Naked in the Shower with George

I cried in the shower today.

Not to be a downer, but I think that easily clues you in to how the last week has gone. For better or worse, we've all been there.

I was simply trying to rinse off after walking home through a muggy rain to work out, then eat some kale and chicken breast that's been in my freezer for six months. As I stared into the mirror at my 14 year old physique, knowing I had $40 in my bank account, I turned on the gayest Pandora station I could and was hit with a big one.

I took another career jolt last week when I was turned down by a manager. Did I think it was a sure thing? Yes. Why? Because I'm incredibly intelligent, thin, and talented. At least, that's what I was told. Rejection amidst compliment can be quite disconcerting.

Thus, when I attended the wedding of a close friend this weekend in Madison, Wisconsin, giving me the chance to visit every person I care about but live nowhere near, my jaded New York edges began to soften inside the loving Midwest embrace. What the hell was I doing in an uphill battle? This land was flat and welcoming. 

When I moved back to New York almost one year ago, I realized the solitary life I would seep back into. I knew I would hear no more than I heard my own name. That's not to discount the many friends I have here, but New York can be quite isolating. Especially as a writer and actor. Especially when trying to achieve both at the same time. I'm not just biting off more than I can chew, I'm trying to swallow the thing whole. 

The uncertainty I've had since...well...since I was baptized a gay Catholic was reawakened. Just like Jesus, but actually. 

Today, after returning from bliss to serve seafood to Brazilians and take ten percent tips from tourists, it was all too much. 

The choice may have been mistaken, the choosing was not. 

Oh. Wow. Just kick me in the balls, Sondheim. (Actually, I've heard he enjoys that sort of thing.) So I let myself sob, and then I turned the water to cold. I toweled off, and I did what I do when I doubt myself. 

I looked in the mirror and raised my middle finger. 

And then I took a selfie. 

I look great with wet hair. 

To my friends in the Midwest:

We've always belonged together. 

We will always belong together. 

Like my pics,

TJB: Making It

I Relate to Animated Princesses

I wanted to write something beautiful to sign off on the year, but I've suddenly hit that point of what-the-hell-happened. One year ago today, I was writing my first post from Chicago. Now, I'm sitting in NYC wondering if I've somehow taken two steps forward and three steps back.

Reading through my past was the definition of WTF. I laughed a lot, but not in the narcissistic "I'm so funny" way I had hoped...in more of a "Holy Hell, who is this guy?" kind of way.

Growth? Probably not. Self-pity? Likely.

I could try to sum up my feelings, but that sounds exhausting and requires creativity. Instead, I shall listen to the following video on repeat from a movie I've never seen, mostly because I'm in no state to sob during an animated film. So why don't you hit play and look back through my year to laugh with me.

Or at me. Either way, I feed off of your attention.

Cheers, 2013. I have no idea what we were drinking, but it did the job.

I'M FINE MOM,

TJB: Making It

i still don't know my address

I've made myself emotionally unavailable for a few days  to assist me in the moving process. I was given cards full of well wishes and photos filled with people that made the last seven months of my life seven of the most memorable. I didn't even know some of these people before I moved to Chicago, and who the hell was I to get so attached in such a short time? Apparently, my chronic-bitch-face wasn't chronic. I would have to work on that.

Had I not simply thrown up some middle fingers to the Windy City skyline, I probably would have been curled up in a ball on the twin bed I bought for $300 and sold for $50 worrying that Ramen will raise their prices. Luckily, I had something very special to keep me moving forward...

my dreams. 

No, just kidding. I had a run-down frat house in the Greek capitol of the U.S. filled with a guy I hated in college and two complete strangers. Now that I've arrived, I'm in Heaven. I'm sweaty, exhausted, and confused why the toilet only flushes 3/4 of the time, but in Heaven. 

There are a lot of times in my life where I've thought, "I'm not sure how I got here, but I know this is where I'm supposed to be."

Whow...that sounded so gay. 

But this is one of those moments. Through the help of a former frenemy and two complete strangers, I feel that I'm where I belong. 

Except for the time that guy totally crashed our roomie lunch date and talked about himself for an entire hour...but he was cute, so I let it happen.

Look it to book it, 

TJB: Making It

Which pile do I put my pride in?

Not until your belongings are in piles and it's after midnight do you really believe that you're moving. I remember every time I've moved - and I have at least once every year since freshman dorms - saying, "I NEVER want to do that again!"

How soon we forget.

But here I am only 3 Miller Lights in (I can't remember what buying craft beer feels like) with one pile condemned to Michigan, and one pile destined for NYC. Deciding which stuffed animals make the trip will be a much lengthier debate. I'll probably need at least one more beer and a few shed tears.

I moved to Chicago 7 months ago without a job or a home and I had a pretty stellar run. I'm moving back to New York with both of those, so that has to count for something. Right? I'm just going to shake that good omen for all it's worth.

If there's one thing I've learned from re-watching the entire series of Sabrina, the Teenage Witch it's that

if it's meant to be, it will be.

And if it's not, you still get to date a lot of really cute boys and cats live a really long time.

My tap shoes were covered in dust,

TJB: Making It

She ought to be in bed.

I always loved my hair the day I had a haircut scheduled. I would spend the entire day staring in the mirror thinking, "Damn. I look GOOD. Why should I mess with this?" So, I stopped scheduling haircuts. I've spent the last few years as a walk-in. Haircuts have become my spur-of-the-moment, fuck-the-world response to living.

I think that sort of trickled into other aspects of my life...like moving. Since moving is a little more momentous than a haircut, "I Love My Hair Day" has expanded to "I Love My Life Week". 

As soon as you know the scissors are coming, you suddenly don't want to cut it. 

I just had the perfect weekend. Literally, I walked in my door ten minutes ago singing "I Could Have Danced All Night". I spent every single minute of this weekend surrounded by friends. My body looks so good, I ran in a TANK TOP. I had dinner with the woman who inspired me to be an actor and saw The Book of Mormon for the first time (and I didn't throw anything at the stage!)

I can't remember the last time I felt this happy and loved and thin 

and I have never been more scared in my entire life that I could be making the biggest mistake ever by walking away again. 

I scheduled a haircut for next Wednesday. It's my last night in Chicago. I know I will spend the entire day looking in the mirror thinking, "Damn. Life is GOOD. Why should I mess with this?" 

The best thing about friendships is that they always grow back, just like hair. Even when you have to shorten them, it's never long before they're back in your face and irritating the shit out of you. 

And I have AMAZING hair...friends. 

OK I also started drinking,

TJB: Making It

nobody is surprised

I'm moving back to NYC.

I planned to write something really extensive, try to justify the move, explain my reasoning...but then I remembered I don't owe you anything.

A lot of people tried to say I didn't give Chicago a fair chance, or that I wanted this so much. I did. How can I just turn around and go back? I'm a fast learner. Since most of my relationships last an average of 3 months, maybe I have a fear of commitment thrown in. Talk to me when I'm 30.

Moving to Chicago was the best decision I ever made. I always said that I loved people who live in Chicago because they actually want to live here. The people in New York feel like they need to live there. I realized I need to live there. I spent so much time telling myself not to look back, but now I realize maybe I was looking in the right direction and moving in the wrong one - like those seats on the train that face backwards. Maybe they know what's up.

Yes, Sonya, I can hear you. "You suck at moving to New York!" Hey, third time's a charm, right?

Chicago, consider this my two weeks notice.

New York, I wish I knew how to quit you.

This time we make it,

TJB: Making It

Karl Lagerfeld is Blunt

I texted a friend to get a "casual drink" last night. I say "casual drink" because he's in a messy relationship and I don't need anybody to think that I'm trying to Marilyn their Jackie. We even picked a divey straight bar for the one-and-done beer so that any potential of romance would be void.

Everybody knows that as soon as you plan for boredom, you'll be slapped in the face with crazy.

I made sure to wear the tightest shorts and most colorful print top I had because although I was going to a dive bar, I wanted everyone to know I was there. I was just around the corner when my friend alerted me he had arrived. As I walked in the door, I saw him at the end of the bar sitting next to a flamboyantly dressed Asian woman.

Great. He brought a friend. Even less to worry about. There's nothing like a third wheel to run over Marilyn.

I perched atop the third bar stool and suddenly I realized that he and the woman hanging off of his arm had never met before. Her drooping eyelids covered in sparkly blue eye shadow told me she had been there for quite some time.

I ordered a beer and buckled up. This was going to escalate quickly.

I couldn't hear her name, but that was OK because it was displayed on her wrist in rhinestones. Within five minutes, I changed that to a potential for diamonds. She launched into her history in the fashion industry, citing close relationships with Karl Lagerfeld and Marc Jacobs. She had spent a few years as a fashion photographer, but now worked in the mundane reality of Corporate America. The instability and party potential of the fashion world became too much when she began to find herself waking up naked, covered in glitter.

Though she is less naked now, she is still covered in glitter.

Somehow, she managed to meet the love of her life naked and covered in glitter. He is or is not her boyfriend. I wasn't really sure where their relationship landed by the end of the night, especially since new beers kept appearing in front of me every time she pulled a wad of cash from her self-proclaimed $500 bag.

As soon as she started to announce her drunkenness out loud, I thought we were in trouble. Luckily, she was a regular and the bar staff gave a knowing smirk and nod every time I braced myself for the escort out.

When she started repeating stories, I knew we were going downhill fast and was glad I had buckled my seat belt. Then, she returned to Karl Lagerfeld.

"When I first started as a photographer, I met Karl Lagerfeld - who is very...what's the word...blunt. He looked at me and he said, 'You look boring, but you are not boring. You are unique. Why do let yourself look boring? You do not look like other people and you are not other people so stop trying to be other people. Emphasize your uniqueness.' That's when I started to be myself. I am unique darling!"

She made a few comments and gestures to the "White Americans" in the bar, but she and Karl Lagerfeld had already given me everything I needed.

The four beers and shot of Jameson inside me reached out to hold her hand. "Thank you," I said. "Even though you won't remember me tomorrow and I'm sure you do this to a lot of young gay boys, thank you. You were exactly what I needed right now."

When she got up to leave, she kissed me on the cheek and said, "Darling, I can tell you have passion and you will make it happen."

With that, she was gone.

I woke up this morning and imagined I was naked, covered in glitter. I felt reborn.

Emphasize your uniqueness,

TJB: Making It

Resting Bitch Face

My face when I found out I didn't make it. #BigBreak

There are a lot of times in a performers life when they begin to question their existence. I've had a lot of those to plaster on the walls of Blogspot.com. Still, none have quite reached the foreclosure on pride that occurred when I received a rejection e-mail today from a singing competition held at a bro-bar beneath my apartment.

I made it past Round 1, sure. I wasn't surprised. When I returned for Round 2 to see most of the wide-eyed corn-fed schmucks in elastic waist band dresses and pleated dockers I had seen at Round 1...I was feeling pretty ballsy.

I was dressed well. I looked pretty. More importantly, I had great pitch and knew how to stay in key. I thought all of these things would easily qualify me for Round 3.

Sure, maybe my weight on one hip and unavoidable resting-bitch-face as the "vocal coach" of judges critiqued my song choice, and the fact that I was the gayest thing to hit this competition (and probably establishment) since its humble beginnings put me at a disadvantage for the type of person that would bring a slew of friends in to spend money.

But I'll be damned if my rendition of John Legend's "Ordinary People" didn't have as much soul as the 30-something weave-in-a-wrap woman screeching through "Proud Mary".

Call me crazy, but as a person who has been paid hundreds of dollars a week to stand on a stage and perform, I expected to make it to Round 3. I mean TOP 50? Come on.

I'm just going to call it adversity and pour a drink.

NOW where will I go for dollar beers on Wednesdays?

Boystown,

TJB: Making It

Just Checking

What have I been doing recently?

Nightlife: I feel asleep at 6:15 PM on Saturday of the Gay Pride Festival, woke up at 9:30 PM, and watched a documentary about poor people living in Skid Row. I was sort of proud of that.

Television: I've watched the first two seasons of Bob's Burgers three times on Netflix (reminder: not my own account), and have once again begun to watch 30 Rock in its entirety for approximately the 9th time. Every weeknight, I watch The Nanny like a good gay. I'm very grateful that Dance Moms is back. I also recently discovered that Sabrina, the Teenage Witch is available for free on Hulu...the future is bright.

Writing: I haven't blogged since Father's Day, but I have been writing two different web series for a friend of mine in New York. One is called Boob Cam. It's a working title...

Love: HahahahahahahahahahahaOHGodIwilldiealone

Dining: I eat a PB&J every day for lunch because I'm too poor to afford anything else.

Music: I recently had my first round of auditions for a singing competition at the bar below my apartment. My best friend went with me. I left feeling like I was Top 2. She was pretty sure I was somewhere near the Top 5. She bought the drinks, so I didn't rebut.

Well, that about sums it up. Thanks for checking in, America.

Don't worry. Things won't stay boring for long. They rarely do.

Buckle up,

TJB: Making It

Runaway Pride

I was feeling a little overwhelmed today. You know those times when you look at your bank account and wonder how you can work so hard and be so exhausted and still buying generic brands to save 20 cents? Then you feel guilty when you buy a $6 beer, even though it was the highlight of your week, but you tip $2 anyway because you know the bartender feels the same as you do and at least you can pretend to see the gratitude in her eyes when she thanks you.

I decided to grab a coffee (I got a medium even though I wanted a large because I wanted to save 40 cents) and take a walk. There was a rock under a tree by the lake - very Lion King - and I sat down alone with my earbuds in, phone on silent, no fucks given.

There's a running path just below the rock ledge. At first, watching all of the runners made me feel incredibly lazy, as I was the only person not moving within sight. But I decided to just do what I do best.

Look good and judge people.

Some of them were beautiful. Some of them should never wear a tank top in public again. Some of them had clearly just started their run. Some of them were covered in sweat, but seemed to have no intention of stopping anytime soon. Some were slowing down to a walk as they approached their finish. A few had bikes and sped past the runners. A lot of them wore collegiate t-shirts, though many of their college days were years behind them. In fact, I worried some might keel over any second.

All of them were alone.

Solitary, focused, moving. In almost an hour, I didn't see any words exchanged between people. And though each of them was incredibly different from the others, I realized they had all made the same conscious decision before setting out on this path:

To be better. To be healthier. To live longer and be stronger.

It was then I realized how many of them were probably just as exhausted, overworked, and broke as I was. But here they were making the investment to improve the only aspect of their lives they had control over.

Themselves.

Because nobody else can make you run. They can motivate you, sure, but you're just dead weight until you
lift one leg to stride past the other. So I got up and walked.

Alone, but empowered.

I somehow felt more connected to the world and the girls with the neon laces or the old men in windbreakers. I was even OK with the bikers who sped past me, because though I was moving slow, I was moving. We were all sharing a path I knew I would make it to the end of in my own time.

I'm buying a beer tonight,

TJB: Making It

While You Were Out

Fridays are my favorite day of the week. If you screw up Friday night, you still have Saturday!

Oh boy did I screw up Friday.

I left work feeling accomplished and fulfilled, knowing my best friend was ready to rage the night away. I didn't even care when my Sperry Top-sider laces came untied because nothing was going to trip me up! I took the stairs to the train two at a time and hummed showtunes the whole way! LIFE WAS BEAUTIFUL! IT WAS FRIDAY!

Then, my friend called saying she had a sinus infection and would be staying in.

Well, fuck.

I tied my laces and ditched the showtunes. Having years of experience in the Friday night industry, I knew there was no bouncing back from plans that were canceled after 6PM. I had to succumb to the inevitable, so I stopped at Walmart, purchased two bottles of wine, ordered chicken Pad Thai, and went over to my friends to watch her pop Nyquil and Sudafed. At least I would get some social interaction before she passed out (from the G&Ts I poured, not the Nyquil).

The real problems started when she turned on Dateline. I probably haven't watched Dateline since I was 10 years old sitting in The Great Room of my upper-middle-class family's mansion in the woods. You know, back when the only struggles I knew of the world came from Friday night prime-time. Oh, and from being a flaming gay kid in the middle of a conservative Christian town. Now, I can't seem to get enough struggle in my life.

BRING IT ON JOSH MANKIEWICZ!

As soon as the first Twitter pop-up appeared in the corner of the screen, I was in for the kill. I was practically narrating the show though a live Twitter feed. Once news anchor Josh Mankiewicz and Dateline NBC started responding, something changed in me. I felt powerful, I felt important, I felt on top of the world.

Two hours and 67 Tweets later, I have plans to get lunch with Mr. Mankiewicz and Dateline whenever I'm back in NYC.

I finished my G&T, remembered that I was in my best friend's apartment, acknowledged her presence one final time, and took my wine to have a good cry.

You know those times when you need a good cry? You're not really sad, but you haven't been sad in a while, and you just need to let it all out or else the next time you are really sad you'll either stab somebody or adopt a cat? I decided two bottles of wine was a good time to do it.

I stopped and started approximately 12 movies on my Netflix

- and by my Netflix, I mean my friend Ian's Netflix because what kind of bougie person has their own Netflix account -

I just couldn't find the right crying material. I needed something that would get to my gut but not make me feel unattractive.

Just at that moment, the universe could tell I needed help. My ex-boyfriend (the dancer, not the mini-jerk or the movie mogul) texted that he would be visiting Chicago in the coming weeks.

And it hit me. Only one person in the world could make me cry like I needed to. The one person who could understand what I've been through, and what I still have yet to go through, more than anyone.

Judy Garland

I scoured YouTube and found Life With Judy Garland: Me and My Shadows. I'm not sure if you've ever seen this made-for-TV masterpiece, but you can find all 3 glorious hours right on the very screen you're currently staring at. I highly suggest you culture yourself and do so.

I had my cry. I sobbed and sobbed and felt what Judy felt, and we connected beyond the decades that separated us through the lyrics of Arlen and Gershwin and a bunch of other gays.

Then I woke up in bed alone next to an empty bottle of wine and pile of tissues.

Thank GOD I still have Saturday,

TJB: Making It

People Who Need People

Long before I started a blog, I had this plan to write a book where each chapter was dedicated to a person who had somehow influenced my life's direction in chronological order. I started a draft of it on the first computer my family owned when I was in 6th grade. Somewhere on a Gateway hard-drive in the back of my parent's basement is Chapter 1. It's about a girl I had a crush on in pre-school whose name I couldn't remember until I met her again when she was on my sister's softball team 7 years later. I offered her half of my last piece of gum. True chivalry. She declined.

I had a conversation this weekend with someone I had just met who asked about why I moved back to Chicago. I gestured to a group of my friends and said, "People." The rest of the conversation went something like this:

Him: You moved back here for them?
Me: No, I moved back here because I wanted to spend time with them.
Him: And because you wanted to give up acting?
Me: I don't remember saying that.
Him: But you're not acting.
Me: Correct.
Him: So what are you doing?
Me: Spending time with them.

Yes, I was purposefully trying to be a dick, but I feel we too often complicate the reason we do things, or rather, complicate what we think we should  be doing.

For instance, people who crave soup. I'm not trying to generalize by saying that everyone who has ever said they're craving soup is full of shit. However, I think most people are afraid to say, "I'm feeling fat, so I should keep my calorie intake under 300," or, "I'm broke-ass, so I shouldn't spend more than $3."

But to be clear, nobody craves hot water with vegetables in it.

Today as I was on my run (because I don't want to be fat and have a poor body-image), I began thinking about what an influential man had once taught me. You have to know exactly why you're doing something in order to get any real fulfillment out of it. Rarely is that reason complicated. Unfortunately, we often feel pressured to make it so. You want artistic fulfillment? Great, but if you really just want to be rich and famous, you won't get either. If you could just admit you want to be rich and famous from the get-go, you still might not get it...but you'll at least expedite the process of false soul-searching and approach it with the necessary drive.

Why am I doing what I'm doing? Because I want to be happy and have fun. My life since graduating college has been a clusterf*ck, but every decision I've made has been in the pursuit of fun. Sure, some people see that as noncommittal and irresponsible, but everything I've done, I've given it 110%.

I also want to be rich and famous and have everyone think I'm really pretty. But, we all want that.

What do I need to achieve those dreams? People. We all need people. And you might as well like the people you need, because if you don't, it will feel empty every time they tell you how pretty you are.

Now let me skip the false soul-searching and say this: I will continue to make a lot of sporadic and off-the-cuff decisions in the pursuit of myself. But oh my GOD is it fun. If it weren't, you probably would've stopped reading this piece of shit blog years ago.

But if you stick with it, there might just be a chapter reserved for you somewhere on a Gateway hard drive.

I'm off to eat some soup because I'm feeling fat and broke-ass,

TJB: Making It

I Try

Many people spent the weekend reuniting with friends and family at barbecues. I would bet that few of those friends and families put on a full-blown concert. I agree that "friends are the family we choose", but The Freshman Fifteen is the family that chooses you.

I didn't plan on auditioning for an all-male a cappella group when I went to Northwestern. I didn't think I could hold up against all that testosterone, which does exist despite the homo-eroticism. Somehow, one of the bros convinced me via a text message while I was in the bathroom at Barnes & Noble. I went to audition on the spot and somehow ended up in the most beautiful fluke of my life.

I usually start writing these blog posts knowing what to say. I cry a lot when I write them even when they're funny, because there's something incredibly humbling yet terrifying about being able to see your life in writing. I'm also just a really amazing writer. But I can't remember ever feeling this moved or confused or completely overwhelmed by emotions...

and I think that's exactly F15.

This weekend, I stood on stage, and sat in the audience, and shotgunned beers, and had brunch with, and laughed with, and cried with the men who have spanned 15 years of what I hold to be the #1 reason I don't regret spending $200,000 on a degree. Had it not been for them, I might have actually submitted one of the five transfer applications I filled out to UMich the beginning of freshman year.

During a road trip senior year, I earnestly asked some of them, "How do people make friends if they're not in F15?" Thankfully, I'll never really know the answer.

There are some I love to hate, some I love to irritate, and even some I've fallen in love with. But there isn't a single one I don't love in some sense of the word. Plenty I don't like, but none I don't love. Some of them know all too well what they have done for me, and I can only hope to return a small majority of what's been given. But debt does not exist in the bank of brotherhood.

...that was...pretty good...

When the weekend was coming to an end, I don't think any of us really knew how to say goodbye. So, we just stood in a circle and sang every song we could remember until we peeled away one by one to head to airports, parents, and more drinking.

I first performed "I Try" at a show that took place the weekend of my grandmother's funeral. My parents knew how important the 10th anniversary show was to me, and I remember looking at these guys before I started singing and knowing that this song described just how I felt about them. Five years later, at the 15th anniversary, nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change.

and I think that's exactly F15.

ILU,

TJB: Making It

Trust the T, not the B

My blog just hit 40,000 views and I just watched an unaired episode of a cancelled TV show that stripped my soul bare and showed me the truth about my life in under 20 minutes.

That show is the enormously underrated, assuredly award-winning Don't Trust the B---- in Apartment 23. 

Long story short, Midwestern blonde bitch moves to NYC and has a sassy and fabulous roommate with which to have endless shenanigans that end in quirky life lessons. In the aforementioned episode, the sassy fabulous one teaches the Midwestern blonde one that she never really wanted to be with that boy she liked in 7th grade, but only thought she did because she never got it out of her system and kept asking, "What if?"

Essentially, there are a lot of awesome things going on in my life. I have my own apartment. I pay my own bills. I discovered an amazing hairstyle that over-compliments my bone structure. I have a job I thought I had no business doing but somehow ended up being really good at. Hell, I was just asked to come back to be seen by the artistic team of a Broadway show...OK, it's on a cruise ship, but still. Six months later, somebody is still interested in me.

So 24 years later, why am I not still interested in myself?

Because I let a boy get to me. Because for years, I've been treating him like the one that got away, when in reality

I let myself get away.

*clutch tissues to mouth and squint eyes*

I moved back to Chicago for a lot of strange reasons. For one, I really wanted to party here for New Year's Eve and couldn't afford a round-trip ticket. I also felt like I had to prove I wasn't wasting my brain while trying to be an actor. There's also an insane reunion of my a cappella group next weekend that I was worried I wouldn't get to be a part of because I was such a great actor and would surely be filming somewhere.

But to be bluntly honest, I sort of thought love-struck 17 year old me had some unfinished business to move back for.

OK FINE I WAS 18! I just don't like feeling old.

Turns out, America (and I think I'm big in Spain now), I was the only one who thought so. Apparently, I just needed a sassy girl on a nixed sitcom to tell me. And if I can take rejection from Broadway, I can take rejection from this.

What's next? I don't really know.

Just kidding, I have so much more bad TV to watch and a really cute outfit planned for tomorrow.

There's Pad Thai all over my pillow,

TJB: Making It

Parents Can't Stop My Swerve

Great parents have a strange way of making you feel like you can do anything, but also that you can't do anything right. My parents are probably the best parents, so I spent a weekend feeling both incredibly motivated and incredibly disappointed in myself.

Just kidding, I'm like the best son in the world. 

What being around my parents does make feel is incredibly single. Anyone who's met my parents knows they're pretty close...in a weird Ben Stiller movie sort of way. They do everything together, including Pilates...every morning...even in my studio apartment. I would have complained about the time and lack of space, but then I saw the shoes they bought me. 

Now, anyone who's met me (or read my blog) knows that I'm pretty sure I peaked when I was 17 and will never find another  5'7", 115 lb. jerk to date me again. I get closer to the proverbial knife the longer I go without having interaction with gay men who are not actors, or every time a Trader Joe's cashier comments on my purchase of ice cream, wine, and chocolate. 

No, it's not going to be a romantic night. 

So when my best friend texted me at dinner to say she was suddenly in the mood to go out, I left my parents with the check, threw on a printed top, and took some shots before I dragged that bitch to the gay bar. It had been weeks since I had seen a v-neck T and vodka tonics. I was like a kid at the circus. We perched ourselves at the head of the bar (6'1 blondes belong at the top), and overlooked the colorful kingdom of queens. 

Before I had even finished my first drink, some drunk in a tank top came over to whisper far too loudly into my ear, "My friend in the green shirt over there really wants to talk to you."

I WAS BACK! And green shirt was real  handsome. Sure, he was wearing American Eagle, or Hollister, or something that was popular in 2002, but he was pretty and that's all that mattered. 

No, I didn't go talk to him. Hell, I hadn't even finished my first drink. Have some respect before you prematurely approach me. The point is, I was reminded that I am not completely undesirable just because I spend my time in the shadows of straights.

Watch out kweens, the sun is shining and so is this jawline. And if my spring wardrobe has anything to say about it, I'll have a new ex-boyfriend by the 4th of July!

Now if my hag could just finish finals,

TJB: Making It

a lady must be taught

Straight girls have this idea that every gay guy would be perfect for every other gay guy as long as they're both single.

Gays have taught straight girls a lot of things. We've taught them how to contour, how to dance, how to do their hair, what to wear. Basically, we've kept them looking good for decades. I'm not sure how we failed to teach them that pretty gays do not belong with ugly gays, but also don't want to be the ugly gay in a relationship. 

Every time a straight girls asks me, "Are you singe?" I visibly cringe. I give them a squinted side-eye and ask, "Why?" Without fail, they always say, "Because I know someone who would be PERFECT for you."

Sometimes, he has a half-sleeve tattoo. Sometimes, he's in nursing school, so he's really busy and couldn't help but gain a few extra pounds, but trust her, he used to be so hot and is so funny. Most times, he has overly waxed eyebrows and owns three shirts that aren't tank-tops, two of which are from college and only used to sleep in on the rare occasion he sleeps in a shirt. 

Why can't one of them be an incredibly attractive (yet slightly less attractive than me) gay who likes to pretend he doesn't drink as much as he does, and would never let you catch him with bare arms unless he's on a beach although he'd probably look pretty OK topless, and he generally just wants to watch bad television and drink and hang out with my friends and have a nicer apartment than me so I don't have to sleep in a twin bed, but he doesn't have any cats, and can pay for at least half of the times we dine out (which is almost all the time) but is also an amazing grocery shopper for the times I want him to cook dinner (but I'll buy the wine). 

WHY?!

Fine I'll go on a date with gay-brow,

TJB: Making It

Desperation Station

Do you think there was ever a time when breakups were just breakups? Imagine how nice it must have been to sit through the awkward half hour conversation of, “This isn’t working”, and then go home and drink yourself to sleep dreading the next time you’d awkwardly run into him.

Nowadays, you have to go home and drink yourself to sleep while purposefully running into them on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram to see if they’ve posted anything that proves they’re as devastated and regretful as you want them to be. There are no longer coincidental run-ins, only stalker set-ups when you happen to think you look really cute today, and it might be worth taking a cab to the Starbucks they just checked into on Foursquare before their cappuccino is even frothed.

Or maybe just update your OKCupid photos since you know they’ve been looking at your profile anyway. They track that shit.

Last night, before I had even finished my first martini, my best friend mentioned I might be a little…”desperate”. She was lucky I’d already eaten the olives and was against wasting liquor, or she’d have been blinded by a flying garnish.

But that’s what best friends are for, right? To tell us the honest truth?

NO, YOU IDIOTS! Best friends are for saying that you were the prettiest one at prom and you were robbed of the crown because everybody was jealous!

OK, maybe I see her point.

The problem is, America, that this is the longest I haven’t had a serious relationship since I was 19. And by “serious”, I mean a jealous boyfriend who constantly texts me wondering where I am while I tell him he’s not the boss of me. And I miss that.

My best friend says I need to be OK with being alone before I can fully open my heart to another person. Then again, she’s had one boyfriend and they’ve been dating for over six years, so maybe she’s not the most qualified to judge me about my “serial dating addiction”. Plus, I spend most of my time staring into the mirror practicing my angles, so I think I’m pretty good at being alone.

Though, I did put in a work request for dimmer lighting in my bathroom. At least until I get my summer glow.

By the end of my second martini and a lot of fried food, I figured my best friend might have a point. I decided to spend last night watching movies, by myself…reflecting…in my twin bed…with four stuffed animals.

Oh GOD I’m going to die alone,

TJB: Making It

Big Fish, Bigger Emotions

The set changed every 3 minutes. For a large portion of the show, I wasn't sure if I knew exactly where the story was taking place. All I could tell is that there was a lot of money being pumped into it. The costumes, while beautiful, weren't very telling of a time period. Even the war referenced was left up for assumption. The setting had to be disregarded.

The songs were mediocre. While the voices may have been award winning, it was as if the actors were wasting their talents on something unworthy of their artistry. The story writing felt forced and weak, which I thought was strange for a musical based on a movie. Casting was predictable, as I had seen half the actors in the last show from the same writer. I suppose working with who's comfortable is expected.

In fact, I should have expected all of this. Many people had already given me their opinions on the show. By the end of the first act, I seriously considered spending the $8 for a 6oz. cocktail. But, my ticket was free, and I was extremely proud of all of the stress my friends had gone through to make this larger-than-life show a reality.

Then, the second act happened.

Suddenly, when faced with death, we find ourselves appreciative of everything we were too busy to believe in. Faith and love are no longer fairy tales, but the only reality we have. People that were simply "strangers we know very well" become the only link to ourselves, and it's when we're off searching for answers that we find there was never really a question to begin with. Still, even when we know how it will end, we're never quite sure how we get there.

I realized that I was watching my life. Only, I didn't want to keep sitting in the audience.

The set doesn't matter, that will keep changing. The costumes don't matter, as long as they look great. The year is irrelevant, since everyone (mostly me) generally looks the same regardless of time. There will be tons of money pumped into it and a lot of mediocre songs, thus, the first act will probably leave me bored and needing a drink. Yes, everyone will continue to give their opinion, but if I can keep working with who's comfortable, I'll be very lucky.

The facing of death will somehow remain an unpredictable piece of the plot. The audience will continue to not see this coming, which is sort of beautiful in a way. But it's always somewhere in that second act, where the stakes are raised and things get exciting, that we realize the banal necessity of the first.

In fact, if we could go back and start the play again, it might not seem so banal.

By the end of the show, I was a sobbing mess and re-inspired to enter the world. "A man is judged by the quality of his friends, and I am a tycoon". I figure, if I'm still in the first act and having such a blast

my second act is really going to bring the house to its feet.

Thank God my life wasn't Les Miserables,

TJB: Making It

pin now, read later

The psychology of an addict is a complicated thing. We are delicate creatures. And though I am recovering, America...I had a relapse last night.

That's right. I was just one iPhone screen touch away from purchasing a one-way ticket to New York.

I am addicted to running. A lot. Both literally (although I hurt my ankle, thanks for caring) and metaphorically. I'm like Julia Roberts in that movie I don't really remember, but there were lots of wedding dresses and cute guys, so I was on board.

You see, I went to this super swanky, open bar, artist's birthday party on the south side of Chicago that my friend invited me to. He has a pretty serious girlfriend, so I made sure to confirm that other friends would be attending. Since I am about as single as it gets, I had to ensure I wasn't the third wheel.

Turns out, I was the 9th wheel.

They weren't all couples, but I sort of realized that I was the only one without a party buddy. Sure, I was really feeling it when I was in the bathroom line and some ex-model kept telling me I needed to be in magazines, but as soon as she peed, I was left with my flickering ego and six too many vodka drinks. The lady at the snack table was even concerned once I hit my third bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos and wasn't high.

A reminder this is about my addiction to RUNNING...not substance abuse...Mom...

So, I posed for a few inevitable photos and decided I should duck out. I pulled an Irish Goodbye. But when I found myself walking 10 blocks to a bus I wasn't sure was going to show up, I sort of regretted my choice. Not because I was afraid of the south side at night (I was terrified), but because I was acting like a baby.

A baby with an iPhone. I am shocked how efficiently I could pull up a  flight to JFK. Fortunately, I couldn't find the information for my 50 JetBlue dollars I had sitting in an account somewhere, so I decided I would have to put off buying the ticket until the morning. Then, I made sure everybody knew just how upset I was.

How did we embarrass ourselves before text messaging?

I woke up this morning and deleted the conversations. I trusted that the world was sort of used to this by now. It was time I sat myself down for a serious talk. By serious talk, I mean I sang along to every emotional Katy Perry and Whitney Houston song I could find on YouTube. Yes, they were karaoke tracks. I don't need the competition. 

Once I dragged myself out of bed for coffee (7-Eleven because I didn't deserve Starbucks), I found a photo from last night in my coat pocket. The party looked pretty awesome. I was pretty lucky to have been invited to such a cool party. I was even more lucky to go to it with such cool friends.

WOW I can be such a whiny bitch. I had 3 open bars with unlimited Flamin' Hot Cheetos, and all I could do was feel sad because nobody was paying attention to me and I wasn't dating Ryan Gosling. I was like a fat girl on Pinterest with a cat in my lap, clicking shit without thinking. Time to LOG OFF and SHAPE UP!

This is why you're single,

TJB: Making It

more like MEsus

While everybody else was thinking of the three days Jesus spent in the tomb before he rose, I was thinking about the 3 months I've spent in Chicago trying to do the same.

Hi. Happy Easter.

It has now been a quarter of a year since I began my second chance in the second city. I've learned a lot and done a lot, but I've realized one important thing will always be true:

The grass is always greener on the other side.

I'll admit it. I miss New York more and more. I miss the people, I miss their elitism, the pretension, the attitude. Chicago is relaxing and fun, but there is a certain edge missing. The hipsters here are friendly, and nobody wants that. I don't want to have to talk to hipsters. I also don't want to smile at the other gays who pass by when I thought it was nationally established by the HRC that we simply stare at each other judgmentally, and internally agree we are better than the other. I want the same rights as straight couples, sure, but that doesn't mean all gays are equal among ourselves. Sweetie, not until you fix that hair.

Hey, don't get me wrong, I'm happy here. I can afford things. I went shopping for the first time in a year without wondering if my purchase would be approved. I no longer walk ten blocks just to save a dollar on wine. I order shots...at BARS. Life is pretty sweet.

I know what you're thinking. I've written this same whiny bullshit before and you're looking for something original.

SO AM I.

Hell, I almost got a tattoo. Instead, I entered a singing competition at the bar below my apartment. Winner gets $15,000. Don't get too excited, it's doesn't start until June, but if I don't make it to the end of those 11 weeks...

then I understand why this is the SECOND city.

One day those shots will be top shelf,

TJB: Making It