Cutter Slagle's Blog, page 3

Is Porn a Problem?

I recently decided to conduct a survey. Nothing official, of course. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to do something like that. Also, too much work. Unpaid work. Like Todrick Hall says, “I don’t work for free; that’s not the tea, hunty. No, ma’am!”

No, ma’am, indeed.

Therefore, when I say I “conducted a survey,” I really texted a handful of random friends and asked for their opinion on a certain subject matter. Don’t worry random friends who may be reading this: I’ve kept you all anonymous. Anonymous, like that one time . . . You know what? A story not appropriate for sharing.

So, today’s topic as you’ve probably come to understand is porn. Do you watch it? Does your significant other watch it? Do you care?

There are many matters in a relationship that can cause friction, possibly even end the relationship. I don’t think porn is one of those matters. I mean, it’s not like we’re talking about building a future with a member of the Republican Party. Then again, like with everything in life, it depends on the specific circumstance at hand.

For example, if you’ve ever been late paying your rent because you have too many porn subscriptions, you may have a problem. Also, it’s 2020: Who is still paying for porn?

Many believe that porn is all about fantasy, and aren’t fantasies healthy? Again, depending on the specific fantasy. Though, it must be asked: When you are fantasizing (i.e. watching porn), should you include your partner? Or, like eating an entire large pizza and chasing it with a brownie sundae, is watching porn an activity best to do alone?

Like I said, to find out how others feel about the issue, I reached out to some friends. These friends were men, women, gay, straight, lesbian—I wanted all perspectives covered. Hell, there was even one buddy I sent a message to that I hadn’t talked to since last October. Luckily, he was one who fell into the “straight” category, so there were no dramatics or lead-ins, just a simple, “Hey, you’re straight and in a relationship! Tell me your feelings about porn.”

Anyway, as you can imagine, the responses varied. Come to find out, a lot of people watch porn. Straight men watch porn; gay men watch porn; lesbians watch porn. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a straight woman who watches porn.

Actually, that’s not true. One straight woman did come to mind, but she’s single, so her opinion wasn’t fitting for this particular blog article. Because, when you’re single, you can pretty much do whatever the hell you want. You don’t have to worry if or how your actions are going to potentially hurt your partner’s feelings.

All of that walking on eggshells shit kind of makes you wonder why more and more people aren’t single these days, doesn’t it?

A blog article for another time.

Moving right along, I do want to make clear that I’m not negating the single woman’s opinion (single women rock; hear them roar!), but for this particular—scientific experiment?—I was only interested in those who are currently coupled up. Why? I wanted to know what porn does to a relationship. If it does anything at all . . . good, bad, and/or ugly.

And, to be blunt, if you’re single, I hope you really are doing whatever the hell you want. Like watching porn and eating that large pizza.

One thing I discovered early on in my research, is that porn—like so many other entities in life—can only be as powerful as you let it. Or, porn can only be a problem if you allow it to be a problem.

Now, obviously, if porn completely replaces sexual activity in your relationship, there is a problem. If you’re waking up at 3:30 in the morning and sneaking off to watch porn and play rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat on the drums while your partner sleeps, there is a big problem. Not to mention, being sneaky in a relationship—in any regard—is a huge red flag. If someone is lying about something as silly as porn, what are they going to lie about next? They’re not a natural blonde? They voted for Trump?

This is a great place to talk about moderation. It could be argued that watching porn is perfectly acceptable, dear I even say healthy, as long as it’s done in moderation. If there’s one thing writing about sex, love, and relationships has taught me, it’s that there are lots of gray areas in life. Therefore, maybe it’s not so easy to classify porn as “bad” or “perverted,” but instead necessary to look at how many hours a week are dedicated slash wasted watching porn.

Again, every relationship is different. One individual may say a cumulative hour a week spent on porn is all right. Another person may say it takes at least an hour to find a worthy enough performance to “get the job done.” This is a perimeter that should be discussed openly with your significant other.

An additional imperative lesson I’ve learned writing this blog and my column for Rage Monthly Magazine: When it comes to having a successful relationship, communication is key.

There are plenty of other elements that could and do have weight when it comes to a partnered man or woman watching porn. For example, some porn should be strictly off-limits. Enough said.

Porn should never affect the daily life of a couple. No one’s life should revolve around porn—single or not single. Porn should never be used as a crutch. And, like exercise, babies, or smoking, porn should be something that can easily be given up at a moment’s notice.

I think it’s also necessary to consider why a person has the desire to watch porn, as well as the partner’s response to it. After all, a partnership is about two people—their wants, their needs, their feelings. Is porn worth rocking the ship for?

Then again, why would a person care if their partner enjoys watching a little bit of porn here and there? Especially if sex is still happening regularly for the couple. Could the real issue at hand be one of insecurity or self-worth? And if so, who should be held accountable for those problems? The person experiencing them, right?

A partner should always pay attention, be mindful and respectful of how certain actions can create certain feelings in the relationship, but he or she should not have to entirely sacrifice their hobbies—can watching porn be considered a hobby?—just because their boyfriend or girlfriend or spouse has sensitivity issues.

Besides, we’re not talking about something as serious as wearing white after Labor Day, but merely watching porn. Or, is porn one of those significant concerns that could be masking a more massive obstacle in the relationship?

There’s only one acceptable answer here: Every relationship is different.

Watching porn could simply be about the release it brings or a habit formed from many years ago, or about timing and a partner’s availability for a little hanky panky. Perhaps even the acting in the chosen film? Okay, probably not that last one. The point, though, porn only has to have a negative connotation if it’s given one. Is it worth the time and energy to do such?

At the end of the day, I think this is what matters: rules, limitations, expectations . . . communication. No one wants to be emotionally dependent on someone else, their actions. No one should be emotionally dependent on someone, their actions. Yet, a partnership is all about ensuring both partners are consistently feeling comfortable, safe, respected, valued, heard, and loved. And frequently getting some action—that’s vital, too, in a successful relationship.

If your relationship has all of the components listed above, then porn might not be a battle worth choosing.

Sex and Love and Relationships—Shoot Me Now!

I can’t believe I’m writing this blog article. I can’t believe it’s necessary for me to write this blog article. Yet, here we are: sipping on hard seltzers and gossiping about sex, love, relationships, and the gay community. Fascinating stuff, really.

Cue the eye roll.

I partly blame myself. If you’re new to my work, shame on you. I wrote an article last year: “Be Careful What You Wish For.” Apparently, though, I didn’t read it. Too many times I’ve wished for a life similar to Carrie Bradshaw’s. Hell, I even refer to myself as “the male Carrie Bradshaw.”

So, here we are: drinking hard seltzers instead of cosmos, but nonetheless, gossiping about sex, love, and relationships. But just how fascinating are these topics? Really?

For those in the back, I repeat: Be careful what you wish for.

Regarding sex, love, and relationships, the gay community is, well, fucked. Sorry, I made that as polite as possible. Then again, if you know me—or my work—you know I don’t care about being polite. I care about being honest, maybe even blunt.

After all, I said I’m the male Carrie Bradshaw, not the male Mary Poppins.

I can only offer a gay male perspective when it comes to sex, love, and relationships, but I believe it’s a relevant one. Let’s just say, I’ve done the research, spent time in the trenches—i.e. every gay bar in Hillcrest—experienced first-hand the hideous nature of this environment.

It’s interesting how oversexualized the gay community is. On any given night (this is pre-COVID, of course . . . well, likely even post-COVID considering Governor Newsom’s new orders), you can find go-go dancers on the bars, men of all ages wearing next to nothing, and strangers willing to be oh, so kind. This kindness ranges from a free drink to an ass grab to a trip to the bathroom to play a quick, friendly game of duck, duck, goose.

I’m not a hypocrite or a liar, meaning I don’t mind admitting that when you’re single, these antics can be quite fun. And, for the most part, innocent. After all, who doesn’t love attention? Attention is a drug, and though it’s one of the legal ones floating around the gay community, it’s still extremely dangerous . . . and addicting.

Actually, come to think of it, attention is only dangerous when you’re not single. Even the strongest people, those with an ironclad will power, can break when receiving too much attention. Hell, if Brad Pitt is weak enough to cheat on Jennifer Aniston, then there’s no hope for the rest of us—gay or straight.

Then again, if it wasn’t for these grown-ass men acting like pig dogs, Alanis Morrisette might not be a household name. There’s no way we would have gotten this far in life without the alternative rock classic, “You Oughta Know.” So, in hindsight, thank you, Alanis. Better yet, thank you, Dave Coulier.

If you allow me to play armchair psychiatrist for a moment, I can explain to you that it’s my personal belief the problem originates for many of us gays early on in life. You see, we don’t get to “date” in middle school or participate in the common boyfriend/girlfriend game in high school. If we do join in, the feelings aren’t genuine, but a front to help conceal our real identity.

When we finally do come into our own, brave the new world, our world, we’re thrown into an over-the-top environment. An environment much like the one described above, where lust, sex, and attention are basically fuel. And once you’ve had a taste of that sweet, intoxicating, addictive fuel, it can be difficult to stop guzzling it down.

Of course, this turns into a problem when we think we’re ready to begin dating or try our luck at the boyfriend game. It becomes obvious very quickly, though, that dating and relationships have nothing to do with luck, but everything to do with hard work, discipline, and communication. Even with hard work, discipline, communication, and—what the hell—a little bit of luck, past habits can come flooding back to sabotage us.

Specifically, when we’re used to a pattern of multiple men, sex, and attention—basically doing whatever we want to do, and with no repercussions other than maybe a trip to the free clinic—is it possible to break that pattern? To leave it behind?

Remember, attention is addicting. Is it realistic to grow out of a habit where you need or want so much attention? Is there a cure, or at least some sort of recovery option to help us move on to the next phase of our life? A phase where one person is enough? Further, are we setting ourselves up for failure by believing that we can get everything we want and need from just one person?

It’s quite possible that one person is enough . . . But then there’s that addicting, accessible drug, the drug never too far out of reach: attention. I can’t help but wonder if attention is like alcoholism, meaning it’s a disease that will have to be acknowledged and dealt with every single day.

Sometimes, I truly think we are set up to fail. Factors like social media, Grindr, and thirsty bitches with no fucking respect for boundaries only make relationships harder. Because, let’s face facts: It may be well known you’re in a loving, committed, monogamous relationship, and that still won’t stop the Davids, Justins, and Alberts of the past from popping up just to say, “Haaay!” And any gay worth his Christian Louboutin boots (which I still don’t have) knows where “haaay” rapidly leads to.

Add in even more factors, such as open relationships, throuples, and good old-fashioned whores running amuck in the community, and having that loving, committed, monogamous relationship becomes all the more difficult.

Sure, temptation is everywhere, and something that everyone has to live with—regardless of relationship status. For example, you could be a diabetic who has to constantly find the strength to avoid the cake aisle at the grocery store. Or even that alcoholic who has to remind themselves ten times a day not to have a drink.

We can’t stop our previous lifestyle from poking its dirty, ugly, nosey head into our current one. Just like we can’t force bakers to stop making cakes or booze from being so readily available. Simply put, the only actions we are responsible for are our own, and the only actions we can control are our own. Trying to live with any other mindset will force us to go crazy—or, for some of us, crazier.

I guess my point is this: If we want something bad enough, then we will eventually have to fight for it and dedicate ourselves to it. I mean, if everything in life came easy, “actresses” like Heather Graham would have a collection of Academy Awards.

More so, there will be multiple times in our lives where we’re forced to make a decision. Sometimes easy, sometimes not so much, these decisions can shape our future. At the end of the day, we have to live with the choices we’ve made. We have to look at ourselves in the mirror and be proud of who we are.

And, considering it’s Pride month and all, I think it’s completely appropriate to ask ourselves whether or not we’re proud of who we are.

Rejection Blows (Not In a Good Way)

I don’t often talk about the writing process—more specifically, my writing process—because I don’t find it that interesting. Everyone who writes has a different process; there is no right way or wrong way to write. As long as words somehow magically get down onto the paper, then the process is working. Simply put: If it helps you write, do it. If it doesn’t help you write, don’t do it. End of story.

I write every single day. Well, try to write every single day. Fine! I have the intention to write every single day. So far, that seems to be working. I’ve managed to somehow write numerous short stories, blog articles, columns, and a few novels (one is unpublished and polished, so if you’re a literary agent searching for a new domestic suspense novel, you’ve found it!).

Regardless of the process or the content that’s been produced, most writers have one thing in common: rejection. It’s inevitable, isn’t it? If you want or try to get your work published, chances are you’re going to collect quite a few rejection letters before—or if—you succeed.

Unfortunately, that’s not the only type of rejection to consider. In the writing industry, as well as life, rejection comes in many different forms.

How fucking cute.

For example, if a reader doesn’t like your writing, that could be considered a rejection. It almost makes you wonder why anyone in their right mind would choose to be a writer. Then again, do you choose the industry or does the industry choose you?

My skills pretty much start and end at writing. I’m not saying this as a way to fish for compliments. I honestly have no idea what I’d be doing if I wasn’t a writer. I’m not good in customer service positions. I don’t know shit about automobiles. I can’t cook (yes, I even burn toast). I’m not good at science or math. I’m going to stop there; we could be here a while!

I suppose I could take a class or get some training for another profession, but writing is really all that interests me. So, if I’m going to be in this industry, what do I need to get used to? That’s right: rejection.

I’ve been getting rejected for years. You think I’d be used to it by now.

This leads us to other types of rejection in life, which I am most definitely not used to. After all, whose skin is so thick that they don’t falter—even the slightest bit—once they’re turned down?

Looking back, the first incident of rejection in my life that comes to mind occurred in elementary school. I don’t remember full details, only that some sort of holiday program was taking place and I had my heart set on playing an elf. Needless to say, it didn’t happen.

From there, rejection came by way of not getting invited to certain parties, not getting that job at the local video store, not being accepted for internships, and so on. As I said, rejection, like a bitch running from the law, has many different identities.

Though I’ve experienced rejection time and time again, and in myriad formats, it never gets easier. There’s still some aspect of the whole situation that feels like a bee sting. Sure, the sting eventually goes away, but at first, it’s a little shocking, even painful.

I’ve written about it before, but it seems so appropriate to mention the story again. You know the one I’m referring to: I was on a date with a guy (a really hot, tall, muscular guy) and he rejected me by accepting someone else’s phone number.

Yeah, that one stung. It stung worse than the shot I had to get after Pride weekend because . . . You know what? A story for another time. Let’s just say being rejected by Hot Tall Muscular Guy stung badly.

On second thought, maybe it’s not so much the act of rejection itself, but how the rejection unfolds.

If Hot Tall Muscular Guy had just politely told me that he didn’t feel a connection or spark during our date instead of picking up a new guy right in front of me, his tires never would have been slashed.

Of course, I’m kidding!

I would have still slashed them.

Perhaps it would be less of a blow if rejection letters from literary agents were a little more helpful, a little more informative than just a formed letter, a curt “no,” or even no reply at all. And, as well know, no answer is an answer.

I understand why these rejection letters are brief and not personalized. Any given week, a literary agent can receive hundreds of letters from authors seeking representation. It’s simply not realistic to expect these agents to personally respond to each one. That’s the business; it’s what I signed up for.

That being said, there’s a good possibility that I’m a masochist. You see, not only have I collected my share of rejection letters from agents and publishers (and continue to do so), I’ve also been rejected several times from casting directors.

When I first moved to San Diego back in 2012, I thought I was going to be an actor. Fine! I thought I was going to be a movie star. I went on auditions, even booked a few parts in local commercials, a web series, student projects, and one independent horror film where I got murdered first but did have a Baywatch running scene. Mostly, though, I racked up a good amount of failed auditions—i.e. rejections.

The older I get, I can’t help but wonder if there is a good angle to rejection. When we’re rejected, is it possible that we’re being rejected by something or someone that isn’t necessarily a good fit for us? Further, if it wasn’t for rejection, would we settle for something that wasn’t right for us?

Hot Tall Muscular Guy wasn’t right for me for many reasons. Would I have eventually come to that conclusion on my own? Or would I have gone down the tedious rabbit hole of chasing him, stalking him, and throwing myself at him all because he initially showed a little bit of interest in me?

Same idea with a past boyfriend of mine. If he hadn’t been the one to finally pull the plug on our extremely toxic relationship, would I still be with him? Still angry, bitter, and miserable? Maybe I should send him a thank-you note for rejecting me, as well as a picture of the abs I worked my ass off to get following the breakup. Except, unfortunately, the abs lasted about as long as the relationship did.

Moving on . . . Maybe it’s necessary to spin the act of rejection in our favor. Maybe we have to receive so many “nos” before we receive that “yes.” And it’s not just a “yes,” it’s a right “yes.” A perfect fit “yes.” It’s an I-didn’t-settle-for-less “yes.”

Because after having experienced all of the rejection, the “nos,” the cut to our self-esteem, that acceptance or that “yes” will taste so much sweeter. We’ll appreciate it more. We’ll know that we worked for it, earned it. Deserve it.

All of that being said, the truth remains: Rejection still blows . . . and not in a good way.

Putting The Cock In Cocky

I once went on a date with this guy. Let’s see . . . I have to call him something. We’ll call him Mr. Douche, as I want to respect his privacy slash don’t remember his real name. That’s not true. I do remember his name; that’s how excited I’d been to officially go out with him.

Before the night of the date, I was extremely nervous. Not taking my SATs kind-of-nervous, but even more so than that. I’d say it was like waiting for test results from the clinic after a busy holiday weekend kind-of-nervous.

You see, I’d casually crossed paths with Mr. Douche a few times before he officially asked me out. I knew some things about him. For example, he was really cute and really fit. He was also successful, or at least that’s what a paid workday full of Facebook stalking had revealed.

Side note: After all of these years, I may have finally discovered why I was let go from that office job downtown.

Anyway, prior to the date, I spent hours and hours questioning myself. Was I cute enough for him? Was I fit enough? (This was before McDonald’s offered two Big Macs for the price of one). Was I successful enough? I was working a full-time job as a copywriter, had two novels traditionally published, wrote a column for a print magazine, and even picked up some freelance writing gigs on the side. When I ordered a pizza, I no longer had to charge it. If that didn’t scream success, I didn’t know what did.

After hounding my close friends to reiterate how amazing I was, I set out for the date.

It was your classic gay affair: drinks, tight pants, condoms in the back pocket. Unfortunately, I soon realized that I wasn’t good enough for Mr. Douche. At least that’s the impression I got when he told me how “pedestrian” it was to write suspense fiction books. Or maybe it was the fact that we disagreed on what constituted too many beers on a work night. My thought had always been twelve Coors Light, you’re all right. His opinion was that that amount was a bit excessive.

As the night progressed, not only did I understand that we were completely wrong for one another, but I also got a strong sense of how cocky and full of himself he was. Needless to say, it was a huge turnoff.

So, I’m sure you’re all wondering now . . . Did Mr. Douche put the cock in cocky? I don’t know, never found out. It’s safe to say, too, that I never will—which is more than okay with me. In turn, though, I found out something much more valuable that night: There is a huge difference between cockiness and confidence.

I’m sure I’ve said it before, but here we are again: We live (even more so than before) in a harsh, demanding, unfair, sometimes insufferable world. Therefore, we need to take our wins where we can get them, regardless of size or circumstance. Unless, of course, the win came by pushing someone else down.

There is nothing wrong with celebrating accomplishments, even boosting a bit when something good happens to us. Believe it or not, everyone has a special quality to offer, a unique gift, a reason to be proud. Yet, it’s imperative to remember that rule of the thumb: There is a difference between being cocky and being confident. Before you start shaking those lips, you might want to discover where the line between the two is drawn.

I have a friend (maybe he’s more a frenemy) who I cannot share a five-minute conversation with without him spewing all of his accomplishments. It goes something like this . . .

Me: Did you feel that earthquake yesterday? Supposedly it was a big one.

Him: No, but did you know I bought a new car? Yeah, I’ve been doing so well at work lately. I got a raise, then a promotion. My boss told me I’m his favorite employee—ever! And when I took a shit the other day, a 24-karat gold brick fell out of my ass.

Me: I didn’t ask.

Obviously, I’m downplaying the real conversation that took place between us, but you still get the idea. Some people—a lot of people—wear every single one of their accomplishments on their sleeve. It’s more than that they simply lead with tidbits like, “I just purchased a $1.5 million home” or “I fucked Bradley Cooper.” (Okay, but who hasn’t?) It’s that they throw these punches at you hoping—and knowing—that they’ll land in the face, blindsiding you, ultimately making you feel shitty about your own life.

I mean, do I go around bragging that I can gain weight just by looking at a piece of cake? No, I do not!

I’ve come to two different conclusions about cocky people.

One is that they’re insecure and have to lead with all of the crap they’ve done and accomplished throughout their lives because that’s all they have to offer anyone. No personality, no attractive characteristics, no social skills, no good qualities to share. Just, look at me and my ability to wipe my own ass. Or something like that.

The second, more enlightening conclusion, is that I don’t have to care about these people. I get to choose who I surround myself with, and it doesn’t have to be the cocky, full-of-themselves robots who do everything perfectly the first time around, never spilling on themselves or having a hair out of place.

I realize, too, that it may seem as if I’m coming off a bit jealous. Whether or not you choose to believe me is entirely up to you, but I’m honestly not jealous of anyone. Well, maybe I’m a tad bit jealous of Lisa Gardner, Michael Connelly, Nora Roberts, Stephen King, and Harlan Coben.

Actually, come to think of it, I’m not even sure it’s jealousy that I feel towards these best-selling authors. It’s more that I desire what they have, and I can have it, too. Maybe I will . . . eventually, when it’s my time.

That’s the thing: There is room for all of us to do well and succeed and accomplish our goals. It’s not a contest. Be proud of yourself and what you’ve done, but don’t use your accomplishments as ammunition against others. After all, unless you’re Mother Teresa—and she’s dead—regardless of what you’ve done, it doesn’t make you better than anyone else.

So, even if you can put the cock in cocky (I’ve done the research, and trust me, most men can’t), it doesn’t give you permission to constantly be an arrogant motherfucker. And remember, if you are an arrogant motherfucker, no one is going to want to be around your smug ass to hear about all of you’ve accomplished, anyway.

I Hate Box

Now that I have your attention . . . I don’t think I’ve ever publicly admitted that I hate box. More appropriately, I hate boxes. You may have already assumed this because, quite honestly, who in their right mind likes boxes? Not that I’m in my right mind, but you get the idea.

Boxes are stifling. Boxes take up space. Boxes often times indicate a move of some sort is taking place, and there ain’t nothing fun or exciting about moving! Boxes also tend to trap things: clothes, documents, people. And who—in any mindset—wants to feel trapped?

Besides, trying to put me into a box is moot. Thanks to the COVID-19 (i.e. the 19+ pounds I’ve gained since this whole stay-at-home mess started), there isn’t a box big enough for me to fit in!

If you’re unfamiliar with my writing, you’re not alone. To get you up to speed, I generally use my blog to express my feelings. Whether I’m happy, sad, mad, or hurt, I write about it. Instead of using my fists as some macho man would, I use my words. Mostly because I don’t want to break a nail. Actually, that’s a lie: My nails look awful. Unfortunately, I can’t even blame Ms. Rona for this; my nails looked awful way before the quarantine was issued.

Damn! I can’t do straight or gay right!

Then again, who gets to tell me if the way I act is right or wrong? Who holds that kind of power? Just like we’re responsible for our own actions, we’re also responsible for our own feelings. This means that if I’m feeling happy, sad, mad, or hurt, I have the power to change it. Of course, no one wants to not be happy, unless they enjoy wallowing in their own misery, but that’s a whole other topic.

Even though must of us know this, it doesn’t always make the rule easy to follow or incorporate into our daily lives. It should, but realistically it’s an action easier said than done. Why? Because as humans it’s only natural to be affected by other people—what they say and do. Despite that RuPaul sings, “Unless they’re paying your bills, pay them bitches no mind” and the common saying we learn early on in life: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”

Except, I’m a writer. Therefore, I know the power of words. They can hurt. Do hurt. As do the actions of others. And sorry, Ru, but sometimes “paying them bitches no mind” isn’t always an option.

So you see, not every situation is the same. It’s even safe to say that not every situation fits into the same size of box. Despite that we should never give someone enough power to dictate how we feel, it does happen. My best friend would be disappointed in me for saying that, probably call me the “C” word and hit me. It’s all right; she hits like a girl. She is a firm believer in both not giving other people power and creating/being responsible for your own feelings.

Recently, someone tried to put me in a box, the box being what they expected from me and what they wanted out of me. When I didn’t comply with the strict constraints, the relationship faltered. Needless to say, as a result of this fallout, I’m feeling some sort of way. Many sorts of ways, to be exact. Sad, angry, annoyed, confused. I don’t want to feel the weight of these feelings. According to logic, as well as Mama Ru and my best friend, I should be able to get rid of the weight or burden quite quickly.

Except, have you seen me? The way I eat? When you’re me, it’s not easy to get rid of any weight. Whether it’s physical or emotional.

One of the hardest lessons we have to learn as an adult (other than too much cake will make you fat) is that everyone isn’t going to be our friend or even like us. We’re no longer in kindergarten. Bringing juice boxes for all or inviting the entire class over for a birthday party doesn’t happen anymore.

Instead, people come into our lives; people leave our lives. Sometimes we don’t want them to go; sometimes they have to go. Change, growth, moving on . . . It’s all inevitable. While there are factors we can control, there are also many factors we can’t control. We have no hold over them.

Just like no one—but me—is responsible for my feelings, I’m not responsible for anyone else’s. Sure, if I hit them with a car, then I’d be responsible for their broken leg or injury, the pain they were feeling. But if I’m not driving, or if I’m following the laws and doing what I’m supposed to be doing (i.e. being a good friend, the best possible friend I can be), then how is it fair to be blamed for something that I didn’t do?

Yes, wiseass, I’m well aware: Life isn’t fair.

I’ve written about this before, and I wholeheartedly believe it to be true: the act of apologizing. Further, when we’re wrong, we should apologize. I’ve done it many times. It’s not fun—at all—but completely necessary. Though, I will never apologize for bashing Trump, because I don’t think that’s wrong. It’s . . . necessary.

However, I also think it’s equally important to not apologize when you’re not wrong. By all means, own your mistakes, but don’t own the ones you didn’t make. And if you made them unintentionally, well, then there’s something to be said about intent.

For example, it’s never been my intent to hurt someone’s feelings or make them feel left behind because I didn’t want to hang out. (Another thing I’ve repeatedly mentioned: I’m a loner.) But I can’t help but wonder . . . If a person does get hurt or feels left behind because I’d rather spend my time writing, reading, or eating, is that my fault or theirs? After all, aren’t we responsible for our own feelings?

People—most people (excluding any of the Kardashians)—are multifaceted. They have myriad layers, perspectives, opinions, ideas. Specifically, they don’t fit into a box, no matter how hard they’re forced into one.

It’s significant to remember, too, that when something is forced into a tight, narrow, suffocating space, the results are never good. In fact, destruction, breakage, and loss typically occur.

Are You Social (Media) Distancing?

For the past few years, I’ve occasionally slash consistently bitched about different social media platforms for myriad reasons via both my blog and column in Rage Monthly. Now, any sane, rational individual who hates social media so much would, you know, delete Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, and never look back.

The jokes on you! I never said I was sane or rational.

Perhaps I’m a masochist, crazy, or just a dumbass for staying active on social media? Maybe I want something to bitch about, and that’s why I keep an online presence? Could I even be a hypocrite for complaining so much about my experience with Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter since my profiles are still functional?

Here’s the truth, and whether you choose to believe it or not is entirely up to you: I stay up to date on social media so that I can easily share my writing. That’s it. If I didn’t have blog articles, columns, and novels to promote, I don’t think I’d have an online presence. Obviously, it’s possible I would, but seeing as how I don’t plan to stop writing any time in the foreseeable future, I guess we’ll never know. In a way, I have a business: writing. Writing is my business. One of the best, most effective ways to promote your business is with social media.

That being said, social media can be a painful place . . . especially for the few of us who know the difference between “you’re” and “your.” I know, baby; grammar is hard! (Insert eye roll.) And don’t get me started if you use “ur.” If that’s you, stop reading immediately and punch yourself in the face.

Grammar takes a hard beating daily, and it ain’t pretty! It’s so ugly in fact, that I’ve recently decided to extend the public social distancing orders to social media. That’s right: I’m social media distancing myself from the uncultivated masses. Six feet away, six unfollows a day.

For this particular blog article, I’m not discussing where you stand on the stay-at-home orders, whether or not states should be allowed to open back up, or if Donald Trump was actually being sarcastic when he made the comment about injecting disinfectant. Just so we’re clear where I stand on that last matter, though: What a fucking toolbox!

Everyone is entitled to their opinion. Everyone is permitted to share that opinion. People everywhere are going through extremely dark, difficult times, and for many different circumstances. It’s great to have outlets (i.e. social media) to share and connect with others facing the same problems. However, it’s very hard to take someone seriously when they can’t even properly string a sentence together.

I’ve seen so many people take to Facebook to display their feelings—that’s great. If posting your feelings or concerns on social media allows you to clear your mind and gives you comfort for even a handful of seconds, then do it. Do whatever it is you need to do to offer yourself some relief. I’m not arguing that. My concern is how you present those feelings and concerns.

Here’s the tea: If you want your point of view to mean something, to be significant, then prove you at least have the tiniest bit of knowledge when it comes to spelling and grammar. Otherwise, you lose your credibility. You don’t necessarily have to know what a compound adjective is, but you should understand that you don’t “seen” anything.

I’m not perfect by any means. I’m probably one of the worst spellers on the planet. I was in a local spelling bee in the third grade. Guess who was the first participant to be eliminated? Yep, yours truly! To this day, I still remember the word I missed: sent. Yes, sent, as in, my mother sent me to the store. My fool self said: c-e-n-t. (Insert another eye roll.)

I also make grammatical mistakes all of the time! Hell, sometimes I don’t know where to place a comma and often have to consider for a few moments which option is proper: Sarah Jessica Parker and me or Sarah Jessica Parker and I? When I make these errors, I quickly try to correct them. That’s one of the best aspects of social media: You can always go back and edit your posts.

Speaking of grammatical mistakes, it’s only fair to address the elephant in the room (no, not my fat ass thanks to these extra quarantine pounds): my first two traditionally published novels. Unfortunately, The Next Victim and ‘Til Death—the former in particular—manuscripts went to print with errors. Too many errors. Errors that should have been caught and fixed before the books were published and purchased. Though I do believe the books can still be enjoyed (my mom tells me this, anyway), knowing this happened is embarrassing and extremely unprofessional. Not to mention, highly amateur.

I will say that it’s common for established, bestselling authors (this is not me—not even close) to have published works with noticeable mistakes or typos in them. It happens. Why? No one and nothing is perfect. It’s that simple. Yet, my novels—specifically TNV—had blatant errors throughout that should have been caught. While I don’t think I’m fully at fault for this, my name is front and center on the book jackets, so I’ll take the brunt this time.

The books are now out of print, but before this occurred, the publisher released newer editions, which hopefully are easier to read. Going forward, all I can do—all any of us can do—is learn from prior mistakes and try not to repeat them. And always give the content just one more read-through before publishing or printing—this is vital, too.

Moving on, because I don’t need any more heat on me (a bitch is getting sunburnt), I know some people will argue, “It’s just Facebook! Who cares if my posts are grammatically correct or not?” Yes, it is only Facebook or Instagram, not a term paper to later be graded. Still, and like I said before, no one is going to take you seriously if you can’t even be trusted to know something as simple as the difference between “we’re” and “were.”

It’s not about having a high level of education or knowing the complete ins and outs of grammar. It’s really about having enough thought and care to present yourself as a comprehending, adult human being.

Simply put: It’s about (yes, I stole this, but it’s fitting) knowing your shit or knowing you’re shit.

(Side note: Wouldn’t it be ironic if this article was full of errors? If you happen to catch any, they were made on purpose in an attempt to make this experience a learning moment. You’re/Your welcome.)

Do You Dispose Of People?

This morning, I was woken up by what I thought was a neighbor’s loud, ruthless hammering. Bam, bam, bam! However, after the sound continued for a solid ten minutes, I realized that the noise couldn’t possibly be from someone hammering the wall—there’d be no wall left.

Once the sleepy haze evaporated from my brain, I was able to put two and two together. Last night, San Diego received a rainstorm. What was disturbing me was the aftermath of that storm: rain falling from the gutters. Drip, drip, drip! Incessant, painful, infuriating.

Now, the old me would have screamed and cussed, pulled my hair out, perhaps thrown something out of the window, or gone out and ripped the gutters right off of the building. However, the new me did only one of those things. I’m pretty sure that’s known as “growth.”

Anyway, I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I just laid there, simply thinking. Yes, thinking—as if I need more wrinkles. Lying around and thinking is the number one cause for wrinkles . . . which is why I choose not to the activity too often.

What was I thinking about as I willingly let the lines form across my face? Relationships, of course. All sorts of relationships.

Roughly five years ago, someone said to me, “I don’t build relationships out of convenience.” He didn’t so much as say it to me, as he screamed it in my face. Okay, that’s a lie. He sent it to me in a text message. We all know how to read into a text, right? And when do we ever get the subtext wrong? Trust and believe, the words were soaked in venom.

Who was this guy? That’s not important. Not for this blog article, anyway. Though, it does beg the question: Can you really ever be friends with an ex? Perhaps we’ll explore that theme next time. The point, however, is that these words obviously got under my skin, because I’m still thinking about them all this time later.

Relationships built on convenience . . . All relationships. I’m talking about the relationships we share with parents and siblings, partners, friends, even the waitress at a favorite Chinese restaurant. Let’s face it: that latter example may be the most vital relationship we ever experience.

Anyway, lying in bed at six a.m. this morning, I couldn’t help but wonder whether or not I build all of my relationships on convenience. And if I do, does that mean that when a relationship I share with someone becomes inconvenient, I just toss it away? Specifically, do I dispose of people?

If I wasn’t already awake because of that fucking drip, drip, drip, I was now. Because that couldn’t be me; there was no possible way I disposed of people. After all, when I think of a disposable item, Kleenex comes to mind. Used Kleenex, of course. Things like paper plates, plastic silverware, Adam Sandler movies, folks who voted for Donald Trump. Those are examples of disposables, not individuals I’ve built a bond with.

Before too long, I realized a certain factor applied to the situation, a factor that I have written about several times before. A factor that I will likely continue to write about. A factor known as the “gray area.”

In life, you will rarely find a situation to be solely black and white. It’s safe here to generalize and say that most things in life aren’t black and white. Well, except for panda bears.

The circumstances of every relationship are different. Regardless of the type of relationship, it still takes some amount of work, effort, energy to keep it going. This is normal, expected. Yet, how much work is too much work? Remember, we’re talking about a fun, healthy, loving relationship—not a job.

If you think about it, relationships should be—for the most part—relatively smooth and easy to uphold. Who wants to fight, argue, regularly deal with conflict? I’m not referring to disagreements; disagreements are common, even amongst two people who like or love and respect one another.

I guess I’m alluding to those who make it too damn difficult to share a relationship with. You know who they are; you’ve been involved with them, too. Some people make it next to impossible to connect with, despite how hard you try. Unfortunately, the desire to want the relationship isn’t always enough.

For example, my brother and I don’t have a tight relationship. To be blunt, he’s a hard person to get close to. Our conversations are often one-worded and one-sided, and the effort I put into them never pays off, leading to disappointment and frustration.

Lucky for me, I’m a writer. The new novel I’m working on centers around siblings, so I’m able to use what I know to help fuel and authenticate the character’s storyline. We’ll just chalk my whole sibling experience up to research. I’ve learned that a writer’s research is never done.

Another thing I’ve learned: Find the silver lining . . . in everything!

On the flip side, there are those who require an excessive amount from you, creating a different kind of imbalance in the relationship. Sometimes a person can take or ask for too much, resulting in exhaustion, exasperation, and detachment. Balance is also a key ingredient in relationships and life.

It’s true: Not all of life’s wonderful blessings (i.e. relationships) will come conveniently. However, it’s significant to take a look at the definition of the word. Convenience is defined as: “The state of being able to proceed with something with little effort or difficulty.” Similar words include comfort, ease, enjoyment.

Don’t we want all of your relationships to cause comfort, ease, and enjoyment? Obviously, we don’t live in a perfect world. Remember, not everything is black and white. Therefore, I know it’s not fair to say that a relationship is either good or bad. Fun or painful. Easy or hard.

But, for the most part, shouldn’t we be able to classify relationships one way or another?

Yes, I’m familiar with the popular phrase: “If a person really cares, they will find the time for you.” I’m also aware of the fact that life gets messy and complicated, and everyone handles aspects of it differently. Some seclude themselves in order to recharge and deal. Others require constant attention.

Again, there’s no right or wrong, no black or white areas here. It’s all gray. Lots of gray when it comes to relationships. Fifty fucking shades of gray, to be exact.

That being said, I still don’t think people are disposable. If I’ve ever given that impression, it was one hundred percent unintentional. I don’t think I’ve ever even met someone who disposes of people. Maybe I’m choosing to believe that those people don’t exist, or perhaps I don’t surround myself with them.

What I do know is that things change and people evolve. It’s common for people to get busy, weighed down, and wrapped up in their own lives. Self-involvement is not always synonymous with selfishness.

If we learn to not take things so personally, to not get offended so easily, and understand that most of us are trying our best and not going out of the way to hurt others, then all relationships just might become simpler and more enjoyable.

Nice Ain’t Always My Fucking Color

When Stephen Stills famously sang “Love the One Your With,” I don’t think he meant for this long. Depending on who you’re currently quarantined (i.e. stuck) with, you might feel as if you’re now part of that Rent song. You know the one I’m about talking about: 525,600 minutes . . . and counting!

All joking aside, for me, self-isolation hasn’t been that big of an issue. I’ve recently decided that I’m an introvert dressed up as an extrovert (thanks, RuPaul.) What does this mean, exactly? It means that I have absolutely no problem—even enjoy—going out with friends, drinking my face off, standing up on the bar to dance, getting asked to leave slash banned from the establishment, and ending the night at a 24-hour burrito shop. Just a hypothetical example, of course.

Despite what some may believe, I do like spending time with people. Real people, too. Not just the ones I create. I can generally talk to almost anyone about anything (other than nuclear science or, you know, football), and do enjoy interacting with others.

However, the older I get, the more I discover that I prefer to stay inside with a good book, Sex and the City rerun, and/or pencil and paper. This doesn’t make me a bad friend or person, just someone who likes to be alone. Someone who is becoming more and more self-sufficient.

Maybe people do change? Dare I say it . . . even men? Because, at one time, I hated being alone. Now, I embrace solitude.

I may have changed over the years, but luckily my life hasn’t changed all that much in the past month. I’m not bragging; I deeply feel for those whose lives have been turned upside down. In a word, it’s awful. I think being a writer helped to prepare me for the COVID-19 pandemic.

Sure, there have been some changes. I can no longer go to the gym (thanks be to Jesus—finally, a valid excuse to gain weight; no one was buying that pregnancy fib), I drink White Claw hard seltzers like they’re going to become extinct, and I only shower every three or four days.

Come to think of it . . . Maybe my life hasn’t changed at all!

Anyway, I am staying inside as much as possible, doing my part to flatten the curve. I do make it outside a few times a day to walk the dogs, and while seeing neighbors jogging, riding bikes, and trying to safely hold onto an ounce of normalcy is refreshing, it also has its pitfalls.

Picture this: rain. I’m talking so much rain, I considered calling up Noah to see if he could build me an ark. San Diego isn’t accustomed to rain. Yes, we need the rain, and it can even be quite soothing at times, but there is nothing fun or relaxing about rain when your four-legged friends have to go out in it to relieve themselves.

Yesterday afternoon, I was rushing to get back indoors before another downpour occurred. I wasn’t paying much attention (honestly, what else is new?), tossed two bags of shit into the neighbor’s trash bin, and continued on my way.

Suddenly, I was stopped by a woman who was picking weeds in her front yard. Why she was picking weeds during a monsoon, I’ll never know. Regardless, she looked at me with disdain and rudely said, “Dog bags don’t go in that bin. That’s for recyclables only!” She then rolled her eyes.

I was completely caught off guard—shocked and soaked! Therefore, I didn’t respond to her, just crossed the street and went back to the apartment. It wasn’t five minutes later when the perfect comeback popped into my head: “Unless I’m throwing the dog shit into your yard, mind your own fucking business.”

Remember, these weren’t even her trash bins! She was simply being a busybody, worried about what I was doing with my garbage. And I’m here to tell you that Nosey Nancy should have been more concerned with her weeds. I went by her front yard this morning . . . The bitch missed a few! Oh, trust and believe I went strutting by her property in the same sweatpants I’ve had on for three days, acting like I owned the neighborhood, ready to tear into her.

And still, one more time: What was this hippy-dippy bitch out doing picking weeds in a goddamn rainstorm?

I know we’re all—in one way or another—experiencing dark, uncertain times. I also understand that the best way to get through these times is to support one another, love one another, tolerate one another. For the most part, I agree with all of that, too. Because, like it or not, we’re all in this together: you, me, and the weed-pulling-trash-bin-watching nazi.

Yet, sometimes it’s difficult to have patience. It’s not always easy to understand and sympathize and relate to others. Which is why we have to try extra hard to accomplish it.

Look, I’m not some goody-goody, constantly spreading smiles and positivity. Not even close. I have no business trying to educate people on compassion. As I said, had the words formed in my brain a couple of minutes quicker, I would have told Busy Betsy exactly what I thought of her. Reflecting now, though, I’m glad I walked away without saying a word. I’m also glad I didn’t see her on my walk this morning.

I’ve preached it enough, and now it’s time for me to actually practice it: choose your battles. That rule seems even more important now than ever before. Everyone is feeling something different. It could be anxiety, anger, resentment, fear, or despair. There is no right or wrong way to feel . . . But there is a right way to act.

Act kind to one another. Yes, it’s sometimes a lot easier said than done, but try. Try extra hard!

I’m not going to say everything happens for a reason, because I don’t know if I truly believe that. Though, I do believe—I choose to believe—that something good will come from this sad, scary, encounter that the world is currently going through.

In the meantime, let’s spread hope and let’s learn from one another. There’s so much to learn! And we now have the time to learn, to listen, to understand.

For example, I’ve recently learned that dog shit doesn’t go in the recycling bin. I’ve also come to understand that there is more than one route for walking the dogs.

What’s In a Name?

Names are kind of important, right? Without names, what exactly would we call one another? Specifically, how would we refer to those individuals from our coyote ugly-type one-night stands who we’re equal parts shocked and embarrassed to become reacquainted with in the morning?

For the fools who haven’t seen Coyote Ugly: A coyote ugly-type one-night stand is when you’d rather chew off your own arm than risk waking the ugly son-of-a-bitch passed out beside you. If you haven’t had a coyote-ugly one-night stand, congratulations. Also, you’re going to hell for lying.

To be fair, most of us (not necessarily me, but definitely my friends) don’t even remember the names of those involved in an oopsie, doopsie, whoopsie moment. Regardless, names are a big part of who we are and perhaps even shape who we become. For example, it’s highly unlikely we’ll ever have a Tiffany for POTUS (no offense, Tiffani Amber Thiessen). Just the same, we’ll never have a Cutter on the Supreme Court—and you’re welcome!

All joking aside, I used to have a big issue with my name. To this day, I’ve never met another Cutter, which I now appreciate. Yet, back in elementary school, it was sometimes challenging not to have a more common label. There were also nicknames like Cutter Butter and that one time a relative told me I was named after a bug spray that only added fuel to the humiliating fire.

Today, I enjoy having a name not often heard of, and I’ve even gotten comfortable with most of the nicknames transpired from it: Cutty (it comes from my nephews and close family), Cutter Butter (it eventually grew on me), Cutts, Cut-Cut, and Zac Efron (it hasn’t really caught on yet, but any day now!).

It’s interesting how names are significant for places and things, too—not only people. It’s safe to say that no one has Suffern, New York or Idiotville, Oregon (both real places) on their travel bucket list. However, depending on what your interests are, Ding Dong, Texas and Uranus might be at the very top of that same list.

Names also make a difference when considering albums, movies, and books. Pink‘s record label wouldn’t let her name her fifth studio album Love is a Motherfucker! Warner Bros. Pictures renamed the Birds of Prey movie with Margot Robbie after a disappointing opening weekend. And after the huge success of Gone Girl (the novel not the film) by Gillian Flynn, how many books were published with the word “girl” in the title?

I’m not a mathematician, but I’m pretty sure it was a shit-ton . . . The Girl on the Train, The Good Girl, The Girl Before, The Lost Girls. You get the idea.

Speaking of novel names: I recently struggled with what to title my newest psychological suspense novel. Yes, this is my cute and subtle attempt to plug my latest work—which hasn’t even been published yet—but my blog, my rules.

In the beginning stages, I started out by calling the manuscript A Silent Town. Less than 100 pages into the novel, I ran into a small problem: the book’s setting isn’t a town, but a city. Talk about an oopsie, doopsie, whoopsie moment! A Silent City didn’t sound near as suspenseful to me, and A Silent Place was too much of a ripoff of A Quiet Place.

Over the course of finishing the manuscript, the title went from One Silent Night to After That Night to Bury What Remains, which is what I finally settled on. So, when the novel sells and hits stores (by the way, if you happen to be a literary agent looking for new clients, let’s chat!), make sure to grab multiple copies of Bury What Remains by Zac Ef—I mean Cutter Slagle. You can thank me later.

In the meantime, I’m currently working on a new project. Again, I’m struggling with what to name it. Right now, I’m going back and forth between Always Watching You and Don’t Turn Around. Seeing as how I’m only on the second chapter, there’s a good chance the title will change many, many more times.

Here’s a crazy idea: Perhaps I should finish the fucking book, then worry about what to call it! That sorta, kinda makes sense . . . Doesn’t it?

Right now—and even later—it shouldn’t really matter what the book’s name is. As long as what’s in the book is good, that needs to be the only concern. It’s that way with all names, and whether we’re talking about a book title, destination, or person. We’re not supposed to make assumptions based on appearances or names, even though we wrongfully and unfairly do it occasionally.

What’s in a name? Sometimes not a whole hell of a lot, and that’s perfectly all right.

Insert some after school special statement about not judging, but it’s true—no matter how corny or hypocritical it is for me to say it. Okay! I’m writing it, not saying it. Still, we shouldn’t judge, no matter how satisfying the feeling can sometimes be. Though names are titles or labels, they’re not always identifying factors of what’s inside. More so, names don’t have to be defining.

Then again, and just to screw with your head, sometimes they are! Follow me down this rabbit hole for a second.

My mom got my name from a novel: I’ll Take Manhattan by Judith Krantz. Then, I eventually became a novelist. Further, “Cutter” sounds like the ideal name for someone who writes murder and suspense books.

Maybe I’m overthinking it, because “Cutter” could also be a nickname given to someone who has spent time in jail. I won’t even dive into that . . . A story for another time.

That’s the thing, though: A name—any name—can be interrupted about a million different ways.

And just like that, we’re back to not judging anything or anyone. You may interrupt a different meaning from a name than someone else does. Whose interpretation is right? Whose interpretation is wrong?

No one! No one is right; no one is wrong. Consider it a gray area. And we could all stand to learn a thing or two about gray areas.

How about that?

What’s Size Got to Do with It?

It’s interesting—to me, at least—that I’ve been writing for about one hundred years now, and still have not discussed topics that are common in the gay community.

Or aged . . . I haven’t seemed to age in one hundred years, either. Thank you very much.

That’s not completely true.

I’ve been writing since I was twelve. Back then, my content focused on murder and mayhem. Still does. Recently, I finished Bury What Remains, my latest psychological suspense manuscript, and lots of murder and mayhem ensue. Side note: If you’re an agent looking for a new author to represent, allow me to take a moment to say, “Heeeey!”

Yet, it wasn’t until much later in my career, about four years ago and right around the release of my second crime fiction novel, ‘Til Death (which I assume all of you are familiar with), that I began delving into LGBTQA+ subjects and themes with my Rage column.

Since then, I’ve expressed thoughts and feelings on the ugliness of dating, bisexuality, partners who are too active on social media, etcetera, etcetera. Ad nauseam. Yet, there’s been one teeny tiny (or, depending on who you’ve been acquainted with, not so teeny tiny) issue I’ve shied away from until now. Are you ready for it?

The size of a man’s . . . feet. Because, as some believe, feet size is everything! Without a good pair of feet, how do you expect to walk properly?

If you think about it, it’s kind of ridiculous the amount of attention we put on this body part. The feet, I mean. It’s also significant to mention that straight women are not exempt from the conversation. After all, straight women want a decent-sized pair of feet, too.

It goes without saying (you know sure-as-shit I’m going to say it anyway, though) that we do not get to pick our feet size. Whether we’re blessed with small, medium, large, or magnum-sized feet, we all have to live with what we’re given. And, yes, regardless of length and width, it can sometimes be hard to find a pair of shoes that fit.

I know someone (fine, it was me) who once invited a friend over for a playdate. When that friend got to my apartment and took off his shoes, I immediately said, “Call an Uber and get those feet out of here before they hurt someone!”

On the flip side, I know an individual (yeah, still me) who had to promptly leave a social gathering because the host had Ken doll-sized feet.

What can I say? Shoe shopping is hard!

But, I wholeheartedly stand by what I said earlier: We do not get to pick our feet size. Therefore, are we going to simply throw someone away just because their feet are too small or too big? Who are we? Goldicocks? Oops—typo! I meant Goldilocks.

Think about it: Say you meet someone, and they’re perfect. Well, as perfect as someone can be. In this climate, perfection probably looks like having a job and voting for anyone other than Donald Trump. But, I digress.

So, you meet this perfect, job-having, non-Trump-voting person, and the two of you really hit it off. Maybe he makes you laugh, owns a publishing company, has Sarah Jessica Parker’s cell phone number to share with you.

Before long slash probably the same day you met, it’s time to shoe shop. Now, where this man has shoe shopped in the past is not part of this particular discussion. However, for your sake, let’s just hope it was at Christian Louboutin and not Payless. Am I right?

When those shoes finally come off, you may discover feet that you’re not initially happy with, and as a result, want to make up an excuse to run away and never look back. Yep, me again.

Is this fair, though? Is it rationale? By doing this, are we ultimately doing ourselves a disservice? How important is feet size, anyway? And, is feet size more important than personality, sense of humor, kindness, or patience?

For some, maybe so. That doesn’t make them wrong, per se, only proves that everyone is different. As such, everyone has their own list of priorities and qualifications when looking for a partner.

But, by being closed-minded (and not just when it comes to shoe shopping), we could be limiting ourselves. Dare I even say, setting ourselves up for failure. Today, closed-mindedness is a disease. While it may not exactly rival the Coronavirus, it is still damaging and deadly.

Why do we continue to allow ourselves to be so closed-minded, then? We very much do it to ourselves, even though we have the full ability to stop. That’s right, boy and girls: closed-mindedness is a disease, but it’s a curable disease. What’s the antidote for it? Stop being so fucking small-minded.

You’re welcome.

Look, I’m not saying go against everything you believe in, or sacrifice everything you want in life. We all have—should have, at least—a list of values or standards that we’re not willing to budge on when it comes to deciding who to share our lives with, be it with a partner, friend, even blood relative. However, the list should be small and not necessarily written in stone.

While it’s cliché, it’s still true: If we’re so focused on what we think we want and need, then we stand the chance of missing out on something better and more fabulous.

My advice is to not knock it until you try it. Small feet, big feet, plaid, pineapple on pizza, a Cutter Slagle novel (how’d that get there?) . . . Be willing to give the unknown a fair opportunity.

Once you do, and you determine you don’t like it or it’s not really for you—whatever “it” may be—don’t judge or belittle or shame anyone else for enjoying it. Remember, not everyone is the same. You may feel a certain way about something, but that doesn’t automatically make you or your way right.

It’s not about understanding; it’s about respecting. I personally don’t understand why a person would rather watch the movie instead of reading the book, but I respect that the choice is theirs to make. It’s a right, a preference. Just because I have a different way of doing things doesn’t make my way better or more correct.

Another thing, too: It’s perfectly okay. I’m not going to die or lose any sleep over the fact that someone doesn’t like to read. It’s not as if books are going to be sacrificed or I’m never going to be able to read again simply because someone else doesn’t find pleasure in the activity.

You can substitute books and reading for just about anything: feet size, Adam Sandler movies, gay marriage. You may not understand gay marriage—and that’s fine—but you should respect an individual’s choice and right to marry someone of the same sex.

If you can’t respect those who have contrasting feelings or opinions of what you may have, then at least learn to keep your fucking pie hole shut. Seems pretty straight forward, don’t you think?

Unless we’re talking about Britney Spears.

If you don’t like Britney, then there is no help for you . . . And may you burn in hell.

I kid!

Well, kind of.