To quote the gifted “musician” Britney Spears on dating, "I don't understand the whole dating thing. I know right off the bat if I'm interested in someone, and I don't want them to waste their money on me and take me out to eat if I know I'm not interested in that person." (Please imagine this, like I did, with her trailer trash I f*cked my cousin country accent.)
Ok, let’s be real ... I am sure that there are many things Ms. Spears doesn't quite understand. (To quote Milli Vanilli, "Girl you know it's true.") And really ... how much could a Big Gulp and a bag of Flammin' Hot Cheetos really set this guy back? ($2.65 to be exact. Classy lady!) If it was my bank account with no prenup, my biggest concern would be getting my radar checked, because we all know K-Fed made it past the first date. (Fire yo' damn body guard!)
With that being said, the trailer trash is 100% correct about knowing right away. We all know if the person is worth our time, or isn't, right off the bat. I am not talking about love at first sight and all the bullsh*t. Love at first sight is just the desire to bump nasties. It’s LUST! (I ain't going to lie, bumping can be hot!) I am talking about the gut instinct that we should all listen to more often. If Cray-Cray Brit knows what's up, we all should be able to get it.
I admit that I too have fallen victim to the ninja's of the dating world. A dating ninja looks and acts like Price Charming in the beginning, that act soon fades and he becomes your very own K-Fed. (Fat golfing picture K-Fed and not hot backup dancer K-Fed!) The dating world has landmines right and left, and you have to get smart about how you maneuver through the battlefield of single life. The wrong guy can suck you dry! (And, not in the good way. Okaaaay!)
After moving to Los Angeles, I went on a ton of dates. (I'm that hot ... or is it slutty?) I wanted to meet people and experience my new environment. There was so much to do, so much to see and so many men in a brand-new dating pool. (I swan-dived the f*ck in! I was like a moist towelette!) Was I selective enough? No! Did I end the dates when I realized I wasn't into the shmuck? No! What the f*ck you say!? (Or, to quote my Mother's new texting phrase ... "WTF?". Disturbing ... Right?) I could have saved myself a lot of time and awkward moments through screening my mutha' fuckin' dates, but why didn't I you ask? Well, I didn't have rules in place, or the experience to guide me in the dating world. A lot has changed since then, and I am preaching the Book of Colby!
I want my fans (Chuck in Wichita) to get the full Colby dating experience, so I would like to share the three worst dates I have experienced here in the fine land of Los Angeles. These dates forced me to construct rules for how I went about dating. Trust when I say that I think we should all do what makes us happy and comfortable, but we should also use some common f*ckin' sense. Happy doesn't always mean healthy.
The very first date I went to on in Los Angeles was with a guy that I was fixed up with by a new friend. I will call this little peach "L.A. Guy". He embodied all that I thought L.A. was as a stereotype. On the phone he suggested PF Changs for dinner. I am a classy lady, and normally I would have suggested nicer accommodations for our first date, but ooooowwweee PF Changs is f*ckin' good. Just thinking about the Lettuce Wraps makes my mouth. (Mental note: Stop by the Changs after work.)
On the phone L.A. Guy suggests picking me up, and because the Book of Colby had yet to be written into the dating Bible, I said that it would be fine. ("Don't do it," my gut says.) He picks me up and right away I think he is a major douche bag. (My “new” friend, the Matchmaker, is now my “ex” friend.) L.A. Guy drove a car he couldn't afford, and was dressed in so many labels I thought he might be Euro-Trash. (You know the type with a tight black t-shirt that has Emporio Armani across it, decorative jeans and very pointy over-the-top shoes.) No, he was from the OC. (Worse!) He was dropping names here and there, and talked about clubs and work events with Red Carpets ... blah, blah, blah! In my head I had a song playing through the entire date, "Douche ... Douchhhhhheee .... Douche Bag Bag Bag ...", but I made nice and chit-chatted with him. PF Changs in my mouth was the only thing that was salvaging my evening! The waiter couldn't take our order fast enough, if you ask me!
I knew the date was really going down-hill when he started oddly interrogating me. The first question being ... "Do you have veneers?" I said no. He doesn’t' follow it up, but just puts it out there. Second question ... "Are you wearing make-up?" I said no, but I didn’t let him get away with just dropping that bomb, so I asked him, "Why do you ask?" He tells me that my skin is perfect and that he couldn't see any zits (at least he wasn’t a complete moron), so he thought I must be covering them up. I said no. The final question ... "Do you have Botox?" He followed this one up on his own and said, "I am a little younger than you, but you look so much young than me." The bitch twinkled out of me and I said, "That says more about you, now doesn't it?" I put it out there and let it hang in the air. I was not amused by this interview concerning my appearance. All I could do was focus on my Kung Pao Bean Curd while listening to his boring chit chat.
Fast forward ... he drives me home. We are outside my building, and he asks, “So am I coming upstairs?” (Looking back, I should have had him pick me up and drop me off two buildings down.)
Ok ladies, let me tell you why I was confused by his question, and why my jaw hit the floor. After the third question, I decided that I needed an OUT. I needed something that could end this date with no questions asked. I was not against freaking him out completely, and risking him talking to his friends about Crazy Colby. I could live with bad press as long as the date ended when he dropped me off. I didn’t want an awkward “good night”, so I sent a clear message. I told L.A. Guy that I had really uncomfortable stomach pains. I said it midway through dinner and I let it build. I mentioned it a few times more over the next 40 minutes. So, when he asked if he was “coming up” … I was beside myself. To be blunt, I thought stomach issues might give the clear idea of explosive diarrhea. Oh yes … I was pulling out all the stops to seal the f*ckin’ deal! Obviously, this did not occur to him. (Good Christ! I realized that I would have to take this all the way and, as the song says, “Slide into home!”) I inform him that I have diarrhea. (Oh yes, I said it. A looooow in my dating career.) I thought that no gay man wants to risk the Poop D*ck during sex. (If they do … I may be in over my head. I like the fetishes and role-play action … but poop is a general area I don’t go. TMI? Get over it!) My confession worked, and I was able to leave him, and the date behind me for good. He never called again. Amen!
You would think I would have learned to screen better for the future, but no, it took a few more bad dates to learn my lesson. The second worst date was with a man I will call … Peso. (He was not Mexican, but the reason is for me to know.) Peso, in short (Hint! Hint!), was a nice enough guy. He was fun over dinner. (AT MOTHA’ F*CKIN’ ISLANDS … maybe I just screen Big Spenders that suggest that bullsh*t!) I learned that we had things in common, and he was very cute. I thought there was promise with Peso. It was early when we finished our fine-dining experience, so we went back to my place. (Don’t get any ideas, because I am a lady.) We talk, laugh and flirt a lot. I thought all was splendid!
While sitting close to each other he says, “Wow, you are hot. I really want to kiss you!” This could have been cute if he had not asked like a 16-year-old guy who was trying to grope me clumsily. He was a little aggressive and the tone was similar to begging. I was not opposed to testing the lip-lock waters, so I agreed to it. The kissing was fine. (Mostly because I have a gift.) Then he says, “I really like you … can we take off our shirts?” Oh yes, you can see how this progressed. Each time it got more and more like he was begging. It was starting to annoy me, but it was also like seeing a person with a big goiter that you can’t stop starring at, and you just want to thump it. Let’s just say we end up in only our jeans in my bedroom. As much as he talked about liking me and wanting to see me again, I realized he was a dating ninja, but not a good one. I could see right through his act.
He continued on with his mission and tried to get me out of my jeans. He asked several times and in “sly” new ways. I finally said ok, only because I was afraid he would say, “I have blue balls and I could die if I don’t get off!” If little immature Peso had said it … I would have laughed and hurt his little feelings. (Notice my foreshadowing with the word little.) We get our jeans off and we end up in our birthday suits. (Skipping the begging to get my underwear, that I don’t wear, off.)
Okay, was this a cosmic joke? I don’t like the “relish tray” at Thanksgiving, and I did not want no Baby Kosher Dill in my boudoir. (Okkkaaay!) Give me something to work with. He says, while making out and grinding his tiny business into my hard soccer-player thigh, “I only top!” If my eyes hadn’t already been closed, and if my mouth hadn’t been full of Peso’s tongue, I probably would have laughed and rolled my f*ckin’ eyes! Really… only a top with that plumbing? That boy was meant to be face down in a pillow calling my damn name! I go with it though because I was feeling so much like a played fool at this point, and I didn’t want it to become unbearably awkward. The worst part was I let it play out like that. It was my fault!
Let’s just say it was a lot of me faking it (didn’t know a guy could do that), and planning out what I was going to shop for the next morning at Trader Joes. My performance left him thinking he was a stud and promising to call me the next day. He didn’t and I was glad (and NOT at all sore). It was one of my worst dates because of the fact that I allowed myself to do something that made me feel ridiculous. I should have ended it on my terms. Now I get to see him around and know my shame.
The last of today’s tales is the Crown Jewel of my bad dating career! I am not going to make this long, because you will see from the beginning that this date was doomed. I met “John Doe” off a social networking site. It took forever to pick a day and restaurant to meet at. I had learned my lesson, some-what, and I said I would meet him there. I had no intentions of going back to his place or mine and I made that clear before the meeting. I should have canceled the whole thing when he proved to be so difficult, but I gave him a chance. Big mistake!
John Doe showed up late, of course. (This is L.A.) He showed up looking much older than his three posted pictures, and had some weird chip on his shoulder. He tells me over dinner that I am cuter in person, so at least he displayed taste. It started out slow, and I was trying to feel him out. I was already taken aback by the outdated pictures and by the fact that he must have thought I wouldn’t notice. It was like Gerard Butler sent me a picture, and Danny DevVito showed up.
We ordered our food, and right after ordering he dives in to the topic of sex. I felt like I was hit by a truck filled with dildos on the way to the Pleasure Chest. (No … that would have been more fun!) He says, once the appetizers arrive, “My d*ck is about 10 inches and I can suck myself.” Yes ladies, he said it. Not only did he say it aloud, but I had to hear it every time I replayed the scene later. At that point the date really took a nose dive into the deepest ocean of inappropriate first-date topics possible. He began to bring up people on my “friend list” so that he could inform me of which ones he didn’t like, who he had dated and which fellows he had “four-gies” with. I did all I could to tune it out, short of going into the fetal position on the floor and going “Na, Na, Na.”. If only I could have been Dorothy and clicked my cute John Varvatos Converse together, and been back home on my sofa. I would have rather been alone at home eating my weight in carbs every Friday for month than be stuck with John Doe and his tales of sucking himself. (Yuck!) Enough said about Mr. John Doe.
I would like to say that I purposefully edited out the horrible details that could make your balls and titties dry up and fall off. My past dates are my burden to bear. These men taught me about prescreening. The following rules have saved me a lot of time and pain over the last few years, so I hope they help you as well.
Dating Rules from the Book of Colby:
1. When meeting a date off the Internet you must see at least five different well-lit pictures from all different angles prior to the date.
2. On a first date, you should meet him/her at the public location and split the bill. Make it a public location, because no one wants to go hiking on a first date and end up on a mountain with a crazy person! Split the bill so that no one leaves feeling screwed if it goes poorly.
3. Put your best foot forward and represent yourself well. A first date could turn into more, so you should look your best, and be the most enjoyable you. No one wants to hear about exes, dead people, addictions and/or lost jobs. Those are what we call in the dating industry as “turn-offs”.
4. Be aware of your limits going into the date, and be confident in what you are comfortable with.
5. Be aware of what you are getting yourself into. For instance, when you are asked over to watch a movie, that can be translated as “Come over and f*ck.” It is as simple as that! (It also applies to going over to “watch TV”.)
6. You know your type, so don’t go on pity dates, and don’t “give people a chance”. Why do that to yourself? Stick to your guns bitches!
These are a few of my basic dating rules. These work for me, but we are all different.
To conclude this lovely tale, please do some soul-searching and know what you want. You can say one thing and want another, so figure your sh*t out. This will help yourself and those you date. If you want a marriage, don’t give up the sex to everyone. (Though it can be fun!) It doesn’t get you any closer to walking down the aisle. If you want easy sex, don’t say you want “love” just to get your pickle tickled. That ends up hurting others, and I don’t think any of us sets out to be a blatant douche-bag assh*le! If you are honest and communicate well, there will never be dating drama. Above all, strive for the happiness and balance that we all deserve. Oh and … stay away from the LA Guys, Pesos and John Does of the dating world. They have crooked paths to travel, so let them figure out things for themselves. Strive for better!
March 26, 2010
March 19, 2010
SASSY, BRASSY & NOT SO MUCH CLASSY!!!
A long time ago in a faraway land called Seattle, there lived a Princess who was called Colby Christopher. Little Princess Colby was at a crossroads. There was so much on his mind, and he was plagued with sleepless nights. He was a college graduate; he had dreams of acting; he was recently single (but still living with the guy … I know right?); and he felt truly lost. So many ideas swam around in his head and he felt overwhelmed. What would he do?
Princess Colby had always had so many goals in life, and one night in January 2004 he said, “F*ck It! I am moving to Los Angeles!” Shortly after his divine revelation, he had arranged a job and an apartment with a roommate (who turned out to be a Christian nudist, but that will come at a later date), and came to grips with that fact that he would be paying rent in two cities for six months (but he was not bitter … mmmmhhh!). He was going to do what he needed to do, and he knew it was time to live the life he had envisioned as a young lad.
On March 1, 2004 at 4 a.m., I, Princess Colby, took my leap of faith. That morning I said goodbye to my then ex-boyfriend (who I, as I said before, I still lived with in a one bedroom … awkward!) and traveled in a town car to the airport. I flew out of Seattle at 6:10 a.m., and moved 1,153 miles south to West Hollywood, California. I had two suitcases, money in my savings account, high hopes and extremely shaky knees. I desired so many things, and I was ready to grab them all, no matter how much I was freaking out. I would not be stopped by anything or anyone! I was not going to be my own worst enemy!
I had large career goals. I had specific financial goals. I had grand goals toward fame. I had a plan! (Literally it was written out and attached to a spreadsheet with dates.) I wanted everything Los Angeles (hell, the world) had to offer to me. I was 25, and I was passionate about my new beginnings. (Oh if one could only be 25 again, with not an ounce of jadedness.)
One particular thing on my list was to fall in love. I wanted the partner (or husband for you folks who can legally call someone that … but I am not bitter!?) that I would share trips with, holidays with, dogs with, and lots of sex with (Okaay!). I had been “in love” before, but deep down I knew it was not LOVE. Before you start thinking that this is soooo “Carrie Bradshaw”… get that out of your f*ckin’ head! I am not some 20-something twink with bright eyes, an open heart and a brain located in my crotch. This is about real life as an adult, and it is not going to be romanticized and filled with Gucci and Dior. My life is filled with the grit and garbage that one has to wade through at times, in addition to the amazing things that life brings along as well.
For those of you who have ever dived into the gay scene, in any city, you know that it is not always the most comforting and welcoming atmosphere for one’s self confidence. You will encounter the grit and the garbage I speak of. (I am not being pessimistic. I am being real.) In life (gay or straight), no one walks around pumping up your ego and making you feel like a prince or princess (or better yet, a Queen. Heeeyy!). On a side note, they do sweet talk and compliment at times, but it’s usually because they have other motives, and we will get to that at a later date.
When you walk into a gay club (or straight club from my limited experience), you won’t find a host that greets you at the front door and tells you how amazing you are, that you have a kind soul, that your humor is fierce, or that you will do great things in life. Most likely it will be some drunk, or a bitchy horny queen (and for you women a douche bag in Dockers spilling his drink on your Jimmy Choos) that might say something like, “Who is that?” (With a lisp on a “T”), “Hot ass!” or my favorite, “Top or Bottom?” (There are some classy bitches at The Abbey in Los Angeles I am telling you.) All that makes a girl feel like a lady, does it not? It makes you realize that love may not just come to you, so you will have to find it and weed through the grit and the garage, aka, the men Colby has dated over the last six years. (Maybe even my gay lifetime.) This leads me to how this writing thing came about.
I have dated lots of men, or at least gone on lots of dates with lots of men. I have seen (and more) the good guys, the bad guys, the dumb sh*t guys and the “I don’t look like my picture that is 12 years old and 50 pounds ago” guys. I have experienced it all! I have experienced the men that made me want to request the check half way through appetizers. I have fallen for the sweet-talkers. I have sat over drinks with the steroid queens who had the IQs of dryer lint. I have slept with the players. I have had the online meetings that made you swear off online dating. I have met the amazing men that came along with no sexual chemistry. I have thought I saw potential in splendid third dates. I have experienced the break-ups. I have done the extensive man-scaping for a big date incase clothing was to hit the floor. I have been wined and dined. I have done the wining and dining. I have dated the broke ass actors and models as well as the doctors and lawyers, and yet ,I am still single. (Por qué?) After all the ups and downs, do I throw in the feather boa? Do I become celibate? Do I give up my gym membership and have lots of dogs and/or cats?
Hell no! As you learned earlier, I had a plan when I moved to Los Angeles, and I am pulling that plan out of the file folder, which I keep under stuff in my closet, and I am going to dust it off and revisit each goal on that spreadsheet. Over the last six years, I have slowly (sometimes quickly … it’s amazing what carbs and no gym time can do) derailed myself with the decisions I have made, but now I am back in the saddle, and I am ready to accomplish what I set out to do six years ago. Is this my “Independent Woman” moment? Well … I bought the stylish shoes I’m wearin’, so f*ck yes, I am an Independent Woman, and I am standing up!
I turned 32 this year, and I am changing the way I behave and how I do things. I may look 25 still, (thank you Nurse Jeisyl), but I don’t want to have the maturity and naiveté of a 25 year old. I want to gather up the life lessons, revive the passion and positive outlook, and then pack away all the jadedness and negative memories in a trunk and toss that mother f*cker off the Santa Monica pier. I am getting back on the wagon and getting things in shape! (In many ways!)
This will be the year I accomplish my goals, or at least start accomplishing my goals. (To be crass and a little less classy then my usual self … I am going to stay on the pot and finally shit!) I am going to reach for success. I am going to be healthy. I am going to be open to love, of myself and of others. In addition to all of that, I am going to write down the tales of my life for others to laugh at, learn from and identify with as they walk their own paths. I encourage everyone to learn from my experiences, my mistakes, my successes and my history of BAD dating. I have learned a great deal and feel that my stories have pearls of wisdom waiting to land on my readers. (You know you all like that mental picture!)
I would like to think that this will be read by some young gay guy who has been chatting online with his “dream date” and that he will go into their first meeting with a little more knowledge on his side. I hope that he will have never man-scaped and primped for hours in anticipation of their big date, just to find himself sitting across from a guy who is discussing his penis size over appetizers, and thinking to himself, “I Naired my balls for this!?”
So where is this all going … this blog thing? Well, I am using my voice in a new way, and I am ready to share my pearls (of wisdom). I realize that in order to make this beneficial for us all (my fans and myself), I need a defined purpose which will keep me on track to meet my goals. First off, I want to help people to avoid the landmines that can surprise us all in single life. It is one thing to lose a leg (sorry Heather Mills), but losing the will to live has no prosthetic that can be used a substitute. Second, I need an outlet that is creative. (Done.) Third, while I educate others, I want to remind myself of the life lessons I have learned. I want to learn from my own history so that I don’t repeat it and derail myself once again.
So, for the next 50 weeks, I open up my life and I share. Some of this will be embarrassing and some of it purely amusing, or both sometimes. (If you can’t laugh at yourself, you won’t get very far.) My eyes are wide open, and they are aimed on the prize, and by March 1, 2011, I will be on the way to accomplishing all I set out to do six years ago. (I know there are 52 weeks in a year ladies, but its mid-March and I am behind. Deal with it!) When the bells ring at midnight of my seven year anniversary in Los Angeles, I want to look back and say I am doing all I dreamed about doing as a youthful 25 year old. (I may even show emotions and shed a tear. I do have emotions still.)
So, if this offended you or made you uneasy … GOOD! You may need a little shaking up, and to quote the Diva Bette Midler, “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke!” One week down, and 49 more to go! Muah!
Princess Colby had always had so many goals in life, and one night in January 2004 he said, “F*ck It! I am moving to Los Angeles!” Shortly after his divine revelation, he had arranged a job and an apartment with a roommate (who turned out to be a Christian nudist, but that will come at a later date), and came to grips with that fact that he would be paying rent in two cities for six months (but he was not bitter … mmmmhhh!). He was going to do what he needed to do, and he knew it was time to live the life he had envisioned as a young lad.
On March 1, 2004 at 4 a.m., I, Princess Colby, took my leap of faith. That morning I said goodbye to my then ex-boyfriend (who I, as I said before, I still lived with in a one bedroom … awkward!) and traveled in a town car to the airport. I flew out of Seattle at 6:10 a.m., and moved 1,153 miles south to West Hollywood, California. I had two suitcases, money in my savings account, high hopes and extremely shaky knees. I desired so many things, and I was ready to grab them all, no matter how much I was freaking out. I would not be stopped by anything or anyone! I was not going to be my own worst enemy!
I had large career goals. I had specific financial goals. I had grand goals toward fame. I had a plan! (Literally it was written out and attached to a spreadsheet with dates.) I wanted everything Los Angeles (hell, the world) had to offer to me. I was 25, and I was passionate about my new beginnings. (Oh if one could only be 25 again, with not an ounce of jadedness.)
One particular thing on my list was to fall in love. I wanted the partner (or husband for you folks who can legally call someone that … but I am not bitter!?) that I would share trips with, holidays with, dogs with, and lots of sex with (Okaay!). I had been “in love” before, but deep down I knew it was not LOVE. Before you start thinking that this is soooo “Carrie Bradshaw”… get that out of your f*ckin’ head! I am not some 20-something twink with bright eyes, an open heart and a brain located in my crotch. This is about real life as an adult, and it is not going to be romanticized and filled with Gucci and Dior. My life is filled with the grit and garbage that one has to wade through at times, in addition to the amazing things that life brings along as well.
For those of you who have ever dived into the gay scene, in any city, you know that it is not always the most comforting and welcoming atmosphere for one’s self confidence. You will encounter the grit and the garbage I speak of. (I am not being pessimistic. I am being real.) In life (gay or straight), no one walks around pumping up your ego and making you feel like a prince or princess (or better yet, a Queen. Heeeyy!). On a side note, they do sweet talk and compliment at times, but it’s usually because they have other motives, and we will get to that at a later date.
When you walk into a gay club (or straight club from my limited experience), you won’t find a host that greets you at the front door and tells you how amazing you are, that you have a kind soul, that your humor is fierce, or that you will do great things in life. Most likely it will be some drunk, or a bitchy horny queen (and for you women a douche bag in Dockers spilling his drink on your Jimmy Choos) that might say something like, “Who is that?” (With a lisp on a “T”), “Hot ass!” or my favorite, “Top or Bottom?” (There are some classy bitches at The Abbey in Los Angeles I am telling you.) All that makes a girl feel like a lady, does it not? It makes you realize that love may not just come to you, so you will have to find it and weed through the grit and the garage, aka, the men Colby has dated over the last six years. (Maybe even my gay lifetime.) This leads me to how this writing thing came about.
I have dated lots of men, or at least gone on lots of dates with lots of men. I have seen (and more) the good guys, the bad guys, the dumb sh*t guys and the “I don’t look like my picture that is 12 years old and 50 pounds ago” guys. I have experienced it all! I have experienced the men that made me want to request the check half way through appetizers. I have fallen for the sweet-talkers. I have sat over drinks with the steroid queens who had the IQs of dryer lint. I have slept with the players. I have had the online meetings that made you swear off online dating. I have met the amazing men that came along with no sexual chemistry. I have thought I saw potential in splendid third dates. I have experienced the break-ups. I have done the extensive man-scaping for a big date incase clothing was to hit the floor. I have been wined and dined. I have done the wining and dining. I have dated the broke ass actors and models as well as the doctors and lawyers, and yet ,I am still single. (Por qué?) After all the ups and downs, do I throw in the feather boa? Do I become celibate? Do I give up my gym membership and have lots of dogs and/or cats?
Hell no! As you learned earlier, I had a plan when I moved to Los Angeles, and I am pulling that plan out of the file folder, which I keep under stuff in my closet, and I am going to dust it off and revisit each goal on that spreadsheet. Over the last six years, I have slowly (sometimes quickly … it’s amazing what carbs and no gym time can do) derailed myself with the decisions I have made, but now I am back in the saddle, and I am ready to accomplish what I set out to do six years ago. Is this my “Independent Woman” moment? Well … I bought the stylish shoes I’m wearin’, so f*ck yes, I am an Independent Woman, and I am standing up!
I turned 32 this year, and I am changing the way I behave and how I do things. I may look 25 still, (thank you Nurse Jeisyl), but I don’t want to have the maturity and naiveté of a 25 year old. I want to gather up the life lessons, revive the passion and positive outlook, and then pack away all the jadedness and negative memories in a trunk and toss that mother f*cker off the Santa Monica pier. I am getting back on the wagon and getting things in shape! (In many ways!)
This will be the year I accomplish my goals, or at least start accomplishing my goals. (To be crass and a little less classy then my usual self … I am going to stay on the pot and finally shit!) I am going to reach for success. I am going to be healthy. I am going to be open to love, of myself and of others. In addition to all of that, I am going to write down the tales of my life for others to laugh at, learn from and identify with as they walk their own paths. I encourage everyone to learn from my experiences, my mistakes, my successes and my history of BAD dating. I have learned a great deal and feel that my stories have pearls of wisdom waiting to land on my readers. (You know you all like that mental picture!)
I would like to think that this will be read by some young gay guy who has been chatting online with his “dream date” and that he will go into their first meeting with a little more knowledge on his side. I hope that he will have never man-scaped and primped for hours in anticipation of their big date, just to find himself sitting across from a guy who is discussing his penis size over appetizers, and thinking to himself, “I Naired my balls for this!?”
So where is this all going … this blog thing? Well, I am using my voice in a new way, and I am ready to share my pearls (of wisdom). I realize that in order to make this beneficial for us all (my fans and myself), I need a defined purpose which will keep me on track to meet my goals. First off, I want to help people to avoid the landmines that can surprise us all in single life. It is one thing to lose a leg (sorry Heather Mills), but losing the will to live has no prosthetic that can be used a substitute. Second, I need an outlet that is creative. (Done.) Third, while I educate others, I want to remind myself of the life lessons I have learned. I want to learn from my own history so that I don’t repeat it and derail myself once again.
So, for the next 50 weeks, I open up my life and I share. Some of this will be embarrassing and some of it purely amusing, or both sometimes. (If you can’t laugh at yourself, you won’t get very far.) My eyes are wide open, and they are aimed on the prize, and by March 1, 2011, I will be on the way to accomplishing all I set out to do six years ago. (I know there are 52 weeks in a year ladies, but its mid-March and I am behind. Deal with it!) When the bells ring at midnight of my seven year anniversary in Los Angeles, I want to look back and say I am doing all I dreamed about doing as a youthful 25 year old. (I may even show emotions and shed a tear. I do have emotions still.)
So, if this offended you or made you uneasy … GOOD! You may need a little shaking up, and to quote the Diva Bette Midler, “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke!” One week down, and 49 more to go! Muah!