The Bitch Is Back

There are many definitions of the word friend. Throw in the prefix good in front of friend, and the definitions become even more descriptive. My good friend Josh likes to say, a friend is one who knows you and loves you just the same. But is love a requirement of friendship and furthermore, when the two intermingle, where does the line between good-friend and boy-friend get drawn?

Is it after you spend countless meals together? Is it after you share countless secrets together? In today’s “evolved” day and age, is it even after you have spent countless nights together?

While the lines of love and friendship are ever changing, mine seem to be constantly blurred. To be honest, the way I feel about the situation of a “fuck-buddy”, one could say, is no where near as bad as explaining it.

“So, are you single?”
“Well, I am not really sure… sort of, well we.. I mean -”

The above mentioned conversation only returns one of two looks, both making you realize how stupid you are. The first, is the “oh, we’ve all been there” you get from girls you would never want to be anywhere with, and the second is a “and you’re signing up for the special Olympics when?” you get from interested men and anyone over 35.

It is the latter that makes me seriously question our generational judgment. If all of a decade ago are you single was a yes or no question - what in gay hell happened to us? Know how I could answer the question of coupledom? 12 ways until Sunday - that’s how, and you know what else? It is bullshit. An ongoing cycle of complete and utter horse-crap. And while usually I make my complaints with god 100% me - after evaluating many of my girlfriends spastic relationships (if we can even call them that) I am calling out the big guns and complaining for us all.

If you want to know why I haven’t had a posting in quite sometime, it is because sometimes even the best of us find ourselves knee deep in said horse-crap, i.e. yours truly, and for someone who believes in the words “fool me once…”, let me tell you, second time around? Literally and figuratively, I still got screwed so who cares whose to blame? Shame is still on me because it was I who let ones actions speak softer than ones words. Shame is on me because I was sorta-single, while a certain someone else was sorta-seeing every other single in the city.

The worst part? I was woo-ed by hot dogs and Heineken. And while Papaya King’s hot dogs are no joking matter, would a meal that one doesn’t engulf standing up kill you? I mean, would it really hurt? In truth, would it hurt any less had we sat down to white glove service?

Okay yes, the lack of hot dog’s may have made my jeans feel a bit better, but as for matters of the heart, regardless of my grandmother’s opinion on how to get a Jewish guy, our hearts are not connected to our stomachs.

What is connected to our stomachs however are the meals with good friends, not boy friends, who will hear you vent only until the next round of Mojito’s. Good friends who only bring one head to the table. So as I consider the readers of this blog good friends of mine, I felt the need to share the reason behind the absence of my story telling and like good friends would, you’ve let me vent just until the next string of debauchery takes place.

And like most things, I have come full circle. Are you single has once again become a yes or no question, and if you’ve been reading, there is no surprise to how I’ll answer that one. Translation? The Bitch is Back.