Thursday, 16 March 2017 — 4:30am
The taxing responsibility of allowing myself days off is something folks find bewildering about me. I constantly complain about not having enough personal time and drown my sorrows in a good whisky or some vodka, maybe even a decent glass of cabernet sauvignon, but come days off, I rarely drink. I just don’t care to be torn up on my days off. After a long day of clients, hearing their stories, talking about their brats and their over-pretentious depression about their latest look (bob or lob?), I am brain-fucked, to say the least.
It has been 14 days since my last day off. I was last off on March 1st. The rest of the 14 days of this month have been laced in appointments, meetings, education, sales meetings, more education, conference calls, going back to gym, drinking countless cocktails, nearly losing my fucking mind around the sixth and culminated in today: up at 8:30, banking to be done at 9, ship FedEx back to my Education Director by 9:30 for possible delivery tomorrow (FedEx said no after three phone calls to change delivery so now she’ll get it on Friday. FML), nail appointment, meet dishwasher repairman, meet landlord, find out diagnosis for old dishwasher with old dishwater still not drained on bottom, find out that I need a new one around 2:3opm.
3:00pm yesterday, Chris came home, I was answering messages and browsing Orbitz for tickets back to Plano, TX. while I caught up on The Housewives of Beverly Hills.
“Care to join me for lunch at Angelo’s, bubs?”
It wasn’t convincing enough.
“I’m gonna go eat after I finish watching these bitches.” I said playfully.
He went to the toilet. (My reaction exactly)
3:06 we were on our way for pizza, drinks, eggplant parm, more drinks and talking about a lady wearing 1980s shorts and sipping another round of drinks. After three cocktails, we met our friend out for another one. Shortly after, we came home. I set the timer for one hour. I was determined to have a nightcap.
I don’t drink on a day off because it could easily turn into a holiday.
We went to J.Michael’s and had a beer. Two gay men drinking beer just looks odd. It doesn’t fit the stereotype. I know in 2017, we’re not supposed to be happy with stereotypes, but sometimes I am! I like being bitchy, I like holding a martini glass, I like camping it up and acting as though we’re in a British comedy. I try to embody an episode of Absolutely Fabulous and I sip spirits and spew venom about dumb bitches I detest on Instagram and talk shit about porny-pictures of hungry bottoms waiting for a their latest sexual romp on Tumblr. I enjoy that! Call it a stereotype! I like it! I like being a bitchy gay man. So please understand, beer just isn’t the picture I’m used to taking of myself as I pub-crawl across the City of Pueblo with my bubs.
9:04: Beers drunk. Josh and Chris head back home to eat copious amounts of candy and play Grand Theft Auto like two young closeted gay teens before turning in like old gays with old saggy balls at 10:30pm.
Now, it’s 4:30 am and I’m up.
Yesterday I accomplished so much, I even booked my flight for Plano and scored a killer deal on a killer room at NYLO, a boutique loft-style hotel… I did, however, forget to bathe.
My apologies to anyone I hugged yesterday.