Confession

"Blogger, it's been 1 month since my last confession."

- Go on, my dear.

"I've been seeing my roommate. I seem to have lost my life."


Well, what can I say. I have not only been M.I.A. to my friends, but also to my emails and my beloved blog. I am shamed. I sit here before you with my head down, drowning in a sea of manure and guilt. What is that smell? Is it me??

Somewhere in between poaching eggs and rock climbing, I've fallen into a romantic relationship with my roomie. It all happened so fast, that the 4 eggs we poached that night are still in the fridge, rotting. Just kidding. But seriously, my mind has been everywhere else but in my head. Making this thing work has consumed every ounce of my being, and although quite uneventful, pretty boring, and sexless, I need my life back. Where have I been?

I was having a hard enough time keeping my shit together lonely and sober, but now with man and happy (sometimes), I'm losing touch with my friends and not paying my bills. And it finally hit me. Tonight. This isn't working. The roommate relationship. And not because he's my roommate, but because we're just at different places in our lives. Didn't I always say I would never date a younger man?? Someone validate this!

This thing I had with Rawboy was great. Don't get me wrong. When he wants to be sweet, he's really sweet. He's easy to live with, he's clean, he cooks breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We drink wine and share good beer. I enjoy his company. Before his arrival, I had to live alone. Now I can't imagine him gone. However, loving him or him loving me is not part of our equation. We tried. I tried. And it was good while it lasted. But his inability to love and this great lack of sunshine is too big a threat and we can't survive. Oh, Shakespeare, where the hell art thou? A poem, yes- I am inspired.

I need more and he needs the sun.
He needs someone who doesn't need him to care.
My desire for commitment makes him want to run.
Now I'm suffocating, my mind needs some air!

Alas, I only strive to be like one of the greats, like Robert Frost or Weird Al. Nevermind.


With respect to Rawboy's privacy, I'm withholding the details. But I hope you all get the picture. Now we just have to figure out how to go back to roommates, how not to stare too long, how not to think about his arms or his lips. Ugh, this sucks. But we have learned alot from each other and I hope we can accept and move on. (Preface to my next post.) I am tired, friends... Goodnight.

The Joy of Sex- OOPS!! I mean Cooking

Well, hello readers. This post is about cooking. Or lack, thereof. I've been slaving away all these grueling years making Kraft Macaroni and Cheez, PBJ's, instant grits, Lean Cuisine meals, and hot dogs. So why the fuck can't I poach an EGG??? There are mornings (or afternoons) when I wake up and crave a delicious brunch of poached eggs with hollandaise, country ham (or rare steak), 2 beautifully prepared potato cakes, and perfectly grilled asparagus. Oh, and the mimosa, of course. Ok, five mimosas. Anyway, I spend tons of money on weekends "brunching it up" at various fan bars in search of my dreamy meal. But now that I have this roommate who actually cooks his own meals, I began to get curious about how a stove actually works. Rawboy, the roomie, is a fan of the local public library, who I have not visited in a while because I owe money for an overdue, crappy movie. So after I vented my frustrations about these rare poached eggs that I absolutely must have for brunch, Rawboy went to the library and checked out several (very thick) cookbooks. Needless to say, we began the tumultuous journey of the perfectly poached motherfucking egg.

So, I put off the conclusion to this story because of a storm. I was afraid my computer would crash in the middle of all this, and my readers would never know how to poach an egg. It's several days later, and no more storm. Just grey, depressing days. Grey days with a bong and red wine. So here's what happened-

My girlfriend, Deidra, came by and the three of us (Rawboy included) stood over the stove with a pot of boiling water and a carton of eggs. Rawboy and I took turns poaching, placing the misfit eggs in a bowl. Poor little retarded eggs. I had to photograph these eggs, for I am doing a small documentary on the progress of my cooking, now and in the future. Look out for my post on "Hummus"- it will be a good read, with a tutorial and pictures. There will also be 9 paragraphs dedicated to soaking chickpeas overnight, dried chickpeas versus canned chickpeas, and as a bonus, how to identify a food processor in your kitchen. Anyway, your writer is exhausted and emotionally drained this evening, so I will retire now to my uncomfortable bed. Unfortunately tonight, Rawboy has not invited me into his.

Sweet dreams, my little cookers.

Butt Face

Tonight's post is inspired by yet another entertaining evening at the Bamboo Cafe. So we're all huddled in our favorite corner of the Bamboo laughing, talking, joking, drinking, and whatever else you do in a small, smoky bar right before close. Then an "outsider" imposes upon our clique without a place to sit, drunkenly (is that a word??) stumbling from one of us to the next, wearing tight jeans and swaying from side to side with his butt in our seated faces. Of course, the majority of us ignore his intruding buttocks within close proximity of our faces, but Emily, a middle-aged, attractive, opinionated lady (not to mention one of my favorite Bamboo groupies) begins to attack this strange man regarding his invading ass. "OK, OK, GET YOUR BUTT OUTTA MY FACE! I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR BUTT IN MY FACE! I MEAN, COME ON, HAVE YOU EVER HAD A NICE BUTT IN YOUR FACE?? REALLY, HOW MANY OF US HAVE HAD A NICE BUTT IN OUR FACE?? JESUS, REALLY, WHO IS THIS GUY WITH THIS BUTT?? GET HIM OUTTA HERE, PLEASE SOMEONE, MAKE HIM SIT DOWN, HEY, GUY, HERE, SIT DOWN- HERE'S A CHAIR!.....FOR GOD'S SAKE...."

Well, I had a good laugh, even if no one else was paying much attention. I did, however, pay attention to his rear when he got up for the second time- his wide, flat butt in his tight jeans in my face once again, and it made last call worth while, as we all sipped the last drops of our watered-down drinks and began to dispurse out the door into the street. That guy's butt was really funny. Thanks, you funny butt man.