Why Can't I Find A Man? And Other Questions No One Cares About

I'm lonely. I'll admit it; I'm not afraid. I'm fucking lonely. I haven't had sex in seven-ish months, and even then it was a one-night stand (admittedly, it was my decision to keep it that way). I've never been a man-whore (except for 4th of July weekend '08, when I very briefly went out of my fucking mind), but it's nice to feel wanted. Physically or emotionally, doesn't matter. Ok, it does matter, but you can't have it all now can you. Sometimes a guy just needs a good lay. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is. I know it' s not polite to say it, but since when have I ever been polite here?

'05-'08 I was in a serious relationship, and in the course of that time I fell in love -- with someone else. His name was Grant, and I seriously, crawling-through-glass, crying-in-bed-with-my-knees-up-to-my-chest fell in love with him. I'm not afraid to say that either, although I am ashamed of the circumstances (cheating, you know). He broke my heart and didn't feel a bit sorry, and now he's a rapper in New York. I sincerely hope he fails miserably at it.

Then I fell for another guy -- not in love, not fell, maybe leaned. This is autumn '08. We go on a few dates, he strings me along. I sense a pulling away on his end but I'm desperate to hold on (it was a bad year), to ease the pain of rejection and the dissolution of my three-year relationship. It ends with me on the phone with my mother, sobbing and later listening to the Shins on my headphones ("New slang/When you notice the stripes/The dirt in your fries/Hope it's right when you die/Old and bony"). There was other stuff going on there. Like I said, it was a bad year.

I throw myself into work, into writing (The Next Great American Screenplay). I start this blog, and I get a lot of shit for it. I didn't care at that point, but I took some slings and arrows. You know, you shouldn't be so open with people Chrissie, you'll just end up hurting yourself in the end. I didn't listen, and you know I'm glad I didn't. I survived a difficult time by baring my soul, and it felt good to do it. I think in a way it saved my ass from something far worse than public embarrassment.

The Next Great American Screenplay never came to fruition, at least it hasn't yet. To be honest, it'd just be nice to sell something at this point. I'm a capitalist when it comes right down to it. Create something worthwhile, and then make a profit off of it. The Founding Fathers would be proud.

The blog? Well, I think in some ways I did get scared off. I don't update on Facebook anymore, in fact I barely write on here at all. I thought of making a go at it and realized I didn't have a theme. I still don't. "City of Angles" has turned into "Chris Writing About Himself, Mostly". Why don't you start a regular feature to get people interested? Focus on something people will want to read. Don't be so long-winded. Pictures, video. Fine, have it your way. No one has time for lengthy opinions anymore, I get it. I don't rant in five-page slabs anymore. I try to keep things simple. The blog is just fun and helps me get my thoughts out, it isn't meant to be anything to anyone else (at least it's not designed that way). I guess it never was. It's a canvas for my narcissistic tendencies.

Ok, so seven months. I'm horny, I'm sad. I don't think I'm bad-looking, I know I'm no Gap ad either. My face is chubby, I have deep-set eyes. I'm barely 5'9" (if I stand up straight). My teeth are slightly crooked, and my skin isn't great. But you know, on the positive side I have nice feet, and a good body that I work hard for. And I know there are guys that want me that I'm not interested in. You know, that's life. I want guys that don't want me back too. A lot, in fact.

Are my expectations unrealistic? I guess I shouldn't be hitting on guys that just guest-starred on "Melrose Place" (true story), which only hires exceptional-looking people with porcelain skin I imagine. Maybe I should start frequenting the gay dive bars on Tuesday nights, places filled with nice cute men who have receding hairlines and a slight gut and like playing pool with their friends. I can't cut it with the pretty boys, and it's taken me close to ten years to learn my lesson. Moveon.org isn't a political organization, it's the story of my fucking life.

So here I am, lying in my underwear and this is all just coming out of me at 2am. It's Friday morning now. I fly to Jackson, Mississippi on Sunday morning at 6:00. Shreveport the following week. Where's it all leading? I'm not really sure, but hopefully somewhere I can get laid.