Cutter Slagle's Blog, page 2

The “F” Word

It should come as no big surprise that my favorite “F” word is fuck. I especially like this word when it’s dressed up with motherfucker or go fuck yourself. My fascination with the “F” word began at a pretty young age. I have a distinct memory of me running around the house, four or five years old, telling anyone in my line of vision: “Don’t fuck with the babysitter.”

I guess I also had a fascination with Elizabeth Shue’s character in Adventures in Babysitting.

Yes, I was a handful as a child. And, as most people in my life can attest, still am a handful.

However, today, we’re going to talk about a different “F” word. On the outside—or when yelled into someone’s face—it may not seem to pack as big a punch as fuck, but it’s still equally as important, and perhaps even more potent.

Forgiveness.

“Forgiveness is more than saying sorry.”

Remember when Anna Faris said—sang—that? Yeah, probably not. There weren’t a lot of people who saw Just Friends. Regardless, you don’t have to have seen the movie to know that Ms. Faris hit the nail on the head. Forgiveness is more than saying sorry, so much more. Forgiveness is also a really hard concept to wrap your head around, no matter how you consider the word and all of the components that go along with it.

Obviously, there are many facets of forgiveness. There is accepting forgiveness, offering forgiveness, forgiving others, forgiving yourself. Authentic forgiveness, forced forgiveness, forgiveness out of convenience. And, as with numerous elements of life, the act of forgiveness is not always cut and dried.

What does that mean, exactly?

Forgiveness is a big word, a complicated word. Sure, it’s only three measly syllables, but when combined, those syllables have the ultimate power: the power to heal when forgiveness is offered, or the power to hurt when forgiveness is denied.

Of course, when speaking about the “F” word, it’s sometimes necessary to ponder why forgiveness is being sought after in the first place. Simply put, some actions and/or behaviors are easily and quickly forgiven, while others are harder to forgive, perhaps even impossible to forgive.

It’s pretty routine—easy—to forgive someone when they mistake me for Zac Efron. It happens all of the time slash never. But it could, right? And when it does, I’ll be ready to grant someone forgiveness for their mistake.

On the flip side, it’s difficult to forgive someone who voted for Trump a second term. Or, you know, someone who buys their shoes at Payless.

It’s even tougher to forgive someone who gaslights me, wastes my time and love, leaves me feeling empty and broken and lost.

In all honestly, I shouldn’t forgive someone capable of doing something so destructive and ugly. Believe it or not, I’m a forgiving person. I don’t usually hold onto grudges. What’s the point? They’re heavy and pointless. About as heavy and pointless as Chris Christie.

I try to forgive. I want to forget. I hope to move on. And though you can forgive someone and move on without reserving space for them in your immediate circle, I also don’t like cutting people out of my life.

What can I say? I’m not the vicious psychopath I once portrayed in that web series no one saw. Who knew?!

Now, perhaps one of the most imperative pieces of forgiveness is the post-apology behavior.

For example, if someone hits your mother with a car and there’s only mild damage (to your mom, not the car), and then apologizes for being less than reliable behind the wheel, that forgiveness will not have been in vain if they never again mistake a member of your family for a parking cone.

If a loved one breaks your trust and you choose to forgive them, you can believe the apology was authentic if they never betray you again. Further, you granting them forgiveness was not for naught.

However, if a person lies to you or deceives you, apologizes, tells you it will never happen again, and then it happens three hundred and fourteen more times . . . that’s not forgiveness they’re pursuing. It’s manipulation. They’re conning you.

Also, if that’s you giving an individual that many chances, remember this: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

I’m not judging! I’m the dumbass who gives third, fourth, nineteenth chances. And, if you’re like me, then this little mantra might suit you better: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times, oh, just go fuck yourself.

And, if you’re like me, a forgiving person, then cut yourself some slack. Actually, learn to forgive yourself.

That, boys and girls, is most likely the hardest type of forgiveness: forgiving yourself.

In case you’ve forgotten, you’re human. So, unless you’ve done something truly abhorrent, like cheated on Jen Aniston, worn white after Labor Day, or lied about being on PrEP, then try to cut yourself a bit of that slack mentioned above.

A good portion of us—hopefully, anyway—are constantly working on ourselves. Trying to better ourselves. Striving to be the absolute best versions of ourselves that we can be. As such, mistakes are inevitable. There’s no rulebook or teacher to guide us along the way of our journey. All we can do is use the information we have to make the decision we think is right at the time.

So, one last reminder: Unless you’re purposely misleading someone or screwing them over, then you’re allowed to mess up. And when you mess up, you need to forgive yourself. Learn from the mess up, don’t make the same mess up over and over again, and move on from it. Apologize to yourself or someone else, if necessary, and move the fuck on.

Life, like forgiveness, is complicated. There are times—many times, actually—that we need to be kinder to ourselves, less negative to ourselves. Instead, we need to love ourselves. After all, if we’re not kind to ourselves, if we don’t love ourselves, then how can we possibly treat anyone else decently?

The point can be argued that if we respect ourselves, we’ll respect others, and as a result, have to seek forgiveness less frequently.

Like I alluded to earlier, when it comes to forgiveness, there is a lot of gray area. I think so, at least. You don’t want to let people walk all over you, but you also want to give second chances. You want to believe that people can change, better themselves, be that ultimate version of themselves. No, you don’t want to get taken advantage of, but you also don’t want to get weighed down by the inability to let go of the past.

Forgiveness to others, forgiveness to yourself . . . forgiveness—period—is an “F” word we all need to embrace with an open heart and an open mind.

Déjà Fuck

I feel like my last few blog articles have been heavy. No, I’m not going to make a fat joke here. Surprise, bitch! Yet, it’s obvious, and I think note-worthy, that I’ve gone kind of deep lately. Well, deeper than normal for me. No, I’m not going to make a sex joke here. Surprise, bitch—again! Also, get your mind out of the gutter.

Actually, to be fair, in order to enjoy this particular article, you might want to keep your mind in the gutter. That’s your warning to skip this particular piece of content, Mom, Dad, teachers from the past . . . anyone and everyone who may not be overly excited to read about my past party days. This is your chance to make an exit.

For the few of you choosing to stay and brave learning about those party days and, to be frank, my prior sexcapades, you’re welcome for the show. My Venmo account can be found under . . . Kidding! Well, maybe.

Anyway, we all know what déjà vu is, right? A hit song by Beyoncé, featuring Jay-Z. We’re all up to speed! Of course, you may also be thinking about the Denzel Washington movie.

All joking aside, most of us have experienced déjà vu at some point in our lives. What is the underlining meaning of déjà vu? How the hell should I know? There are no letters behind my name indicating some sort of special knowledge, skillset, or talent. I’m sure some people like the sensation déjà vu brings, while others despise it, leaving the rest somewhere in the middle.

A simple, juvenile explanation, sure, but what the hell do you want from me? I done already told you that this article isn’t going to go too deep.

I will say this, though: It’s easy to read into déjà vu encounters just like it’s easy to read into anything else. In laymen’s terms, people see whatever they want to see.

Moving on, who knows what a déjà fuck is? And, more importantly, who has ever experienced it? In case you’re wondering, yes, a déjà fuck is exactly what you think it is.

The first time I ever heard this expression was on an episode of Sex and the City. Funny, I know that without a doubt I am now a Carrie (hello, the Male Carrie Bradshaw!), and I can even admit that sometimes I am a Miranda (aren’t we all?), yet there was a time in my past when I was unabashedly a Samantha . . . And being a Samantha was a freakin’ blast!

But, as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end—and for good reason, too! I’m happy I’ve evolved because, quite honestly, a Samantha lifestyle wasn’t realistic. Or, it wasn’t realistic for me, for my wants and needs. I wanted and needed more—and I’m lucky enough to have found it.

However, before I found it, let’s just say I went on a bit of a scavenger hunt. I was like Indiana Jones . . . Fine! I was like Laura Croft, you know, searching tombs and shit. The tombs, of course, were every single bar in Hillcrest (the ones I hadn’t been banned from, anyway). And the shit I was searching for? Well, I’m not exactly sure what I was searching for. But trust and believe, I searched high and low. Sometimes very, very low. And, more times than not, I usually found some sort of shit.

One notable weekend, San Diego Pride weekend, to be exact, I was out and about doing things that weren’t necessarily prideful. Sure, I looked good, smelled good, and had taken the time to lace up my dancing shoes, but I had spent most of the celebratory weekend bee boppin’ around town like I was Miley Cyrus, the “Wrecking Ball” era.

That’s when it happened: my déjà fuck.

To paint you a picture, I was at a dive bar that liked to keep its interior extremely dark. Maybe the electric bill was never paid, or perhaps the owners just didn’t want anyone to see what they might step in. One of life’s great mysteries that will never be solved.

Anyway, cut to me feeling the rhythm of the night, the night, oh, yeah, as I did the gay lap/loop around the cave-esque establishment—you guessed it—searching. This particular search had led me outside to the enclosed patio section, where I promptly ordered a cheeseburger (yes, two cheeseburgers) and a bag of potato chips.

In my defense, I was trying to keep up my stamina and knew damn well that the calories wouldn’t count because I’d be burning them off later that night . . . Burning them off on the dance floor, in case your mind still happens to be in that gutter.

I’d just accepted my drinks from the bartender—a Coors Light for each hand—when I turned and saw a hot guy staring at me from the corner. Well, I thought he was hot at least or hoped he was hot. Remember, this bar kept it dark. Then again, I knew that the alcohol I’d been double-fisting all day and well into the evening would help encourage me to talk to Corner Guy, even if he did resemble Shrek up close and in the dim light.

Turns out, he was attractive. Maybe a hint of a unibrow, but I was willing to roll with it. And roll with it, I did.

So, after a few drinks, a couple of spins around the dance floor, and a round or two of Standing Twister (you know the game: right hand, left cheek; left leg, right shoulder; etc.), I suddenly realized that I had already met this Corner Guy, Non-Shrek, Hint of Unibrow fella.

I pulled back from him, squinted, and said, “I know you. We’ve . . . met before.”

He answered with, “Yeah, we . . . met a few years ago. Back in Carlsbad.”

It was then that I was hit with a rushing sensation of déjà vu. Or, you know, the feeling of déjà fuck. As it turned out, I had previously played Twister with Corner Guy, Non-Shrek, Hint of Unibrow when I lived in Carlsbad, roughly a year and a half prior to this encounter, which took place in Hillcrest, some forty miles away.

Blame my forgetfulness on the dark bar, the copious amounts of alcohol, or my love for the game of Twister, but before you judge, just know that as soon as our first connection back in Carlsbad was established (okay, several minutes after it was established), I quickly turned into Celine Dion.

Why? Because . . . (Singing off-key) It’s all coming back, it’s all coming back to me now.

Or, it all came back to me as soon as the fog cleared from my brain and I mentally scrolled through my Rolodicks—er, my Rolodex. What can I say? It’s a small world, boys and girls. Take that literally or figurative, whichever you deem fit.

Did I take my déjà fuck home again that night? A gentleman never kisses and tells, so let me tell you that, yes, I did take him that night. It was Pride weekend after all, and I was feeling . . . proud. Or something like that.

If you thought the story ended there, I have just one thing to say to you: Surprise, bitch—times thrice!

I ran into my déjà fuck less than six months later at the same bar. He remembered me; we exchanged pleasantries. However, when I texted him well into the night to, you know, make sure he got home safely, the motherfucker left me on read. I guess he found a fresh component to play Twister with.

I dodged a bullet, though: He’d put on some weight and his unibrow had gotten much thicker. Think Frida Kahlo.

However, don’t cry for me; I didn’t exactly go home alone. I eventually ended the night with someone very special. Someone sweet, rich, and cream-filled. Someone I actually took home on a regular basis, who never—not once—disappointed me: Little Debbie. Little Debbie Swiss Rolls, to be exact.

And she is the absolute best déjà fuck I have ever experienced. Period.

Attention Whore

I’m the type of person who beats a dead horse until it’s, well, dead. And then, just to make sure it’s really dead, I circle back once, twice, thirty-three times to verify. Sorry for the metaphor, PETA. Yet, you can rest easy knowing that no animals were harmed in the making of this blog article.

In my previous articles, I’ve bitched about men, social media, phones . . . You’re right: At this rate, we’ll be here for a while. Let’s save some time and say I’ve bitched about quite a lot over the past two years. In writing, anyway. Yeah, sure, in person, too.

Today is no different; I’m here to bitch. What I want to bitch about today is a combination of topics previously discussed. Call this latest post my Greatest Hits, because I’m combining myriad points I’ve already expressed to create one new, important one.

And, another thing: If you think I’m coming for you, I most likely am, so pay close attention. Also, you’re welcome.

Throughout the various writing avenues of my career (i.e. blogs, columns, even fiction), I’ve repeatedly explored the idea of attention. Specifically, is attention a drug, and can someone be addicted to attention?

The short answer is yes, and to both questions: Attention is a drug, and someone can definitely be addicted to it. Now, because you know damn well I don’t do anything that short, easy, or quick, let’s dig into these ideas a little bit deeper.

Where do I even begin? First, I think it is necessary to state—again, for the record—that I don’t think I’m above anyone else. Well, okay, maybe Trump, Dahmer, and you know, Kim Cattrall. Seriously, how in the hell can she refuse to be in the Sex and the City series continuation? How in the hell can they even do a Sex and the City series continuation without her? But, for now, I digress.

My point: I, too, like attention. Hell, there are even times when I crave it. Despite what you may think, I’m human. Well, parts of me are. It’s human to want and need attention. However, there are boundaries that should be set in regard to obtaining attention. Particularly, how someone goes about getting attention, if it’s good attention or bad attention, and what that attention is for.

You know the rules: My website, so I get to play judge and jury. Buckle up!

In my last blog article, I talked about Twitter Dicks. Let me refresh your drink—er, your memory: There are dirty, skanky, nasty whores showing every inch of their kibbles ‘n bits on Twitter and other social media platforms. Okay, you’re up to speed!

All joking and harsh words aside, I can’t help but wonder if these Twitter Dicks are simply exposing themselves for attention. Of course, I think it also has something to do with a lack of talent, skills, education, and self-esteem. But, that’s all I’m going to say on that matter. I’m stepping off my soapbox before I fall right through it. Yes, I’m still retaining some holiday weight.

There are numerous ways of getting attention online. And, because almost everyone has a social media presence, it can be extra difficult to stand out from the masses. Enter Twitter Dicks. Some people post bare ass pictures of themselves to get attention, while others share every single detail of their lives on Facebook and Instagram as if they’re some sort of celebrity updating their “fans” on what’s new.

Side note: I actually once dated a guy who referred to his social media followers as his “fans.” Yeah, major—and delusional—toolbox.

Anyway, I’ve said it before, which most likely means I’ll end up saying it another three hundred times: If I’m unhappy or annoyed with people’s actions on social media, I do have a few options to pursue. I could keep scrolling, block and/or delete the perpetrators, or just get rid of my own social media presence altogether. That seems to make the most sense, right? Stop bitching, start doing. What can I say? I’m a masochist. I also enjoy bitching, apparently.

Regardless, there is a big part of me that truly wants to understand this constant need or craving for attention that so many people possess. Quite possibly because it’s not even “good” attention they’re after. It’s more or less hollow attention, superficial, and doesn’t mean anything long-term. Like many other drugs on the market today.

Let me elaborate.

If someone shares on social media that they earned a big promotion at work, got engaged, had a baby, something to be proud of, or celebrate, I’m usually the first to “like” the update or comment on it. Okay, maybe not the first, seeing as I have an iPhone 6 from Groupon and zero social media apps on my phone. But, when I eventually get to my computer and enter the Interwebs, I gladly offer my thumb or heart to the good news.

On the flip side, I don’t see the need for an individual to acknowledge the fact that they went to the dentist or took down their Christmas tree. Hell, I don’t even care if they successfully went to Walmart, decided to bake a pie, and/or started their day by going to the gym. It seems that more and more people are needing outside validation (i.e. attention) for the most mundane things in life, things that everyone does. Things that aren’t really worth bragging about or sharing. Things that don’t make them special or better than anyone else. Things that don’t make them important.

So you managed to wipe your own ass today. Great! Good for you! So you hooked up with Leonardo DiCaprio. Okay, but who hasn’t?

If I’m feeling this way, this annoyed, burned out, total disgust due to all of these social media desperadoes, then I know I can’t be the only one. Seriously, what is the deal, and how, why, when did so many people become this self-important? To actually believe that others want to know every minuscule detail of their life. Newsflash: We don’t. Further, sharing every moment instantly makes me believe two things: Their life is actually not all that fulfilling (because they’d be living it, not posting about it) and they suffer from an attention addiction.

Now, I’m no doctor, though I will prescribe you edibles for almost any ailment, and I also don’t take addiction—any kind—lightly. So please, don’t assume I’m making fun of anyone who has the need to post their entire life story on social media. I genuinely would just like to know what in the hell this world has come to. Why so many have this unhealthy obsession with attention and validation, especially for not having accomplished anything. This hunger for getting as many “likes” as possible, and from people they don’t even talk to on a daily, weekly, or monthly basis. This need to try and impress strangers, people they don’t give a shit about, but still, for some reason, want their approval.

Again, if someone wants to share good news with the world, something they’re proud of, that’s great! I’m here for it! If they have something to offer, such as a restaurant recommendation, a movie review, an entertaining quip, a blog article (see what I did there?), a product or service, I’m still here for it. Yet, learning that someone went to the gynecologist, watches NCIS—or whatever—weekly, or got their car washed recently . . . Bitch, please. Get the fuck out of here. Do it; don’t post it!

It’s exhausting and kind of sad to see so many people with this, “Hey! Look at me!” mentality. Especially when there’s not much there to see. There’s likely some sort of deep, childhood trauma at play, but again, I’m no doctor. Though, it is highly and professionally recommended that you stock up on snacks before taking an edible.

Yes, I understand that I’m basically eluding to this idea that there should be social media rules and/or laws. Are you reading this, Mark Shitterberg? I doubt it, and that’s okay.  I don’t need Markie’s input to know there’s a problem with Facebook and all other social media platforms. A big problem!

Just the fact that we can track who follows and unfollows us, have conversations in “vanish mode,” and create fake accounts is proof enough of how diabolical social media can truly be. And now, I’m moving towards new territory, a different topic that has to do with being sneaky, secretive, and deceptive. We’ll definitely save this idea for another time, another blog article.

To bring my point home, come full circle, and wrap this baby up tighter than Kirstie Alley in, well, Kirstie Alley in anything, I want to say this: Attention is not always a bad thing. And, no matter what anyone tells you, everyone wants attention at some point in their lives. Yet, ask yourself what you want attention for. Consider what you’re getting attention for. Is it something you’ve accomplished, worked hard for? Something you’ve earned? Something that makes you special, stand out from the masses?

Now, how does the type of attention you’re getting and what you’re getting it for make you feel? Does it lift you up? Make you feel whole? Or does that high vanish as quickly as it arrived, leaving you empty, hungover, wanting more?

The sooner we understand the type of attention we’re seeking in the world––and why we want, need, crave it—the faster we can work on bettering ourselves.

And, isn’t that important? Being the absolute best version of ourselves we can possibly be?

Sex Sells . . . Your Self-Respect

I have a problem.

Insert joke, right? Because, as we all know (those who stay up to date with my blog and column, anyway), I have more than just a problem. However, the problem I have today, the problem I’m facing this Sunday morning, is—go figure—the gay community.

Last fall, I wrote an article on how disappointed I am in the gay community. Well, plot twist, the gay community is still disappointing and disheartening. Or, to be blunt, the gay community is STILL fucked.

Let’s have an open chat because I’m genuinely curious about something:

What is the appeal of posting pictures of your dick and/or asshole on Twitter? Every single guy has a dick and an asshole. Does it make you feel special posting pictures of yours? Do you get some sort of charge when a random guy thousands of miles away “likes” the picture or retweets it? Do you feel good about yourself imagining some stranger jerking off to your image? Do you have any other talents or skills besides being able to pull down your pants and use the basic functions of a phone?

Seriously, what’s the appeal here? Like I said, I genuinely want to know.

Are you hoping to break into the porn industry? Are you addicted to unhealthy attention? Of course, sex is healthy and fun, but it’s not everything in life, is it?

Further, I think there is a huge difference between seeing a porn star naked (it’s all about fantasy and imagination, knowing that you’re watching someone you will realistically never see in real life) versus seeing a colleague naked. Something just doesn’t seem right—or healthy, for that matter—about bumping into a neighbor at the store, only to go home, log in to Twitter, and see a picture of him spread eagle.

Sure, it’s common today to use sexy images to sell merchandise (i.e. albums, perfumes, cars, etc.), but these Twitter Dicks aren’t selling anything other than themselves. Having their Amazon Wish List linked to their page, or PayPal and Venmo accounts. And, sometimes, they don’t want any sort of payment. It’s just, thanks for stopping by, enjoy my hole. I’m not sure which is worse. What’s their end game?

Forget running for President of the United States (though, to be fair, these Twitter Dicks are probably more qualified and better suited for office than Trump) or maintaining a salubrious relationship. Do you want your mom to see you in that position? Your dentist? Do you think you’re going to find a significant, long-lasting partner who doesn’t mind sharing those aspects of you with the Interwebs? And, if you do happen to find a man who doesn’t mind the exposure of your body online for the world to see, what does that say about him?

Instead of inserting a joke, let’s insert a therapy session—or ten. Stat!

Not to mention, those who use sex to sell merchandise (mostly celebrities), manage to do so while still maintaining a sense of class and decorum.

There is nothing classy—or even remotely sexy—about someone posting a picture of their bare ass online with the caption, “Smack it.” Or a picture of their armpits or feet with the command, “Smell it.”

It’s trashy. It’s disturbing. It’s grotesque. It’s pathetic.

What happened to mystery and imagination? What happened to having morals, dignity, self-respect? Does anyone else notice these qualities lacking in the gay community?

Maybe if I had abs of steel or a dick I could tuck into my Christian Louboutins, I’d be singing a different tune. Though, I hope not, and I really don’t think so. This goes beyond being confident and feeling comfortable in your own skin. Even further than merely being sex-positive. It’s actually kind of sad when you think about it.

It’s sad that someone can be completely void of education, skills, personality, talent, morals, dignity, and self-respect, that the only way for him to get attention and some sort of second-rate praise is to post intimate images of body parts online, body parts that we all have.

I know that if I dislike what I see online, I can keep scrolling or hit the delete and/or block button. However, these Twitter Dicks seem to pop up in hordes, like fucking cockroaches. In a sense, they’re everywhere, a dick and a hole a dozen, only cementing the fact further—ironically enough—that they’re not so special or original after all.

Let me be completely clear: I don’t think I’m better than anyone. I can’t say that enough. I also know that everyone has their own story, their own motives, their own agenda, their own reasonings for doing whatever it is they do. And, sometimes, those stories, motives, agendas, reasonings, all make sense. It’s none of my business. Expect, when you put yourself out into the universe, it is my business and you open yourself up (no pun intended) for anyone and everyone to voice their thoughts.

This is simply me voicing my thoughts.

My thought of the day (yes, I usually just have the one per day), or to come full circle, my problem of the day, is the gay community.

Take a look at the recent events in Puerta Vallarta. You may argue that the two groups—the Twitter Dicks and PV Fucks—aren’t related. I disagree, though. It’s all related. It’s all a stain on the gay community and the current status of gay culture. This whole selfish mindset of doing whatever you want, no matter the consequences. This detrimental obsession with being seen, being popular, being drooled over, being wanted by strangers.

This, too, is a dangerous virus we should all be worried about.

It’s human to want or even need attention. To possibly crave it. But, why not seek attention for something you’ve accomplished? Something you’ve worked hard for? Something that makes you different and stand out from the gay crowd?

Newsflash: Having a dick doesn’t make you stand out. Showing your asshole on Twitter doesn’t make you extraordinary. The “likes” and retweets and comments and number of followers . . . it’s all superficial bullshit. Proof that for a millisecond you were thought of, but then, it’s a scroll, a swipe, a click to the next guy that is just like you. Another guy, another dick, another asshole.

If we’re lucky, we all get older. We may not all grow up, but we all do age. When you’re 50, 60, 70-years-old, are you still going to be playing these games? What will you have to show for yourself?

Because, guess what? Before long, a new generation of gay men will be here, hopefully doing something productive, healthy, and worthwhile to make their presence known. Something aside from drinking, drugging, and degrading themselves online.

When you’re older, when you’ve reached last call and have more wrinkles than “fans,” will you be proud of yourself? Will you be happy about the decisions you made, the actions you took, where your life ended up? Will you be satisfied or fulfilled with what you accomplished?

Or, will you be just another lazy, perverted old man who bared everything online for instant attention and gratification?

Turn and Face the Strange

Sorry to disappoint, kids, but this blog article, the very first of 2021, has nothing to do with hooking up with some rando (i.e. “strange”) from a local bar, bathhouse, or Craigslist. You know, COVID and all. But, also, I’m happily off the market. Besides, I was never really into that type of scene, anyway—regardless of who you may talk to later. I always preferred to get to know a guy before allowing things to turn intimate. Well, I’d at least learn his first name (in almost all cases) and tax bracket before taking that next step. What can I say? With me, there is usually slash rarely a touch of class.

Today, however, I want to talk about a different type of strange—strange in the form of change. Thank you, David Bowie.

Here’s the thing about change: Some people embrace change. Some people scurry away from change. Some people love finding change in their pockets. Okay, fine! Now that I’ve mastered my dad body, I can openly admit it’s time to work on my dad jokes. My apologies.

One more thing about change, though: It’s consistent. Perhaps the most consistent thing in our lives. So, if change is so consistent, so constant, why are we so afraid of it?

Because it’s hard! Hard as fuck sometimes, right? We can spend a substantial amount of time and effort working towards a goal, believing in something/someone, expecting or hoping for a certain outcome, only for a change of some sort to come flying out of nowhere like a bat out of hell, leading to disappointment . . . or heartache, defeat, confusion, uncertainty. You get the idea.

But, it is possible for change to be good. Dare I even say it? Change can often yield better results than we ever could have imagined.

You’re familiar with the popular saying: When the front door closes, the back door opens and . . . Okay, fine! I obviously need to work on my gay jokes, too. Yet, you know what I’m talking about, don’t you? The verbiage created to make us all see the positive side of change versus the negative side. Lines like one thing ends or falls apart so an even better thing can begin. I’ll admit that the actual phrase is a little more poetic than that. Regardless, you get my point.

And, you know what else? Sometimes these inspirational (though hokey pokey) quotes are true. When something ends or doesn’t work out exactly as we had planned or hoped it to (i.e. due to a change of some kind), it’s because a greater plan is in the works.

All right, enough uplifting shit for one post; I’m starting to annoy myself. However, when it comes to change, I do think it’s important, even beneficial, to focus on the good aspects of it—when possible (obviously, every situation is different). You know, the shiny and new components of change.

For example, a best friend moving thousands of miles away simply gives me a reason to travel and explore a new area. Changing publishers or literary agents presents an opportunity to work with new people and take my career in a new direction. (Yes, I’m well aware of the fact that in order to change agents, I first need an agent. Do you know any looking for new clients?) McDonald’s changing the size of the Big Mac (yes, it’s gotten smaller over the years) . . . Well, to be perfectly honest, no good came from that change.

Change, like so many other elements in life, is all about perspective. Seeing the good instead of the bad, the sun instead of the rain (except, I love a good rainstorm from time to time), and, fine, I’ll say it: seeing the glass as half full instead of half empty.

Again, I’m well aware that these mantras don’t work all of the time. Yet, a lot of times they do work. Believe it or not, it is so much easier to focus on the good and be happy versus the bad and be negative.

Do you remember what I told you previously, a few blog articles ago? Negativity causes wrinkles. Do you want wrinkles? No, ma’am!

Another famous line about change: People don’t change, or people never change, or people can’t change, et cetera. I’ve grown to hate this mentality; it’s bullshit. People change all of the time. Maybe not always for the better, and maybe not drastically or extremely noticeably, but people do change.

Of course, in order for someone to change, a person has to want to change, has to willingly put in the time, effort, and work to change. Yet, change is possible, even common. You’ve changed. I’ve changed. Sarah Jessica Parker has changed. She continuously gets more and more fabulous.

I mean, I used to be obsessed with social media, constantly scrolling, scrolling, scrolling and posting. Now, I absolutely hate it—all platforms. I used to be a major party boy, always searching for some sort of action on a Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday night. I used to want to be famous. I craved it. Now, I just want to be left the hell alone, in my own little world, with my books and snacks.

Last week, I wrote about growth. It’s true: change and growth go hand-in-hand. And, in order to grow, change has to occur. Sure, some people don’t change, meaning they don’t grow. They stay the same. This is unfortunate because I’ve met a lot of people, and a change could do most of them some good.

I’m not saying change/growth is easy or that it doesn’t hurt (they don’t call it growing pains for nothing), but if we’re open to it and embrace it, who knows what possibilities await us?

Again, when people change, it’s not always for the better. Specifically, some people change for the worst. This can be upsetting, disappointing, heartbreaking, but it’s also a type of change we have to be ready for. A type of change that we have to accept, no matter how difficult.

After all, the thing about change—good, bad, ugly—is that it’s consistent and constant. Fighting change will only lead to more disappointment and more heartbreak.

If you can, when it’s possible, try to see the positive aspects of change. Something in your life may change, someone in your life may change, but those changes can lead to greatness . . . if you allow them to.

If you keep an open mind and an open heart.

This Is How We Learn

Recently, a friend told me that I was the gay, male version of Taylor Swift. I agreed, we laughed, and then both promptly ordered another round of mimosas.

Okay, that’s not entirely true. This bitch is currently off the sauce—six months and counting. We’ll see how long sobriety lasts, because in these dark and trying times (yes, I’m referring to all of the excess holiday weight I’ve gained), nothing quite comforts me like eighteen dirty martinis.

Anyway, I’m not exactly sure what my friend and I ordered another round of, but it’s a safe bet that it was something deep-fried. Me likes my breading. That’s just the cold, hard truth.

Another cold, hard truth: I started out intending to use this new blog article to bitch about men. Like Ms. Swift, I planned to bi—er—write about the men in my life. Men from my past, men from my present, men who annoy me on social media. You get the idea. As it turns out, I do share some similarities with Tay Tay. I just wish those similarities also included her accolades and net worth.

Instead, I want to use my platform (for today, anyway) and what will be my last piece of original content for 2020 to discuss a very important topic—my most favorite topic of all: me.

I’m kidding! Well, kind of.

Rather than simply write about the men in my life or my specific experiences with men—and there have been some doozies—I want to take a look at my part in various situations. After all, it’s my life, which means I hold some responsibility and control for what happens.

Don’t worry, though. I’m sure I’ll make time and room to complain about something and/or someone. You know how I do. I mean, it’s not really a Cutter Slagle blog or a Taylor Swift song if something/someone isn’t getting called out. Maybe that’s just the writer in us.

As a writer, I’m always thinking. No, that’s not accurate, and some of you are probably even laughing right now. But, as a writer, my mind is always wondering. Contemplating, considering, calculating. (How do you like that alliteration?) And while thinking lately, I came up with a realization I hadn’t paid much attention to before . . .

All of my experiences—good, bad, ugly, illegal—have one factor in common: Me.

Every time I’ve been disappointed or angry or heartbroken or disgusted or anything, I’ve played a part in the events that unfolded. Further, everything that has happened to me has happened as a direct result of a decision I made.

For example, I made the decision to drink and drive ten years ago, and as a result, I totaled my car. I made the decision to stay in a shithole relationship three years ago, and as a result, I got my heart broken (welcome back to our regularly scheduled programming; I told you it wouldn’t be long). I made the decision to eat my weight in holiday sweets this year, and as a result, my socks don’t even fit me anymore.

Decisions. We make decisions every single day. When it comes to making these decisions, the options we have to choose from may not always be enticing, but we still have to make a choice—even if it’s choosing between the lesser of two evils. Though making a decision (of any kind) can often be hard, even painful, or seemingly impossible, it is also the only way we significantly learn.

Back in March 2019, I wrote a blog article about tests and lessons. Basically, it doesn’t matter how old we are, tests and lessons will always be a part of our lives. Hopefully, anyway. The same can be said for learning. If we’re lucky, we will never stop learning, regardless of our age.

At first, coming to this idea (with my therapist, I can’t take all of the credit) promptly made me think, “What the fuck?” You see, I hate learning. My brain is at full capacity. I don’t have room for any additional information. That was until I saw (or, my therapist made me see) the obvious: The day we stop learning, is the day we stop living.

And, I think one thing we can all agree on, is that learning doesn’t just help us live, but also helps us grow.

Two things we can all agree on: Gerald Butler needs to do more full-frontal nudity in his films. Three things we can all agree on: 2020 has been a fickle fuck of a year where we have all had to learn something about ourselves.

What’s the most important thing I’ve learned about myself? Probably that I should always take inventory of my snacks before lighting a bowl. Actually, I learned that a while ago, but I’m the type of person who usually has to learn something eighty-seven times before it sticks.

All joking aside, I learned that I am in control of my thoughts, my actions, my feelings, my decisions . . . my life. I am in control of my life.

And, for fuck’s sake, let’s not even go down that COVID-19 path where some dirty, toothless, Billy Small Willy Bob spouts off some incoherent ramble, like, “Der, we didn’t have no control of our lives ‘cause of those there masks we has to wear.”

We do always have some sort of control over our lives. We do always have some sort of control over our thoughts, our actions, our feelings, our decisions . . . our lives.

Of course, in order for me to come to this conclusion, I had to learn several lessons. After all, the only way to live, to grow, to learn . . . is to experience.

How do you know you don’t enjoy spinach unless you try it? Though, to be completely frank, there is something I know for a fact I wouldn’t enjoy and I have never tried it—or plan to try it. Praise be!

But, the only way for us to know what we want, what we like, what we need, is to learn it. And, in order to learn these things, we have to put ourselves out there. We have to be willing to get hurt, make mistakes, take risks, look like a fool, be vulnerable. We have to be willing to win, lose, strikeout, fail.

And then, we have to learn to get back up and keep moving forward. To take the lesson(s) we’ve learned and use them as we continue on our journey.

I bet we’ve all learned strengths about ourselves this past year. We’ve all learned exactly what we’re capable of, what we’re willing to sacrifice or compromise on, what we want to make a stand for.

Most importantly, hopefully, we’ve learned to have faith in ourselves. We’ve also hopefully learned to trust ourselves, love ourselves, protect ourselves, be kind to ourselves, forgive ourselves, and remind ourselves that life goes on—but only if we want it to.

Only if we never stop learning.

 

Do You Have Faith?

Recently, I looked back at it . . . I mean, I looked back at my website and took inventory of my latest blog articles. From titles alone, I seem like a bitter, angry, scorned, shrill (enter your favorite adjective) bitch. And, despite what you may think you know about me, I don’t want to be any of those things.

Further, I don’t ever want to be thought of as cynical or negative. If 2020 has taught us anything, it’s that life is precious. Not always easy, not always fun, but it beats the alternative. Therefore, we need to enjoy as much of it as we can. Instead of complaining about every foul ball this year has thrown at me, I want to be thankful that I’m still in the game.

Yes, that was a baseball metaphor. I used to be butch. Well, kind of. Okay, not at all. But trust and believe I know how to catch balls.

Now, based on the title of this blog article, you may be worrying that you’ve accidentally stumbled onto some sort of religious mumbo jumbo. I promise that nothing could be further from the truth. That’s not my gig. I don’t consider myself religious by any means, but faith can really be whatever we want it to be, right? It can look however we want it to look. Faith comes in myriad forms, but only if we’re completely open to it.

Let me pause for a second; I feel as if—again—I may be giving the wrong impression of myself. I think I’ve said this before, but I’m not one hundred percent sure. I used to be a bit of a party boy back in the day, so forgive my cobweb-stained brain. Though I don’t want to come off as a Negative Nancy, I’m also not one of those overly cheery, the world is burning to the ground but now we have a resource to roast marshmallows type of guys. I know that the sun isn’t always going to shine, that we can’t possibly dance in every single rainstorm.

However, I do believe that we can somewhat control how long that storm lasts, or how we ultimately let it affect our lives. Maybe we can even manifest the sun coming out to dry up that rain. Bear with me; I’m still learning the technique. I’m a red-hot mess of a work in progress.

The other day, I was chatting with a friend about the Law of Attraction. Basically, with our own thoughts, we have the power to bring either positive or negative experiences into our lives. And that makes sense, right?

If we consistently walk around believing that bad shit is going to happen to us, then it’s more likely that bad shit will happen to us. And vice versa. If we try and control our minds to think only positive thoughts, then we just may see more positive outcomes in our lives.

Look, I’m not saying that if you wake up every morning with this idea of winning the lottery, you’ll eventually win the lottery. Yet, isn’t it better—healthier—to focus our energy on the good possibilities instead of the bad ones? Why fret about everything that could go wrong, when we could be zeroed in on everything that could go right?

For example, rather than me wasting time, energy, and headspace on the notion that no one will ever publish my latest manuscript, why not consider the amazing book deal I will one day (hopefully in the near future) receive? New books are published every week; my book could be next. My book will be next.

Stop waiting for the other shoe to drop and just enjoy the moment. Then, while enjoying that moment, imagine how many more wonderful moments are on the horizon. After all, thinking negatively and constantly worrying or stressing about all of the bad “what ifs” will only cause wrinkles. And who in the hell wants more wrinkles?

Obviously, none of this is new information. Though, if you’re anything like me, you need to hear or see something about eighty-seven times before it finally begins to stick.

As you all know by now, I’m a writer, which pretty much means I’m crazy. It also means that I can come up with just about any sort of scenario in my head. Unfortunately, sometimes I believe those false scenarios. See? Crazy!

There was a time when a stranger would wave to me on the street and I would immediately assume we were dating. This always led to some very strange breakups. Maybe I’m exaggerating; maybe I’m not. Still, you get the idea.

I need to work on coming up with good, positive, healthy scenarios in my head, not ugly ones. Regardless of what you want to call it: having faith, manifesting positivity, the Law of Attraction . . . It’s all the same thing. We get back what we put out.

Of course, during this conversation with my friend, I instantly thought of Carrie Bradshaw. In the series finale of Sex and the City, she delivers one of my favorite quotes:

“I’m someone who is looking for love. Real love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can’t-live-without-each-other love.”

She then immediately bumps into Mr. Big (in Paris), and the two get married and live happily ever after. Sort of.

Again, I’m not saying that constantly thinking positive thoughts is always easy or even a reality. It’s natural for us to consider the worst possible outcome so that if it happens, we are then prepared for it. No one wants to be blindsided. It’s a defense mechanism, but it’s also exhausting and dangerous.

Heartaches and hardships happen to everyone. They will continue to happen, too, no matter how well we control our thoughts. But, it’s a relief to know that there is still good in this world. Good things happen all of the time. Great things, even. Amazing things. Shouldn’t we try and center around those good, great, amazing things? Why live in the dark when it’s so much better to live in the light? We only get one shot at life, and we get to choose how we live it.

Finally, we are responsible for our own perceptions. So, ask yourself: How do you want to see your life?

The Gay Community Is Fucked

Yes, the gay community is fucked, and not in a good way. More like in a sad, pathetic, die old and alone kind of way. Well, depending on what your goals are, what you want to accomplish in this life.

If you want to booze and cruise and, you know, continue to keep a running list of all the dick you can collect like some twisted, fucked up version of Pokémon Go, you might be all right. However, if you’re searching for the fairy tale like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, then you better put on your boots—the thigh-high ones—because there is a lot of shit to sift through before “happily ever after” becomes a reality. If it becomes a reality.

Just reading that back now, I sound like an angry, bitter bitch. I can admit that I’m definitely angry, and if you’re gay and hoping for that monogamous, healthy, and trustworthy ending, you should be angry, too. After all, hope is a dangerous drug. Possibly more dangerous than carbs. It’s like my aunt always told me: Hope in one hand, shit in the other, and see which one gets filled faster.

Harsh, sure, but true. The gay community needs to hear the harsh truth. Unfortunately, I fear it may be too late. The damage has been done and trying to fix that damage seems about as painful and useless as listening to Donald Trump string a sentence together.

It’s always my goal to tell the truth. Well, as much of the truth as I’m legally permitted to share. The truth is, when you’re single and ready to mingle, there’s no better place to be than in the gay community, or the “gayborhood.” Yet, if you’re in a relationship, then the gayborhood can feel like quicksand. If you’re not careful, you run the risk of sinking and suffocating.

To be blunt, in my experience (and probably yours, too), the gay community doesn’t always exactly promote or help protect monogamous relationships. There is no real guidance or support from others, meaning that if you want a healthy, honest, substantial, monogamous relationship, you have to work extra hard to achieve it. Even then, you may find yourself struggling. Why? Because there are myriad of outside factors (often derived from the same gay community that is supposed to have our backs) we’re constantly up against.

Let’s explore them!

First up, and I’ve written about this disease before and likely will again, is this unhealthy addiction to attention. Most gay men are addicted to attention. Unfortunately, the attention a man receives from his partner isn’t always good enough, resulting in some sort of outside exploration into chatting, sexting, and in worst-case scenarios, physically cheating.

Of course, if a man—or woman—wants to step outside of their relationship with another person, they’re going to find a way to do it. Period. Yet, the world we live in today makes cheating easily accessible. Too accessible, really. Again, instead of the promotion of monogamy, it seems that the allure of “having your cake and eating it, too” is more prominent. Further, the gay community, in particular, is thirsty, selfish, and thrives on instant gratification.

I can’t help but wonder . . . When two men start dating and eventually announce that they’re in an exclusive relationship, if they don’t somehow, someway become more attractive to the outside masses. Suddenly, because these two men are off-limits, they’re desired like never before due to this “I want what I can’t have” toxic mentality.

I repeat: If an individual is going to cheat, they’re going to cheat, whether prompted to or not. If someone wants to be unfaithful, untrustworthy, deceptive, they will—there’s no stopping or controlling someone’s behavior. It’s not just the gay community that has issues, but the straight community, too.

Who’s the dumb, spineless bastard behind Ashley Madison? You know, the website that literally uses the tagline: “Life is short; have an affair.” He (it’s most definitely a man) needs a five-finger salute across his ugly-ass mug. Just for the record, that’s not a threat but an enthusiastic hello.

Or, was this man smart to capitalize on other people’s aspirations to hurt the ones they’re supposed to love the most?

Circling back to the gay community, though, because I don’t know shit about the heterosexual one, prior hookups are also an issue when it comes to outside forces harming a relationship. Specifically, is it necessary for past hookups to nosily reach out to see how the happy couple is doing? Shouldn’t the past, you know, stay in the past?

What about apps like Grindr and Scruff, where temptation and curiosity can be explored with just a click of a button? What makes matters worse is that these apps can be hidden or disguised to cover up the fact that they’re in use. No, the founders of these relationship-destroying apps can’t fully be blamed for someone’s infidelity, but they obviously support lying and cheating.

(Side note: These “dating” apps which are honestly just hookup apps—after all, a piece of shit wrapped in ribbon is still shit—are only good for one thing: sex. No one—fine, mostly no one—is looking for anything more than attention and instant gratification on these apps. It’s not the prospect of getting to know someone that excites, but the chance of finding a man who is taller than the one before, or more muscular, or has a bigger dick, etc. Lather, rinse, repeat, vomit.)

Add in elements like open relationships, throuples, and the idea that some men actually believe sexting isn’t cheating, and you can understand my point about this lack of support for healthy, monogamous, gay male relationships within the community.

Some men can separate sex from love. Some men enjoy fucking a new guy every night before going home to their partner. Some men like being involved with two or three or four men at a time. I used to believe that one of the best qualities of the gay community was that we got the opportunity to make our own rules. Essentially, there was no wrong or right.

I no longer believe this to be true. I got older, maybe even wiser, and realized those who want to live life with no rules or no scruples are actually making life harder for those who crave that fairy tale ending. Besides, a relationship between two people is hard enough without an excessive amount of unnecessary outside distractions.

Simply put, I’m disgusted, disappointed, and defeated with how sex, attention, and instant gratification have become staples in our culture, the gay culture. These “staples” are ruining relationships—all sorts of relationships. And, quite frankly, they’re ruining people, too.

Let’s be clear about something: I’m not saying all of this because I think I’m better than anyone. I know I’m not better than anyone. I’m not writing this, sitting on some high horse, looking down on other gay men. Hell, I don’t even take the high road when I’m high.

I think the point I’m trying to make is that the gay community seems and feels extremely toxic—more toxic than not. How can we scream and fight for equal rights, and then act like animals?

Eventually, the party gets old, doesn’t it? Does anyone truly want to be forty, fifty, sixty-years-old, and still playing these childish games?

WAP: Work and Patience

Turns out, there’s more than one meaning to Cardi B’s latest hit, WAP. While her lyrics are quite impressive and fun to rap along to (I spent an entire workday last week trying to learn all of the words), I much prefer the song’s alternative message . . . which I just made up: WAP, or work and patience.

Anyone reading this most likely already knows the secret to a happy, successful life: work and patience. Unfortunately, I always seem to get to the party a little late, and then I’m often immediately asked to leave. Therefore, it’s taken me a little bit of time—fine, a long ass time—to understand how both work and patience are a necessity in navigating, well, every aspect of life.

The older I get (that wasn’t near as painful to type as I thought it would be), the more I understand the value of patience. Sure, patience may not be worth as much as the latest Lisa Gardner novel or a pair of Christian Louboutin boots. Yet, patience is important. Or, as the saying goes, patience is a virtue.

Learning to be patient is a task, an extremely hard task. It takes work—a lot of work—to be patient. In fact, due to today’s troubling climate that includes a never-ending pandemic and an “I want it all; I want it now” majority mentality, teaching ourselves to be patient can feel impossible. Therefore, we have to work extra hard at accomplishing the task of patience.

I never thought life should or would be hard. I guess my white privilege is at fault for my ignorance. Because life is hard. Relationships are hard. Finding peace and happiness and success and balance are all equally as hard. Now, these hardships don’t mean that the good in life can’t outshine the bad, but just that we have to work extra hard and be extra patient sometimes in order to really see and feel the good in our surroundings.

After all, happiness is a choice, right? Even if it takes a lot of work and patience to be happy, wouldn’t you rather be happy than miserable?

Of course, life isn’t always that easy, that black and white, that cut and dried. I don’t want anyone to misconstrue my words or my outlook on life. I’m not one of those hippy-dippy fools who believe there is always a silver lining, that every rainstorm can be danced in, that the sun will eventually come out tomorrow.

There are times when we need to feel our feelings, when it’s required to be sad or angry or hopeless. It’s not realistic to constantly have the energy or strength to power through, to force a smile, to feign happiness. There are times when work and patience just won’t cut it.

That’s perfectly okay, too.

Did I choose to be a writer, or did the craft find me? I could probably effectively argue either side of this question. In that case, maybe I should have been a lawyer. Regardless of how or why I started putting pencil to paper, part of the writing process (if you want to explore publishing) is rejection. No matter how much work I put into my writing or how patient I am with it, rejection never gets easier. It still stings, because no matter what the rejection letter from a literary agent or publishing house says, only one thing is prominent in my mind: My writing isn’t good enough. I’m not good enough.

Despite the career path you’ve chosen (or, perhaps the career chose you), you’ve probably felt some sort of rejection or heartache or disappointment within your particular industry. This blow of rejection or heartache or disappointment isn’t easily softened just because you worked hard and were patient.

So . . . What do you do? Do you give up? Take the easy way out? Move on? No. Instead, you keep working, you stay patient. Maybe even work harder, dig down deeper and learn to be more patient. Why? Because some things in life are worth waiting for, worth fighting for, worth staying for.

Worth working for. Worth being patient for.

Like I done told you: WAP, bitch!

The same mindset can be applied to relationships, goals, dreams—anything, really. If you want the career, the relationship, the goal, the dream badly enough, if you love it badly enough, if you respect it badly enough, then you’ll work for it and you’ll be patient for it.

Just like you, I am very familiar with the phrase: Good things come to those who wait. I kind of think this popular saying is a load of shit, though. I mean, taking this sentiment at face value, if we simply sit around on our asses and wait, then we’ll magically end up with good things. If only. If that were the case, we wouldn’t have Trump in the White House. (P.S. That’s your friendly reminder to vote in November.)

To me, there is a big difference between the act of waiting and the act of being patient. Specifically, it’s possible—even imperative—to be patient while still working hard to accomplish or achieve something, or overcome an obstacle, or better yourself.

After all, if you’re merely waiting for something to happen, but not putting in any effort to actually make it happen or help it happen, I have a feeling that you’re going to be waiting for a long time. Not to mention, you’re going to be wasting time. And, with this shit-hole pandemic entering its eighty-sixth month, hasn’t enough time already been wasted?

I’ve said it before: The good lessons, the life-changing lessons, the lessons that help us grow and deal and maneuver the universe aren’t taught to us in school. Sure, we may know how to calculate how fast Patty can get to her vaginal rejuvenation appointment if she takes Train A instead of Train B, but only if it’s Tuesday and not Thursday, because on Tuesdays Train A sprouts wings and flies and uses Route 1 instead of Route 2, but this only occurs during months that have thirty-one days.

Seriously? What the fuck, Patty? Take a damn Uber! And, not that it’s anyone’s business, but why does your vag need to be rejuvenated anyway? That’s the problem we should be solving!

Moving on, why aren’t we taught how to change a tire or balance a checkbook or do our taxes in school? Why aren’t we taught how to continue working hard, even when things don’t initially go our way? Why aren’t we taught just how far a little bit of patience can go?

Then again, maybe some lessons can’t be taught. Maybe some lessons have to be experienced. Experienced in the real world, too, and not from behind a desk. Maybe there is no handbook for some lessons, the major lessons in life.

In the end, whether our focus is on a career, a relationship, a goal, a dream, or all of the above, the formula for success remains the same: keep learning, keep trying, keep fighting, keep believing.

And, of course, keep working and keep being patient. Life is all about work and patience.

I’m talkin’ WAP, WAP, WAP.

Get Off Your Fucking Phone!

If I ever see Mark Zuckerberg in public, I’m going to walk right up to him and tell him to eat a dick. Maybe I’ll punch him in the face. Maybe I’ll just keep on walking. After all, jail is no place for a delicate flower like me. Still, I’ll at least give him the finger.

(For legal purposes, let me be clear: I’m not going to attack Fuckerberg—I mean, Zuckerberg. Small joke.)

Though, the same thought is present for the dimwit who created Twitter, Instagram . . . What the hell? Let’s throw in the founders of Snapchat, Tumblr, TikTok, Telegram, Grindr, porn sites, and any other app that causes individuals to have their noses permanently glued to their phones. Because, in an attempt to “bring people closer together with technology,” the opposite has occurred. We are further apart from one another, and that distance is lengthening every single day.

And I’m fucking sick of it!

I’ll go ahead and acknowledge the fact that some may think I’m a hypocrite for dedicating an entire blog article to bitching about phones and social media, when most people reading this content came to it via Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter, and are now using their phones to access it.

However, the rules don’t apply to me. Kidding, of course. I do believe that technology is grand if used appropriately and moderately. And, since this is my blog, I guess I get to determine the boundaries of appropriateness and moderation when it comes to phone/social media/technology usage.

For example, the Internet is a great tool to help boost your work, whether that work is a service you provide, a product you have to offer, or a piece of writing you want people to read. See what I did there?

The Internet does become a problem when it turns into an addiction, or an instrument used to do something “wrong.” What does that entail exactly? Myriad of things, including ordering your weight in Grubhub deliveries, feeding your gambling needs, racking up hours on social media sites, seeking attention from other people when you’re in a relationship, consistently checking Pornhub (or an equivalent), maxing out your credit cards on Amazon purchases, etc., etc. You get the idea. There are lots and lots of bad habits in this world, and these bad habits are easily fueled by the Internet.

Don’t get me wrong: There is a place in this world for phones and social media and technology—the Internet if you will. Yet, it must also be understood that these things can easily create an ugly, black hole for anyone of us at any given time to sink in. Once we’ve sunk, it’s next to impossible to find air or light.

After COVID-19 hit, I deleted all social media apps off of my phone. I’m not admitting that because I think I deserve a crown (just in case, though, I prefer silver over gold), but to recognize that it can be done. Not only has the experience been freeing, ridding me of some of my anxiety, but it’s also given me the invaluable gift of time. I have time to get shit done, to be more productive, to be present. But, most importantly, I have time to live in the moment and worry about what’s going on in my surroundings—not what’s happening online. Further, I’m able to respect those in my vicinity and give them my full, undivided attention.

On second thought, you’re right: I do deserve a crown.

One of the things I don’t understand the most about mindlessly scrolling through whichever app may currently be popular or a favorite, is what are people actually getting out of the experience? To be frank, nine times out of ten, they’re not exactly looking at quality content, right? It’s not as if they’re getting any substance or knowledge by searching, searching, searching. What the fuck are they searching for, anyway? A clue? Because that would be appropriate.

Is FOMO—Fear of Missing Out—to blame? Could that be the reason why so many individuals would rather lose a finger, a toe, an arm instead of a Wi-Fi signal? Girl, bye!

Newsflash: At the moment, no one is missing out on anything. Do you want to know what everyone has been up to for the past five months? Not a damn thing! You’re welcome.

Taking that idea one step further, though, perhaps being one with a smartphone has something to do with aimlessly searching for “the next best thing.” (Again, the “next best thing” doesn’t exist right now and, let’s be honest, did it ever?) Yet, in a world anchored by greed and lust and selfishness and a constant craving for attention, I can’t help by wonder . . . Are the masses more concerned with what they could have versus what they already do have? Is it seriously that hard to appreciate what’s right in front of you? And, if that’s the case, then are our phones and the Internet merely tools for self-destruction?

When someone racks up hours and hours of screen time (we all get that notification on Sunday morning detailing how much time we wasted on our phones the previous week, and some should be humiliated by the numbers), what do they have to show for it? Carpal tunnel, sure, but that’s about it.

Further, when we’re not alone but have company—whether it’s one person or one hundred people—being on the phone (in any manner) shows complete rudeness and disrespect. It’s basically saying loud and queer to those around us that they’re not interesting enough to warrant our full focus.

It’s also very sad, even depressing, that there are those who would rather be lost in the social media realm (or whatever app they’re addicted to) versus sharing a genuine, meaningful conversation or connection with another individual.

So, what’s the solution? Because, if there’s a problem, then there has to be a solution, doesn’t there?

Put down your fucking phone. Live in the moment, this moment, the moment right in front of you. Why worry or stress or even think about what’s going on in some space other than the one you’re in right now?

And before anyone protests, no, I’m not referring to ignoring legit news stories and real problems going on in the world. It goes without saying that we should always stay up to date on the important happenings of planet Earth, the happenings that can—and will—affect our future.

Yet, do you honestly need to know if Nancy got a new car? Or if Kevin posted a new speedo selfie? Or who successfully cooked a meal without burning it? (By the way, it wasn’t me!) Is it absolutely vital to fuel the narcissists of the Internet, the ones who have defined themselves with hashtags and the number of followers they’ve collected?

None of that nonsense matters! That’s what a lot of the Internet, social media, and apps are, too: nonsense! A big, fucking waste of time that’s preventing you from living and experiencing something that’s real and right in front of you.

Jeez, I miss the days where devices consisted of nothing by landlines, pagers, and computers with dial-up Internet. Well, maybe not that last one.

Like I said earlier, there is a time and a place for phones and social media and technology—the Internet—but familiarize yourself with that place and know the boundaries and limits. Everything in moderation.

Otherwise, you’re going to miss out on, well, everything.