I'm Gay. . . You're Gay. . . We All Scream for Ice Cream!

So if anyone reading this knows me (Which is the whole 10 people reading this thing) you know that I have been bitching for the past few days since I moved to Minneapolis about not having anything to do. I blame this dilima on 3 facts:

1. Lack of a car or any other transportation that doesn't scare the hell out of me.
2. Lack of knowing anybody in the city.
3. The people who I do know, and who claim to live in "Minneapolis" are more or less 30 mintes away from me. Let's be honest with ourselves, and admit that if we live in Minnetonka, Chanhassan, Fridley or any of these other distant suburbs, that we do not live in Minneapolis. Let's save eachother the time of lying.

Luckily, my dear friend M. Anderson took pity on my sorry ass, and came to my rescue. I will give him credit, because his suburb is only 15 minutes outside of the city. My night in shining armor rescues me from my Porcelain Prison, and off we road into the night skyline. Our plans were vague to say the least, and we found ourselves driving down mysterious roads that led us passed an Arby's that was sporting a welcome sign roughly the size of my Land Lady's computer.

After passing up this great and intimidating realm of roast beef sandwiches, Manderson and I found ourselves amongst the academia of the U of M (apparently all roads in Minneapolis led to the U of M). Against all better judgement I agreed to visit one of Manderson's friends who lives right outside the campus. I should have known to turn back the second a saw the androginous shadow sporting a pair of cut off sweats and fuzzy flip flops. What I was about to experience would alter my life drastically. As I walked down the hall, I suddenly felt a feeling of Dejavu. I knew that smell..."Oh right, that time I was forced to go inside of a Hollister. and my sense of scent was fucked up for the rest of the week." Once I was seated on the couch I was able to take in my surroundings. Imagine for a second that Urban Outfiters and Ikea conceived a bastard child. Well here we were. From the high concrete ceilings and cheaply jeweled chandeleir, to the christmas lights wrapped around a metal poll-beam that couldn't possibly have any use other than catter to the sick demands of a vicious homosexual. As I adjusted my eyes to the low lighting, and heavy fragrance, I found myself seated in the corner of the room where I could be conviniently ignored by the group of seething homosexuals who resembled a cross between the Real Housewives of Orange County and that other stupid show on Bravo about the gay real estate young adult millionaires. I was not amused. Luckily my sarcastic remarks seemed to evaporate in the air before they reached any of the ears in the room (I blame that on the fragrance and smoke) My minutes seemed to weave together, and before I knew it there was a bitch fight going down outside the hall (A good a spot as ever to evacuate). I was back "home", and the sounds of oxygen tubes and cat collar bells never seemed so soathing.

-Alone and Loving It