Tag Archives: honesty

65. James Stays the Same if You Do the Same


How many times can I write a blog about dating?

I tried it all again; I put myself out there. First I told all my friends that I was looking and to set me up if they knew any eligible, drug-free bachelors. Then I consulted my mother…

Mom: I just feel like you need to date a doctor. Or a lawyer…
Me: Got it, Ma. Loud and clear. Totally agree. Though, quick side note, it’s not like I’m turning down offers left and right from lawyer-doctors. I promise if they come along, I’ll give them a chance.

Then I downloaded a dating app to find a man for my mother…ahem, excuse, to find a man my mother would approve of. I chose to go with OkCupid, because my Facebook survey showed that it had the LEAST amount of fuckboys. So I created a brilliantly eccentric profile that was described by my friends as an “accurate depiction of who James is” and “intimidating”. I decided to go with the screen name “Asskitty”. It felt equal parts fun and daring. I created a profile with excessive use of CAPS  lock and Fetty Wap references, all brought to you by COFFEE COFFEE COFFEE. But I had some pretty good luck! I went on dates with some really awesome people, and I was pretty honest whenever I wasn’t interested except for one specific person, and I apologized. Not perfect, but I tried. All in all, it ended up working out NOT A BIT for me. To oversimplify my dating woes, I met someone and the interest to pursue a romantic relationship wasn’t mutual. Yes, it was all more complex than that, and it ended in a mature, amicable manner. But I couldn’t help but ask him, “Honestly, is it something about me? Was it something I did? You can tell me.” He kindly assured me that it had nothing to do with me, and I know he meant it. But that didn’t stop that insidious thought from continually detonating in my mind: “What did I do wrong? What did I do wrong? WhatdidIdowrongWhatdidIdowrongWhatdididowrongwhatdididowrongwhtdddwrng?”

The following week, a friend of mine experienced the same thing: they were interested in something serious with someone who was NOT looking for the same thing.We were texting about it, and they texted me: “This always happens to me. What am I doing wrong?”

Nothing. You’re doing nothing wrong. It’s not you.

Then I had ANOTHER friend go through the same thing. And they said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why is this happening to me??

I said…

“Nothing! There’s nothing wrong with you! How can you put this all on yourself? Dating takes more than one person’s effort. If the success of a relationship depended on just one person’s solo effort, you would be fucking married by now! But you can’t take full responsibility for the dissolution of the relationship. They have to meet you halfway, and you can’t convince someone to want to try; they have to come into the relationship with the desire to make something work. And it’s not your fault that they weren’t inspired to give a shit. You can’t say to yourself, “Oh, if I had been more interesting, they would’ve wanted to date me. Or if I had been prettier or funnier or more self-assured or more laid-back or this or this or this. It’s not your fault. This isn’t on you. Sometimes it’s just not a good match, and that’s real-life, sucky-ass adulthood. Sometimes you don’t mesh; you’re looking for different things. That’s okay. It’s not personal even though nothing could FEEL more personal. It’s just life. So stop beating yourself up. You did your best. You showed who you were and you were honest about your feelings. As far as I’m concerned, you succeeded on your half. And if they weren’t prepared for something serious, it’s not your job to wait around for them to be ready for you. Their fear of commitment isn’t your fault; they were that way before you came along. You can’t MAKE someone emotionally available. That’s not on you. And it’s not your job to fix the parts of them that need healing. You’re not Bob the Builder; this isn’t a Coldplay song; fix yo damn self! We all need to recognize our baggage, address how it’s holding us back, and then move forward. We’re not going to get anywhere sitting around feeling bad for ourselves, and there isn’t a Prince Charming who is going to come along and fix you UNLESS your therapist just happens to be called Prince Charming which is equal parts fucked up and amazingly cool. Not everyone needs to be ready for the heavy, serious, committed relationship. But those same people also don’t need to be Hurricane Hot Mess, sucking in other people in and hoping to feel something. You won’t absorb wholeness from someone else. Don’t take my others down with you. Because if you’re the Titanic, I will NOT go down with this ship #Dido ! I will be Miss Rose and I will cling to that floating door with my dear life and I won’t save NOBODY, not even no god damn purple Leonardo DiCaprio. BYE GIRL. GETCHO FLOATIES AND DOGGY PADDLE, BISH!

(Wow, James/Asskitty really uses CAPS lock a lot, he sure is intimidating but oddly…dare I say, sexy?)

…Then I realized I should probably take my own advice.

Someone once told me that in the initial stages of dating, you should just see if you could even be friends with this person. Because essentially a boyfriend would be my best friend that penetrates me. Currently, my best friends penetrate my soul with their kindness but unfortunately they don’t penetrate my anally with their wangs. So in the meantime, I’m looking for a male best friend to love me and STICK IT IN.

Therefore, if I start treating a prospective boyfriend like a new friend, I start looking at everything differently. Usually when I’m dating someone new and learning things about them that don’t mesh well with my personal values I ask myself, “Hm, is this something I can deal with? Should I just sacrifice little pieces of me to make us fit together better?” But my friends would never DREAM of making me do that. NEVER. My friends wouldn’t ask me to change. Kelley hates my fashion sense and she REALLY hates when I say the word “pussy”, but she still loves me. (PUSSY!) Caity rolls her eyes every time I yell, “IT’S BUTT O’CLOCK,” but she wouldn’t have me any other way. Friends see you as the cuckoo daddy-mess that you are and LOVE you that way. My mother gave me the best advice when I was in middle school. She said, “Wipe front to back James; you’re getting shit all over your balls!” I’m just kidding. She never told me that; I STILL get shit all over my balls. But she DID say, “James, your friends are who they are. Don’t try to change them. You need to decide if their personality traits are something you can deal with or if they’re deal-breakers.” Dating should be the same way. When I meet someone new I need to say to myself, “Wow, this quality of theirs irks me. Is it a deal-breaker or is it something I can accept?” For example, I can deal with someone who doesn’t love flossing or someone who asks too many questions during movies or someone who loves Halloween or someone who wasn’t valedictorian. But I CAN’T date someone who likes punting babies or someone who’s racist or someone who’s an alcoholic or someone who hates men in heels because of deep-seeded latent homophobia which also leads to crippling sexism or someone who uses #gayboy on Instagram for the gratification of likes from an absolute stranger. You shouldn’t change to accommodate someone else, and you shouldn’t ask that of them either. You HAVE to take someone at face value. No person is a fixer-upper. You can’t go into a relationship thinking, “Well I would really like them IF they changed this thing about themselves. But we’ll work on that. They’ll change.” No. That’s not how it works. You take who you get when you get them. It is extremely damaging to tell someone you love them ONLY under specific conditions. That’s selfish, and love isn’t just about your needs. Conditionally love ain’t real love, booboo.

And when it isn’t a good fit you have to walk away. You acknowledge your irreconcilable differences, you shake hands and you cartwheel away. For me, every time a relationship ends it feels like someone just took a sledgehammer to a ten-foot tall Jenga tower. It takes me a while to regroup. I know there’s nothing wrong with me, but the sting of rejection never loses its punch. So I need to lick my wounds for a bit before I jump back into the Dick Party. So I go home and tell my friends I want to be left alone for the night. And then they all come over anyway, because they’re a bunch of soggy assholes who don’t listen. I cry while they listen intently, blow raspberries on my belly, poke me in the penis and repeatedly flash their waxed vagina at me. And I hate them for making me laugh when I’m so determined to be devastated, but I lay in bed that night thanking Whoever-The-Fuck-Is-Listening for sending me this whorey handful of people who genuinely care about me. And I know that they, my Chosen Family, have set the standard of what to expect from a boyfriend. They tell me not to change. They encourage me to be my true self, even when my true self wakes up at 7 AM hyper AS FUCK, starts speaking flirtatiously to the closet door and then humps said closet door because the chemistry was just ELECTRIFYING. They pay attention when I tell them my shame stories, and they tell me, “I’m sorry that happened to you, but one bad action doesn’t define you. This does not make you a bad person.” They lie on my bed before I go on a date and tell me how gorgeous I am, and then I flounce down the street with the MOST inflated self-esteem, the MOST offensive coffee breath and a STRONG panty line. But most importantly, when our relationship isn’t working, we talk about it. I can say, “Hey, you’re hurting my feelings,” and we work through it. I can ask for the things I need and receive them, because they know I would do the same for them. My Chosen Family is the ULTIMATE boyfriend. I have found these incredibly functional relationships with HIGHLY dysfunctional people that I plan on spending my whole life with. And I know in my heart that these will be the most meaningful and fulfilling relationships I will ever have. These relationships shouldn’t be discounted or ignored while I’m sifting through clearance piles of fuckboys in search of a boyfriend who will one day call me HIS TRAP QUEEN. #ZOOGANG. Because these people will always be there, no matter how many times I fuck up. And if my best friends have displayed such beautifully imperfect examples of what a relationship can be, WHY would I settle for anything less from a boy just because he’s hot and he got MAD fingerbangin’ skills? Why, James? Why?

“Nobody touch me ya not righteous.”
~”Work” by Rihanna (feat. Drake)






62. James and His Search For Love: Falling Victim to the Fuckboys


A little more than a month ago, I started an internet campaign to find me a boyfriend. I posted these pictures with this description: “Hey friends. I’m turning this into a Facebook campaign. I’m looking for a man. If you know someone who won’t pick their nose at the dinner table or ask to see my butthole on the first date, send them my way. Share this post, and Jesus will be a biscuit and sop you up. This is not a joke. ‪#‎comethru‬

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photo (7) - Copy

I had many friends that helped out by sharing my internet campaign on their own Facebook pages. I was in awe of how many of my friends came through to help a bitch find a man. I think a lot of people were really excited to see how everything turned out. At the time, my friend turned to me and said,  “James, you should really blog about your search for love.”

I don’t know that I’ve ever written about anything else.

So here goes; a blog about my search for love:

After my post started getting circulated around Facebook, I started to get lots of responses. There were some guys that I honestly wasn’t attracted to, but that’s okay. And then I had some guys that I thought were really cute that expressed interest. I started to get excited and hopeful about my search for love so I redownloaded Hinge, a dating app on my phone.

I’m just gonna let you know that this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

I was messaging back and forth with some people who had reached out to me either directly or through a mutual friend. But any sparks that were ignited in these new interactions were swiftly extinguished and it wasn’t for wont of huge romantic, earth-shattering conversations. Some people are insanely busy; we live in NYC, I get it. But for some of these guys it was as if maintaining any sort of conversation was a monumental effort:

Me: How was your day?
Them: Good.
Me: Did you kill anyone?
Them: Just one person.
Me: Who?
(Two days later..)
Them: A coworker.
Me: What was the crime?
(Three days later)
Them: Huh????
Me: Why did you kill your coworker last week?
Them: I don’t remember.

Jesus Christ, didn’t anyone ever tell you how to conduct a conversation like a human being? Does it cause you physical pain to have a personality? It’s like it takes too much effort to type more than ten fucking characters. I’m not asking you to be interesting; you can be the most boring motherfucker in the world. Clearly, I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel at this point anyway; I’m putting forth effort to participate in a conversation with this Australopithecus son-of-a-fucker. Be boring all you want. But at LEAST ask me about myself, because I will spice this shit up like sriracha in guacamole, motherfucker! I’m like a piñata full of glitter; crack me open and you will NOT be disappointed. But Heaven forbid you express any interest, because we may both be queer but we will NOT be so feminine as to care about anyone but ourselves. HELL NAH! You’re so boring that I’m becoming a boring person just by electronic association. You know what, I would probably have more fun peeling lead paint off the wall and eating it because it would KILL me, and death would be a kinder fate than this torturous conversation with someone who is “interested” in me. You just keep being too cool for school; let me know how that goes for you.

Which brings me to my next point. Yes, a lot of my friends shared my post after they saw other people sharing it. But I actually personally asked a lot of people to share my Facebook post. I made it extremely easy; literally all you had to do was click the “Share” button and then “Share Now”. It would take two clicks. Yes, probably too much effort for the fuckboys who can’t be bothered to have an intelligible conversation, but I knew my friends could handle it. And after asking them, almost all of them shared it without hesitations or dick-pic bribes. Truth be told, I know a lot of them would’ve seen my post and just ignored it without sharing. But I knew that in directly asking them they had to take a clear stance: yes or no. And if they said “no”, then they had to have an explanation. One of my friends responded, “Why are you doing this?” My response was, “Because I’m a fucking go-getter”. This friend didn’t end up sharing my post, but they weren’t the only one. Listen, you absolutely aren’t required to share my post on your personal social media page. That’s your prerogative, and that’s totally fine with me. I’m not gonna hold that against you as long as you know why you wouldn’t share it. There’s this stigma about publicly announcing that you’re looking for love. Yes, some people will judge you and say things like, “Wow, James is really desperate. I can’t believe he’s doing this. I would never do that. That’s embarrassing.” But fuck those people; they’re not your friends. And I don’t always love this part of myself either. But there’s a line in the book I’m reading that says: “If you truly love someone, you will cherish what they despise most about themselves” (The Book of Life by Deborah Harkness). In a nutshell: your friends won’t judge you and everyone else is a fuckboy.

In a nutshell, the campaign was mostly a bust.

Then it all started to go downhill after that.

I went on some Hinge dates, and not all of them were successful on my end. But whenever I had a bad date that I wasn’t interested in seeing again, I always made sure to send them a text to let them know that I wasn’t interested. Yes, it was uncomfortable for me, but I knew that it was the right thing to do. And every time, I received a response saying, “Okay. Thank you for your honesty.” Of course they could’ve responded rashly and called me terrible names, but that didn’t happen! It didn’t happen, okay? The world will not end if you are honest with people. Yes, you might let them down, but isn’t it better to know? I know how it feels to be on the other end of that situation, and being ghosted just sucks. For those of you who don’t know, “ghosting” is when you’re talking to someone regularly, and they suddenly stop responding. They disappeared; the Rapture took them away but left their social media accounts running at full speed; they ghosted you. I got ghosted by people I went on actual dates with! I know you exist; I fuckin’ met you, bitch; you can’t claim the Rapture as an excuse cuz I JUST SAW YOU.

I’m juggling all sorts of man-fuckery in my life, and then I’m walking down the street and some kids yelled out their car window, “YOU GAY ASS MOTHAFUCKA!!!” We can make all sorts of jokes about it. “I mean, were the wrong?” “Well what did you expect wearing that outfit?” “They were just talking about your hot ass!” It’s easy. Making jokes is what I do. I understand why these assholes say stupid shit to me, but it still hurts.


This is the outfit I was wearing.

I understand that those kids don’t have to take accountability for their actions, because they could just drive away after they yelled hurtful things at me. I understand that the fuckboys don’t have to take accountability when they ghost me because of their foolproof out-of-sight-out-of-mind reasoning; “If I don’t see the damage I’ve done, then I haven’t done any.” I understand that it has absolutely nothing to do with me and everything to do with their own fucked up issues. But it still fucking hurts god damnit.

So I went to the gym to take out my aggression against everyone and then I took a picture with this caption:

Bitch I don't know how to photoshop; I'm just a gay ass mothafucka.

“Bitch I don’t know how to photoshop; I’m just a gay ass mothafucka.”

Then one of my friends commented, “You seem angry.”


I AM ANGRY. And here’s why:

After I posted this picture, I got some really amazing comments from my friends. Here are some examples of their amazing comments:
“You are fucking fierce! I cannot even!!!”
“You are classic movie star gorgeous.”
“You need to be on a CW show.”

But then I had some fuckboys come crawling out of their filthy cum-dens due to the utter thirst. So for all the fuckboys, this is my ode to you…

“Oh, Stupid Fuckboys who come scuttling when I post a picture of my abs. No bitch. No girl. No sir. You don’t get to just disappear whenever you like and reappear when I yell ‘SOOOOEEY!’ It may be dinner time for some, but bitch, tonight you’re going to bed hungry. If you didn’t want me when all you could see was my inner beauty and my killer personality then you DEFINITELY don’t deserve to drool over my outer beauty. Go join the other fuckboys. Because while I’m here being a fucking 26 year-old man, you’re just a 14 year-old boy who yells at his Super Nintendo and slams his controller on the ground because of prepubescent rage. Grow up. Call me when our relationship wouldn’t be statutory. Girl bye. Go slam your dick in a door; it’ll be kinder than anything I would do to your golf-pencil dick. But still that would cause you less pain than all the emotional and mental torture I’ve experienced with the fucking fadeaway and the ghosting. Girl bye. Fuckin scrubs. And yes, I realize I dodged a bullet in the long run, but it’s impossible to avoid all the shrapnel flying through the air as I sprint blindfolded through this fucking minefield that is Looking For Love In The 21st Century. I don’t know how to play by your rules, Fuckboys. I don’t know how to be “sort of interested” or “neither here nor there”. I’m either in or I’m out, and bitch, you are OUT. So yes, sure, you did me a favor. Give yourself a big ol’ pat on the back for circumventing giving me the full brunt of your adolescent fuckery, but don’t for a second think that you caused me no pain by ‘letting me off easy’. You’re a coward, and they don’t have no reward for that. Oh, and Fuckboy, if you have time to post a Facebook status about some sort of assery that narry a fuck could give two shits about, then you have time to send me one of your painfully inane and succinct text messages saying, “not interested sorry #toocoolforpunctuation”. But you seem really busy sucking on a binky that’s twice the size of your own personal penis. It’s not hard to respond to a text message. I promise it’ll be easier than ignoring that annoying homeless man asking you to spare some of the plentiful change you have clanging around in your backpack. So girl bye. But no, you don’t deserve to be likened to a girl cuz women are far cooler than you, because they did you the insurmountable favor of pushing your sorry ass out of their vagina. So bye, Fuckboy. Good-the-fuck-bye.”

*mic drop*


“Tell me what you know about love”
~”Tmwykal” by SoMo

39. James Prepares His Going-Home Speech


There are a few things to expect if you are moving out to New York to follow your dreams of becoming an actOR. For example, whenever you come home people will ask you, “So, have you done any shows lately?” That’s the first thing to expect. The second thing you should expect will be your sudden impulse to make your life sound super cool. Like this:

“No, but I smiled at Fred Armisen the other day and then he looked back at me like he saw dried blood between my teeth.”


“No, but my neighbor got murdered so that reeeeeeally sucks for me.”

“No, but I waited on the executive producers of this hit reality show and they yelled at me and some of their spit went in my mouth.”

“No, but I cater for this company and they only hire pretty guys so I’m, like, pretty and stuff.”

“No, but the other day this stranger told me I was handsome and then kept walking.”

“No, but I accidentally sat on this girl on the subway and she called me a ‘tall, skinny motherfucker’ but she also called me ‘skinny.”

“No, but I walked out of my apartment the other day in shorty shorts and someone said, ‘LEGS!'”


I get all nervous, because when someone asks something as simple as, “How’s New York?”, I automatically hear, “How successful are you?” When people ask how New York is,I feel like they want to hear about how awesome it is. And how fun it is. And how fulfilling it is to follow your dreams. I feel the need to say, “New York is super awesome! Every day is a success! And the only reason I’m not currently cast in a show is because all the casting directors fought over me and it ended in a bloody massacre with zero survivors. Gr! Doesn’t that suck?” But what I really want to say is the truth:

“New York City is my abusive boyfriend to whom I’m addicted.”

“I was released from my show, because I am too tall to play the role of myself.”

“The other day I totally embarrassed myself in an audition, because I didn’t have a suitable additional song when asked.”

“Everyone in NYC is so gorgeous it makes me wanna stuff my underwear just so I feel more confident.”

“The other day I was waiting tables, and I got so desperate for food that I ate cake out of the garbage.”

“One day while waiting tables, I started crying because I couldn’t find any clean forks…. FORKS, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!”

“I go to the bathroom to talk to myself in the mirror when I’m feeling shitty.”

“When I get up in the middle of the night to pee, I turn on the light in my room because I watch too many scary movies.”

“The other day at an audition, I ran into a guy who I was seeing that randomly stopped responding to my calls and texts. And then I HAD TO MAKE AWKWARD CONVO IN THE ELEVATOR WITH HIM.”

(True stories. All around.)

This time when I came home, I was on the plane thinking about what my plan of attack was gonna be. How am I going to make my life sound super flawless and totally sin-tacular?! What will my angle be? But after much deliberation, I decided to be honest without making people wanna cry for me Argentina. When asked about New York, I was vulnerable and truthful: “It’s hard. It’s really, really hard and really, really expensive. Don’t get me wrong, I have a lot of fun. But it’s hard. I have a good network of friends who have become my family, and I love them to death. I’ve realized how important it is to come home to people who make you want to come home at the end of the night. Because being away from Waunakee, my HOME home, it’s easy to feel lost. My apartment isn’t the physical symbol of home like my house in Waunakee. But coming to my apartment at the end of the day to people who are excited to see me and vice versa, that feels like home. And my friends have become my home. So blah! It’s hard work but I love it for the most part. And I’m not giving up.”

And you know, the phrase I’ve heard most since being home is:

“James, I’m proud of you.”

I’ve heard: “James, it’s not easy but you’re still sticking it out. You’ve been out here for almost two years, and you’re still going. It’s really hard in a city like New York not to be dragged down into the dumps. So good for you. I just want you to know I’m proud of you.”

I’ve been feeling pretty lost lately. But you know, I feel like when I look at my life since moving to New York, I think, ‘Well, James, keep going and maybe you’ll eventually accomplish something worth being proud of.” But the people I love are already proud. It really warmed my heart, and it gave me the inspirational fuel I needed to keep going. Because I should be proud of myself. I moved out to New York one-and-a-half years ago. I can now afford groceries. I’ve booked 5 jobs so far in my field. I have a nice apartment. I have an amazing group of friends. I’m finally catching fire with certain casting directors; they’re remembering me by name. I’m still auditioning. I’m taking dance class and voice lessons. I’m taking care of my body. I still care about being  a kind person. And I try really hard not to sit on people when the bus suddenly jerks forward while I’m trying to plant myself in a seat.

Oh, and I’m not giving up.

And then all the really cool things about my life in New York come to mind:

I can wear the gayest outfit in New York and not give two shits.

I can go wherever I want whenever I want.

I get to pursue my dreams.

I get to ride the subway with Vanessa Bayer.

I have a manager who believes in me.

I have an acting coach who believes in me.

I have a voice teacher who believes in me.

I have friends who believe in me.

And I have a million people in Wisconsin rooting for me.


Bitch, I’m still fighting and working and serving up body-ody-ody, Jesus. And I is not giving up. And that is something to be very proud of, James.


“Kendrick have a DREAM!”
~”Backseat Freestyle” by Kendrick Lamar




34. James’ Reasoning for Actors’ Fckd-Upness


It’s really hard to be an actor. Perhaps you don’t find it to be a taxing career: “Oh, so you got paid to prance around on a stage like a cat? That’s your job? TOUGH. TITTIES.” Ok. Fair enough. But if I can understand your point of view, why don’t you kick back, grab a brewski and a frozen kit kat, put one hand on your money maker and read this. (For the record, you’re putting your hand on your BINGBONG for a sense of warmth and security; not to get your jollies…. please don’t jerk it to my blog. I asked you politely.)

If you’re silly enough to become an actor, you surely have your reasons. And I have mine; I get addicted to the connection. I’ve done scenes with another actor where I felt more passion than I have in some of my “intimate” relationships. When I’m in a scene that is really clicking, I forget about everything else and all that matters is that connection with the other person; all I care about is them. And it feels REALLY good because I know that all they care about is me. That’s it. The connection is all that matters; the fact that two people are having a singular honest moment together without barriers, without fear. And then the scene is over, and I go back to the mundane. I go back to the world of defenses, insecurities, walls, blockages, emotional ineptitude, indifference, selfishness, solitude and disconnect. I hate it. Sometimes I feel more alive when I’m living in imaginary circumstances. When I am thrust back into the cold, heartless, narcissistic world I constantly crave that connection. But I want it in real life.

I want someone to be with me. To really be with me. To be present, and not just physically. When we connect, all that matters is that connection. All that matters is that raw, bleeding, pus-filled honesty. And those moments aren’t taken for granted. They’re cherished. Because in a scene, all that matters is that current moment. Each moment is unique and precious. And you cherish it while it lasts, but you live for every single moment. I want to take the vulnerability of the scene-work and inject it into my real life; relationships without walls, without fear, without indifference, without solitude. I want intimacy. That real intimacy. I want to feel alive. I want to feel the selflessness of making someone else feel their own beating heart. I want that beauty of tearing yourself open stitch by stitch for someone else, hoping that they’ll love what they see, hoping they’ll love you more for shattering your own rib cage just so they could see the true nature of your heart. And then I want them to do the same. I want to feel at home.

And here’s the kicker, motherfuckers. Actors don’t really get to have a physical home. Most people who live “normal” lives get to find a city, find a job there, settle down, find a neighborhood, make a home, be friends with their neighbors, etc. Most people get to nest somewhere. Actors? Ha! Only if you’re lucky. We go where the work is. Some contracts last 2 months. Some maybe last a year. But all jobs end. And then you go somewhere else. And you meet people, love them and then leave them. And then you do it all over again. So we don’t get to call any physical place our home. Instead, we look for someone to call home. I know I do. I want to look someone in the eyes and feel at ease; like that feeling when you’re sitting by a fireplace drinking a cup of peppermint tea in your most comfy sweatpants, socks, long-sleeve tee, infinity scarf, snow falling lightly outside, Christmas tree tastefully lit at your side, sound of crackling firewood. I wanna look in someone’s eyes at feel that. I want that someone where it doesn’t matter where we are; it’ll always feel like home.  And maybe I get lucky enough to find someone like that at a contract. BUT THEN THEY LEAVE. They leave. And I get thrown for a loop. Cuz where the fuck did my home go? When will I feel at home again? Where do I call home? Most people, they get sad and they go home. Where is that for an actor? Where the fuck is that? Home is where the heart is. Show me where that is, please.  Cuz every time I find a new home, it gets ripped away. So I may have misplaced my heart. So what do I do? What does any other actor do? Find another contract. Go through the robotic movements as follows:  Audition. Connect. Book job. Take job. Make new friends. Finish contract. Rip out heart. Go back to auditioning. Piece together heart. Start over.

Excruciating. Trust me. Excruciating.

I don’t have the luxury of being stationary. I think a lot of stationary people lust after this transient lifestyle. Well, bitches, appreciate what you got. Because, unfortunately, I don’t  got what you do.

Perfect example: I’m in a hotel room tonight. Hoping to take a 12 hour bus ride back to New York tomorrow. Just to audition more and then leave the city again.

Don’t get me wrong; I love acting. But this is why we’re all fucked up. So if you see an actor and you think, ‘Damn, that hoe looks tortured.’ They probably are. They’re probably in love. And they’re probably thinking, ‘Fuck, love is quite inconvenient,’ and….

‘I wanna go home.’


“And I’m surrounded by a million people. I still feel alone. Oh, let me go home. Oh, I miss you, you know. Let me go home. I’ve had my run. Baby, I’m done. I gotta go home.”
~”Home” by Michael Buble


31. James Wants You


I strongly believe in this saying: “Treat others the way you would like them to treat you.” Perhaps there’s a more eloquent way to state that. But perhaps I ate way too much chicken alfredo and I’m in a food coma. And perhaps I’m struggling to eavesdrop on my neighbors yelling at each other in Cantonese because Rick Ross is also screaming beneath my window. (I don’t mean to be a honky but I have counted the n-word three times already.)

I also believe in this: life is too short. I don’t have enough time to do everything.

You will upset someone whilst trying to please everyone.

Let me get to the point:

Tell people what you want. I am trying to incorporate this more into my life. It’s difficult. I understand that. And conflict is scary. But what’s scarier is living with a million things unsaid that are just bouncing around inside of you until you explode one day because of something small: “BITCH, WAITRESS, I SAID SCRAMBLED EGGS NOT OVEREASY! FUCK, HOE!” We don’t want that. And “fuck hoe bitch waitress” doesn’t want it either.

I know how it feels to not say what you want. It’s actually kind of painful. Kind of really painful in the way that I feel like a pushover. Some people like to say, “You’re too kind”. I would love to believe that. I think I’m kind. But I think I’m also a bit of a doormat that people wipe their shoes on… except that I smile while they do it. When I don’t get what I want I tell myself whatever I need to in order to pacify myself: “Choose your battles.” “It doesn’t matter that much to me.” “This is healthier.” “I don’t wanna ruin Fuck-Hoe-Bitch-Waitress’ day.” “Runny eggs are more artistic than scrambled eggs.” And sometimes I really don’t care. Sometimes I compromise because I really want to make someone else happy. But sometimes I actually really want something. And I just swallow that want and say, “When it’s something I really really want, I’ll do something about it.”

But that’s not good. That actually makes me angrier than not getting what I want. Because then for the rest of the day, I will call myself rude names. “Coward”. “Pushover”. “Pussy”. And I’ll say, “You’re gonna die unhappy if you keep this up. Is that really what you want?”

NO. No. It isn’t what I want, Mr. Rude Inner Monologue. I want to be happy. So. How does that happen?

Say what you want.

No one will ever read your mind. Miss Cleo was your best bet and now she’s in jail for a bad Barbados accent. So you’re shit out of luck. Say it.

Instead of trying to stomach the disgusting runny yolks of eggs sunnyside up, say, “Excuse me, I actually ordered scrambled eggs. Thank you so much!”

Instead of going to McDonalds and looking at a chicken nugget cross-eyed so it looks less like vomit and more like yummy terds, say, “I actually really want Indian food. Let’s do that. Do you mind?”

Instead of being snippy with someone you really care about, say, “Hey, I’m sorry if I snap at you. I have a really bad headache, I’m really stressing about packing and I’m scared of everything.”

If you had a really bad day, ask for a hug. If your back really hurts, ask someone to give you a quick rubdown. And then ask them to massage your back. (HEYO MASTURBATION JOKE! I MAY HAVE EXITED PUBERTY IN THE BODY BUT NOT IN THE BRAIN! BOOBIES ARE FUNNY!)

Say what you want. Or else you are dooming yourself to a life full of disappointment and unfulfilled expectations. Maybe you’ll blame your friends, but it’s not their fault. How can someone fail to give you what you want if they never knew? If you never give people the chance to follow through that’s your fault.

Also: no more speaking in code.

Before I left WI to come back to NYC, I was having a hard time seeing all my friends. Permission to speak candidly? I have a lot of friends who don’t hang out in the same social group. So I spent a lot of time trying to make everyone happy around me. And I kept getting this: “If you don’t have time for me, I understand.” But it didn’t feel like that. It felt like, “I really wanna see you, and I’ll be sad if I don’t see you.” But why don’t we say what we mean??

Because life is scary. And it’s risky.

When someone asks you on a date and you say, “I’m busy, maybe next week” you better mean that. Cuz otherwise you’re giving that person false hope which is more rude than saying what you really mean, “I’m not interested in you in that way”. Or, “I’m really invested in this other guy.” And when you’re seeing someone and you lose interest in them, don’t say, “I’m really busy this week”. Say what you mean, you f*ckin’ cowards. Say, “Hey, I was really horny when I met you. My boner thirst has been satiated. Aloha.” Say, “I’m a douchebag that’s incapable of feeling human emotion, and I don’t know how to attach. I’m sorry.” And when I confront you, don’t say, “…I was sick?” You deserve to have your dick chopped off cuz you’re a sorry excuse for a man. Just tell the fuckin’ truth.

When you break up with someone, just do it. Sugar-coating might be nice in theory but it’s really harmful. Cuz if there’s one thing that hurts more than heartbreak, it’s a bottle of heartbreak followed by a shot of hope. Just say why you needed to break up. Do. Not. Give. False. Hope. Just cuz you wanna be a good person. That makes you a shitty person. Because you told lies to someone so you could sleep better at night. Sometimes people suck. There are times in my life when I have sucked. Sucked REAL bad. And I had to go to bed knowing that I did a shitty, shitty thing. And I lost sleep over it for a good week or two. But I made up for it. And I know I’m not perfect, but I’m definitely not as assholey as I felt then. Being an honest asshole is worse than being a lying asshole. Cuz if you lie to me, I’ll never know what you really mean. I’ll always think, ‘He said this but maybe he meant that”. Life is full of uncertainty. The least we can do is tell the truth.

When you wanna know the answer to a specific question, ask it. Don’t beat around the bush. Don’t ask a generic question in hopes that the person will magically read your mind and answer it. Chances are that the other person KNOWS the question you’re not asking and they will purposefully NOT answer it. So. Ask yourself, “Do I really want to know the answer to this question?” If so, then ask. Ask, “Are you seeing someone? Is it serious? Are you over me? Do you ever think about me involuntarily? Is it really over? Are you sorry?”

And most importantly: say how you feel.

“Hey, when you talk to me like that it hurts my feelings.”

“Hey, when you use my first name like that it feels really condescending.”

“Hey, I was really upset that you bailed on our plans.”

“I love you.”

“Hey, I get really anxious when you’re not here.”

“Hey, I really, really miss you.”

“Hey, I really want to be taken care of.”

“I’m scared.”

“Hey, I want you to be my boyfriend.”

It’s hard. Life is really hard. It’s hard to put yourself out there. Saying how you feel is like eating an entire strawberry cheesecake on your own: you don’t know if you’re gonna feel better or worse after you do it but you’re pretty sure you’ll feel worse. And it’s really hard to put your feelings out there, cuz you don’t know how the other person is gonna respond. Starting a conversation is easy, because there’s nothing at risk. “Hi my name is Booger, I’m a friend of Spackle. What do you do for a living? Oh my god, I don’t know what that is but you smell like cash so I’m gonna keep talking to you!” You have nothing to lose. But saying, “Hey, I can’t stop thinking about you. Lying in bed without you is like lying in a padlocked coffin underground except my room smells less like worms and more like the Tostitos crumbs that I’m definitely lying on. I like you too much and I don’t know why,” is hard. When I say, “I wanna be with you. And I wanna talk about you all the time and show you off to the world and laugh with you all the time,” I don’t know what you’re gonna say back. You might say, “Yes yes A MILLION TIMES YES” or maybe you’ll say, “I don’t feel that way,” or maybe you won’t say anything. Or maybe you’ll say, “I can’t.” And all of that hurts. It hurts if you say “no”. It hurts if you say “maybe”. It hurts if you say “yes”. It hurts if you say nothing. Because I know that everything ends. If you say “no”, it ends now. If you say, “maybe” it doesn’t start or end and my heart makes this face: :-/ . If you say nothing, I say nothing but my heart keeps asking my head again and again until I drown it with cholesterol and dairy. If you say yes, it’s still gonna end. Maybe it won’t work. Maybe we’ll break up in a month because we’ll end up in different places. Maybe you’ll move (on). Maybe we’ll get married and then get divorced because you can’t handle the way I refuse to look at the negative side. Maybe we’ll get married and live happily ever after for 60 years, but then right after the words “The End” you’ll die of Alzheimer’s and I’ll wish I would die of heartbreak. In any scenario, I’ll have to live without you. (Even if I die first, I’ll have to know that I might leave you alone some day which would nearly kill me anyway so I’ll tell my fragile heart to push that thought out of my labyrinthal mind.) No matter what you say in this instant, this whatever will end. Maybe in 1 week. Maybe in 3 months. Maybe in 9 months. Maybe in 3 years. Maybe in 60. It will end. And I will be sad. For a while.

We like to think that when we leave someone’s life, we leave a huge cater inside that other person that they have to spend months reparing. We like to think the damage we have done is irreparable. We like to think, ‘They still think of me.’ But it’s not always true. My heart, like Celine’s, will go on. Scientists say that the liver is the only human organ that can regenerate, but I have proven them wrong over and over and over. I’ve given my heart to someone that left. But I wasn’t left with a crater where my heart once was. My heart regenerated. It healed over the open sores. And my heart isn’t the same as before; it’s better. It’s stronger. It knows what it wants, and it knows what it won’t put up with. Yes, it hurts like a motherfucker uponst a motherfucker uponst another motherfucker.

But at least I can say that I put myself out there for someone I really cared about.

And I’m doing it again.

And I’m not giving up. I don’t know if that makes me a headstrong romantic or a blind, pathetic fool. But I do know that it makes me brave.

I want to be with you.


(Read below picture.)

(Nothing is smart and nothing makes sense. Living is stupid if you’re gonna die someday. But I wanna be stupid. With you.)