This morning I received an instant message from a young lady in Chicago, who is a regular reader of The Butch Stroll. She is 23, perky, and wanted to have “naughty sex chat”. I am certain that this was not spam or a robot, but a real human being, though “23” and “lady” may not be entirely true. I tell ya, this here blog is an endless gateway to opportunity. Sigh.
Yesterday afternoon I was sick of sitting around the house all weekend telling my cat that she is America’s Next Top Model while flipping between that show and the Mad Men marathon on AMC, so I lathered myself up in the shower, put on some clothes, and took my ass downtown planning on doing a bit of shopping knowing all the while I was gonna end up shopping for men while drinking tall vodka sodas like they’re being served in shot glasses. A MESS.
I saw George, oh George, who gives me this look that embodies the words of Louise Keeley in The Bird Cage: “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before!” I of course reciprocate. He looks good though I got to say.
So in my hazy moments of searching the West Village for, oh, something, and lamenting George’s sudden and inexplicable disregard for me that is ancient history now, I got to thinking. I have a career and a nice apartment. I am intelligent and funny. I am educated, informed, talented, friendly, kind, empathic, generous, and creative. I am not hideously disgusting looking. I’m a goddamn catch! Why am I forever alone?
And then I remembered that I am an exhausted, anti-social, self-absorbed hypochondriac, financially destitute alcoholic neurotic rode-hard-hung-up-wet obsessed-with-personal-flaws, mentally-ill slutty train wreck of a disgusting human being. With a blog. Maybe that’s why.