I want to gush about my new life plans (which currently include a move to Colorado + a medical marijuana license) to My Gay Husband but we are in a fight (which he doesn't know about yet). So instead I'm text-gushing to My Older Man Friend. He's not responding probably because he was asleep 5 hours ago (right after he had his Metamucil and Werther's Original). I've never been able to truly explain the subtle nuances of our relationship. My Older Man Friend is no gay husband, but he's pretty much as close as a vag-loving man can get (meaning he's old - and married - enough that he's asexual). There are a lot of other reasons I love My Older Man Friend. Like because he carries a gun. And sometimes wears all denim. And likes putting out my cigarettes because he knows a cool way to do it. And loves talking about Project Runway and his fat ass and how nobody gets us because they're not as fabulous and/or funny as we are. I guess he's like an older brother except he was a high school accident and I'm more of a later-in-life accident (sheesh - you would think our hypothetical mother would have gotten the hang of birth control after TWENTY years).
But I really don't have any use for either of these penis-having fools on this, THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF MY LIFE, because they are fucking downers. Some people might appreciate brutal honesty, but frankly, I have never been able to figure out what's so appealing about regular honestly, much less the brutal kind. I much prefer my friends to just politely nod and go along with my hairbrained schemes / diets / new life plans. I mean, standing idly by while I flounder around is the least you can do. Save that advice and mail it off to Oprah because I'm not having none of that shiz.
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Yankee and I have developed a safe word; if I say "Okay SOLVE my problem" then he can give me advice. Otherwise he has to just listen and nod.
ReplyDeleteI don't even know where to start...perhaps by saying Jay makes that all-denim thing work; so did I. Next by officially asking, "what the F?" about the high-school mistake comment. And last, by saying, I'm less of an older brother than an Interventionist who allows second (and third, and fourth) chances.
ReplyDeleteAnd, for the record, standing by and watching you flounder was NOT a pretty sight. True to the term, you lay on your side, flopping helplessly, unable to breathe, with both of your eyes on one side of your damn head.
So there's that.