See 6 across

You know those people who say, "You're never going to develop a meaningful relationship with somebody you meet at a bar"? They're usually single, appreciate a good sale, and have a love/hate relationship with tequila but say, "I'm a whisky girl!"

But when you live in NYC and you're young and gay, your only choice to meet people is at a bar.

THIS is the point where all the gays chime in and say, "That's not true, I didn't meet my boyfriend at a bar," and to them I say, "But I did. Check his texts."

Just kidding, Mom. I'm not a home wrecker. They're still together.

BACK TO ME.

I've recently developed a habit of going out on Saturday nights alone. Well, I never start alone, but as soon as one friend is attached at the hip to a 40-something gay-league baseball coach from Canada who "works for the government" (read: postal worker), and my other friend is lost in a tango with a curly haired brunette girl, I decide it's time to excuse myself.

So, I perch at the center of a bar, open a tab, set my iPhone down, and upload a crossword puzzle. Then, I wait.

I usually wait for quite a long time. To be honest, the only person that ever talks to me is the bartender because he wants me to hit the $20 card limit and who else in their right mind is going to approach the kid sitting at the bar at midnight on Saturday doing a New York Times crossword puzzle on his lime green iPhone?

Somebody who's not afraid to die, that's who.

Being single isn't so bad. I don't have to pretend that sharing a pillow is comfortable or sneak off to brush my teeth when I wake up. And someday, somebody will see me struggling with "Syrian city of 2.5+ million" and whisper,"Aleppo," into my ear before asking to buy me a drink

to which I will say, "Please, let me...I've got $6 to go on the minimum."

Just kidding you can buy,

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