Monday, July 30, 2012

Zoom... Enhance...

Instead of eating, this is how I spent my lunch break today. I couldn't help having a little fun with StevieB's latest blog post. (See Twenty Thousand Years Later.) Don't worry, I'll have an extra big dinner tonight to compensate.



It started when I noticed something unusual in the background behind baby Stevie.
Fortunately, I happen to have an app for that...




WTF? Maybe Stevie went back to give himself 1.21 Gigawatts of good advice?

"Don't worry little dude, it gets better, I swear.
And it starts with burning every last pair of those parachute pants."



We Didn't Invent The Cok...


Hilarious! I love this show.



Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Big Straight Sal

Hard to believe its been two years since Big Sal moved in upstairs. I remember it like it was yesterday. We liked her immediately and were sure she was going to be our new BLF. (Best Lesbian Friend.)

The only problem was... we weren't one hundred percent sure Sal was a lesbian. I mean, sure, we're not blind. But I shy away from resorting to gay stereotypes, even the more reliable ones.

So we did what comes naturally to us; we fished for clues by asking indirect questions of a semi-personal nature. We learned Sal was in fact married to a man, at one time, but is now divorced with no children. She's a corporate executive at an Atlanta-based company which takes up a lot of her time. And when she isn't at work her pastimes include watching college football, ceramics, camping and church activities. We got the impression church is big with Sal.

Our circuitous line of questioning irritated our other neighbor, Iris. She's from France, so she did what comes naturally to her people: "You a dyke?"

I gasped in horror. Iris often inspires that reaction among the non-French.

Sal assured us she likes men and goes on plenty of dates with them, but I don't think any of us really bought it. Our suspicions only increased over the following months when Sal developed what appeared to the casual observer as a "girl crush" on Iris. Our good-natured teasing also irritated Iris, who insisted she isn't French that way.

Sal continued to be an enigma to us, beating her Bible one minute and tagging along to the gay bars the next. Although any place that poured cold beer and had at least one flat-screen tuned to a sporting event seemed to find Big Sal in her element.

Recently we began considering the possibility that Sal's internal conflict may run deeper than we imagined. This occurred to us at our Cinco de Mayo party when the friendly party chatter over the margarita blender turned into a lively debate regarding same-sex marriage, with Sal taking an "anti-marriage" stance.

Not one to endure the same tired, religion-based arguments I've heard a thousand times before – especially not in my own house – I took up the "pro-marriage" position. And I must have done a good job at it too, judging by the way I shut her up.

The room got quiet as all eyes turned to Big Sal, anticipating her response. I began to worry that maybe I'd gone too far, as her face screwed into the most peculiar expression and her eyes began to pool with tears. Sal tightened her grip on the arms of our Rooms-To-Go club chair and she slowly and deliberately lifted herself to her feet.

I braced myself for an emotional outburst, maybe even a physical confrontation. After all, my buddy Gilbert always says it isn't a party until a lesbian breaks something to use the shards as a makeshift weapon. (Which now explains why he was cowering in the corner.) But in hindsight, nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. When Sal unhinged her jaw and upchucked a jet of tequila and guacamole with enough sustained back-pressure to make The Exorcist look like a zany Catholic sitcom.

The next sixty-nine seconds were a chaotic blur of horrified screams, upset chairs, spilled drinks and trampled toes as Sal's Godzilla-esque rampage transformed our eclectic living room ensemble into a scale model of smoldering, post-apocolyptic Tokyo.

Needless to say I was beside myself... two days it takes to make my Oaxacan Mole con Pollo and my guests fled like rats from a sinking ship without so much as letting me fix them a to-go plate. It took three more days to eat it all myself.

Kong knew he'd someday regret not paying extra for the scotch-guarding package.

We haven't seen as much of Sal since that fateful day in May. Iris has spent time with her, reassuring her that this sort of thing could happen to anybody. I suppose that's true, given enough liquor and Southern Baptist repression. And at least ten ripe Haas avocados.

I gave Sal a hug the other morning when we bumped into each other on our way to work. I told her I missed her, and I meant it. She expressed her embarrassment and once again apologized for the upholstery and carpeting. I didn't think it necessary to bring up the coffee table, throw pillows, gas fireplace logs and my socks. We made vague, tentative plans to get together as we climbed into our cars to drive away in opposite directions.

I really should give Big Sal the benefit of the doubt. I could be totally wrong about her being unhappily closeted. It's possible she may be a straight woman trapped in Peppermint Patty's wardrobe and hairstyle. It's not important for my instincts to be right about this. If Sal isn't living a lie out of fear – fear of losing the love and respect of her family, fear of being ostracized by her church community, and the real possibility of losing her job and the success she worked so hard for – then I'm glad for her. Just like I'm glad I know Sal, and that she knows us.

Because having us as her BGFs means we, in our own small way, just might be making a difference inside the corporate culture of America's most gay-unfriendly fast-food chicken chain.

Unless she ever finds my blog, in which case I've probably just doomed us all.



Monday, July 23, 2012

Jesus Chicken

I was never a fan of Chick-fil-A. It's not something I grew up with in Upper Michigan and when I moved to Georgia, my coworkers called it "Jesus Chicken". This, of course, due to the outspoken religious views of the family that owns it. (Chick-fil-A is still a privately owned and operated company.) The most obvious manifestation of these religious views is the fact all Chick-fil-A restaurants are closed on Sunday. Less obvious is their support of organizations that work to limit the freedoms of millions of Americans.

I don't have a problem with anyone holding religious views and beliefs. In fact, I'm extremely grateful to this nation's founding fathers for ensuring our freedom to follow our own conscience in such matters. They had first-hand experience with the unfortunate fact that whenever a group held enough power, they tended to force their particular beliefs on others. Often with bloody results.

Much of my distaste for Christian fundamentalism stems from the willfully ignorant attempts made by many of these groups to subvert the context of the First Amendment with the goal of making theirs the established religion of the United States. I have no doubt that many of these people would jump at the chance to ban the writings of Thomas Jefferson on this subject. That would eliminate the chief adversary of their traitorous mission.

So I never ate at Chick-fil-A. While the owners have every right to enshrine their religious values in their privately run business, I have every right to conscientiously object by taking my business elsewhere. A company that closes its door to potential customers on mere principle obviously doesn't need my support. And I'm sure the good folks at Chick-fil-A would be the first to agree with me on that point.

You have to admit its kind of refreshing to see a fast food company actually go out of its way to remind its customers that they can easily do without their product. It just runs so counter to modern marketing techniques that aim to maximize revenue by attempting to instill an artificial consumer need.

Especially in this time of super-sized angst, I say bravo to Chick-fil-A for reminding one and all that their grease-boiled pigeons are the last thing that should be a part of any human's daily diet.

But how many people does Chick-fil-A employ, I wonder? I can't seem to find that stat on their web site. Because I figure you can take that number and divide by 6 to get an estimate of how many jobs this fine American company could add to the economy by serving customers on Sunday. Good, Christian jobs.

Even if it's a more conservative 10%, factoring in administrative personnel and reduced weekend sales in certain locations, that would still make a significant positive impact to the lives of thousands of Americans who are currently struggling.

Then again, if Chick-fil-A continues to foolishly alienate entire classes of its potential customer base, they may need to start closing down on Saturday too.



Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Where Was I?

Lasers can grow hair too? Who knew.
$695? Ouch! Do you have a smaller
model? You know, for balls?
I know I was going somewhere with that. I was working on a third and final installment of my treatise on the #JustinAndJeff saga, which ended with a solemn promise to stop beating that dead horse and move on. I had a rough draft and thought I was making good progress, but I think I missed my window of opportunity to tie my overall thesis up in a neat bow while making it both poignant and amusing.

In other words, I forgot the original point I was trying to make. Don't worry, it'll come back to me. Beside, I think there's still some life in that horse. Although it could just be gas escaping.

I've never been good at prioritizing. My projects and responsibilities are like my children to me; don't ask me to choose a favorite because I cherish them all equally. Which we all know is bullshit and Mom loved me best.

I hate the feeling I get when I sit down at my computer in the morning and weigh everything I want to accomplish against everything I need to accomplish. All this weighing makes me think about my weight. Then I wonder why I'm sitting at a computer when I should be exercising. So my ambitious blog post got pushed to the back burner while I took care of work and some other stuff.

For example, JB has been nagging me to update his website. Then I was asked to write an article for Sky magazine. Sounds impressive, doesn't it? Actually, I was asked to re-re-rewrite an article I'd ghostwritten for my ex and first submitted to Sky magazine over a year ago. This has helped me realize I don't like writing for editors. And that editors don't think much of me either. And that I need to learn how to say "no" to my friends.

I doubt I'll see the article in print, even if it finally gets used. I wish I could say it's an exciting tale of adventure or juicy, tell-all exposé. No, just some fluffernutter about Joe's collection of souvenir Oktoberfest beer steins. I really don't mind not getting a byline on an article no one will read. My consolation is that electronic devices are still prohibited during a substantial portion of each flight. That reduces the competition of alternative reading material to a catalog full of ridiculous, overpriced crap and the safety instruction card for the Boeing 757-200.


SkyMall Exclusive!
Astound and alarm guests at your next Polynesian luau
with this excessive, heavyweight, six-foot-tall King Moai,
inspired by the 380 A.D. Easter Island originals. Said
to represent gods, ancestors, or other such nonsense,
this exclusive replica features the ethnic nose, huge
lips and dangly ears of its castaway cousins.

This garish display of cultural insensitivity and
tragically skewed priorities with a South Seas flair
is cast in quality designer resin with a rough, chiseled
faux stone finish. Guaranteed to last and last, this giant
plastic head will still look ancient long after your children
have put you in a home and paid Fred Sanford's great-great
grandson twenty bucks just to haul the thing away.

Do not expose to moisture, direct sunlight, detergents,
or women who are pregnant or ever wish to become pregnant.
Do not use within 200 feet of tiki torches.
$995 + shipping & handling.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

Artificial Sweeties

Working Title: "Justin and Jeffrey take a romantic trip to Italy, never to be heard from again. A tragedy in too many parts."



Two weeks ago I wrote a post about Twitter's most adorable gay couple, and how their interminable sweetness stirred within me a sense of annoyance that was so uncharacteristic of myself, it caused me reflectively analyze my own emotional state of being. At one point I even threw up in my mouth a little. (Happy Gays And Bread Crumbs Always Get Me Down)

That should have raised a red flag right there. Nobody forces me to get in touch with my feelings. Not unless you're a certain Kentucky Colonel and that feeling is "hunger".

I cynically snarked how I predicted this perfect relationship would eventually end badly, probably in court. In reality, the sudden end of the #JustinAndJeff romance played out a bit differently than I expected. (Although it's still too early to rule out the possibility of legal action.) Last Tuesday night, the truth behind @allaboutJust and @whataboutjeff hit the Twitter fan. Blobby called it: it was all a fraud.

The phonies were confronted by Twitter truth detective extraordinaire and fellow Atlantan, @cwebbie, whom I hope to convince to follow me back and :) who, in real life, is friends with the actual gentlemen depicted in "Justin" and "Jeff's" avatars and twitpics. Shortly afterward, both accounts were voluntarily removed.

For some unfathomable reason, someone (or someones?) spent the past year using stolen Facebook photos to fabricate an unfolding relationship between two imaginary young male nurses living in West Hollywood. Close to ten thousand tweets with nearly a thousand followers. Each. It's astonishing, really.

Beside interacting so adorably with each other, both "Justin" and "Jeff" actively engaged their followers to the extent that actual bonds of friendship seemed to be forged. I have no doubt that for many, the relationships developed with these "characters" felt very real, even if they ultimately turned out to be one-sided.

This was reflected in the initial disbelief among so many #JustinAndJeff followers. Some of them rallied vehemently to their defense while lashing out against @cwebbie for leveling her accusation. But confronted with overwhelming evidence, there was nothing left for these followers to do but cycle through their grief stages. Like every Twitter commotion, the crowd quickly processed their emotions and dispersed, moving on to bigger and better things. Like #ReplaceMovieTitleWithCheese.

As for myself, I can't exactly say I was shocked. But I can't climb smugly on my high horse and say "I told you so" either. And not just because I'm afraid of horses.

I fell for this hoax as much as anyone. Yes, I considered the possibility on more than one occasion. I just couldn't believe anyone would be so dedicated to maintaining such an elaborate and consistent fantasy life, much less for two people. Maybe I'm too eager to project my own laziness and lack of sustained focus on others, but I still find the scale of this undertaking hard to get my head around.

And don't get me started theorizing about possible motivation right now. I'm afraid my head might explode.

Keep in mind the logistics involved here. I think I spend too much time on Twitter, yet these characters generated ten times the tweet volume as I typically do. Each. Assuming it's only a single perpetrator, it's hard to imagine him having time for a life of his own. I think Blobby hit the nail on the head with his comment:
"You just know there aren't two guys tweeting - it's one 450lb guy who's been a shut-in since 1987."
Despite the red flags, I accepted that Justin and Jeff were most likely real people. If their only tweets were those supercilious relationship truisms and saccharine declarations of cuddle-bunny love I found so irritating, that would be one thing. But these were just the miniature marshmallows floating in a warm cocoa stream of mundane details of two normal lives together. Work, family, friends, interior decoration. The last I read, they were boarding a flight to Italy for a romantic vacation. It was all very convincing.

No, my feeling was that they existed but, for whatever reason, they were misrepresenting their relationship on Twitter. That maybe by selecting only the best parts, perhaps embellishing others, they were presenting a perfect, idealized version of themselves. Something that Twitter – and the Internet in general – allows us all to do, if that's the route we choose to take.

I suppose I can take satisfaction in learning that the targets of my irrational cynicspasms turned out not to be real people. It opens a window, however slightly, to the possibility I'm not a dick.

But all this rationalization and moralizing is easy after the fact. Too easy. All I can really give myself credit for is pointing out weeks ago that the relationship depicted by Justin and Jeff just didn't feel realistic to me.





Friday, July 13, 2012

Vindication

High School Pac
Back in high school, my favorite subject was Chemistry. Being the nerd that I was, I had my own lab goggles. (Prescription. My regular glasses were too thick to wear under the generic tax-funded goggles.) While many of my classmates worked on honing their meth lab explosion survival skills, I was carefully adjusting my bunsen burner and meticulously cleaning my glassware.

For this particular experiment, our task was to catalyze the esterification of a hydroxyl group to precipitate acetylsalicylic acid crystals. (Aspirin; the gateway drug lab drug.) At the end of class we poured the precisely measured amount of sulfuric acid into our solutions, applied a stopper to the test tube and set the tube aside. When we returned on Monday, everyone's test tube was filled with the prettiest aspirin crystals. Everyone's except mine.

I couldn't understand it. I'd followed the instructions to the letter. How could I have gotten it so wrong when everyone else in class got it right? Even the burn-outs who couldn't say "titrate" without giggling made aspirin. I unstoppered my tube and sniffed. Strong vinegar aroma, it smelled like it should. Mr. Schiff held my test tube of clear liquid up to the light, then handed it back to me with a shrug and ticked something on his clipboard. I recognized that shrug-tick combo from gym class. I put my test tube in my drawer and moped through the day's assignment the best I could. There's no crying in esterification.

Cleaning up as the bell rang, I opened my drawer to find my test tube miraculously stuffed with perfect crystals. It was beautiful! My aspirin was way prettier than anybody else's aspirin. I excitedly called Mr. Schiff over to my station. "Well I'll be damned," he said as he revised my grade on his clipboard. He explained the crystals needed a seed; a spec of dust or bit of gunk to build upon. Without such a seed, my aspirin remained in suspension.

That explained it! I didn't get the experiment wrong at all. If anything, I did it too well. I'd prepared my reagents so carefully that my potential aspirin crystals spent the entire weekend searching in vain for a single seed particle upon which to grow. Whereas my classmate's tubes were crawling with filthy crystal babies. I must have introduced a contaminant into my tube when I pulled the stopper to smell it. All it took was one tiny booger and BLAM! Aspirin.

I triumphantly raised my test tube of aspirin to the class with righteous indignation, even though I was the only one left in the room.


Wednesday, July 11, 2012

My Night With 50¢

This odd thing happened to me a few months ago. There I was, 7:30am, coasting sleepily through my morning routine. When I was suddenly startled wide awake by a strange metallic plunking noise. Strange, but not unfamiliar. I was pretty sure I'd heard that noise before, for some reason Las Vegas came to mind. But definitely out-of-context.

I looked down to find a quarter between my feet. What the...? The noise I heard would certainly match the sound that a falling quarter would make upon hitting the floor of a porcelain lined, cast iron bathtub. I instinctively looked up toward the shower head. Nothing.

I looked back down. Yes, that was definitely a quarter and it definitely wasn't there a few seconds ago.

I looked up again. I don't know what I expected to see up there. Leprechauns hanging from the shower curtain rod? With a pot o' quarters? I peeked around the curtain. No, no leprechaun or any other species of mischievous imp. (JB was away on a trip.)

I was really hoping to see some explanation for this. Because the absence of shower leprechauns would force me to face the only other logical possibility: That I just made change with my ass.

I quickly finished rinsing and toweled off. I impatiently wiped a clear spot in the mirror fog to get a look at my backside. That's when I saw it... A circular indentation on the left side of my lower back, inside of which I could clearly make out the majestic (albeit historically inaccurate but whatever) profile of our nation's first president, General George Washington.

Eureka! I knew there had to be a rational, scientific explanation. It's simple Newtonian statics really...

The KAFL formula allows us to predict the approximate degree to which a small, solid object
will impinge itself into subcutaneous adipose deposits as a function of time and body mass.
When trapped between the normal force of my Sealy Posturpedic (N) pushing up, and the force of gravity (g) pulling my ass (M) down over a prolonged period of time (t), the coin (Q) embedded itself in my back fat (Fb).

(In certain specialized fields of science, engineering and celebrity rehab, this is known as the "Kirstie Alley Frito Lay Effect". And while it's most commonly applied to Cheetos, bottle caps and chicken bones, it's a simple matter to extend the equation to cover loose bed change.)

Even after my alarm clock went off, the quarter maintained static equilibrium due to the force of atmospheric pressure at sea level pushing on the "tails" side of the quarter (referred to by numismatists as the "fugly state side") acting in concert with the pulling force of my love-handle suction on the obverse. (Numismatists can't just say "heads".) And there it remained, imperceptibly adding to my net worth as I made coffee, fed the cats and checked my email.

There's simply no way of guessing with any degree of accuracy how long the quarter would have remained there if I hadn't dislodged it in the shower with that loofa on a stick.

This all made for an amusing anecdote at the time. Anyway – and this is weird – the same thing happened to me again this morning. Only this time two quarters fell out of my butt.


Monday, July 9, 2012

But Wait, There's More!

"Bring me the phone and my wallet!"

Those are words I don't necessarily want to hear when JB is watching television.

I've already written about my bad habit of impulse Internet shopping. Unlike JB, I'm not big on the whole human interaction thing. If I have the choice of ordering something online or ordering over the phone, the Internet will win every time.

In fact, my consumption of pizza has probably tripled since pizza joints started taking orders via apps. In the old days, I'd have to be pretty desperate to pick up the phone and place an order with a real person. It always seemed the stoner on the other end would invariably get my order wrong. Now if I get pineapple instead of pepperoni, I have an electronic paper trail to prove it was me who fucked my order up.

Given the same choice however, JB will always choose the low-tech, touchy-feely route. He needs a real person to deal with in case he has questions. And let's face it... no website will ever succumb to the Classic JB Charm™ when haggling for a discount.

So I listened with interest Saturday morning as he dialed the one-eight-hundred number to order the Perfect Tortilla Mold he just saw on TV. I didn't realize how far automated voice response systems have come since I stopped using the telephone. It obviously took JB by surprise too.

In case you haven't seen it, the Perfect Tortilla Mold promises to make "perfect" edible taco salad bowls in your own oven without the added fat of deep frying. This triggered a heretofore unrecognized basic need in my husband, based on the uncharacteristic speed with which he unholstered his American Express card.

Five minutes into the automated transaction I was laughing my ass off and by minute ten I decided I needed to record JB's desperate attempts to talk to a real live human being.

I was quite impressed with the sophistication of the voice recognition technology. It could tell when JB was beginning to second-guess the absolute position of well-formed tortilla bowls within Maslow's hierarchy of needs. I was also impressed with the computer's relentless determination to not only close the sale, but to up-sell JB on an endless string of other useless crap.

So sophisticated, in fact, that I find it hard to believe there's any way to cancel the transaction – let alone reach a real person – once it has your credit card number. Enjoy.



Friday, July 6, 2012

Friday Fun Pic

Because there aren't enough cats on the Internet, here's a picture of my kitty spooning me in my sleep. He's always doing stuff like that. Upstaging me in photos. Bastard.




Monday, July 2, 2012

Happy Gays And Bread Crumbs Always Get Me Down

There's a young gay couple on Twitter I've been following for a few months. They came highly recommended by one of my favorite bloggers who specializes in spotlighting followable men on Twitter, and who has proven himself in the past to have impeccable taste in such matters. But I digress.

Both are professional, extremely handsome and adorably sweet together. Obviously fresh in love, I added them directly to my "buds" list so I wouldn't miss a single update. And I didn't. Each tweet came like a piece of candy straight from Grandpa's pocket. Warm and sticky, gradually dissolving my tooth enamel and impairing my body's ability to recognize its own insulin.

It didn't take long for me to notice that these guys were really beginning to get on my nerves. And this disturbed me. I'm a nice guy. I think of Twitter as my happy place. Friendship, fun and flirtation in its purest form, free of the drama and conflict that keeps me from investing in Facebook. Superficial, sure, but that's part of the appeal. The instant I find anyone rocking my happy Twitter boat, I feel no compunction in making them walk the plank.

But these guys have been nothing but adorable. If I unfollow them, then I have to admit to myself that my problem with them lies with me. That I've grown callous and cynical to the point where I find young love disdainful. That any day now I'll start yelling at the neighbor kids to get off my lawn. And stay off!

Plus, I'm afraid if I unfollow now, I'll miss their potential public crash and burn. It's the same reason I watch NASCAR. Or that I would watch NASCAR if it happened to be on and the batteries in the remote were dead.


The last time I was served breakfast in bed, I was sixteen with mono. And it really doesn't count since it wasn't served to me in bed so much as left outside my door with a knock followed by rapidly retreating footsteps.


Have I mentioned they complete each other's tweets? Pretty cute, huh. That's how I and the rest of the Internet know that on the next day, they went to church and gave thanks for each other. Right about here for me is where they passed "confectionary" and pegged "high-fructose".

I've been giving a great deal of thought as to why their tweets seem to bother me so much. I've already considered and ruled out jealousy. I'm in a satisfying relationship and just last week we started our fifteenth year together. You can't really tell from looking at us now, but I guarantee you we started out every bit as insufferably sappy.

Maybe that's what bothers me. When JB and I first got together, we fell off the map for several months. Our friends thought we got abducted by aliens. We were so into each other we never had time to tweet about it. I know, Twitter didn't exist, but you certainly didn't see us dialing into AOL and AIMing it from the rooftops.

Our feelings for each other required no external validation. Not from our friends, not from our families, and certainly not from strangers. It never once occurred to us to seek it.

Nah, that doesn't have co-dependent written all over it.
As much as it makes me cringe now to remember, I actually went through a phase where I'd sing love songs to JB in his bed. The Carpenters. Yup, afraid so. "Close To You", from start to finish.

Fast-forward fifteen years. Now the only birds that suddenly appear are twitching on the ground outside our picture window.

What happened? When did "We've Only Just Begun" become "Don't you have a trip to Abu Dhabi or something?"?

Reality happened, that's what. And I don't mean that in a negative way at all. That fresh, goggley-eyed, honey-dripping phase of a relationship is an important part of the bonding process, but it's unsustainable long term. The hotter the relationship, the sooner it'll burn out if it doesn't make the crucial transition from all-day-in-bed-but-not-sleeping to "I got an early meeting, how 'bout we double up tomorrow night?"

I foresee this ending badly, probably in a televised courtroom setting.
Three weeks after we started dating, I finally talked JB into spending the night at my place. I'd gone to Pier One the day before to buy one of those breakfast-in-bed trays. The kind where the short legs fold down to sit over the lap, like I'd seen in practically every television show since I was a kid. In the morning I quietly slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him, and I started cooking.

As I carried the tray -- complete with a long stemmed rose in a vase -- into my bedroom, JB sat up with a look of dismay. "You eat in your bed?" he asked incredulously as he jumped to his feet and began flapping the blankets, as if he could actually see the Fritos he imagined must be there. He launched into a dissertation about nocturnal hygiene, something about crumbs and the bugs who love them. Just as I was about to ask what the hypothetical bugs thought about his semen on my headboard, he added "Oh... and I don't really care for french toast."

This incident marked a subtle turning point in our relationship. Later that morning, eating our cereal at the dining room table, talking, laughing and further exploring our different takes on the simple things in life, something happened.

Reality happened. That was fifteen years ago and I haven't looked back more than ten or twelve times since.

When bf imagines sleeping on bread crumbs sprinkled over
reproductive fluid: /\/\/\/\/\/\/\_______________________.


UPDATE: For the latest on Twitter's most adorable gay couple, jump to Artificial Sweeties.