ilikethecompany replied to your post: I Am a Man…

Oh I’ll be back there, for sure, I’m a gypsy. It’s my favorite place, well next to Seattle.

I’ve never really “gotten” Seattle.  Maybe it’s because I was born in Oregon, lived most of my life in Portland, and it was like, “Hey, Seattle!  We have shitty weather here, too, only without the big-city attitude!”  It’s just always seemed like a big, gray nothing to me.

However, I’m sure the right lady could show me a good time up there if she were so inclined.  If you know what I mean, hint hint.

A Single Man Recipe

You will need:

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One frosty mug fresh out of the freezer.

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One six-pack of good but ludicrously cheap beer.

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Pour one beer into the frosty mug.  Try to avoid crying or yearning for human contact.  You’re a man, dammit!  There’s nothing pathetic about drinking alone.

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Holy shit, there’s still room in that gigantic mug!  Better pour another beer in there!

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Drink the fuck out of that shit.  Quickly, while the mug is still freezer-cold!  You should be able to pound it fast enough to start filling your glass for the second go-around while it’s still cold

Servings: 3.  You could share with somebody, but there’s nobody to share it with anyway.

Cheers.

I Am a Man without Privacy

I sleep in the living room.  I change in the bathroom.  I masturbate furtively late at night or while showering.  I have one drawer for clothes, in the hallway cupboard.  I’m living like a brother-in-law that lost his job and got kicked out by his wife.

Just about everything I own will fit into one tightly-packed SUV.  Those things do not include a TV, a DVD player, a coffee table, or any of the other things that I gave away over the past two years under the mistaken apprehension that I had a steady living situation.

The sofa is too short for me to even stretch out all the way or sleep on my stomach.  I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to endure this, but I don’t have any other choice besides running home to Oregon, and I really don’t think men should run home when they’re almost 40.

This is what I’ve made of my life.  I’m a roommate without a bedroom.  I’m probably going to wind up rushing headlong into the next relationship just so I’ll have a bed to sleep in.

So, It Turns Out...

That I am not moving out of Jill’s house.  We are still no longer a couple; however, the offer of a room to stay in from a friend has dried up, and I have nowhere to go.  Since Jill and I were always excellent roommates if not great lovers, the only thing that will noticeably change are the sleeping arrangements.  (I’m in the market for an air mattress.)

I’m mostly okay with this.  I’m still close to work, and this means I don’t have to RUSH to get my car registered and insured, which was a huge cause of financial stress to me.

I’m not sure how we’re going to work it on those nights where one or the other of us may want to bring somebody home (not that I’m necessarily planning on cutting a swath through the single population of Salt Lake City), but we are both reasonable, mature adults, and I’m sure we can work things out.

Some of you are probably already accusing me of naive optimism about this situation, but you don’t really know me, you don’t know Jill, and you don’t know our friendship.

So, yeah.  I’m not moving, but I’m still single.  Ladies (gentlemen?), I am available for any and all acts of deviancy.

Alternate Theory

Emilio wasn’t even called.

When he found out about the reunion after the fact, he was justifiably pissed.

“Whoa, Emilio, sorry about that,” said Judd Nelson.  “I guess we just FORGOT ABOUT YOU.  WOO!”  Then the assembled members of the Breakfast Club all high-fived each other, because this was all just an elaborate punk on Emilio Estevez.

Emilio? Emilio?

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Somebody please explain to me what the hell Emilio Estevez was doing that was so important he couldn’t make it to this photo.  The Breakfast Club is only the most defining role of his career (the others being the video-game junkie in Nightmares and the “star” death at the beginning of Mission: Impossible).  This fact is indisputable (huh?  Billy the Kid, what?).

I mean, it’s just impossible for me to believe that he was too damn busy to come and hang out with his old co-stars, none of whom, let’s be honest, really had anything going on that day, either.

Fuck you, Emilio Estevez, really.  This is so inconsiderate, but what more should I expect of a Sheen.  You’re just a—

Wait!  Oh, shit, he’s not in prison, is he?

It’s technically possible that he could be filming a movie right now.  I mean, anything is possible, but if you ask me, the tranny bondage hooker he paid in low-grade cocaine probably didn’t let him out of his handcuffs once he/she discovered the blow had been heavily cut with chalk dust.

OH, LIKE YOU HAVE A BETTER THEORY.

This Is What the Sky Is Supposed to Look Like

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If you’re wondering why I’m not going to just pull up stakes and move back to Oregon, here’s one of the chief reasons.  Sure, I have friends, and I like Salt Lake City, and all of that.  The main thing keeping me here, however, is that the sky looks like this the majority of the year.

Let’s contrast that photo, taken five minutes ago, with this one of a typical Oregon sky:

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How’d you like waking up to this nine months out of twelve?