If I'm so wonderful... why am I single?

OK.

Again, apologies for being away for so long, if you even care.

So here's the deal: If I'm so fucking wonderful, why am I single?

This is not a new cry to go up across the land. Many others before me have hit their 30s and begun to look at the ashtray-left-out-in-the-rain of their respective lives and wonder if that's all there is. This is what happens when the party of "first youth" is over. I think our/my generation has a much better handle on aging and death than our parents' ever did. They listened to the Shirelles and Led Zeppelin; we listened to The Cure, The Smiths and, well, Led Zeppelin. In our generational case, the first two aforementioned acts made us feel all comfy and cozy in the concepts of isolation, unrequited love to the point of pointlessness, and bad accessories. The bad accessories are important. It's part of being an adolescent I suppose. Going into any mall and any Hot Topic is proof of this. Is Hot Topic even around anymore?

As our generation ages, we are doing things like "growing up" and getting married and having "children" and all that. Well, I'm not, and I suppose that's the point of this electronic ramble. Growing up carries with it the connotation of settling down, and if I am not doing that, am I growing up? Is being settled down with someone else a prerequisite for being considered "on my own"? Some of the people I know who are married and have children shouldn't be allowed out of the house let alone reproduce, so why do they get to do it? Nothing makes sense. Maybe it doesn't have to. This makes me insane, the lack of meaning. I like movies and stories because things are structured and have significance. Even pieces that are about the meaninglessness of life have that meaning built into them. Actual meaninglessness is a tough thing to face. Think of Circus of the Stars and how dead you felt inside when you watched it. Scary, right?

So, In fact, the Wet Ashtray just might be all there is. What are you going to do about it? Cry? Everything's already wet. Wasted effort. Why do the work again? The Party of Life ends. It's just a matter of making sure you are sitting in the corner with the good drag queens while you are at the party. No one wants to be in the corner with the bad drag queens. Especially in the morning. As the dawn creeps its way over sundry warehouse roofs and slides insistently into your hungover brain, you can see the glue on the false eyelashes. Not pretty. You slink out the door to your tiny tiled home, telling yourself you had a wild time and hope the train comes quick. At least that was how it was in New York.

Now, don't get all concerned about me or upset. I will learn to celebrate my abandonment by Life. That's the key difference: by Life not of Life. I will embrace being kicked off the kaboose of meaningful existence. Perhaps I will take to reading all those "Left Behind" books or watching those movies the Krazy Kirk Cameron has made from said books. I mean, since they are supposedly Christian novels, there has to be scads of Gay people - most likely all Gay people - left wandering about the world with a slightly stunned expression. Glittery Cowboy Hats a bit crumpled, KD Lang tees torn. No break on the cover charge at the club though.

What will I do with all my free time? I know I have been sorely remiss in doing any reading that doesn't have to do with work, so that might be a way to fill the time. Or getting back to writing more! Like I am doing now. I can use the time to work on my career. Or pick up a new hobby like knitting, collecting stamps or cutting myself.

The possibilities are endless. Truly. Endless.