Really, what’s the point?

The other night I had the privilege of eating at The Cheesecake Factory. I ordered the fettuccine with chicken and  sun-dried tomatoes. As I can rarely eat the entire meal, I naturally had left overs.

The following evening, I open my refrigerator to enjoy the sequel to that colon bomb. When I opened the box tucked carefully in the doggie bag, I saw this:

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I would like to note that my scrumptious plate of  noodles and fat emulsion had no greenery or other garnishment when served at the restaurant. However, in the process of packaging it for transport, a member of the staff thought it might be a nice gesture to add some garnish to a pile of half-eaten slop. I am sure you can agree that it really adds the pièce de résistance to what otherwise resembles the aftermath of a nice pasta dinner followed by fifteen shots of whiskey.

Stay classy, Cheesecake Factory.

 

Polishing A Turd (slang noun): The act of trying to make something hopelessly weak and unattractive appear strong and appealing. An impossible process that usually results in a larger, uglier turd.

– The Urban Dictionary

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The Breast Man

I think it might be a little known fact that a large number of gay men are actually fascinated by female breasts.

I don’t think it comes from a place of sexual desire or from a longing to sport a pair, but they are definitely objects of intense curiosity. Speaking for myself, I often look at them with the same utilitarian thought process that I would apply to empty shelving space. After all, with the right push-up bra there is relatively little difference between busty cleavage and a gently sloping fire place mantle. When I imagine what you could do with that kind of surface area, my mind conjures images of framed graduation pictures, the obligatory ceramic cherub, or perhaps a small wicker basket of potpourri. The possibilities are truly endless.

Mental meanderings aside, I feel somewhat resentful when women wear tight T-shirts with words or phrases emblazoned upon them. Every time I have made an effort to read the text in question, I inevitably get a dirty look from the female loaded with the disdain so often reserved for perverts. Once, a young woman actually said to me, “Hey! Stop staring at my chest!”

To this I replied, “I am merely reading what your shirt has to say. Your breasts appear to be fervent supporters of Barack Obama. I hope they are registered to vote.”

Breasts: The undiscovered storage space.

Breasts: The undiscovered shelving space.

The Valentine’s Day Massacre

Valentine’s Day is truly a double-edged sword.

On the one hand, you have a number of people who appear to be blessed to have someone they love in their lives (and who presumably love them back). Many enjoy reflecting that sunshine out into the eyes of everyone around them like a little kid with a pocket mirror by posting endless proclamations on their Facebook and Twitter accounts for all the world to see. On the alternate hand, you have single people who fear this holiday more than a paper cut in a lemon juice factory. I probably fall into the latter group this time around, however I certainly do have a sliver of happiness for my friends who have managed to find people to “enhance” their lives.

However, this Valentine’s Day I spent a good amount of time reflecting on whether or not I would want trade places with some of them and surprisingly, the answer was a resounding “No.”

Exploration of this thought took me deep into the caverns of my own psychological choices. Why not trade places with those who seem to have it all? Why would you not want to have that affection and closeness on a day such as this? The answers were relatively simple. I do, of course,  wish to leave this heavy coat of loneliness in a Goodwill donation bin but not at the price of leaving something else in its pockets which is of far greater value: my principles. All but perhaps 2 or 3 relationships that I witness in my friendship orbit involve some kind of horrible compromise. Whether it is broken trust, covert infidelities, or mutual hatred of being alone, these compromises – while not entirely visible to the untrained eye – harbor something I would never want in my future: a false promise. A marriage built on something that may not be entirely real or lasting. A carnival trick created by slight of hand (and heart).

In my discussions with many friends, I have been told, “You will never find the perfect relationship so you may as well give up some of the things you are looking for,” but does this mean core things like trust? I don’t think so. I do think that holding out for solid, common values does mean your journey will be likely be unpleasant. I think it might be that you will be lonely more often, your wait will be longer. The road to an Olympic Gold Medal is certainly much more difficult than winning a red ribbon at the county fair. It takes both ruthless dedication and an inordinate amount of time. And in the end, there is no guarantee you will find it.

Facing this goal is daunting – like a standing at the base of a Himalayan mountain with but a single climbing rope to help you. The quest seems hopeless from the very start, but you have to ask yourself if that is what you really want. Are you truly capable of achieving this?

When I look at the mountain in front of me – with its icy top and treacherous slopes – I can see why people succumb to the fear. It is far easier to say, “This person doesn’t make me laugh or spark my intelligence but they are reliable,” or “I have to go outside the relationship for fulfilling sex, but I don’t want to be on my own again.” So, in some ways, I get it. I may not agree with the choice, but I do understand it.

Or perhaps it is better to say that I understand human nature and that the path of least resistance is usually the one most traveled.

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