Today’s the big day. The day that I will either rise to greatness or go down in a blaze of glory as I try to keep up with the sassy office bitches during a very long night on the town. Did I forget to mention that our plans start at 430pm and lead into an open bar after-party that goes until 3am? Right. ‘Cause they do. And that can only mean one thing…..utter devastation.

In celebration of this monumental occasion of being dragged out of my suburban comforts for the sake of debauchery and public embarrassment, I thought I might put together a little guide of what it takes to make all this happen. That is, a collection of high maintenance requirements that must be fulfilled before I am ready to have a good time. And if you think they’re silly, just ask Tia who watched me violate several of the rules in San Diego and suffer the inevitable consequences.

Let us begin.

Two Weeks Warning – Yes. I know. We’re pretty much starting with the lamest of all my going out requirements. I mean, could I not have opened with something a little more gaytastic like requiring a professional hair-tossling as administered by America’s Next Top Model’s Ms. Jay? But it’s true. Generally speaking, I need time to warm up to the notion of being anywhere after 11pm besides my bed with two puppies crammed all up in my business.

This transition period is also used to adjust my food intake accordingly (less for gay bars, more for sports bars) and to repeatedly remind the newf of my reasons for not just sitting at home, getting take-out, and watching PVRed movies with him until we fall asleep. Which, to be clear, is actually a beloved Friday tradition and don’t you dare make fun because it’s awesome and you suck.

Predetermined Transportation Arrangements – Cabs here are the shits. We live about 20 minutes from the downtown core and I have on numerous occasions been kicked out of cars by drivers who don’t want to bother taking me home. Which is illegal. And annoying. As such, I need to know how I’m getting to where we’re going, and how I am getting home before I even leave the house. Lucky for me, the newf’s favourite thing is picking me up when I’m hammered both because he thinks I’m more fun when I’m drunk (ouch…but…I get it) and because it means we can get fast food on the way home.

You know…in addition to the fast food he gets on his way home from dropping me off.

I’ll be sad when he has his heart attack.

Established and Agreed Upon Game Plan – Where are we going? Who’s coming with us? What are we drinking? Do we have a proper ‘going out’ playlist including several hits from the early 2000s, Overprotected and Lose My Breath? These are all questions that need to be answered before I can fully commit to the night out. Every detail missed is one that can be used to convince myself that UGH EVERYTHING IS TOO UP IN THE AIR AND I CAN’T DEAL WITH ALL THE CONFUSION AND OH LOOK MEAN GIRLS IS ON CABLE! MEAN GIRLS NEVER CONFUSES OR FRIGHTENS ME.

I work with incredible project managers every day so you seriously have to do your homework here. My expectations are high. Bonus points if you can provide me all the information in a briefing package done up to make me feel like a spy. Just ’cause.

Pre-drinks: The Sour V – 1/3 Grey Goose, 1/3 Red Fanta, 1/3 White Grape and Peach, top with lime juice. Try it. Love it. Throw it up in the morning and wonder if you might be bleeding internally. It’s a lifestyle. And yes, the name was originally the Sour Vagina but Best Friend Nick and I shortened it because we kept getting grossed out. Especially after an ice cube cracked and jumped while I was taking a sip and it burst all over my face. True (and gross) story.

Buddy System – I’m a runner. Just when everyone is starting to have fun, I am gone. Remember that time you went to a party and your friend disappeared and everyone spent the rest of the night looking for her to make sure she hasn’t been raped and left to die in a ditch? Yeah. That’s me. Whether I get hungry, tired, annoyed, bored, or distracted, my first instinct is to just leave and sort out the details in the morning.

Ask the newf about the time he had to chase me on foot across all of downtown Ottawa while I drunk-dialed my friends to tell them that I was lost (I wasn’t), alone (I wasn’t), and afraid (I wasn’t). Or, ask Tia about having to patrol a gay mexican dance bar, asking strangers if they’ve seen a lost Canadian.

This supervisory role is also responsible for making sure I don’t make unattractive facial expressions as I have been known to do.

Meal Prior. Meal Post. Meal Post Post – Ummmmmmyeah. I pretty much only drink so that I can consume gross amounts of calories guilt-free. Why? Well, aside from the delicious and regrettable food, let’s go back to the disaster than was July 4, 2019.

Tia and I went a full day with about half a meal between us before going out with California Gays. MISTAKE. I knew I was going to throw up about half a drink in. Why? No meal prior. Next mistake, not eating the burrito that I made Tia take me to go get before I went to sleep. If I had, maybe I would have only been sick once or twice rather than retching for six hours. No meal post = morning death. In Halifax, we have a magical place called Pizza corner – an intersection with a pizza joint on three of the four corners – that must be visited before I can go to sleep satisfied.

Lastly, the night must be followed by a debrief brunch. This has less to do with bad past drinking experiences and more to do with I want Hollandaise all over my face at all times.

I admit, I haven’t been the best dog owner lately. While sure I’ve been giving them more exercise than usual and still succumb to Theo’s daily need of having his food served in a quarter-inch pool of water and not an ounce more or less, I have been showing and ugly selfish side of myself that I normally like to keep hidden. Well, actually that’s mostly untrue – my ugly selfish side is usually front and center but I felt like if I were to say that, people would wonder why I haven’t tried to lose that trait over the years. And frankly? That side of me ensures that I get more things and food and money than I actually deserve which is more than I can say about kindness, generosity and empathy.

That’s right, Care Bears, I said it. You’re not only to blame for a rise in childhood obesity after parading your roly-poly, tramp-stamped asses all over our televisions in the nineties, but you’re also full of lousy advice. If more kids stuck with my life lessons, they’d know the true, deliciously fleeting satisfaction of short-term rewards.

But as the weather starts to cool and our thoughts turn to why dear god why do we ever live in this horrible place, I have a really hard time adjusting to the change in season. This could be because even in the summer I wore two to three layers of clothing every single day and now that it’s actually getting cold I can only add so many cardigans, sweaters, jackets, coats, parkas and sleeping bags into the mix before I start looking like a drifter who might fight you for a cigarette butt. Simply put, the cold weather makes me unbearable to live with. I can never get warm from head to toe unless I’m either making sweet love to our hot water heater or face-humping our oil tank – neither of which the newf appreciates as he’s the one who has to pay for both.

My solution, however, seems to suit all of us except for poor, little, defenseless Theo, now know as the world’s most expensive hot water bottle. I get home after work, walk until his little legs are worn down to stubs and wait for him to collapse of exhaustion once we get home. Then, once he’s out like a college girl who never learned to keep an eye on her drink, I cart him around like my personal heating system, shoving him all up in my personal space wherever I go.

I’ll cram him underneath my legs on the couch, I’ll wrap him around my neck in my office, and I’ll even stuff him down in the covers of the bed ten minutes before I get in so that there’s a dachshund-sized warm patch for my feet. All the while the poor guy can only muster up enough energy to give me the sad eyes in hopes that I’ll just leave him be – a tactic that might work had I not BOUGHT him, making him my personal plaything, slave and apparently unwilling companion. Actually, this is not unlike my summer habit of giving Theo his flea treatment which I’ve learned makes my dogs like living, breathing mosquito zappers for a whole variety of insects, picking him up, flipping him over and using him like a ecosystem destroying lint-brush on any fabric service in the house.

So the moral of this story is that I’ve found entirely new ways for my dogs to earn their keep since I have no confidence in their ability to alert me of danger (unless danger equals blowing leafs, plastic bags, or sinister tree shadows), or inform me when and if the newf ever falls into a well. While it may seem cruel to you, understand that I’m on year two of picking up his feces and allowing him to wake me by jumping directly onto my face. I don’t think he’ll get a whole lot of sympathy from PETA just yet.

It’s rare that I bring office issues to the blog (mostly because I know full-well that any employer who lets me write about my junk and drinking purely for the sake of the funny workplace hangover is an employer worth holding on to), but in this case, I fear I’m left with no other option. Over the past six weeks, I have somehow gone from being the young, fun, randomly hungover on Wednesdays coworker through whom the settled, mature folk could vicariously live while they schedule daycare pick-ups and plan date nights five weeks in advance, to being the lone Diane Keaton in a world of Blake Livelys.

Unbeknownst to me, my boss randomly went and hired a slew of young, sassy bitches (aren’t I enough??) who are putting me to shame on a daily basis, practically shoving me into middle age with their designer handbags, nonfat lattés and abbreviations that I don’t understand.

“Club Mon?”

“Totes.”

“Love.”

“Right?”

THAT’S NOT A REAL CONVERSATION.

I mean…is it? If it is and I’m just out of touch, you’d tell me right?

Oh – and for any of you who think being anything related to Diane Keaton was a good thing? Get the fuck off my blog. Diane Keaton is terrible in every way imaginable and I’m not even saying that in a overdramatic blogger way where if we were to meet some day I’d probably let it all slide and fall in love with her.

I legitimately cannot handle any part of Diane Keaton, from the glasses to the highlights to the fact that she’s been fifty fucking years old for the past thirty years, I pretty much want to start every day of my life by punching her in the face and some day when I’m rich, famous, and ruler of the free world, I will do exactly that. Watch your ass, Keaton. Your time riding The First Wives Club wave has ended.

…I’ll wait a minute for the few people going to brag about having met her or being related to her to slink away and watch Because I Said So…

Now, my funny water-cooler stories about convincing the newf that I wasn’t drunk even though I was, or that I am not to blame for the fact that our stone patio seems to be paper-machéd with phyllo pastry (true story…and I am totally to blame) are being trumped by these girls whose Chanel heels and C-cups seem to attract entire varsity teams of college boys with bar tabs and the scandals that follow. Combined with their daily morning fashion shows that immediately rob me of all self-confidence, it feels like Sex and the City is punching me in the nuts every day.

The worst part of it all is that I actually really like them and find myself battling the urge to become part of their fashionable crew – that is, to regress right back to my early twenties where I could drop $300 on a single item of clothing, chase shots of whiskey with more shots of whiskey, and dance until four in the morning before drunk-dialing the man of the moment because I’m too lazy to walk all the way back to my own apartment. Not that that ever happened on a regular basis over the course of several years.

I hate to say it but I spent a lot more of this past weekend crying than I care to admit. I have been choking on my words while I try to say what needs to be said – and it does need to be said.

For all the amazing accomplishments that we’ve made as a society, for all the civil rights movements that have won equality for minority groups around the world, and for all the wonderful support and opportunity that I have experienced as a gay man, we as a whole are in trouble. Thirteen-year-old kids are killing themselves after being tortured for being, seeming, or acting gay. These kids are suffering in ways that most of us can’t even understand to the point where they are throwing away the rest of their lives before they’re even old enough to know what the rest of their lives can look like.

While politicians bicker over the right to marry, or the right to serve one’s country, these kids are carrying the weight of the debate personally on their shoulders. These are the students who aren’t being allowed to go to prom. These are the students who need to change schools because they’re not being given the space to figure out who they are. These are the kids who are feeling so ostracized and isolated that they can’t see that change is coming within their lifetimes if only they are brave enough to keep living.

Seth Walsh, Asher Brown, Billy Lucas – they were KIDS before they were news stories.

I hope that many of you have been able to watch this call for action from Ellen, and that even more of you have seen one of the many videos collected for Dan Savage’s It Gets Better project – both addressing the need to change perceptions in order to save these lives and show a generation that we can do better and that we WILL do better.

It was my intention to make a video to add to the collection. I wanted to tell people that I understand how hard it is to be someone that you’re not just to survive the school system. I wanted to tell people how my family created the foundation of trust, acceptance, and respect that let me flourish over the past 25 years. I wanted to tell people that after high school you get to be friends with all the pretty girls and find out that all the assholes who bullied you have tiny dicks and will work at gas stations for the rest of their lives. I wanted to say ANYTHING in order to keep these kids from going down the path that they’re on today.

For some strange reason, much of my life has been a complete anomaly. You know how divorce rates have skyrocketed and broken homes (ugly and outdated term, if you ask me…) are more common than ever? Well, somehow my parents have managed to put up with each other without turning to violence for over thirty years. THIRTY. And they actually seem (mostly) happy about it!

I have mad respect for them, the issues I’m sure they’ve gone through together, and the way they have worked to grow closer together over the years rather than further apart. Also, I respect that my mom was able to identify my dad’s long-term earning potential even back when they were poor twenty-somethings straight out of university. Mom? I hope I’ve done you proud. Let’s go for drinks on our husbands’ dime.

They really are an inspiration and have really helped me understand how relationships (married or not) are moving targets that need constant attention and care, rather than just unchanging roles meant to last a lifetime. Which means there’s still hope that I can transition the snow-shoveling responsibility over to the newf before it’s too late.

To celebrate their big occasion, the newf and I pulled ourselves together and threw a big party in their honour. That they paid for. Except it was still a good deed because even though we kept all the receipts for the stuff we bought, we haven’t submitted the expense claim thus making it a truly admirable exercise in generosity instead of a bunch of money-hungry gays applying a 15% mark-up to napkins and garden mulch. And it was all worth it because look how damn cute they are.

Mom looks shocked only because she just figured out that the newf and I are more than just friends.

Also – I don’t know what my Dad’s shirt is all about although I do approve of the nice white pants for a summer party. And if you need more reasons why my parents are the coolest, they both arrived on my dad’s motorcycle in full riding gear, allowing my mom to do a quick-change, switching into her dress that she had on underneath her leather coat, and losing her pants and boots standing in our driveway. I was genuinely nervous until I saw that the dress was on.

(If she wasn’t going to kill me just for posting the picture, she’ll definitely kill me after telling you all that she basically flashed my entire street her panties.)

Not to get any sappier on you than I already have, but I have to say I was awfully proud to have my house full with relatives that I see once every five years, all in their sixties and seventies, all over the moon about the fact that they’re getting to meet the newf because he makes me so happy. Except they don’t call him the newf because that deal I made with Satan seems to still be holding that keeps them from remembering/knowing that I have a blog no matter how many times my dad inappropriately includes it in strange and infrequent family newsletters which in my books, to be perfectly clear, is grounds for paternal termination.

Watch your ass, dad. One more mention of the blog and you won’t make it to the next anniversary.

Look who hasn’t blogged since declaring war on the elderly. THAT was a stupendous first impression to attach to my online identity for two weeks. But hey – I stand by that post. Want to fight, old people? Meet me at dusk exactly ten years from today. Oh wait…you won’t be able to because you’ll be dead. Are we done here or do we need a Bring It On style cheer-off? I’m already wearing my Spanx and have plenty of rage that will go nicely with a proper Fun Factory megamix. No? You’re good? Super.

Speaking of Spanx and the things that they contain, I recently convinced myself that I had Testicular Cancer. And I don’t just mean, “my underwear are too tight and I’m blaming the discomfort on a terrible disease instead of the bag of Sun Chips I just oral-sexed”. I mean, “what the hell is going on down there oh my god I need a vacation day so that when the doctor tells me to go straight to the hospital for an immediate eviction of Lefty, I can“.

Quick check-in: who’s picturing my downstairs bits right now? You totally are, aren’t you? Call me.

(Sorry to all coworkers who will inevitably have to look me in the eye after reading this.)

But yeah. Something felt…different…which after twenty-five years of things not feeling different, quickly became cause for concern. It would be a lot like waking up to see that you have a new face. Or maybe it wouldn’t be at all like that – I’m just speculating here. What I’m trying to say is that Lefty was pulling a bit of a diva fit and after walking around for a few days being all, the FUCK is going on down there?, I ended up coming across a video documentary made by a guy I know who is actually battling testicular cancer right now. I don’t think I need to tell you that the video scared me so badly that both Lefty and Righty made like groundhogs declaring six more weeks of winter.

So, just like that, I was a responsible adult and booked a vacation day and a doctor’s appointment for the next week. Not because I was concerned for my own well-being, but because I’ll be DAMNED if I die first and the newf gets the house paid off by insurance all to himself. This mortal game of chicken is one that I intend to win. And can I just say that there’s nothing quite like coming to your hungover senses and realizing that you’re naked from the waist down with your feet in stirrups and an old man rummaging around down there? I mean…maaaybe on a Sunday during Gay Pride week but not just any ole day.

All in all, things are fine. My date I mean doctor I mean what? said that Lefty probably just got twisted during physical activity that I still try to convince him I do to maintain an entirely theoretical healthy and active lifestyle. Then he told me I should wear jockstraps which if his recommendation is to keep my junk from getting jumbled around MAYBE ASSLESS UNDERWEAR IS NOT THE BEST IDEA. In fact, I’m wondering how much the newf paid him to recommend that. That time the doctor recommended pink thongs and baby oil massages to get rid of my migraines it didn’t help at all.

The bottom line is that I’m healthy and not dying in the least, and that I’m really glad that I actually went to go get checked out, and that you should tell your men (or if you are a man, tell yourself) to go and let a doctor jiggle his junk for a 40 seconds to make sure the troops are in good shape. It’s not worth waiting to see if it goes away. Tell him he can think of me during the examination – it’ll make him feel better. In the pants.

Oh – and slutty underwear fixes everything. It turns out the newf was telling the truth the whole time.

Last month, we once again learned that I am a powerful negotiator whose number one priority is to stay true to the vision of the blog unless of course you offer me anything greater than $20 in value at which point I will laugh all the way to the bank. And by ‘laugh’, I mean ‘squeal at an octave audible only to dogs whilst jumping and clapping’. And by ‘to the bank’, I mean ‘to the newf’ because with multiple $300 belts gathering dust in the closet and math skills that are shaky at best, I am not to be trusted with prepaid credit cards of any kind. Besides, had I not handed in the card for safe-keeping, it would be fair to assume that I would have blown all $100 on tequila shots and slap bracelets.

[If someone wants to give me $100 to spend exclusively on tequila shots and slap bracelets, now would be the time to get in touch. We can super your logo and URL over the video footage. You’ll sell millions. Trust me – I’m a professional.]

So what happens when you send the newf and I downtown to find the BEST! EVER! WAY! to spend $100? Well. At first we just spun around in circles, overwhelmed by the fact that we were no longer surrounded by the numbing monotony of suburbia. And then we got day drunk, bought candy, and played with sex toys. I mean, of course that’s what we did.

And before you get all judgey, eat chocolate and peruse high-end erotica while intoxicated and just try and tell me it’s not the best thing since ice cream made out of puppies. No really – you should try it and report back. My combination of choice was Harp beer, Peanut M&Ms, and beautiful books of nudies that would perfect for a coffee table if you were the type that might need well-endowed men to finish off your living room. Which, who knows…you might be.

(Aren’t we all?)

Now unfortunately there was one very big hiccup in our damn near perfect afternoon – we had only spent $30 and were now faced with the combined onset of the post-sugar crash, the post-day-drunk headache, and the post-sex-shop funny feelings. Rather than trying to power through the last $70 just for the sake of getting the job done, we called it a day, giving me time to get over the disappointment of not bringing home some vibrating contraption that vaguely resembled a rabbit-dolphin with tumors, and the shock of having such a hard time deciding what to spend my money on when usually I just Hansel and Gretel my way around leaving a rash of receipts in my tracks.

The next night or the night after or some night that occurred at some time prior to writing this post (I can either do the mental math of tracking my expenses or keep tabs on the passage of time. I’ve made my choice), we rallied for what turned out to be the ultimate downtown Halifax experience that I was looking for. As chance would have it, a good friend of ours named Jon Cornwall was playing his debut show at The Carleton which at $10 a ticket for over two hours of music was the best thing since beer, chocolate and porn combined.

We ate, we drank, we laughed, we stayed up too late, and we got a little teary eyed over Jon’s unbelievable songwriting and his incredible duets with special guest Ryan MacGrath. Or at least I did because I am a giant shmoop when it comes to watching really talented people do what they love. Or maybe there was something in my eye. Or maybe it was the wine.

All in all, it was damn near perfect except again for another very big hiccup – my prepaid credit card wouldn’t work so my dad ended up having to pay for everything which in itself was still kind of perfect because – HELLO – you’re never too old to let your parents buy you stuff even when you have free money in your pocket. So…one month and two credit-card-equipped downtown excursions later and I still manage to have $70 left to spend. And yes, if I had any sense at all I’d use it to do something nice for my dad in return.

Ah yes. If my life were to have a Frequently Asked Questions page, this one would hold the top slot for the summer months. It’s a troublesome weasel of a question as answering it means dipping your toes into the troublesome waters known as the Sensitive Teacher Topics Tropics. And lemme just tell you…bad things happen to well-intentioned people there.

Here’s what you need to come to terms with before we go any further. Yes – the newf is off all summer. If you want to be off all summer, you should have been a teacher. If you don’t think teachers deserve summers off, you should try to survive a week in a classroom filled with six-year-olds. Good? Good.

The newf’s average day starts at 8am as he gently wakes up to his favourite science-fiction something or other on television that I kindly turn on for him because I am nicer before breakfast than most people are all day. Mostly because my niceness isn’t sustainable – it’s more of a binge and purge situation: LOOK AT ME BEING NICE! OH WAIT – ‘BE NICE’ TIME IS OVER NOW! BOW TO MY EVERY WHIM!

Case and point? Fifteen minutes later I leave the house with our only car, leaving him in solitary suburban confinement with no means of escape. Spending all of your days in the ‘burbs by yourself for two and a half months? Not so fun, as it turns out. I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised – his only options for entertainment are The View, not letting sleeping dogs lie, or his usual favourite, rearranging things in the house while I’m not home to intervene which is what he does every. single. day. From furniture change-outs to glassware staged in half-moons in our cupboards, it’s like he’s coaching our entire collection of belongings to be a synchronized swimming team. Every day there are new and confusing angles, off-kilter focal points and waterproof glitter paste.

My own interior design beliefs aside (summed up perfectly by this 67-second video), it’s a blind person’s worst nightmare. Even with complete vision I’m still very much at risk of experiencing blunt force trauma at the hand of a new lamp, shelf or potted plant that wasn’t there eight hours before. I can only assume that he shops in bulk, hides his wares somewhere on the property, and brings each piece out over the course of several days while I’m at work. I must have taught him that when I came home from California last summer and suddenly found three pairs of designer jeans from before we dated that miraculously still fit and were still in style.

Shhhhh….

Unfortunately for our dear newf however, my senses are finely tuned to pick up on any unauthorized changes to my living space. Even stumbling into the house drunk off work stress and too many Skittles with two dogs jumping all over my legs, tripping me with my own laptop bag (fine…it’s a purse), I will INSTANTLY b-line for whatever is different and point at it while making dry-heavey noises until someone moves it back to the way it was – a necessary skill on the days when you come home to find out that someone bought $200 worth of plants and now your living room looks like it was sexually assaulted during a vigorous game of Jumanji. I’ve had to start underground-railroading plants out of our living room just so I can keep a grasp on when I’m inside and when I’m outside.

And so continues the two-year-long power struggle of my amateur design chops (they’re genetic) versus his spare time and willingness to actually do stuff around the house. Next summer I’m going to have to bring in back-up. Like a nanny. Or pool boy. But preferably an ugly one. I don’t want to have to compete in my own bloody home.

Right. So remember that time I was part of a threeway of horrendously offensive comments and career-limiting statements? ME NEITHER! Um yeah. The Special Pleading webcast almost died a slow and painful death as Joel, Amy and I filmed multiple episodes that were all deemed too horrible to share with the public or attach to our names.

Considering that we’ve AIRED the episodes where we condone eating disorders and discuss which Hollywood fatties we’d sleep with, that’s saying a lot.

But alas, we haven’t learned our lesson yet so we’re back with another colossal episode that includes shopping solutions for well-endowed children, Amy’s sexual habits, and awkward and unsubtle background appearances from the newf.

It’s long…so take your time with it. Maybe work it down in chunks. Maybe just grab on and ride it out. Maybe spend some time thinking about what I’m really talking about here. No matter what you choose…just click over and watch.

I sort of just have to come out and say something.

It might not be pretty, you might not agree with it, and you might not like it, but it needs to be said before I write anything else. If it softens the blow, at least know that I feel like a total knob about it (that’s a lie…I feel awesome), and I’m consumed with guilt knowing that something that a ton of people are dying for just fell on my lap (some guilt…but mostly happy explosions of unicorns).

Right. So. On the way home from a road trip with my mom, just after she tried to make me wear her sequined, orange shawl to avoid getting a sunburn through the car window and upon my refusal shouted: “…not gay enough, more like!”, and just before I spent the next four days pacing back and forth in a house all to myself, I got an email.

An email from a literary agent.

An email from a literary agent in New York.

An email from a literary agent in New York who wants to work with me on a book.

Ahem.

I don’t know what your first reactions are like right now but I can tell you that mine were something along the lines of the following:

1. I’M GOING TO GET TO DATE JAKE GYLLENHAAL!

2. OH SHIT SO MANY BLOGGERS ARE GOING TO HATE ME!

3. OH SHIT I’D HATE IF THIS HAPPENED TO ANYONE BUT ME!

4. OH MY GOD THE NERVOUS POOPS!

5. NO BUT SERIOUSLY JAKE GYLLENHAAL?

Yes. It’s true. A real live professional overlooked all my flaws (as if I have any…), saw a glimpse of potential (dumbstruck by my modelesque appearance and flexible morals, no doubt), and asked if I might be interested (ummmmmmmmmmmFUCKYES) in working with her team to come up with something amazing. That is, my dream of maybe potentially perhaps becoming an author someday that I’ve had since I was five might just actually stand a chance at coming true – unlike my dream of becoming a Detective who was also a dog.

It’s not a book deal, there are no promises, and there are still about 3598155 ways that I can screw this up, but it’s a glimmer of hope that’s about to send me on the craziest ride of my life. Aside from that, you just need to know that this agency also represents 50 Cent, Eminem, the guy who had Pluto delisted as a planet, and Lance Bass.

Guess which end of the spectrum I’m on.

In closing, I will take a handful of questions before retiring to a truffle oil bath administered by the entire Spanish World Cup team, each wearing naughty football uniforms made of edible gold – a.k.a. what my life will soon be like assuming that my book will be as widely sold as The Bible which it totally will and don’t you dare try to tell me that it won’t:

• Are you going to be famous? Undoubtedly.
• Will you remember the little people? Most certainly not. I’ll be doing too much coke.
• Can you give me your agent’s contact info? Um. Can you let me dupe her into working on MY book first?.
• How do you go about writing a book? Don’t worry, my ghostwriter will handle it.
• What kind of book will you write? An awesome one that you will love.
• What’s your favourite colour? Stop wasting my time. I’m busy.

Hello boys….