Malala Yousafzai is an inspiration. One of a kind. I use Tumblr as a vehicle for my writing. It’s easy, free, connected, and aesthetically pleasing, all things I appreciate. I also use it for keeping me informed on current events, both trivial and important. But if there’s one thing that annoys me about Tumblr, it’s the unoriginal overuse of terms like “tbh,” “I can’t even,” and most of all, “literally.” From what I’ve noticed, these terms are normally used by people who are extremely boring, and in an effort to seem more exciting, use them. The other day I saw someone write, “tbh i’m literally on a bus.” No shit, fuckwad. Did you think I was gonna think you were metaphysically or symbolically on a bus if you hadn’t clarified it? Or were you just trying to make it more interesting? I think that’s what it was. Try harder.

     So yeah, this GIF is really good!

(via omgcodyhasablog)


     Last night Ron Ron treated me to a nice dinner at one of his favorite restaurants. It was to thank me for helping with Halloween, and oil me up for Christmas, which we were talking about before the appetizers even dropped (the burrata/heirlooms melted in my mouth). I often judge how nice a place is not from the prices, but by the bathroom. This one had a lot of marble and copper, which is something I never saw growing up, so I affiliate it with money. Actually, that’s not true, I did see a lot of copper pipes as Dad was a plumber, and he’d tell me how people often steal/strip a house of its copper in order to sell it. So yeah, money.
      Our table was sandwiched between two others. On our right were two women. Maybe in their 30s and dressed like they have hip jobs at marketing companies. We paid no attention to them. On our left, however, were two men. One was older, maybe in his 70s, well-dressed, and wearing a wedding ring. He didn’t say much and left the talking to his guest; a good looking man with sparkling brown eyes, in his late 30s/early 40s, also well dressed but NOT wearing a wedding ring. We were in the heart of WeHo, so was this a Sugar Daddy situation? Or a bi/married man looking for discrete NSA fun? When someone stopped by the table to say hello to the younger guy, he introduced the older man as his father visiting from Florida. Oh, so it’s a real daddy. Makes sense. It wasn’t long before we were all talking, and yes, the son was gay, well, he didn’t say it directly but indirectly when he mentioned how Lisa Vanderpump’s pomeranian, Giggy, suffers from alopecia. Ron Ron and I fought over which one of us he was more interested in, and were neck and neck until about the time dessert arrived. Little did we know the tiny, fluffy ball of cheesecake we ordered was scolding hot inside. Ronnie shoveled a bite in his mouth and just as he was reaching over to warm me, I popped one in just as quickly. It was like sucking on a blacksmith’s rod, immediately forming blisters on the roof of my mouth. We both sat there panting, mouths agape, waving our hands in front of it trying to get as much cold air in as possible. That’s about when the gentleman next to us decided to call it a night and leave. We sat there laughing for a good ten minutes, until the burning stopped, then we cried.

     Last night Ron Ron treated me to a nice dinner at one of his favorite restaurants. It was to thank me for helping with Halloween, and oil me up for Christmas, which we were talking about before the appetizers even dropped (the burrata/heirlooms melted in my mouth). I often judge how nice a place is not from the prices, but by the bathroom. This one had a lot of marble and copper, which is something I never saw growing up, so I affiliate it with money. Actually, that’s not true, I did see a lot of copper pipes as Dad was a plumber, and he’d tell me how people often steal/strip a house of its copper in order to sell it. So yeah, money.

      Our table was sandwiched between two others. On our right were two women. Maybe in their 30s and dressed like they have hip jobs at marketing companies. We paid no attention to them. On our left, however, were two men. One was older, maybe in his 70s, well-dressed, and wearing a wedding ring. He didn’t say much and left the talking to his guest; a good looking man with sparkling brown eyes, in his late 30s/early 40s, also well dressed but NOT wearing a wedding ring. We were in the heart of WeHo, so was this a Sugar Daddy situation? Or a bi/married man looking for discrete NSA fun? When someone stopped by the table to say hello to the younger guy, he introduced the older man as his father visiting from Florida. Oh, so it’s a real daddy. Makes sense. It wasn’t long before we were all talking, and yes, the son was gay, well, he didn’t say it directly but indirectly when he mentioned how Lisa Vanderpump’s pomeranian, Giggy, suffers from alopecia. Ron Ron and I fought over which one of us he was more interested in, and were neck and neck until about the time dessert arrived. Little did we know the tiny, fluffy ball of cheesecake we ordered was scolding hot inside. Ronnie shoveled a bite in his mouth and just as he was reaching over to warm me, I popped one in just as quickly. It was like sucking on a blacksmith’s rod, immediately forming blisters on the roof of my mouth. We both sat there panting, mouths agape, waving our hands in front of it trying to get as much cold air in as possible. That’s about when the gentleman next to us decided to call it a night and leave. We sat there laughing for a good ten minutes, until the burning stopped, then we cried.


     I love that this young boy is getting the attention he deserves. This is exactly how I, and many others, should have acted at that age. What I enjoy most about this video is the little girl next to him in the jean shorts. At first she’s intrigued, then confused, then crosses her arms because she’s either A) surrendering to a queer’s ability to steal her spotlight, something that’ll be happening to her for the rest of her life or B) just bored with the queer fodder, something that’ll also be happening to her for the rest of her life. 

(via sv)


There’s our girl! She’s killing it! The Georgian has his feet up on the seat in front of us. Thankfully I put us in the back row, but his leather pants are still squeaking loud enough for the front row to hear. He keeps clapping and relating to the story and shouting, “That’s so true!” All I can think of is De Niro in Cape Fear.


By the time we stopped at Ralph’s to get a bouquet of roses and another 40oz for The Georgian, we missed the opening act. So we’re in the parking lot, waiting for intermission while he finishes his 40, and I’m catching him up on the first half. He’s loving it— saying, “If this is done right, it sounds pretty cool.” The arts center itself is really beautiful. It used to be a Catholic Church that they remodeled into a theatre.

By the time we stopped at Ralph’s to get a bouquet of roses and another 40oz for The Georgian, we missed the opening act. So we’re in the parking lot, waiting for intermission while he finishes his 40, and I’m catching him up on the first half. He’s loving it— saying, “If this is done right, it sounds pretty cool.” The arts center itself is really beautiful. It used to be a Catholic Church that they remodeled into a theatre.


      A tradition The Georgian and I have is driving an hour north to the Simi Valley Cultural Arts Center to watch whichever play our sweet co-worker, the pear-shaped cashier who’s been dating a busboy that likes to brag about the butt sweat she excretes during sex, is performing in at the time. She’s young and ambitious and like any smart actress, she’ll take any role given to her, even if it means driving an hour to the Valley. I respect that. As does The Georgian, which makes going to her plays a no-brainer. The last play she was in was Bare: A Pop Opera, a story about two catholic school boys, love, and suicide. Personally, it blew me away, but wasn’t well-received by the conservative commuter bedroom community of Simi Valley.
       This time around they’re playing it safe and putting on one of Dolly’s greatest, 9 to 5. My co-wokrer plays Margaret Foster, the alcoholic secretary who’s catch phrase is “atta girl!”  
      As usual, I’m the designated driver while The Georgian sips on beer the entire way.  

      A tradition The Georgian and I have is driving an hour north to the Simi Valley Cultural Arts Center to watch whichever play our sweet co-worker, the pear-shaped cashier who’s been dating a busboy that likes to brag about the butt sweat she excretes during sex, is performing in at the time. She’s young and ambitious and like any smart actress, she’ll take any role given to her, even if it means driving an hour to the Valley. I respect that. As does The Georgian, which makes going to her plays a no-brainer. The last play she was in was Bare: A Pop Opera, a story about two catholic school boys, love, and suicide. Personally, it blew me away, but wasn’t well-received by the conservative commuter bedroom community of Simi Valley.

       This time around they’re playing it safe and putting on one of Dolly’s greatest, 9 to 5. My co-wokrer plays Margaret Foster, the alcoholic secretary who’s catch phrase is “atta girl!”  

      As usual, I’m the designated driver while The Georgian sips on beer the entire way.  


This morning was one of those mornings where I wished I was working a 9 to 5— one that had a fixed income. I got stiffed on my first two tables. The first was a white chick and black dude on what I think was a lunch date. She had a faded bob and he smelt of Hilfiger. Just from experience, and the fact that this is 2014 and equality is not just a stripper’s name, I put the check in front of her. He snatched it quickly, like a true gentleman, then left me $2.50 on $60. But he did give me a verbal tip of “Good service, brother,” so that totally made up for it. “Thank you,” I said as my eyes rolled so far back in my head that I saw my pituitary gland.  The other table was a party of four matrons, all wearing blouses and slacks, lemons in water, on their lunch break from jury duty. When I picked up the check, the one who resembled an angrier Kathy Najimy said, “Cash and the rest on the card.” Again, knowing from experience, when I ran the card and handed it back to her I was sure to put a copy of the original receipt with the grand total circled (several, aggressive times) so she didn’t just tip off her share. Sadly, she did and I made another $4 off $80.   That left my total tip percentage at a whopping 6%.  From doctor’s wages to sweatshop pennies.

This morning was one of those mornings where I wished I was working a 9 to 5— one that had a fixed income. I got stiffed on my first two tables. The first was a white chick and black dude on what I think was a lunch date. She had a faded bob and he smelt of Hilfiger. Just from experience, and the fact that this is 2014 and equality is not just a stripper’s name, I put the check in front of her. He snatched it quickly, like a true gentleman, then left me $2.50 on $60. But he did give me a verbal tip of “Good service, brother,” so that totally made up for it. “Thank you,” I said as my eyes rolled so far back in my head that I saw my pituitary gland. The other table was a party of four matrons, all wearing blouses and slacks, lemons in water, on their lunch break from jury duty. When I picked up the check, the one who resembled an angrier Kathy Najimy said, “Cash and the rest on the card.” Again, knowing from experience, when I ran the card and handed it back to her I was sure to put a copy of the original receipt with the grand total circled (several, aggressive times) so she didn’t just tip off her share. Sadly, she did and I made another $4 off $80. That left my total tip percentage at a whopping 6%. From doctor’s wages to sweatshop pennies.