New rule: I am never hanging out with my ex-boyfriends again. Well, no. I doubt that’s going to work. They consistently continue to contact me, randomly, demanding bits of my time and luring me with hopes of friendship. But it’s never ever about being my friend. Why wouldn’t you want to be my friend?
Or maybe it’s impossible. I’m sitting in my parent’s kitchen digesting the Daily 10 on E!, and I hear between sips of old coffee that the Beverly Hills Cop series is going to be resurrected. Okay, now aside from complaining about how unoriginal Hollywood has become and bitching about how we’re all starved of true creativity (all very visually apparent but untrue accusations), I think the proper reaction to this news is excitement. I mean, come on, it’s Charlie Murphy. So, I text Barry. Barry being Meredith’s ex-boyfriend. Who happened to break her heart. (No, they have not succeeded at becoming friends, either.) So, is this wrong of me? Should I not be contacting my best friend’s ex? He was at one point my friend, too. We were acquaintances before the relationship, and during it he became a very solid older-brother figure for me.
Pause. Michael Patrick King is going to make upwards of 39 million dollars. Now, think about it. A gay guy it about to flame his way into the good(er) life by feeding heterosexual girls unrealistic fantasies of impossible romances. Nice. If I had a golden tiara, Mr. King, it’d be all yours.
That Lohan mom sure is creepy. Fierce, but creepy.
Anyways, can there be friendship after love? Do those little nagging needlepoints stop sinking into your heart? Do those sharp teeth ever retract from your neck? Does that pain ever abate? Or will it always hurt, if just a little?
I wish I loved Steven. It’d be a comfortable, safe, middle-class existence. We’d get married and have three kids. They’d all go to Catholic school. But at least there would be love. Alas, I don’t love him. Last night, when I was hanging out with him, just after he had dropped the, “Maybe, you know, there is a reason you asked me to come over tonight,” bomb, I thought, “Jesus. I wish you were Myles.” So do I love Myles? Or, does Myles just scare me a little less?
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