our hooking-up.

(If you ever return my IMs, I'll send you the naked photo I took of myself in the shower)

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Special Dispensation - Only the Pope, or my friend Matt, can grant me a special dispensation to date Kevin.




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What Does It Say About Me?

"What do you think my beret says about me," I asked my good friend Matt.

He studied my beret and said, "I think it says that you are trying to look younger than you are."

"Really?" I asked, crestfallen. "You don't think it says that I'm creative, hip and will give you a blowjob if you follow me into the restroom at Borders?"

"No," he said firmly.

"What do you think about hockey jerseys?" I ventured. I had just bought one recently at one crazed shopping spree at the mall. What? They were 60% off!!!

"I think it says 'I have completely given up on life and I am just waiting for Heidi to tell me auf weidersehen,'" said Matt.

"I see," I managed to say. I still had the receipt for the hockey jersey but I have been seen around town in my beret. What was I thinking? Why couldn't I just be like every decent gay guy over thirty-five and post a picture on BigMuscle.com of my big, gaping asshole? But noooo, I had to be different, I had to wear a goddamn beret.

What is it that I am trying to say anyway? All I want is to be noticed, you know, so that I wouldn't be that guy who is left out, the guy in the corner jacking himself off in an orgy.

"Anyway, if you want to say something about yourself," Matt said, oblivious to my internal struggle, "I think you should get something more subtle, you know, like a t-shirt or better yet--get a tattoo."

"To hell with subtlety. I want a t-shirt that says 'I'm a bottom'."

"Well then, let's go find a t-shirt that has big block letters that spell A-B-E-R-C-R-O-M-B-I-E."

"Ok," I said excitedly. I could have a picture of myself wearing it on my new BigMuscle.com profile by tonight.

Right next to the picture of my asshole.





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Kiss of Life

Check out my new remix:



Kiss of Life
(DJ Evil Twin Smooth Gloss Mix)
Sade
DL @ DivShare*
If link is broken, e-mail me.

Other Sade / DJ Evil Twin Mixes:




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Recommended Sade CDs:

Show Some Skin

Continued from: Warmth
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When I travel, I try to avoid acting or looking like a tourist because I think it's so bourgeois. I prefer to act dignified and respectful when I am in a different country, like Tara Reid.

My idea of a vacation is to immerse myself in the local culture, as if it were a hot tub. To that end, I looked up where all the happenin' bathhouses were in Montreal. I packed my most stylish and fashionable thongs, you know, the ones that left nothing to the imagination. I was able to pack six of them in an old plastic toothbrush case. Did I call them thongs? I meant colored dental floss.

Montreal of course, is known for their very casual attitude towards male stripping, which is the real reason why we chose it for a weekend vacation. There were at least four male strip clubs in The Village, where our hotel was located, all prominently advertising their handsome, muscular performers.

Here, "showing some skin" doesn't mean stripping down to a thong or showing the outline of a hardon through a wet jock. It meant down to the hard, turgid flesh and wrinkly, tight sacs. I've never seen so many men sporting hoodies and I don't mean sweatshirts. Being circumcised myself, I wondered if this would make their penis extra sweaty in warm weather, or in my mouth.

When we first arrived, whenever I saw any good-looking or well-built men, I wondered whether they moonlighted as strippers. I looked closely at them to see if I could discern their profession from their eyes, from the way they walked or from their breakaway Velcro seams. Whenever I saw poles of any kind, a scaffolding or a lamp post, I stopped to see if anybody was going to walk up, grab it with both hands and start swinging around on it, legs up in the air.

Maybe I could learn some tips from them. Once in a rare while, I would do some stripper moves in the bedroom, just to get my boyfriend going. I find that it's a highly effective way of getting him do things that he normally doesn't do like, the laundry.

Do you think strippers are jaded? I think sometimes, that I would like to date a stripper. Who wouldn't want to date a stripper? Okokok, maybe not Ann Coulter, because strippers aren't virtuous enough for her--she only dates politicians. But besides her.

What would it be like to date a stripper? They've seen it all. What turns on a stripper? Do you think it would need to be something totally crazy, like turning on the TV and ignoring him? I could wear an old pair of tightie-whities with the worn elastic waistband and droopy, wide leg holes, or maybe an old t-shirt with armpit stains to seduce him...

Who am I kidding. I could never date a stripper. They're too complicated for me. I only date guys who have their act at together, you know, at the local drag show. If they can lipsynch to Christina Aguilera, they can sink their lips on my dick.

The hot strippers at Stock Bar, our concierge's recommendation, didn't disappoint. The drinks were stiff, but the men were stiffer. The men were nicely built, very boy-next-door--totally approachable, so I hope they don't mind if I approach them with a wet tongue.

Their sets were only about five minutes long each, so if you weren't into the particular dancer, you can let your eyes wander for a bit and another will be up shortly.

The best part was that at the end of each sexed-out performance, after the slow gyrations and explicit manhandling of their privates, each of the men did a shy little bow, a sheepish grin or a bashful little wave before they went back behind the curtain, as if they weren't really strippers at all, but guys who were maybe, you know, just walking past the club and were talked into getting on stage. They were so charming and polite!

It made me think: Have I misjudged strippers completely? What about Circus Clowns? And Gay Republicans? And the Catholic priest who gave me chlamydia...



PREVIOUSLY: Warmth




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Warmth

Even though my friend Bobby reassured me that Brian and I didn’t have to learn French for our trip to Montreal, it worried me a little not to come prepared.

Normally, I would arm myself with some essential phrases when visiting a foreign country: "is there cheese in this?" or "where is the restroom?" or "you can't do this to me, I'm an American!" I would also try to learn the words for a few niceties like "please," "thank you," and "don't worry, it's only a cold sore." I'm very polite.

But it is a bit strange, that the entire Quebec province in Canada speaks a totally foreign language from the rest of the country. I guess in the U.S., it's a bit like going to Arkansas where they speak Barnyard. Not everybody of course; the genteel, well-educated folk there speak Pig Latin.

Until I planned our trip to Montreal, I've never thought of Canada as a foreign country. I've always thought of Canada, you know, like it was as a very large suburb of America. It was gonna be like going outlet mall shopping on a weekend.

I mean, I already love their music: Alanis Morrissette, Sarah McLachlan, Tegan and Sara. Like a well-chosen concealer, I would blend right in. Canadians are probably not that different. They probably raise the toilet seat with the tip of their shoe in a public restroom just like we do in America.

However, if there was anything that worried me more than having to speak French, it was the metric system.

I could probably muster "how do I get to the Biodome" in French, but the reply "turn left and walk 1.5 kilometres" would mean absolutely nothing to me. I am terrified that I may be in situation where my life would depend on buying orange juice in the right size container. How many litres is in a gallon or a quart? The thought of memorizing the conversion factors was daunting. I feel myself slipping into despair.

Our cab driver gave us our first taste of the local color, when an inattentive bike rider cut in front of us. Incensed, our driver suddenly stepped on the gas, driving like a madman. He soon caught up with the biker. He rolled down his window and let loose a barrage of curses. It sounded like this:

"%&$?!!' ' ' ' ' ' ' @% ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ! ' ' ' ' ' ' &%& ' ' ' ' '?!?!"

I felt like I was in a Peanuts cartoon and the adults were talking.

Realizing that we were still in the cab, our driver embarrassedly turned around said what sounded like an apology in French. How can we be angry when the swearing sounded so glamorous, even if I peed a little in my pants because of his crazy driving?

We were excited when we got to our hotel in The Village, which is the gay neighborhood in Montreal. We decided to take a stroll.

As we walked past the locals, we caught snippets of French which made us feel like worldly travelers. We found ourselves adding a nasal sound to our conversation, affecting a fake French accent. We randomly read signs out loud just to hear ourselves speaking French: "Le Chateau du Pantalon," "L'Adonis," "Ben & Jer-ree's." I was way ahead of Brian as I had a great advantage over him: my lisp.

The Quebecois were friendly people, we found. They switched effortlessly to English if you respond "Good Morning" to their "Bonjour!" or if you say something like, "where's my coffee, bitch?"

We looked forward to basking in the warmth of the locals much like a penis looks forward to the warmth of a well-lubricated hole...


NEXT: Strippers!


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Posts about my trip to that other gay city, San Francisco:

Part 1: Wedding Party Part 2: Boystown USA

Part 3: A Haunting Part 4: Detour

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Cherish The Day

Check out my new remix:



Cherish The Day
(DJ Evil Twin Old Skool Mix)
Sade
DL @ DivShare*
If link is broken, e-mail me.

Other Sade / DJ Evil Twin Mixes:



-----

Recommended Sade CDs:

Can We Take It Home?

(c) 2004 The New Yorker Magazine

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Other cartoons that have appeared in NMP.

Deveined

I confess that I’ve always been afraid of touching my belly button. When I wash my belly button, I only give it a cursory wash, trying not to delve deep into it. I avoid looking at it because it scares me; it might tell me something I didn't want to know about myself, like my BELLY BUTTON IS DIRTY.

I have an semi-outie which means that it doesn't stick out like an Asian in Martha's Vineyard, but is not deep enough to hold a tequila shot. It is barely a thimble-full. If I shot my wad on myself, it wouldn't be enough to keep all of it in there, unless it's my third wad of the morning.

When I was younger, my great-aunt told me that if I played with my belly button too much, I could give myself a stomachache or worse--it could burst, my entrails spilling out of my gut. It's one of the many things that adults tell you as a kid not to do to yourself: pick your nose, bite your nails or stick your finger in your ass because awful things are going to happen. Of course, I have learned since then that nothing awful is going to happen if you pick your nose, although if you stick a finger up your ass, you turn gay.

It seems to me that since God never provided humans with an instruction manual to our bodies, we decided to write our own, many times to illogical or comical results. Masturbation will cause you to go blind; spitting on a new baseball bat will make it lucky; going to sleep with your hair wet can cause a bad hair day. Some of these are blatantly ridiculous. But really, don't sleep with your hair wet or your day will be totally ruined. Bad hair has been known to wreck lives and careers, remember Justin Guarini? Exactly.

These are the things I think about when I wash my semi-outie belly button, which right now, looks like an opened shrimp with the black vein still in place. I am afraid to pick at the black, dried crusts stuck in there because my belly button might unravel, the crusts being the only thing keeping it together.

I am not really sure why this happens anyway. I bathe regularly and as a rule, I don't roll around in unsterilized mud. It's gotta be pure, clean, unadulterated mud and then I spray Lysol all over it before I dip even a little toe into it.

In the shower, I steeled myself, preparing to clean the area. I gird my loins as I soap my fingers. I hope my stomach doesn't burst.

Wait, should I find a cork just in case?



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Letter From Home

This is a letter from my mother from three years ago. I found it last week while I was cleaning out our second bedroom. Brian and I had moved to this new place last November and we still have stuff left unpacked and in boxes.

In the rush of moving, I had stuck the letter in my miscellaneous junk box because I had already taped up the box with all my other mementos from home:

October 13, 2003

Dear Paul,

Last night, I dreamed that I was having a meal with Lucy and Rita, you and your brother Peter's godmothers. Then, I suddenly saw you and Peter eating at another table near us. I was so surprised and walked to you and asked you why you didn't tell me you were coming home.

Then I woke up.

Is it because the two of you have left us for so long that even in dreams, I can't help but miss you?

Take care.

Love you always,
Mom

I moved to Chicago from the country of my birth, the Philippines. I left my home at the age of 21 because even though I loved my family, I couldn't live my life in the closet; I couldn't live a lie. I wanted to be the real me, you know, a bright, young gay man with a head full of useless, celebrity trivia. The future awaited me, filled with love, laughter and a colossal credit card debt.

At the time, fifteen years ago, I didn't even think about what this meant to my family, those I had left behind. All I could think of was myself, my survival and my despair of ever, ever finding a real pair of Prada shoes instead of the counterfeit shit they sell in the sidewalks of Manila, the ink on the label running from the sweat in my heels.

Reading the letter again made me remember how hard this journey had been, not just for me, but for the people I loved.

Today is my mother's birthday.

I miss you mom.

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All About My Mother - a tragicomedy in three parts
The Long Way Home - yes, before the Dixie Chicks!

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Let's Get [a] Physical

Today I am supposed to get my annual physical exam.

The physical is at 11am. I had planned to work from home so I can get some stuff done before going to my appointment. Instead, I spent the hours before my appointment jacking off. Three times.

I just thought you wanted to know that.


It's been a year since I last saw my doctor, who is gay and has a predominantly gay practice. I stuck with him all these years because much like women prefer female doctors, I prefer a gay doctor because he understands all the medical issues that gay men face like STDs, compulsive sex and acute problems with not calling after a date.


"Strip," my doctor commanded, handing me what I thought was a wad of paper towels. "Put it on," he said.

I realized he meant the wad of paper towels. Apparently, it was a gown. It was basically a long, seamless rectangular paper towel with armholes and a scalloped edge for a collar. I mean, I've always wanted to be brawny, but this is ridiculous.


The doctor made me feel at ease by sharing juicy celebrity gossip while he examined me. Then suddenly, he jabbed his gloved finger into my asshole!

He was checking my prostate. I was so distracted I didn't even notice that he had been slathering his finger with lube.

Normal, he pronounced, raising the finger in front of me. I caught a whiff of the antiseptic smell of latex and the thick, heavy scent of my ass. The smell reminded me of my first love, Harry. That's what I called my 12" rubber dildo.

The doctor thoughtfully gave me a paper towel to wipe myself back there. I felt an overwhelming need to cuddle.


Having your blood drawn has got to be the most unnerving thing. Waiting for the poke is nerve-wracking. Am I the only one who thinks that instead of drawing your blood, the smiling, insane medical technician is going to pump an air bubble into your plumped vein, killing you instantly?


I rattled off a bunch of different symptoms that could be the first signs of any number of serious illnesses. My doctor dutifully listened and then gently reassured me that my mother-in-law was not a serious illness.


My doctor called me a neurotic. I can't wait to tell all my friends that I was just as fucked up as they are. Surely, they'll let me hang out with them now?


I left the doctor's office with a lighter step and an extra swish in my walk. I don't know if this was because of my clean bill of health or because of the lube in my ass.

Less friction, you know.



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Famous

"On the Web, everyone will be famous to fifteen people."

- David Weinberger, The New Yorker, 08/2006

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Join the mailing list and be famous to me!


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Rock Bottom

I'll know that I've hit rock bottom if I pull those cookies out of the trash can. At least, that's what I tell myself. Right now, my only form of self-control over snack food is to throw the uneaten portion into the trash. In my mind, the second something’s in the trash can, it's garbage, even though in reality, the cookies themselves are still clean, protected by the mylar bag, untouched by whatever else is around it.

Sometimes, I would throw out unopened packages of candy or snacks that were given as gifts to prevent myself from gorging on them. I try not to think of the wastefulness of it all, thinking only of the benefits to my health, my body and my lungs as I try to squeeze into my suffocatingly tight wardrobe.

I am at work. It is 3pm. I am starving.

I go to the lunchroom and stare at the vending machine for what seemed like an hour. I become one of those people who stand in front of this machine, hypnotized, like it's an oracle telling my future, one where I have to have a great personality instead of being shallow and goodlooking. The thought of having any sort of intelligence or wit in my skull depressed me, but I fear that I am already a lost cause.

As I feed the machine my dollar bill, the irony is not lost on me. I tentatively pressed the "E" button. My index finger hovered at the number "3" for what seemed like another hour before stabbing it, taking the plunge. The vending machine whirs to life, dropping a sinful package of Oreo cookies. My change--a lone, sad nickel--falls into the slot with barely a jangle.

There are four cookies in the package. I take it back to my desk. I rip open the package, quickly savoring thick sweetness of the first cookie.

I take my time with the second one, taking only little bites, hoping that this would fool my stomach into thinking it was having more than it is. However, I knew this wouldn't work, just like I knew that it wouldn't work when my high school boyfriend begged to let him in 'just an inch.'

As I licked the crumbs off my fingers, I eyed the two other cookies, commanding myself to throw it in the trash. The guy in the next cubicle looked at me quizzically. I realized that I said that out loud.

I throw the cookies in the trash.

The cookies sat in the garbage staring back at me, lying there dejectedly, like unwanted newborn babies in a dumpster. I so want to rescue it, cradle it in my arms and then cram all of it in my mouth. I kick the trash can further under my desk so I can't see it.

Babies. Baby Ruth. Sugar Babies. God, this makes me feel disgusting, like a choco-pedophile. I try to think about other things, things that won't make me take that little bag of cookies out of the trash.

Babies make me think of umbilical cords. Some people say it's thick and cutting through it is like cutting through a finger. Or a Slim Jim. I wonder if it tastes like one too? Sorry, hunger is making me a little light-headed.

The cookies are calling me, like my ex-boyfriend who I've given crabs: I'm here, I'm here, I'm here...

I'm reaching in.

Please look away.

Please look away...


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It's All Up Here...

"How does it feel to be 29?" I asked my boyfriend Brian. "Do you feel any older?"

"Nope," he said confidently. "Besides," he continued, tapping his temple, "it's all up here."

"Yeah, it's all up there alright," I laughed. "But once 'up there' starts thinning, it's hard to tell yourself you're not getting older." I pointed to my own receding hairline.

"Then you notice that your knees groan when you walk up the stairs, your lungs protest at running after the bus and your eardrums balk at the relentless booming bass at dancefloor."

I gave him a kiss. "Happy birthday, babes. Next year, we'll start saving for hair plugs, just in case..."


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Last year, I gave my boyfriend a birthday nookie

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