I have been hard at work trying to get my self description for my online dating antics in order. This is the result of my labor:
"I am an extremely passionate guy, hard-working, educated, and adventurous. Travel is the love of my life and I have an insatiable case of wanderlust. I have too many interests for my own good, but I think diversity is the spice of life. I am a college football fanatic, a travel junkie, and a big movie buff.
I drink inordinate amounts of Diet Coke. I laugh all the time and loudly, even at mediocre jokes.
My friends might say I'm compassionate, goofy, loud, and always hungry. My colleagues might say I'm focused, hard-working, and ambitious.
I have an extremely dirty sense of humor and have seriously over-used "that's what she said."
Off the top of my head: I like trying new things. I enjoy outdoor activities and sports. I love food. I like to cook. If you cook for me, I'll think it's romantic. I like bad horror films. I enjoy camping and road trips. I want a dog. I love making out. I'm actually a really nice guy. I have a huge insane family. I have an old soul. I like wine and jacuzzis. Even though I love LA, I'm a southern boy at heart. I believe in love, karma, and astrology. I'm a little competitive. Did I mention I love food? Hit me up."
Now you tell me, who wouldn't want to tap this?
xo
William
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Gays- A Party Divided
If you are a new reader then you may not know that I am on the same, never ending quest for a lover that everyone else is on. However, unlike most I am limited to the pool I can choose from to date in this city which is ironically coined as "the City of Angels". You see, I am limited, the gays are a picky race, and a much divided one at that. If you do not fit into the proper "clique" you could be passed over for being a potential mate. Before I tell you what I have decided to do, I feel it is important that you all understand what these sub-groups of homo-ism are, they are as follows:
"The Jocks"- These men tend to define themselves as "masculine" because they play sports, lift weights and wear jockstraps (even under formal clothing, it's disgusting we will talk about this later). They think that because they wear baseball caps and sports team shirts they fly under the radar and are seldom questioned about their sexuality, that is until they are caught ogling other people's goodies in the communal showers after practice. They tend to want to date only amongst themselves because they like men who act "super manly". I sometimes wish to be in this group, because like in high school, they are the most popular everyone likes looking at them and they do have great bods. However, sticking with the high school theme, they also tend to be mildly retarded. Whether this low mental capacity is brought on by overly abused steroid use, or too many hits to the head whilst playing manly rugby, the fact is, they just aren't that bright. I once dated a body builder who fits this type, we can discuss that later.
"The Twinks" - The twinks are the skinny ones, the ones who look like they could be confused as someone who should still be in high school. The older gays who have father son fetishes usually go for them. They are generally slim, baby faced, no facial hair (or any body hair for that matter), blonde with horrid highlights, and apply way too much foundation and or bronzer. They tend to prance around sipping a Mochachochalatayaya from Starbucks and judge people who eat carbs. They think everyone should be equally as concerned with their gayness as they are; yet, no one takes them seriously because of their insatiable desire for gossip, drama, and random hookups. They die for Lady Gaga.
"The Bears" - Bear culture is scary quiet honestly. The big hairy boys. They are not all fat, some are just like jocks but with hair, LOTS of hair. Most of these men look like Al from "Home Improvement", except the lesbians stole all the flannel so they stick to wearing leather ass less chaps. If you are an older "bear" seeking a younger chubby boy, you call the boy you seek a "Cub". They are usually blue collar employees, having beards, are the only gays to drink not Lite beer and for some reason are associated with leather and cock rings. Nice people, the Bears.
"Mr. Popular's" - These men comprise the high and mighty "Gay List". They think that they sit higher than you because they have a Louis wallet, a Nordstroms card, unimaginable debt at Bloomingdales, and an Audi that they emptied their trustfunds to purchase. They tend to have personal trainers that have their own TV show, assistants, and a celebrity hairstylist. Oh, and did you know that Britney was in their spin class last week? These men are usually in entertainment(shock), advertisment, or pulic relations.
"The Trannys/Drag Queens" - A lovely race of people, they come in every different shape and in most sizes. Some you can spot from a mile away but be careful, a guy who worked with my dad thought RuPaul was the hottest woman in the 90's. My dad had to tell this 6'4 300 pound man that RuPaul was a dude. Moral of story: the good ones can fool you, they do walk among us and they LOVE straight men.
"The Artists" - These guys are actually too cool to talk to you, or your friends. They are generally have tattoo's that cover their well worked out arms, because they are just that cool. They are deep and artsy and are really cool looking. They generally work as photographers, dive bar musicians, or record sales men. They dress in outrageous layers that they want you to think took them only two minutes to assemble, but in all likelihood, they spent hours perfecting the "I don't give a shit because I am so cool" look. Hate it.
Then you have your general LA club going-I have a hot boyfriend from Sweden-I work out 6 days a week and judge those who don't- I am 6 percent body fat- I preen more than a peacock type guys. They disgust me. They fixate on perfection, and make me want to yack all over my panties.
Not all of the homo's fit in these categories perfectly, in fact I am sure that most of them don't. Some are a conglomeration of multiple groups. Which leads me to my question, Where do I fit in?
OK sure, the high heels and big hair (Queenie). The interest in sports, football and dance teams (Jock, mostly). I am super cool (Artist). Everyone loves me (Mr. Popular). I am not a stick figure, kind of thick (Bear? Ew, please no). But I am also a lot more than even just this
Since I have had little luck with the dates I have picked up whilst at social events, or parties or what have you, I have decided to conduct an experiment.
I am going to resort to online dating. That's right opossums, I am going to sign up on three different free dating sites and see which one leads to the best results. I will document dates from each of these sites, report back to you, and hopefully find some one worth talking about about. If not, I will still write about them, and document the antics that occurred. We will see, based on my personality tests on these sites which "TYPE" of men I attract, and hopefully, which sub group of gayness I fall into.
Wish Me Luck Chipmunks!
xo
William
"The Jocks"- These men tend to define themselves as "masculine" because they play sports, lift weights and wear jockstraps (even under formal clothing, it's disgusting we will talk about this later). They think that because they wear baseball caps and sports team shirts they fly under the radar and are seldom questioned about their sexuality, that is until they are caught ogling other people's goodies in the communal showers after practice. They tend to want to date only amongst themselves because they like men who act "super manly". I sometimes wish to be in this group, because like in high school, they are the most popular everyone likes looking at them and they do have great bods. However, sticking with the high school theme, they also tend to be mildly retarded. Whether this low mental capacity is brought on by overly abused steroid use, or too many hits to the head whilst playing manly rugby, the fact is, they just aren't that bright. I once dated a body builder who fits this type, we can discuss that later.
"The Twinks" - The twinks are the skinny ones, the ones who look like they could be confused as someone who should still be in high school. The older gays who have father son fetishes usually go for them. They are generally slim, baby faced, no facial hair (or any body hair for that matter), blonde with horrid highlights, and apply way too much foundation and or bronzer. They tend to prance around sipping a Mochachochalatayaya from Starbucks and judge people who eat carbs. They think everyone should be equally as concerned with their gayness as they are; yet, no one takes them seriously because of their insatiable desire for gossip, drama, and random hookups. They die for Lady Gaga.
"The Bears" - Bear culture is scary quiet honestly. The big hairy boys. They are not all fat, some are just like jocks but with hair, LOTS of hair. Most of these men look like Al from "Home Improvement", except the lesbians stole all the flannel so they stick to wearing leather ass less chaps. If you are an older "bear" seeking a younger chubby boy, you call the boy you seek a "Cub". They are usually blue collar employees, having beards, are the only gays to drink not Lite beer and for some reason are associated with leather and cock rings. Nice people, the Bears.
"Mr. Popular's" - These men comprise the high and mighty "Gay List". They think that they sit higher than you because they have a Louis wallet, a Nordstroms card, unimaginable debt at Bloomingdales, and an Audi that they emptied their trustfunds to purchase. They tend to have personal trainers that have their own TV show, assistants, and a celebrity hairstylist. Oh, and did you know that Britney was in their spin class last week? These men are usually in entertainment(shock), advertisment, or pulic relations.
"The Trannys/Drag Queens" - A lovely race of people, they come in every different shape and in most sizes. Some you can spot from a mile away but be careful, a guy who worked with my dad thought RuPaul was the hottest woman in the 90's. My dad had to tell this 6'4 300 pound man that RuPaul was a dude. Moral of story: the good ones can fool you, they do walk among us and they LOVE straight men.
"The Artists" - These guys are actually too cool to talk to you, or your friends. They are generally have tattoo's that cover their well worked out arms, because they are just that cool. They are deep and artsy and are really cool looking. They generally work as photographers, dive bar musicians, or record sales men. They dress in outrageous layers that they want you to think took them only two minutes to assemble, but in all likelihood, they spent hours perfecting the "I don't give a shit because I am so cool" look. Hate it.
Then you have your general LA club going-I have a hot boyfriend from Sweden-I work out 6 days a week and judge those who don't- I am 6 percent body fat- I preen more than a peacock type guys. They disgust me. They fixate on perfection, and make me want to yack all over my panties.
Not all of the homo's fit in these categories perfectly, in fact I am sure that most of them don't. Some are a conglomeration of multiple groups. Which leads me to my question, Where do I fit in?
OK sure, the high heels and big hair (Queenie). The interest in sports, football and dance teams (Jock, mostly). I am super cool (Artist). Everyone loves me (Mr. Popular). I am not a stick figure, kind of thick (Bear? Ew, please no). But I am also a lot more than even just this
Since I have had little luck with the dates I have picked up whilst at social events, or parties or what have you, I have decided to conduct an experiment.
I am going to resort to online dating. That's right opossums, I am going to sign up on three different free dating sites and see which one leads to the best results. I will document dates from each of these sites, report back to you, and hopefully find some one worth talking about about. If not, I will still write about them, and document the antics that occurred. We will see, based on my personality tests on these sites which "TYPE" of men I attract, and hopefully, which sub group of gayness I fall into.
Wish Me Luck Chipmunks!
xo
William
Where in the World Is A Boy in Heels?
Oh my little opossums, how I have missed you!
I know, I know what is my excuse? Well, it is a combination of laziness and over exhaustion stemming from my extensive work life. Now, I am jobless, well rested, and have full attention to give to my little munchkin readers! I hope that I am finding you in good health and in a positive state of mind, and that you are not sitting in your apartment eating chocolate cake icing and wallowing in self pity; hopefully that existence is meant only for me.
In my absence I have since left Hilton Head Island and returned to Los Angeles, founded a sorority, started online dating, witnessed a super natural experience, made love to a Purple Cowboy, passed out in a garden wearing tight jeans and my glitter shoes, discovered contraband in my own household, performed multiple bodily functions at once (due to excessive dark liquor intake), won a Halloween costume contest, made many a new friend, made out with a man more than twice my age who conveniently works as a church administrator, invented new words, gotten a blow out, and picked up a new hobby.
These are not all going to be listed right here and now, because A) what fun would it be if I gave it all away at once, and B) I am too exhausted from eating so much Pillsbury icing and left over lasagna to complete English sentences, and may start into jibberish soon.
I love all of you, so so much. I can’t believe that you are so good to me, and I have neglected you since August 15th? Who the hell do I think I am?
A heart full of glitter scented love to you all.
Until Tomorrow, William xox
I know, I know what is my excuse? Well, it is a combination of laziness and over exhaustion stemming from my extensive work life. Now, I am jobless, well rested, and have full attention to give to my little munchkin readers! I hope that I am finding you in good health and in a positive state of mind, and that you are not sitting in your apartment eating chocolate cake icing and wallowing in self pity; hopefully that existence is meant only for me.
In my absence I have since left Hilton Head Island and returned to Los Angeles, founded a sorority, started online dating, witnessed a super natural experience, made love to a Purple Cowboy, passed out in a garden wearing tight jeans and my glitter shoes, discovered contraband in my own household, performed multiple bodily functions at once (due to excessive dark liquor intake), won a Halloween costume contest, made many a new friend, made out with a man more than twice my age who conveniently works as a church administrator, invented new words, gotten a blow out, and picked up a new hobby.
These are not all going to be listed right here and now, because A) what fun would it be if I gave it all away at once, and B) I am too exhausted from eating so much Pillsbury icing and left over lasagna to complete English sentences, and may start into jibberish soon.
I love all of you, so so much. I can’t believe that you are so good to me, and I have neglected you since August 15th? Who the hell do I think I am?
A heart full of glitter scented love to you all.
Until Tomorrow, William xox
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Tricks of a Triathlon
I have been inspired to work out all the time now. I know that most of you may be rolling your eyes and saying “We’ve heard this before”, but HALT my weary reader, this time I am a changed man.
I was recently working a triathlon; we were filming it and I knew several of the participants competing. It was early, it was humid, we won’t even talk about my hair, I really would have rather slept in to be honest, but my demeanor soon changed, because as I turned the corner I was greeted by greased abdominals and perky pectorals.
The beach was full of men wearing nothing but booty shorts and baby oil.
What in the hell? Where has all this man meat been hiding in Hilton Head? It was paradise. I mean, yes, there are some prune-like old men wearing spandex and Speedo’s, but you have to take the good with the bad.
As soon as I realized that I was salivating and experiencing a tingle in my tutu area, I had to snap out of it and pretend that I wasn’t noticing the delicious assortment of beaux-hunks.
Let Me Tell You How This Works:
1. The Arrival- You get there and you go sign in and get your cute little tag to wear while you compete. Then a woman comes and writes the same number on your arm with a permanent marker. THEN, this is the best part, she writes your age on the back of your right calf! She is doing all the work for you, and she doesn’t even know it, she is like the best wing man ever! This allows for you to scope out all of the potential candidates in your age range without even having to talk to them. Talk about perfect?
2. The Start of the Race- Everyone gathers in a big cluster barely clothed; they are shaking hands, patting asses, HUGGING! Agh. Anyways, this allows time for you to take your position near the age appropriate hotties that you have scoped during the arrival section. Make sure to tell them “Good Luck” or something of that nature so you know that they have taken notice to you, I mean of course they would notice you anyways, you’re hot, but just in case they’re way too in the zone, you at least make your mark.
3. The Swim- As the gun, or cowbell as it was in this instance, goes off you run into the water. Try and stay close to your options, but not too close, we aren’t desperate. This swimming portion allows for further inspection of their back, arms and shoulders, muscle groups you are going to want to take into consideration. I mean, what if you marry one of these men? Aren’t you going to want to have a strong man to carry you across the threshold of your new home after your wedding? You certainly don’t want a scrawny little thing that gets a hernia when he attempts to lift you. These are the things you have to think about. Also, don’t worry about the jellyfish stings; there are so many people peeing in the water at this point, that it won’t hurt but for a minute.
4. The Biking- As you and your dripping wet hunks make it out of the water you have to run to your bike. At this point in the race you can choose to tag in a team mate to do the biking part for you. If one of your options does decide to do this, cross him off the list; this shows that he lacks stamina, and we know what that means. You don’t want a strong man to carry you across the threshold on your wedding night with his big arms, and then have to “tag someone in” because he lacks the stamina, no ma’am! Follow the “one man team”. The biking can get rigorous, but stay with it, this is ample time to check out his legs, and of course his buttocks.
5. The Run- Girl, I know this race is difficult but you can do it. This is the best part, he’s shirtless and wearing barely any pants! I know that you may be lacking energy but this is where we have to power through. At this point it is safe to jog alongside your new found men ( I am pretty sure you have narrowed it down to two or three by now). Staying alongside him at this point will make him realize that he has some competition that he didn’t have before; of course, we all know that you could easily smoke him, but you have been busy checking him out the whole race. The final test starts here. Keep in time with your prey, it may be a smart idea to even get in the same rhythm as him, and then pretend you have a bead of sweat forming around your eye. Take your elbow and casually, without breaking stride with him, wipe your face to “clear the sweat”. This is an old trick, but it works. While your man may think that you are just wiping your sweaty brow, the real intent is to check out what he is packing; don’t act like you haven’t done this, I know you have. I realized yesterday that triathlons are the ideal place to see what is going down in Wienerville, they just flop around like nobody’s business, for everyone to see! Even though there is this blatant display of manhood, be discrete, it is not a good feeling when a man sees you ogling his goodies, he thinks you are only interested in one thing after that, and we are ladies, that isn’t ALL we are after. Think about the wedding night, the big arms and high stamina may be worthless with out a decent sized friend joining the party. Be weary of no flop, but cautious of TOO much flop, a little swingin' is all we be needin'.
6. The Finish Line- You did it! You finished the race, and looked damn good doing it. You also found a potential mate in the midst of things, whether he knows it or not. Just because you have crossed the finish line, doesn’t mean you are done with your prowl, you have got to walk it out, I mean you just did a triathlon and all. Follow him discretely (if you haven’t noticed yet, the general theme is to be close enough to be approachable, but far enough away to be mysterious), start to stretch. Pass a flirtatious look his way when he is bent over stretching his calves, and catch his eye. Smile turn away.
7. Awards- OK, so you did a great job, and you won 18 trophies, but the ultimate prize hasn't been won yet. You see your man walking off the platform, he is carrying an award, of course, we only choose award winning men. At this point you should start talking. You chose the conversation, you are in control, he is suitable for you, not the other way around sister.
Good Luck.
I had once thought that triathlons were a place where only skinny people who have no sort of social life went to hang out with their own kind. On the contrary my friends, the women who attend these wiener races have it all figured out.
Now, where is my speedo?
I was recently working a triathlon; we were filming it and I knew several of the participants competing. It was early, it was humid, we won’t even talk about my hair, I really would have rather slept in to be honest, but my demeanor soon changed, because as I turned the corner I was greeted by greased abdominals and perky pectorals.
The beach was full of men wearing nothing but booty shorts and baby oil.
What in the hell? Where has all this man meat been hiding in Hilton Head? It was paradise. I mean, yes, there are some prune-like old men wearing spandex and Speedo’s, but you have to take the good with the bad.
As soon as I realized that I was salivating and experiencing a tingle in my tutu area, I had to snap out of it and pretend that I wasn’t noticing the delicious assortment of beaux-hunks.
Let Me Tell You How This Works:
1. The Arrival- You get there and you go sign in and get your cute little tag to wear while you compete. Then a woman comes and writes the same number on your arm with a permanent marker. THEN, this is the best part, she writes your age on the back of your right calf! She is doing all the work for you, and she doesn’t even know it, she is like the best wing man ever! This allows for you to scope out all of the potential candidates in your age range without even having to talk to them. Talk about perfect?
2. The Start of the Race- Everyone gathers in a big cluster barely clothed; they are shaking hands, patting asses, HUGGING! Agh. Anyways, this allows time for you to take your position near the age appropriate hotties that you have scoped during the arrival section. Make sure to tell them “Good Luck” or something of that nature so you know that they have taken notice to you, I mean of course they would notice you anyways, you’re hot, but just in case they’re way too in the zone, you at least make your mark.
3. The Swim- As the gun, or cowbell as it was in this instance, goes off you run into the water. Try and stay close to your options, but not too close, we aren’t desperate. This swimming portion allows for further inspection of their back, arms and shoulders, muscle groups you are going to want to take into consideration. I mean, what if you marry one of these men? Aren’t you going to want to have a strong man to carry you across the threshold of your new home after your wedding? You certainly don’t want a scrawny little thing that gets a hernia when he attempts to lift you. These are the things you have to think about. Also, don’t worry about the jellyfish stings; there are so many people peeing in the water at this point, that it won’t hurt but for a minute.
4. The Biking- As you and your dripping wet hunks make it out of the water you have to run to your bike. At this point in the race you can choose to tag in a team mate to do the biking part for you. If one of your options does decide to do this, cross him off the list; this shows that he lacks stamina, and we know what that means. You don’t want a strong man to carry you across the threshold on your wedding night with his big arms, and then have to “tag someone in” because he lacks the stamina, no ma’am! Follow the “one man team”. The biking can get rigorous, but stay with it, this is ample time to check out his legs, and of course his buttocks.
5. The Run- Girl, I know this race is difficult but you can do it. This is the best part, he’s shirtless and wearing barely any pants! I know that you may be lacking energy but this is where we have to power through. At this point it is safe to jog alongside your new found men ( I am pretty sure you have narrowed it down to two or three by now). Staying alongside him at this point will make him realize that he has some competition that he didn’t have before; of course, we all know that you could easily smoke him, but you have been busy checking him out the whole race. The final test starts here. Keep in time with your prey, it may be a smart idea to even get in the same rhythm as him, and then pretend you have a bead of sweat forming around your eye. Take your elbow and casually, without breaking stride with him, wipe your face to “clear the sweat”. This is an old trick, but it works. While your man may think that you are just wiping your sweaty brow, the real intent is to check out what he is packing; don’t act like you haven’t done this, I know you have. I realized yesterday that triathlons are the ideal place to see what is going down in Wienerville, they just flop around like nobody’s business, for everyone to see! Even though there is this blatant display of manhood, be discrete, it is not a good feeling when a man sees you ogling his goodies, he thinks you are only interested in one thing after that, and we are ladies, that isn’t ALL we are after. Think about the wedding night, the big arms and high stamina may be worthless with out a decent sized friend joining the party. Be weary of no flop, but cautious of TOO much flop, a little swingin' is all we be needin'.
6. The Finish Line- You did it! You finished the race, and looked damn good doing it. You also found a potential mate in the midst of things, whether he knows it or not. Just because you have crossed the finish line, doesn’t mean you are done with your prowl, you have got to walk it out, I mean you just did a triathlon and all. Follow him discretely (if you haven’t noticed yet, the general theme is to be close enough to be approachable, but far enough away to be mysterious), start to stretch. Pass a flirtatious look his way when he is bent over stretching his calves, and catch his eye. Smile turn away.
7. Awards- OK, so you did a great job, and you won 18 trophies, but the ultimate prize hasn't been won yet. You see your man walking off the platform, he is carrying an award, of course, we only choose award winning men. At this point you should start talking. You chose the conversation, you are in control, he is suitable for you, not the other way around sister.
Good Luck.
I had once thought that triathlons were a place where only skinny people who have no sort of social life went to hang out with their own kind. On the contrary my friends, the women who attend these wiener races have it all figured out.
Now, where is my speedo?
Sunday, May 30, 2010
epic. not.
I wanted to write an epic post today.
Once I logged on I couldn't think of what I wanted to write about...
I am currently in South Carolina working on a show, I guess my wishes to get out of Los Angeles were granted. I will be here until October! How uber exciting is that?! I am going to use my work as my excuse as to why I have not been so diligent about my blog, but I am going to do better. I promise.
High heels are not really a fashion staple here in SC. I mean, no one really appriciates them. All you see are flip flops, and the ever dreaded kitten heels. South Carolinians WAKE UP! Clogs and wedges with cut out shapes in the middle of them are not ok to wear.
Alas.
I just got done watching 9 to 5 for the first time and I have to say that I am underwhelmed. I mean I love all the actors, but Lord-a-mercy it is a dragggging movie.
A better post will follow this one shortly. I am sorry for the epic-less-ness of this one....but is there anyone out there even reading these things anymore?
xoxox
William
Once I logged on I couldn't think of what I wanted to write about...
I am currently in South Carolina working on a show, I guess my wishes to get out of Los Angeles were granted. I will be here until October! How uber exciting is that?! I am going to use my work as my excuse as to why I have not been so diligent about my blog, but I am going to do better. I promise.
High heels are not really a fashion staple here in SC. I mean, no one really appriciates them. All you see are flip flops, and the ever dreaded kitten heels. South Carolinians WAKE UP! Clogs and wedges with cut out shapes in the middle of them are not ok to wear.
Alas.
I just got done watching 9 to 5 for the first time and I have to say that I am underwhelmed. I mean I love all the actors, but Lord-a-mercy it is a dragggging movie.
A better post will follow this one shortly. I am sorry for the epic-less-ness of this one....but is there anyone out there even reading these things anymore?
xoxox
William
Sunday, April 18, 2010
FUPA FIASCO
I JUST found out what a FUPA is. I thought that it was short for “flirty under pant action”.
Sadly, this is not the case and I am outraged that no one told me.
I think that my first indication that my acronym was incorrect, should have been the looks that I got when I went around telling all the beautiful jacked men at the gay bars that I had some FUPA action happening, and their perfect smiles turned straight to disgust.
Thinking that my ass had lost its “Umph” and that men no longer wished to ogle my goodies, I went to the one place that would tell me the truth, the internet.
For those of you who are not aware of what FUPA stands for, it is the “Fat Upper Pubic Area”. Urbandictionary.com describes this as follows: Descriptive of the phenomenon common with men and women so afflicted by obesity that their pubic area is used to store patches of fatty waste.
So…are you telling me that I told all of these handsome creatures that I have a fat upper pubic area and not that I was sporting sassy boxer briefs?
Yes.
And I am MORTIFIED.
Ughskies, no wonder I am single.
xoox
William
Sadly, this is not the case and I am outraged that no one told me.
I think that my first indication that my acronym was incorrect, should have been the looks that I got when I went around telling all the beautiful jacked men at the gay bars that I had some FUPA action happening, and their perfect smiles turned straight to disgust.
Thinking that my ass had lost its “Umph” and that men no longer wished to ogle my goodies, I went to the one place that would tell me the truth, the internet.
For those of you who are not aware of what FUPA stands for, it is the “Fat Upper Pubic Area”. Urbandictionary.com describes this as follows: Descriptive of the phenomenon common with men and women so afflicted by obesity that their pubic area is used to store patches of fatty waste.
So…are you telling me that I told all of these handsome creatures that I have a fat upper pubic area and not that I was sporting sassy boxer briefs?
Yes.
And I am MORTIFIED.
Ughskies, no wonder I am single.
xoox
William
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Psychic Readings..
I got my fortune told the other day, and in retrospect I am pissed off that I did it. I don’t understand why I paid some woman with saggy boobs and acne scars to tell me about how miserable my life is. I left there a little sickened with the thought that this woman was making so much money off people when I don’t even think she is legit. Below are some of the things that made me ask the question: “How ‘psychic’ is this bitch?” **NOTE** I DO BELIEVE IN THOSE WITH SUPERNATURAL ABILITIES, JUST NOT THIS FAKER.
1. My Love Life
This Miss Cleo wannabe told me that I was having issues in relationships, as if that was some ground breaking phenomenon. Hmmm...Ok, well, I counter that statement with “Who isn’t?” Are you trying to sit there and tell me that I am the ONLY person who is having love issues? Everyone else is completely happy? No Ma’am.
2. My Poor Life Decisions
She asked me why I didn’t go to school longer, “you should have kept going”. Now, for those of you who have the pleasure of listening to me have complete break downs about my second guessing of opting not to pursue a college education, you will know that this rattled me a little. This is when I started to doubt her though. I sat there for a hot minute and pondered how she could have known this. Well, one reason could have been that I look like I am 12, I mean I got a kid’s menu the other day, it’s not a secret that I look like a 7th grader. Aside from my cherubic demeanor, I am sure she also noted how soft and moisturized my hands were, due to my bi-monthly paraffin waxes, and thought that they could only be the hands of someone not withered and aged my the cruelties of time.
3. “You Hate Yourself, You Are Not Happy”
While hate is a strong word, I will give her this, I am not “in love” with myself, which is sad, I know. And while I do have difficulties embracing myself, I have to point out this tiny fact. If you were a borderline plus size gay man in West Hollywood, wouldn’t you find it hard to love yourself too? I mean, sure I have a personality that is pretty damn impressive, I must say, but WeHo is the pinnacle of gay perfection, which means you should only be seen, and not heard. I am not one of these 6’2 waxed, bleached, tanned, buffed, men in designer (although this is Yves Saint Laurent mascara, thanks for asking), who carries his teacup Chihuahua in a Louis tote. I am 5’8 wearing a Banana Republic bag and Jessica Simpson platforms, how couture am I? This bitch hit the nail on the head, but it is a bit of an exaggeration, because while all these men are gorgeous, they are equally as self loathing as I, for one reason or another. No big shocker, lady.
She put on quite a show I must say, I mean she was no Meryl Streep, but more like a Hillary Swank, doing enough work to get by, and still getting invited to parties just because she has been around long enough. Whatever.
I do need to love myself more, I am taking that lesson from the experience, but I am also telling myself that she is just some lady with a couch who “reads palms”. At least she didn’t start sacrificing a goat in front of me. I mean, I know that these are Jessica Simpson shoes, but do you know how hard it is to get blood out of suede?
Loving you, and myself Always. Ever so thankful for your support..
Xoxoxooxx
William
1. My Love Life
This Miss Cleo wannabe told me that I was having issues in relationships, as if that was some ground breaking phenomenon. Hmmm...Ok, well, I counter that statement with “Who isn’t?” Are you trying to sit there and tell me that I am the ONLY person who is having love issues? Everyone else is completely happy? No Ma’am.
2. My Poor Life Decisions
She asked me why I didn’t go to school longer, “you should have kept going”. Now, for those of you who have the pleasure of listening to me have complete break downs about my second guessing of opting not to pursue a college education, you will know that this rattled me a little. This is when I started to doubt her though. I sat there for a hot minute and pondered how she could have known this. Well, one reason could have been that I look like I am 12, I mean I got a kid’s menu the other day, it’s not a secret that I look like a 7th grader. Aside from my cherubic demeanor, I am sure she also noted how soft and moisturized my hands were, due to my bi-monthly paraffin waxes, and thought that they could only be the hands of someone not withered and aged my the cruelties of time.
3. “You Hate Yourself, You Are Not Happy”
While hate is a strong word, I will give her this, I am not “in love” with myself, which is sad, I know. And while I do have difficulties embracing myself, I have to point out this tiny fact. If you were a borderline plus size gay man in West Hollywood, wouldn’t you find it hard to love yourself too? I mean, sure I have a personality that is pretty damn impressive, I must say, but WeHo is the pinnacle of gay perfection, which means you should only be seen, and not heard. I am not one of these 6’2 waxed, bleached, tanned, buffed, men in designer (although this is Yves Saint Laurent mascara, thanks for asking), who carries his teacup Chihuahua in a Louis tote. I am 5’8 wearing a Banana Republic bag and Jessica Simpson platforms, how couture am I? This bitch hit the nail on the head, but it is a bit of an exaggeration, because while all these men are gorgeous, they are equally as self loathing as I, for one reason or another. No big shocker, lady.
She put on quite a show I must say, I mean she was no Meryl Streep, but more like a Hillary Swank, doing enough work to get by, and still getting invited to parties just because she has been around long enough. Whatever.
I do need to love myself more, I am taking that lesson from the experience, but I am also telling myself that she is just some lady with a couch who “reads palms”. At least she didn’t start sacrificing a goat in front of me. I mean, I know that these are Jessica Simpson shoes, but do you know how hard it is to get blood out of suede?
Loving you, and myself Always. Ever so thankful for your support..
Xoxoxooxx
William
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