It’s 10:36 on a Saturday night. Yesterday the Supreme Court ruled that banning same-sex marriage is unconstitutional. I got a lot of happy texts and phone calls from people saying, “Hey, James! Congrats! Now you can go get married! #lovewins” And I thought, ‘Oh, cool! Time to get married….” Then I looked around my apartment… ‘Hm… who can I marry….Stacy? Nah, she’s a girl. Kaylee? Nah, she’s got a straight boyfriend. Caity? Nah, she’s my homie. David? Nah, he’s way too hot.’ And then I saw my extra-trenta cold brew from Starbucks and I thought, ‘Well, hello Daddy….’
And then I thought to myself, ‘Hey. But, like, I really can get married. I should really get serious about finding a husband or a cute butler that won’t leave because I pay him and maybe if I pay him extra he’ll love me. That would be cool! But, like, why can’t I meet someone?’ …Why, James? Really? Maybe because it’s now 10:41 on a Saturday night of Pride Weekend in New York City and you’re peeling all the skin off your feet and marveling at how big the pieces are. Just some food for thought…
Oh, don’t worry; I didn’t eat my foot skin. I mean, I haven’t hit absolute rock bottom. Wait, unless rock bottom is flirting with every guy that ever makes eye contact with me ever because I think, ‘Well, maybe he’s the one. Oh, no, wait, no, it’s HIM! That one! HE’S the one! Is that a knife? Whatever, he’s a chef or some shit! No, no, no, wait! HIM! It’s him. Sure, his whole dick is hanging out of his shorts and he’s staring at me with a half-crazed look in his eyes but I have Resting Bitch Face so nobody’s perfect!’
Actually, true story: I was down by the Christopher Street pier, and I was like, ‘Wow, look at all that water! I could pee that much!’ And then I had to pee. So I went into the bathroom to the urinal, and I started to go. Someone came in next to me and started peeing, but I think it’s rude/pervy to look at the person standing next to you while they hold their weiner. So I was making some solid eye contact with my wee-wee like I was being hypnotized by my urine stream. I finally finished so I blew my weiner a kiss, and I put it away. As I was walking up to the sink, the guy that was standing at the urinal next to me quickly scurried over to pee at my urinal. It was weird, but I didn’t really fuckin’ care; maybe that’s his favorite urinal. Whatever! I still didn’t want to make eye contact, because now it’s his turn to stare wide-eyed at his pee-pee. But as I was washing my hands, I could feel a strange energy coming from him. So finally, I turn around to look at him. And what do I see? This man is facing away from the urinal, his whole body towards me, and he’s staring me down like we’re in a Wild West Shootout. Except he’s already got both hands on his pistol! I look down, and he is stroking the biggest, fattest dick I have ever seen, and he’s looking me dead in the eye. I yipped like a dog that just got stepped on, and I skittered out of the bathroom trying to erase the memory from my mind.
But now, with my 20/20 hindsight I can’t help but think…. was he The One? Shit, I just blew my chance with him! I was doing so well when I was peeing all coy and then washing my hands all sexy like. That seemed to really get him going. But I TOTALLY fucked it all up when I let out my little effeminate scream! He absolutely lost his hard-on after that. And to think, THAT could’ve been my knight in shining armor with the biggest, fattest fire hydrant sword in all the land!
Oh no… is that rock bottom?
I redownloaded a dating app on my phone called “Hinge”. Basically, it makes you put up 16 pictures so people really know what you look like. I mean, you can still Catfish someone but you gotta work really hard; you really gotta want to deceive a bitch. So Hinge let’s me know what someone honestly looks like. Even if they’re a master of deception with their selfie stick and their Morningdew Haze Beer-Goggles Sleepy-Eyes filter, I can still get a better sense of what they look like. I don’t have any requirements for “my type”. You can be whatever you want; just don’t be short. My criteria is basically this: just be taller than 5’8″. I mean, you can be shorter but you gotta really wow me with your profile! Like, you’ve gotta be funny as fuck or you have to have really great taste in music. But if your profile is really douchey, you gotta be like 6′ tall. Once you’re over 6’3″, you can look like Shrek for all I care; I’ll still swipe “yes”. Well, with this criteria, I have had zero responses. I figured I was being too selective. So I started swiping “yes” to short people; they’ve denied me, too. I’m being turned down by short people. They could climb onto my shoulders at concerts. They could tote me around like some sort of trophy: “Yeah, I’m a tiny troll, but look what I caught!” They could ride on my back whenever their little legs are too weary to carry them. But no, even these tiny humans have started rejecting me.
Is this rock bottom?
I’ve starting checking my Facebook like 8 times a day, because I’m somehow convinced I’ll have a message from some hot stranger that’s like, “Hey, James! Oh my God, I saw you across the room today and after you finished flicking that giant booger you picked from your nose, I just knew you were the one! You are beautiful and hilarious, and I don’t even care if your dick is normal-sized! If you give me a chance to take you out for a vegan meal that lacks pretension, I promise to not talk about taking a pee on your leg or sucking on your big feet or any of the other fucked up shit that people think is okay to discuss! Also, I have money and I want you to have it! You’re the one. Be my queen!”
…I don’t receive any such Facebook messages. Also, sometimes I fantasize about receiving a Facebook message from any of the guys that truly fucked me over. And in these imaginary messages, they grovel and beg for my forgiveness. Then they’ll ask me if I ever think about them, and I’ll laugh maniacally and write “ROFLMFAO”. And then they’ll ask if I’ll ever be able to take them back after they ravaged my heart with a screwdriver, and I’ll tell them to go fuck themselves. And they’ll ask if I really feel that way, and then I’ll say, “I’m just kidding, I love you, and I’ll always love you! Also, GIMME DAT DICKKKKKKKKKKKK!” And then they’ll reject me again because even my imagination can only stretch so far.
Today I was riding the train with some friends, and we were talking to this really hot guy. The four of us were asking him a million questions and making him laugh and shit. I was being charming as fuck, and I was leaning back just enough to look coy even though I was quarantining my halitosis. I was nailing it, and Stacy was being the perfect wing-woman. Hot Guy asked where we all live, and Stacy told him how we share a bed. He said, “Oh, how hetero of you both.” She retorted with, “Oh, no. We don’t even touch. We just lay there having fart wars.” And I said, “Oooooookay….” After he got off the train and I started beating Stacy senseless with my pimp hand, she let me know he had told her that he had a boyfriend but I just wasn’t listening. So. I was just flirting senselessly with someone who was absolutely unavailable. Good sir, I held in my coffee farts for you.
It’s 11:12 pm, and now I’m sitting here plucking my wanton nose hairs until it makes me cry or sneeze. Is this cute, daddy?
The other day, I was peeing at the urinal, and I thought that I was all done so I retracted my penis. I guess I wasn’t done, because then so much pee filled my underwear that my shorts starting dripping on the ground. I laughed out loud, washed my hands and then walked back out into public.
When I’m on the toilet and I fart too loudly, I just sit there and say, “Ohhhhhh” loud enough to be heard. It feels inappropriate to not acknowledge such an eager piece of flatulence. It’s like, you wouldn’t go to the symphony and refuse to applaud after the final movement; that’s just fuckin’ rude!
I wear my gym shorts so many times without washing them, and I’ll only throw them into my dirty hamper when the stench of my dick sweat is so intense that I can smell it while I’m standing upright.
I’m single as fuck, but I’m writing about how foul I am while I dig around in my belly button for God-knows-what.
It’s 11:40 pm on Saturday of Pride Weekend in New York fucking City, and I’m posting a blog about being undateable yet authentic. I value humor over the facade of being flawless. Hm. Guess I haven’t hit rock bottom after all. At least I’m still me. Proud, disgusting, farty, incontinent James.