34 PARAGRAPHS ABOUT 182 BLOGGERS
from the fag files
I was just living a dull, synthetic life
until the night that electrolicious bentkid
walked into my world. He was a troubled diva
, a total fantabulosa jockohomo
, full of bald sarcasm
and vicious thinks
. He and his jadedju
friends - so very posh!
- snacked on absinthe and peppermints
, corn and death
, while the rest of us ultramundane
bozos just sipped aqua hydro
and listened to the Terrapin Gardens
Restaurant jukebox playing That Crazy Casbah Jive
I'd heard he was a serial deviant
, and that he was ultrasparky
in the sack . . . but a whole lotta nothing
on the inside. Still, I really wanted a piece of his delirious cool
. He was on my mind
in a big way. I had the f e v e r
But I was just a troubled little neurotic jew
, a space cheese
, a total work in progress
. I was an introverted navel gazer
, ignored by millions
. Simply put
, I was far too prosaic
for him. I was a woodge
Still, my wandering thoughts
strayed to dandelion wishes
. Sweet August dreams
danced around in my head
, and I saw myself near him, making him mine.
His poodle circus
of an entourage spouted all kinds of miscellaneous BS
: grim amusements
; shallow gossip; pseudo-philosophical blahblahblog
. They talked all about george
, and how familiar jillmatrix
was suddenly becoming with Rebecca's pocket
. They laughed at some barbaloot
who had tried to figure out how to learn swedish
from the toddski diaries
. People speculated about whether or not the secret kings
could possibly achieve victory at sea
. And everyone seemed to agree that art is for losers
Then there were idle musings
about the contrasts
between the disconnected zeitgeist
we were all experiencing and the idea that maybe organized anarchy
could result in a worthwhile peace dividend
. Some people wanted to revive the old east coast / west coast
debate, while others extolled the virtues of the newest anti-depressants: "Little. Yellow. Different.
" And a gaggle of luscious webgrrlie
s wondered aloud why all the really good ones (like TrickFred
) were either gay, dead, or Canadian
," said one little bitchquick
drag queen named Cayenne
(aka frank green
), apropos of nothing
. "That nastybastard Drewcifer
is such a Bad Samaritan
. . . Davezilla
should just defy
him and get it over with. Color me pink
, but I think that hokey mokey froot
just wants to be Frank Gumola
anyway. And just so you know, Jonno
totally agrees with me on that."
Talk about therapy theater!
Unfortunately, all the friends I had walked in with turned out to be easily amused paperfish
, sudden victims of an apparent brainsluice
. They just sat and listened and let their heads bobupndown
like the proverbial plastic cat
, leaking brain fluid
. They had no incriminating words
of their own. They had gone all idiote
on me. I was definitely with the boring crowd. He would never notice me.
But all of a sudden, a fire inside
spoke to me and told me "I must . . .
" Terrified, I mumbled a silent prayer to RuPaul
, and found myself walking over to HIM - my cyberqueersuperstar
. I opened my mouth to speak of . . . what? Stuff and stuff
? Thoughts interrupted? Technoerotica?
All I could manage was a soft whisper: "Sometimes I . . .
But then the little minx
of a waitress came out of nowhere and dumped a turkey dinner
all over the object of my obsession.
" said a nearby snarky wench
, throwing the waitress shade.
"Sorry for the inconvenience
," the waitress said meekly, as the resident photojunkie
snapped pictures of the whole mess. Some hormonal bitch
who seemed to be in a perpetual snit
turned to her snazzykat goluboy
and started snarling about a possible lawsuit.
object-of-my-desires just stripped off his gravy-covered shirt, right there in front of everyone. And boy, was it an edifying spectacle
! I hadn't seen anything that spectacular since I was within licking distance of Andy's chest
. He was everything I had imagined Jhames
would be, and more. Seeing him half-naked was as thrilling as reading a new post at WilWheaton.net
But now I was backing away, ready to slink off like the everlasting blogstalker
I was. Because he was too beautiful. To him, I was surely nothing more than an anathema boy
. He could never want me.
But before I could sneak off, he dropped a sardonic bomb
"What's new pussycat?
" he said, looking deep into my eyes. "You're a strange little boy
. Umm . . . will you go to bed with me
? Time is the enemy.
I thought, "You must be trippin'
!" But I kept my mouth shut and went with the flow.
He took me to room sixteen
in a nearby swish cottage
- he had obviously been planning to hook up with someone tonight. We did everything, but
. . . well, we won't go there.
But I will say that we were mad orange fools
in the fractured light
like there was no tomorrow. I was his dirty little nerdslut
and he was my freakho
. Like Adam Curry
used to do in his DJ days, this guy "spun me 'round like a record." Chromewaves
of passion wracked my body. Flutter . . . glub . . . meow!
I must have sounded like a total barking moose
If we were a magazine just then, we would have been Martha Stewart's Feral Living
Overcome by hell and bliss
, I was all out of focus
. I was a pink pixie
floating in orange clouds
. I felt all discombloggulated
. I thought I was dreaming in reality
. . . it was like he had 8 legs
, all of them wrapped around me at the same time. All of my elementary particles
seemed to become just tiny little pixels in time
I feared I would pass out from all the hoopty-loops
, and lose the memory of this glittering enchantment
forever. But I managed somehow to keep hanging on
to one lone brain cell
, and I avoided the trap of beautiful amnesia
In the end, I discovered living proof
of what a total mermaniac
I truly am.
I opened my eyes hours later, still not fully awake
, and found that it was no ordinary morning
Of course, he was gone like Blogadoon
, like a somnolent
illusion, a wockerjabby
of the mind. The only things he left behind were tears and shadows
, and a piece of paper with some queer scribbles
on it . . . 8 letters
, to be exact, spelling out the word: NOALOGUE
Some hopeless romantics
would say that it was only a small victory
to have bagged such a schismatic spitfire
. But thanks to him, my cluttered life
underwent a complete catharsis
. I entered some otherstream
, some day without rain
, some Reese's World
, where I was an object of pure desire. No longer lost in the desolate Bradlands
, I now lived a life uncommon
Yes, I - the mighty geek
- had finally escaped my neurotic fishbowl
. I was the King of Championville
. The world was my oyster. I had become a man.
It was a Sunshine Day
, and I felt great.