Cutter Slagle's Blog, page 4

Age Brings Laziness—Not Wisdom

I’m not entirely sure if it’s a preconceived notion tossed upon us once we hit our twenties or just simply the gay factor, but for me, the idea of getting older has always been met with abhorrence. Specifically, the day, hell—the minute—after my twenty-first birthday, there was this feeling that I’d hit my expiration date. That’s right: The milk had turned sour, the bread stale, the red lacquer worn off the bottom of a Christian Louboutin boot.

I’m not exactly sure why, though.

While it’s been stated more times than Jennifer Lopez (who wasn’t snubbed for an Oscar nomination for her role in Hustlers; that movie blew worse than Lindsay Lohan on the breathalyzer) has been married, the fact still remains that getting older beats the alternative—which is obviously death. After all, it doesn’t really matter if you’re twenty-five or eighty-five, just as long as you can open a bottle of wine without dislocating your wrist. Or, you know, still get out of bed in the morning . . . You’re fine!

There is, however, one misconception—in my opinion, which means it’s completely true—about getting older: With age, comes wisdom. This is false, or for the few Republicans who may be reading this, fake news.

Before I offend my older audience, I’m not throwing shade—er, making fun—of the elderly. I’m simply saying that as I get older, I personally don’t necessarily feel as if I’m getting wiser. Lazier, definitely, but not wiser.

For example, there used to be a time in my life (yes, back in my early and even mid-twenties) when I could happily go out at least three nights in a row, dance and drink, get very little sleep, and wake up the next day feeling—not looking—like a million bucks. Don’t misconstrue my point. I’m not bragging, only painting a picture. I hope you understand, but in my defense, I never said I was Pablo fucking Picasso.

Now, I’m not only talking about boozing heavily multiples days of the week. Though, to be honest, just mentioning alcohol can now give me a cruel hangover. (Side note: I was recently betrayed by Coors Light and a fancy, six dollar merlot! Seriously, one small bottle of wine and four or five cans of light beer, I was praying to be shot in the face the next day. It was like I was an amateur back in high school again.) Anyway, what I’m saying or painting here, is that I don’t have the energy to go out a few days of the week, even if I’m not drinking. I don’t have the energy to go out one day of the week, even if I’m ordering water on the rocks. A bitch got old!

Since I’ve reached my early thirties (thirty-two, to be exact), my idea of fun and excitement is sitting at home in sweats with takeout Chinese food and surfing through Netflix. Or, lying in bed, reading a suspense novel, something like The Next Victim or ‘Til Death, to give you a little more insight. And, if I’m feeling overly rambunctious, walking down to one of my neighborhood’s free libraries to fuel my book addiction.

Yes, I’ve gotten lazy with age. So lazy, that I even consider myself to be a lazy friend, or an absent friend. I don’t need or want to hang out with someone once a week, or even once a month, to prove I care about them. I don’t need or want a daily text message conversation centering on how work sucks. It’s work—of course it sucks! Half the time I forget (i.e. I’m too lazy) to even respond to text messages. Don’t get me wrong: If I’m truly needed, then I’m one hundred percent reliable, one hundred percent there. But, it’s got to be a genuine emergency. I’m clearly alluding to needing assistance pairing shoes with a blouse type of stuff. Otherwise, I’m content appreciating our relationship from afar, solo, and without words.

In all fairness, I cherish my friendships and my family; both groups are extremely important to me. Yet, when did day-to-day check-ins to ensure a loved one remembered to wear underwear become a measure of how significant someone is to you?

I’m a loner. That is, I enjoy being alone sometimes—okay, a lot of the time. Perhaps it’s the writer in me; writers thrive in solitude. Or, as I’ve said, maybe I’m just lazy. I would rather wear my sweats, sit on the couch, eat takeout, watch Netflix, and/or read Lisa Gardner‘s latest thriller versus participate in idle or repetitive small talk.

My mom says you can’t fix lazy. I agree: You can’t. But, on reflection, maybe it’s not laziness that comes with age, so much as intolerance for bullshit—which, I suppose could be considered wisdom, after all. Once you reach your thirties, you realize that time isn’t infinite; it will eventually be gone. And, to add insult to injury, time flies (another saying that has seen more action than the Kardashian’s plastic surgeon). Therefore, why would anyone want to waste their time on, you know, bullshit?

So, maybe I’m not lazy, but just old . . . Old, with an allergy to bullshit.

It goes without saying that every individual will have his or her own version of what they deem to be “bullshit.” For you, it could be something as mundane as washing your car or flossing your teeth. Perhaps it’s spending time with people who get off on playing the victim, believing that the world is against them or out to get them.

For me, it’s a combination of sorts. My idea of bullshit is a long list of items, qualities, and events that, to me, are unnecessary, pointless, and a waste of time. I’d rather stay in than go out. In this case, going out would be the bullshit in question. I’d prefer to focus on the present, the now, instead of reliving stories and incidences from the past. The past is bullshit or irrelevant, seeing as it can’t be changed, so why return to it? I want to forget about the mundane stuff, grudges, and insignificant, well, bullshit. I don’t want to surround myself with overly needy or negative people.

It could be that age has nothing to do with laziness or wisdom, but perspective. Sure, eyesight may weaken as we get older, but a different kind of sight strengthens . . . The type of sight that allows us to see what’s important, what really matters. Age could even be thought of as a gift, a gift that finally allows one to pick their battles, do what they want to do, and unapologetically put themselves and their needs above all else.

When you think of adding more candles to your birthday cake in that sense, what’s so bad or shameful about getting older?

Not a goddamn thing!

What Are You Addicted To?

It’s officially 2020, a new year—hell, a new decade! As if you needed my blog to alert you of the fact, right? Thank God for that, too, seeing as I haven’t blogged in . . . Well, let’s just say it’s been a while. And while I’m acknowledging that elephant in the room, the one where I only produced three blog articles last year when it was my resolution to write at least one article a month (oops!), let me address another elephant: me! Yes, the other, much bigger elephant in the room is me, myself, and I.

Unfortunately, yet noticeably, I’ve put on a little, fine—a lot—of weight. What can I say? I’m Charlize Theron from Monster, except I don’t have an Oscar to show for my transformation. You know that old saying, though: If you’re happy and you know it, eat a 40-piece nugget, large fry, and two double cheeseburgers in one sitting. I can’t even blame the extra pounds on the holidays unless I admit that I started celebrating the holidays back in April. Then again, 4/20 is a respectable holiday, isn’t it?

Anywho, New Year, Bigger Me. Yet, it’s all right because I’m happy, and I’d rather be thick and happy than skinny and miserable. Well, maybe.

I’d like to tell the three of you reading this that it’s been a busy, crazy year, except I didn’t finish my latest manuscript, I haven’t blogged since March 2019, and I haven’t run that half marathon that’s been stenciled on my “to do” list for quite some time now. So, what have I been doing, besides eating, that is? I guess you could say I’ve been living, and living takes time, energy, and apparently carbs. Lots and lots of carbs.

But, as I said, it’s a new year and a new decade, and there are plenty of new opportunities to accomplish last year’s goals, as well as this year’s. You don’t have to worry, either; this article isn’t going to be one of those regurgitated, empowering pieces that are a dime a dozen and frequently shoved in our faces throughout the month of January.

Instead, I want to focus on addiction. Specifically, healthy addictions. Is there such a thing as having a healthy addiction?

It’s safe to say that everyone has some sort of addiction. I don’t care who you are or what God you pray to: You’re an addict. If you say you’re not, then you’re a liar. Take your pick. However, if you choose the latter, you’ll still be an addict, so . . .

I’ve already mentioned that I’m addicted to eating. I thoroughly enjoy the act, so sue me. Better yet, force me to run on a treadmill until I look like an Olsen twin. Other addictions of mine that come to mind include collecting books (more than what I need), procrastinating, buying shoes (particularly, boots), and Sarah Jessica Parker.

Hi, my name is Cutter, and I’m an addict. Though, of the addictions I’ve listed, I can’t help but wonder . . . Are any of them that bad. Further, could it even be argued that I have a healthy addiction?

Let’s explore!

Okay, fine. Eating isn’t necessarily healthy. Not what I like and tend to eat, anyway—anything fried or covered in cheese and/or chocolate. Collecting books isn’t bad, but takes up space and adds clutter. Yeah, procrastinating is dangerous—I’ll give you that one—especially the task you choose to procrastinate, like doing your work, the work you have to do to pay your bills. I don’t need any more shoes, regardless of type. As for SJP, should any human being be addicted to another human being? Probably not.

While my addictions aren’t necessarily life-threatening by any means, not like drinking, drugging, and watching anything starring Tori Spelling (what the fuck was BH90210 and that ridiculous talk show tour that followed?), they’re not exactly healthy addictions, either.

Then, what can be considered a healthy addiction? Going to the gym and working out? You know as well as I do that for the next month or so, many people will be addicted to exercise. Some who have never exercised before in their entire lives. But can you exercise too much, to the point where it becomes bad for you or unhealthy? Is that a thing?

How about cleaning or reading, or hell, even smiling? All innocent, harmless activities. But, can these innocent, harmless activities be practiced too often or too much? Do they only become deleterious when they become consuming?

For example, everyone should read (like my novels The Next Victim and ‘Til Death), but what happens when you become consumed with reading? Consumed to the point where you’re missing important deadlines or appointments? Or, what if you’re reading so much that you end up skipping out on life events, such as friends’ birthday parties and family gatherings. Is it only then that your addiction becomes a problem? When it has the potential to harm someone else?

Last fall, Productivity Theory published “8 Healthy Addictions That Are Okay To Have,” an article detailing a list of activities it deemed acceptable to indulge in as much as wanted. Granted, I only skimmed through the page (something I don’t recommend if you’re reading my work), but it’s still an interesting perspective on habits and whether or not certain habits are healthy.

Perhaps that’s the entire issue or problem here: the wording. We’re generally taught at a young age that the word “addiction” has a negative connotation. Could this be wrong or unfair? Is it possible we’ve been lied to or misguided or entire lives? Should the idea of having an addiction be met with more of an open mind? Does the task that we’re addicted to determine whether or not our addiction is healthy or unhealthy? Safe or dangerous? Fulfilling or life-threatening?

Then again, maybe it’s all about moderation. Collect books in moderation. Buy boots in moderation. Stalk Sarah Jessica Parker in moderation. Wait a minute . . .

Or, again, depending on the task, don’t do it in moderation, but do it consistently. Exercise consistently. Eat healthy consistently. Stalk SJP consistently.

I guess deep down all of us know if our individual addiction is standing in the way. If it is, then it might very well be time to quit it. Whatever “it” may be for you. On the flip side, if it’s not standing in your way, if your addiction isn’t killing you, then maybe it’s making you stronger. Maybe it’s even keeping you alive.

So, one final time: Are you an addict? Or are you a liar?

Please Don’t Pee On Me

As an adult, and I use that term loosely, I fully—kind of—understand that shit happens. By “shit,” I mean accidents. Off the top of my head, I’m thinking of accidents like forgetting to pick up your kid from school or drinking one too many Belvedere martinis at happy hour. You know, accidents no one can really predict or prevent.

Then there are the accidents that can and should be prevented . . . like taking a big piss on my bedroom floor.

Wait! I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Let me backtrack a tad.

Do you ever get that feeling? You know the one: It’s a Saturday night, you haven’t been out and about in a few weeks, and suddenly have a craving to tie one on, get freak nasty, let your hair down (insert your favorite euphemism). That was me. I call that feeling the “itch.” Fortunately, we live in a world where most itches can be treated and cured with a shot and seven-day vow of abstinence.

Turns out, the cure for my particular itch was to bar hop, have a few cocktails, and see where the night took me. And let me tell you, it took me somewhere, all right. I only wish I’d brought along an umbrella and rain boots for the journey.

I was looking good and feeling better. That afternoon I’d happily broken my two-week-long diet for a refreshing, ice-cold beer and a large plate of tri-tip nachos. When in Rome. Or, more appropriately, when in Petco Park, eat the wienie. So to speak. And I didn’t just eat it; I swallowed it whole.

Here’s the thing with me: I’m an all or nothing kind of guy. Go big or go home, if you will. Why have a handful of Sour Patch Kids, when you can have the whole bag? Why drink one Coors Light, when you can drink a 30-pack? Why eat one slice of pizza . . . You see where I’m going with this.

Anyway, I guess I should have been upset that I’d abruptly ended my diet. Two full, hard weeks of staying on track and fighting unhealthy urges down the drain. The truth of the matter, though, I wasn’t mad, sad, or even the tiniest bit upset. I was relieved. It was my choice to end the diet—not an accident—and once I’d made that choice, I was free to go to the dark side. All the way to the dark side. Translation: Eat and/or drink everything that didn’t eat and/or drink me first.

And I did!

I was already full of beer, carbs, and sugar. Why couldn’t I just go home after the baseball game (perhaps stop along the way for an additional treat), get into bed, and turn on Netflix, like any normal, rational human being? I don’t know.

Actually, that’s a lie; I do know. You do, too, because I already told you. I’m an all or nothing kind of guy. Go big or go home, remember? And home was the last place I wanted to go. I’d had a small taste of what I’d been missing for the past couple of weeks, and I only wanted more. Lots more.

Then again, that seems to be the current climate we live in, right? Nothing is ever enough, always wanting more and more. We all have some sort of insatiable hunger within us these days. I can’t help but wonder . . . Will that hunger (regardless of what it is, as everyone’s hunger is different) ever be fulfilled?

A couple of bars later, I had a healthy buzz. The type of buzz where I still knew my name and hadn’t lost my wallet, iPhone, or apartment keys. It had been a good, productive night; it was time to go home. Except, I didn’t want to go home alone.

Now, you can trust me or not, but I only wanted to take someone home with me because I felt like cuddling. Who doesn’t want/need/enjoy a good cuddle buddy? Don’t believe everything you hear . . . or read on the bathroom stall at Urban Mo’s Bar & Grill. Sometimes, men—gay men, even—just want a good cuddle session.

My fault doesn’t lie in the fact that I’d wanted to cuddle after indulging in a few adult beverages. Probably more than I’d needed if I’m being completely honest. I’m only human. A human with amazing hair, but still human, nonetheless. No, my fault is that I hadn’t been more selective with who I’d picked to cuddle with, which is definitely a rookie mistake.

If you’ve been waiting for the climax, here it is: The guy I brought home to cuddle with, and only cuddle with, peed . . . everywhere—except in the toilet! I’m talking about on my bedroom floor, closet floor, and the hallway floor.

Soaked. Drenched. Puddles for days.

A couple of reflections: How can someone pee so much? And, while it’s never fun to be pissed off, I am thankful I hadn’t been pissed on that night or early morning. Needless to say, I have a new appreciation for hardwood floors.

Call me crazy, but some bodily fluids just don’t belong in the bedroom—or hallway—thank you very much!

Looking back on my very own, personal Watergate incident, I’m contemplating whether or not I’m partly to blame for what happened. Is it possible that I’d stumbled into some sort of fetish party at that final bar stop of the night?

You see, before I’d decided to take home Betsy Wetsy, I’d struck up a conversation with another man, a neighbor, actually. We exchanged pleasantries and phone numbers, and then, for whatever reason, went our separate ways. Little did I know then, I’d gotten quite lucky and dodged a, well, we’ll just call it a “bullet.”

The next afternoon that same neighbor sent me a message, telling me that he’d gotten the shits due to all of the beer he’d drank.

Seriously? I mean . . . WHAT. THE. FUCK. And no, that’s not a question—it’s an exclamation. As in, what the actual fuck! It takes a lot to shock me. Yet, for a pretty much stranger to talk to me about his bowel movements, yeah, I was shocked! And not at all impressed.

I repeat, though: I’d lucked out.

I’ll take a rainstorm over a shitstorm any day of the week.

To add insult to injury, my guest blamed his “accident” on my roommate’s dog, because that was such a plausible explanation. What a peabrain! However, he did leave his Calvin Klein socks behind, and they fit me, so that was a plus!

Come to think of it now, perhaps my hunger has been fulfilled. At this particular moment, I do feel satiated. Back on my diet (for the time being), no need or want for a cuddle buddy, finally realizing that sometimes, less is more.

Maybe it takes almost getting peed on to put things into perspective.

Maybe that’s part of the beauty of fulfillment: Before you can realize what you truly want, you must first have to learn what you don’t want.

And I don’t now or ever want to be peed on.

Testing: One, Two, Three …

Back in May 2017, I wrote a column for Rage Monthly titled, “Another Lesson to Learn.” I’m sure you all read it, right? I mean, how else do you fill your day?

For those of you who need a refresher course, the article centers on how even as adults, we’re constantly tested or quizzed—essentially, there’s always . . . another lesson to learn.

Large consumptions of red wine, Coors Light, and the occasional hit of wacky tobaccy may have caused cobwebs to clutter my mind, but any gay worth his salt-on-the-rim margarita keeps receipts. At least the important ones. Or the expensive ones. When they’re not lost in the fire, so to speak.

And (these) receipts I have!

Therefore, I can tell you not only what the final, printed version of “Another Lesson to Learn” is about, but also what the original draft was intended to discuss: testing.

Further, I’d wanted to draw a parallel between the tests we take as children and adolescents in school, to the tests we take as adults. More specifically, I’d wanted to compare how the adult version of a math or science test could be considered an STD test. And for gay men, especially, an HIV test.

This point is definitely touched upon, but that’s it. It’s then skated over to focus on more commercialized ideas, such as frenemies and designer jeans. What can I say? I’ve evolved in the past two years.

Well, hopefully. I did grow a beard. What more do you want from me?

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my 31-years-of-life, it’s that
blondes have more fun. If there are two things I’ve learned, it’s
that there is no time like the present to right a wrong. Take note,
Jussie Smollett.

In an attempt to stay on topic (I’d ask for an Adderall but in my circle of friends, no one’s sharing), I’ll sashay right along. So, let’s talk about sex, baby—and all of the good, bad, and oopsies woopsies that go hand-in-hand with the act.

If you are a single, gay man living in 2019, chances are, you have racked up a number of sexual partners. Actually, you don’t even have to be single, gay, or a man to have whittled your bedpost down to a toothpick. But, to save time, I’ll stick to writing about what I know . . . which, honestly, isn’t much.

Anywho, my point: If you are a single, gay man (also, let’s just avoid the dog-shit stain of this community that is cheating, lying, and open relationships), then you may have indulged in some fun over the years.

A lot of fun. With a lot of partners.

I, for one, don’t see anything wrong with this. Before anyone jumps to name calling or slut-shaming, remember, times have changed. Wally and the Beaver are no longer on TV, Mayberry is now a ghost town, and it’s quite rare for a person to marry his or her high school sweetheart.

What it comes down to, in my eyes, is honesty. If you want to sleep around, that’s your prerogative . . . just be honest. In this particular instance, honesty comes in two different forms:

1. Honest Intentions: Is the sex simply sex—nothing more, nothing less?

2. Honest Status: To be honest with your status, you have to know your status.

And finally, some 600 words later, we’ve gotten to the theme of this month’s blog: testing.

To be frank, testing throughout school, from kindergarten on, was anything but enjoyable. Testing as an adult hasn’t gotten much better.

In school, even if I had prepared the night before by studying or making flashcards—which was rare—I never really felt confident. In fact, I often believed I’d fail. Maybe I was just bracing myself for the worst case scenario? Maybe I have a problem with self-confidence?

Another story for another blog.

Still, in adult life, whether I’m prepared or not come the day of testing, I never feel confident. Instead, I brace myself for the absolute worst. Of course, an “F” in this case would be the STD test coming back positive for something. Anything. Though, it’s not just actual results that can make you go crazy.

It’s the whole damn process.

Scheduling an appointment. Filling out the forms, answering questions like, “Have you ever paid for sex?” Waiting to see the doctor. Answering more questions, only face-to-face this time. Questions like, “How many sexual partners have you had?”

Umm . . . Now I’m expected to be fluent in math? I’m a writer, not an accountant. Not to mention, the vagueness of the question. Number of sexual partners? Do you mean this year? This month? This morning?

Then, the actual testing takes place. All of the swabbing and blood drawing. When it’s all said and done, you feel like some sort of science project. And still, the worst has yet to come.

Then, you wait.

And you wait.

And you wait some more.

While you’re waiting for your “grade,” you do interesting things. You convince yourself you have something, that way if you do, the blow comes as less of a shock. Or, you pray to God, a God you only reach out to when you want something, begging him for negative results.

After you get the results, in which everything is either fine or not so fine, you go on with your adult life, promising yourself that you’ll do better. You’ll be smarter, safer. You’ll be prepared.

Before you know it, it’s Test Day again; it’s time to start the process all over.

Though you know what to expect, know the questions—and answers—taking the test isn’t any easier. In fact, it’s even harder, because you told yourself you were going to be smarter this time. You were going to be safer, prepared. But were you?

It’s odd. If you were smart, safe, prepared, you still consider those bad outcomes. You let them burrow within you, gnaw away at your insides. You know, just in case. Because, as any test taker will tell you, it’s impossible to be fully prepared. Regardless of the various instruments for aid that are available, none of them can guarantee that you’ll score a perfect grade.

If you weren’t smart, safe, prepared, you’re even tougher on yourself. You know that if you fail this test, you have no one to blame for it but yourself. Simply put: You should have prepared better.

And, unfortunately, there’s no make-up test for some results.

More
time passes, maybe an additional amount of caution is incorporated
into your life. Another prayer or two. Then, like Groundhog
Day,
or to be relevant, Happy
Death Day,
it’s time to get tested again.

It would seem that the solution to this quandary is rather simple: If you want to stop taking tests, stop having sex. Simple solution, yes, but is it a realistic one?

Someone will undoubtedly argue that you can have sex, just have sex with one person. Again, simple solution, but in this day and age (especially in the gay community), how many people are actually honest when it comes to the subject of sex? Can you trust someone’s word to be faithful?

I was told once that the only way to be completely, 100 percent safe, was to be celibate. This is a cold hard fact.

Another fact, more of a lesson, is that regardless of our age, for most of us, testing will always be a part of our lives. At least it should be. And, come to think of it, tests—at any age—shouldn’t be easy. Otherwise, how else can we be expected to learn?

Be Careful What You Wish For

The first month of
2019 is over.

Holy shit!

Does the fact that
January 2019 disappeared faster than a Keanu Reeves movie at the box
office scare the hell out of you? It does me.

Time
is running out, people. If you’ve got something to say, say it now.
If you’ve got something to do, do it now. And if you’ve got someone
to do, well, do them twice. You know, in case the first time doesn’t
take. Or if it’s really good. In these troubling times, who can
afford to pass on a good dick-down? Even a mediocre one.

But I digress.

Whoever wished for
time to speed up should be forced to binge-watch Lindsay Lohan’s new
reality show. Because, simply put, they got their wish—it came
true. Time seems to have overindulged in a cocaine-fueled weekend.
Too much “booger sugar,” if you will. And now, as a result, can’t
slow down.

In all fairness,
everyone has wanted time to speed up at some point, right? Whether it
was to get through a rough week, difficult job, or a painful breakup,
we’ve all wished to get over that invisible hump in hopes for better
days.

But look at where
we all are now. No one has time to do anything, because time is
moving so rapidly that if you blink, it’s tomorrow. And who has
enough clean underwear for it to already be tomorrow? (Reason 3,568 I
go commando, in case you were going to ask.)

Unfortunately, we
have no one to blame for this little quandary except for ourselves.
After all, everyone’s well versed in the popular warning: “Be
careful what you wish for.” Yet, who among us has actually heeded
that warning?

Not yours truly,
that’s for sure.

Here is where I
willingly throw myself under the bus to make a point. If I threw
myself in front of the bus, what with all this extra holiday weight
I’m still carrying around, I’d likely dent it.

Anywho, over the
past few years, I may or may not have subconsciously wished to be
Carrie Bradshaw. Correction: The male version of Carrie Bradshaw.

Oh, who am I
kidding? For those who know me (count your blessings), I’ve told
anyone who would listen that I’m the gay, male equivalent of the
famous, fabulous, and fictional (all right, semi-autobiographical)
sex columnist.

Not only do I,
too, write about men, dating, and relationships—albeit, with a
homosexual angle—but I’m also pretty fabulous with an exquisite
taste in both shoes and clothes. And, like Carrie, tend to go after
guys who are unavailable or just plain wrong for me.

Oh, yeah: I don’t
back up either.

What does this
mean, exactly? What it means is that I lost my previous website . . .
and all of the original, funny, inspiring, and award-winning content
that went with it. Okay, my previous blogs never won any awards.
However, for one or two people, they offered some sort of solace.

I hope.

For
those who have followed me over the years, I lost everything—from
It’s Time to Open Up Your
Fucking Pie Hole to How
to Tell If a Guy Is a Douche,
even two of my most recent and favorite articles, Mother
Fuckin’ Liar
and Overthinkers
Anonymous,
are gone.

Going.

Going.

Gone!

Now,
who remembers the episode of Sex
and the City
(season four, to be exact) where Carrie’s Mac crashed, causing her to
lose everything? And why did she lose everything when her computer
crashed? I done told you! A bitch failed to back up!

Of course, I could have gotten my website back, including all of my
old blog articles. But for a price. Remember, it’s 2019—you can
essentially get anything you want . . . but for a price.

More on this later.

In the meantime, cue Alanis Morissette, because it’s ironic. Don’t
you think? I put out into the universe that I wanted to be like
Carrie. In a way, I became like her, experiencing some of the good,
some of the fun, and lots of the shit.

Perhaps I should have been careful what I wished for.

In all fairness, I wanted to be a writer way before I was introduced
to Carrie Bradshaw. I started writing my first suspense novel when I
was 12-years-old. Since then, besides Hollywood movie star, I’ve
wanted to become one thing: a writer.

Poof! Now in my mid-twenties, I’m a writer. (For those of you questioning the first part of that statement, I said I’m a writer—not a mathematician.)

I’ve self-published three murder mystery eBooks; had two full-length,
crime fiction novels released by a traditional publisher; write a
column for a print magazine; completed more than 20 short stories
(many chosen for publication by online platforms and anthologies),
and supplement my income with freelance writing projects.

I repeat: I’m a writer.

Sadly, I’m not exactly the writer I had hoped to become. Well, not
yet, anyway. There’s still time, right? And I’m actively (slowly, but
still actively) working on it.

Wait!
That’s not exactly true. I am the writer I’ve always wanted to be,
writing exactly what I want to write. It’s just that I’m not where
I want to be in my career, per se.

You
see, not only did I want to become a writer, but I also wanted (still
do) to have a highly successful writing career. Like Stephen King or
Nora Roberts.

Perhaps I should have been careful what I wished for.

Or, as my best friend often reminds me, more specific what I wished
for.

I wished for the universe to make me a writer. The university
delivered. It’s not the universe’s fault I wasn’t more detailed with
my wish.

Recently, this idea got me contemplating other people’s wishes. And
now, I can’t help but wonder . . . How many out there are living with
a wish that is insufficient? And, is it better to have a piece of
your wish than none of it at all? Can you be happy with only part of
a wish?

What about the people out there who aren’t living an authentic wish,
but a wish for someone else? In those circumstances, are they happy?
Truly and fully happy?

That’s another problem with wishes . . . How many people actually
wish to be happy? Genuinely happy? A rather simple, almost apparent
request, but how many people ask for it? How about strive for it?

Shouldn’t
that
be what every single one of us wishes for . . . happiness? Regardless
of what your wish looks like, don’t you want it to at least include
happiness?

It could be time for all of us to, in the words of Carrie Bradshaw,
“Breath and reboot.” And for many different reasons.

I am.

Like I mentioned earlier, I had an opportunity to get my website and
all of my old content back. This opportunity came with a $500 price
tag. Tempting at first, but I really couldn’t wrap my head around the
idea of spending good money for what was essentially the past.

Instead, I’ve decided to invest in my future. I’m rebooting. Or, in
my case, rebranding.

Further, I’m re-evaluating my wishes. Which is one of the reasons why
you may have noticed a brand new website. And, if you’re reading
this, my first blog article—not just of 2019, but for the said new
website. It’s the first step in ensuring my wish(es) come true.

To be clear, I’m starting over; starting fresh. I’m getting more
detailed and hands-on with my wishes. I recommend you all do the
same.

So, my advice: Yes, be careful what you wish for. More importantly,
be prepared for when those wishes come true . . . and have faith that
they will!

I’m well aware of the fact that my own wishes can—and will—come true. All of them, and every single aspect, even the part where I eventually have a wildly impressive career like Mr. King and Ms. Roberts. How do I know this? Because there is room for me. There’s room for you, too. Just have patience, because sometimes, wishes take the scenic route.

Finally, don’t forget that when you do re-evaluate or reboot your
wishes for 2019, make sure to include happiness. You can thank me
later.

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Addicted to Payne

No offense to Forrest Gump (or, more appropriately, his mama), but life is really not like a box of chocolates. No matter how you look at it, whether the piece of chocolate is dipped in nuts, filled with coconut, or has a peanut butter shell, it’s still chocolate, and 99.9 percent of the time, chocolate is sweet.

Life, on the other hand, is seldom sweet. Instead, life is hard, disappointing, and often times, messed up. Well, it is for anyone who has ever been in love with a liar and a cheater.

Anyone who knows me, or anyone who has at least half of a brain cell left after indulging in California’s now legal right to consume marijuana recreationally, will know exactly who this blog article is about. That being said, I still don’t want to just flat out name him. I do have some class . . . I think.

So, let’s refer to this mystery man as “Payne.” After all, that’s what he’s done, caused me a lot of pain.

Until recently, I’ve never really considered myself a relationship person. Perhaps age has changed my lease on life. It definitely hasn’t been wisdom. Yet, despite the guilty culprit for my sudden craving for a Julia Roberts rom com-like love story, one thing hasn’t changed: my opinion towards liars and cheaters.

Well, until recently. And now, just like that, I’m inevitably left contemplating one of life’s oldest and most complex questions . . . Can you really ever forgive a liar and a cheater? Specifically, a habitual liar and cheater?

I would like to preface this piece (too late for a preface?) with the fact that I’m not writing it in an attempt to trash anyone – seriously, that’s not my goal, not even close. Honestly, what good would it do to trash Payne? Whether it’s clear or not, I’m still in love with him, and most likely will be for a while. However, I’m hurting . . . badly. Hopefully, by writing through my feelings, I will come to some sort of understanding of what really happened between us, and why he did what he did.

Oh, another preface: I’m going to try to get through this article without dropping too many “F” bombs. I’ve come to learn that perhaps I cuss too much, and it’s very unbecoming.

I have class, remember?

It’s safe to say that the night Payne and I met, we hit it off almost immediately. And while it’s a cliche, it’s also very true: When you stop looking for it, that’s when you find it. “It” can refer to your car keys, pride, dignity, favorite t-shirt from college, or, in my case, love.

We spent the next day (appropriately enough, it was a Sunday Funday) among friends, stealing glimpses at one another, flirting, and throwing back Coors Lights. The evening concluded with Payne giving me his phone number before heading back home, some two hours away.

What happened next? Well, I fell . . . hard and fast. Truth be told, I have a lot of unattractive qualities. One of my biggest faults is that I get attached way too easily. Seriously, a cute guy could wave to me from the street, and I immediately assume we’re dating. Okay, maybe I’m not that bad, but you get the idea. At times, I can be a stage five clinger, and ain’t no one got time for a stage five clinger!

Anyway, over the course of the next six weeks or so, Payne and I sent text messages to each other every single day, chatted on the phone, shared a few FaceTime conversations, and spent a weekend together in San Diego. As you can imagine, I got attached. Then, BOOM! Nothing. Basically, we ghosted each other. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it was my stubbornness or his lack of communication skills. Either way, it doesn’t really matter. The point is that whatever had begun between us so quickly, unfortunately, ended just as abruptly. And it hurt.

Cut to one month later, yours truly had indulged in a few too many Coors Lights (how poetic, right?) and decided to reach out to Payne. I have a hard time believing that it’s now 2018 and breathalyzers for iPhones still don’t exist. Then again, everything supposedly happens for a reason, so I digress. And, as it turned out, we were both missing each other.

Alcohol for the win!

To save time and words – too late? – I’ll just say that we pretty quickly fell back into a routine of staying in constant contact with one another. Another month later, we reconnected in person. Three weeks after that, we were officially dating.

Remember that cute/disgusting quality I have? It wasn’t much longer when I told Payne I could see myself falling in love with him. A man who doesn’t scare too easily, Payne didn’t run for the hills. He stayed with me. And though the next couple of months weren’t without a few hiccups, at the end of October, Payne returned my sentiment: He was in love with me, too.

Less than one month later, the day of my surprise 30th birthday party, I discovered that Payne was actively cheating on me . . . and with more than one person.

Surprise!

Now, I’m admitting Payne’s errors, so it’s only fair that I confess my sins, too. I found out I was being cheated on by going through his cell phone. Did I invade his privacy? Sure. Am I glad I invaded his privacy? I don’t know. Ignorance is bliss, but if I hadn’t gone through his phone on a whim, would he have ever stopped cheating on me?

Then again, did he ever stop cheating on me? I don’t know.

I don’t want to name the men Payne was cheating on me with because, honestly, they were victims, too. But, to save on confusion, I need to call them something. I’ll go with “Jackson” and “Bowie.”

Just to give you a timeline: Payne and I started officially dating on August 5th. Payne began cheating on me with Jackson towards the middle of September, and then with Bowie on October 22nd, one week before he would tell me that he loved me. On November 10th, he took me to his hometown to meet his family.

Payne wasn’t just cheating on me with Jackson and Bowie. He was still on Grindr, Tinder, and Tumblr, actively talking to and searching for other men. However, Jackson and Bowie were the two that stuck out, mainly because he was texting/sexting them on a regular basis, as well as hooking up with them. Of course, there were a few others messages I caught when I was Inspector Gadget-ing his phone.

For example, apparently, Payne has a friend who likes to throw sex parties. Did Payne ever participate in these parties? I’m not entirely sure, though, there were conversations about them (i.e. “How many guys did you have sex with last night at the party?”). There was also another guy – umm, rhymes with “Leave” – who I don’t think Payne hooked up with, not at the time, but had definitely sexted after we’d become official.

On Saturday, November 18th, Payne traveled to San Diego via the Amtrack to spend the weekend with me. While on the Amtrack, heading towards me, he was texting Jackson, Bowie, Leave, even myself. But worse, on November 15th, just three days prior to his visit, Payne hooked up with Bowie again. He’d lied to me that day, saying he was going to have sushi for dinner. Who knows? Maybe he really did have raw fish that night, but he’d conveniently left out the part about also having dessert.

Surprisingly, karma came into play more rapidly than usual, because on the 15th, while Payne was parked outside of Bowie’s apartment, he got a ticket. And while a $50 violation may not have been a huge punishment for his actions, at least it was something.

If only Payne had learned from his mistake(s) and changed his ways . . .

So, now that I’ve acted like Snoop Doggy Dog, it’s the morning of my surprise birthday party, and I can’t stop crying. Luckily, everyone assumed I was just that stereotypical gay guy, depressed because I was turning 30. I ran with it! (Thank God for sunglasses.) And even though the party was amazing – and a genuine surprise – I still had to face Payne, as well as introduce him to some of my close friends, all the while knowing that he’d been – and was continuing to be – unfaithful.

This is going to sound incredibly petty, but still, here it is: Payne didn’t have time to buy me a birthday present (or so much as a card), most likely due to the fact that he was too busy enjoying all of that sushi.

I had to confront Payne. As most of you already know, there’s a reason as to why my acting career never went past that non-speaking car commercial role.

And confront him I did.

We left the celebration early. I could no longer look him in the eye and pretend to be happy. We’d barely made it out of the bar before I turned to him and told him that we were both bad: I’d broken his privacy by going through his phone; he’d broken my heart by cheating on me.

Appropriately enough, in the same fashion as the rest of our relationship, everything that happened next happened with breakneck speed: Payne admitted to the cheating (there was really no way to deny it); he apologized; he didn’t know why he’d done it, but agreed to stop; he didn’t want our relationship to end; he deleted Grindr and Tinder from his phone; he wanted to make it all up to me; he asked me to go home with him.

I did.

There were a couple of fights the next few days, but, bottom line, I still loved Payne and wanted to be with him. I wanted the relationship to work so badly that I even did his laundry and vacuumed his bedroom while I was staying at his apartment. I’m not going for the “woe is me” routine – I swear. Yet, it is significant to point out how I would have done anything for him.

Because, regardless of the pain he’d caused, I was in love with him.

On Saturday, December 2nd, I discovered that Payne was still cheating on me.

Old habits die hard. Once trust is broken, it can rarely be repaired. I went through Payne’s phone again. He was still sexting Jackson. The week I was staying with Payne, Jackson wanted to get together. Payne lied, said he couldn’t meet up because he had family visiting. However, the same day I went back to San Diego, Payne reached out to him, telling him he missed his thick . .  . well, you know what, and inquired about hooking up. Jackson, however, was busy. To my knowledge, the hookup never took place.

Bowie was out of the mix now, but a new player had been added, a man whose name rhymes with “Bee.” Again, the exact same day I’d left Payne, he reached out to Bee, texted him something vulgar, and asked him to hook up. Like Jackson, however, Bee was busy.

This time, when I went through Payne’s phone, something different happened: He caught me!

It goes without saying that I was shocked and hurt finding out Payne was still cheating on me (because, yes, sexting is definitely cheating, as is inquiring about a hookup – whether it actually takes place or not), but I was also angry. Clearly, I had no choice but to confront Payne with this new information. Actually, we kind of confronted each other. Again, I’d broken his privacy. And, again, he was continuing to break my heart.

We fought. We went back and forth: Payne was still caught up in his previous single behavior; he wanted to do better; he would do better; he would be the man I deserved; we agreed that sexting was cheating; he asked me to go home with him.

I did.

Did I go home with him because I wanted to spend more time with him, try and mend our relationship? Or did I go home with him because I didn’t trust him, didn’t want him out of my sight? I’d like to believe it was half and half.

The next month was rocky, at best. The situation wasn’t helped by the fact that I fell into old patterns, drowning my sorrows with any substance that contained alcohol. Not only did this create passive aggressive, liquor-induced text messages and fights, but it also gave me the liquid courage to reach out to someone close to Payne, someone who I figured knew him better than me: his ex-boyfriend.

Whether anyone believes me or not, I didn’t reach out to this person with a malicious motive. I truly did it because I wanted to better understand Payne, and find out why he’d repetitively lied and cheated. Was it me? Something I’d done? Or was it routine behavior? And, most importantly, was there something I could do to make him stop lying and cheating?

The ex-boyfriend sympathized with me, even apologized. And while he never found proof that Payne had cheated on him, he had suspected unfaithful actions, and with multiple guys, too.

As if I wasn’t paranoid enough before, my feelings escalated almost instantly. I wanted to know where Payne was at all times, who he was with, what he was doing. I began driving myself crazy, as well as Payne. Sure, part of my “need to know everything” attitude was Communication 101. After all, didn’t I have a right to know who my boyfriend was having dinner with, especially after he’d been caught cheating multiple times? Also, I was genuinely interested in how his day had gone, what he’d eaten for lunch, what time he’d gotten home from the office. Communication is important when distance isn’t a factor in a relationship. Payne and I had more than 80 miles between us. Communication wasn’t just important, it was key.

But he got annoyed with all of the questions and my Instagram stalking, and I got tired of arguing. I eventually backed off, all the while struggling to find a happy medium: wanting him to know that I cared, but that my caring wasn’t obsessive in nature.

Maybe some people are just incapable of telling the truth and staying faithful. Maybe it’s all about self-control. Are we taught to lie? Or does lying just come naturally? And cheating, could it be hereditary?

To me, these are interesting questions, even though my opinion on the matter is firm: People choose to lie. People choose to cheat. We are responsible for our own actions. Let’s not forget, either, that all actions have consequences.

I’d like to write that Payne has stopped cheating, that we’re doing well, and have moved on from the past. But I can’t. I found out on St. Patrick’s Day that Payne is still unfaithful . . . and with multiple guys.

First, he lied to me about hanging out with Leave, the guy he used to sext. Are they hooking up? Have they hooked up? I don’t know. But if not, then why lie about hanging out with him? Why say you’re hanging out with an entirely different “friend?” A picture is worth a 1,000 words, and there are three pictures of the pair posted on Instagram. My mistake: two pictures, one video.

Further, there are two men Payne recently messaged about sex. I don’t remember their names, but their texts are forever burned into my mind. One referred to Payne as “Sir,” and sent two overly revealing pictures of his backside, wanting sex. The other asked Payne to come over for a hookup, and when he did, to bring back his underwear.

Again, to my knowledge, these “meetings” never took place. Though discovering this new information hurt (and still does), what I learned next is even more devasting and heartbreaking.

Payne has been spending time with an old flame, a male nurse who lives in Long Beach. While I don’t believe anything sexual has taken place between them, the two have definitely formed an emotional relationship. For example, they FaceTime each other, text about missing one another and “needing cuddles,” and have even spent the night together, supposedly just cuddling. What makes it worse, the male RN knew Payne had a boyfriend. I find it ironic this man heals people for a living, but can also be an accomplice for causing someone’s pain and suffering.

Lesson learned: People are kind of awful.

Once more, after sharing Payne’s many mistakes, it’s only right that I state some of my faults. Remember from my last blog post, I, Cutter Slagle, am not perfect.

Truth be told, I probably pushed Payne away, more so after I found out he was lying and cheating, but still. I’m stubborn, moody, childish, passive aggressive, indecisive, loud, rough around the edges, overthink everything, politically incorrect, use profanity too much, drink too much, lose things, get overly sloppy at times, think I’m Carrie Bradshaw, etc., etc. The list goes on and on, because, like I said earlier, I have a lot of unattractive qualities.

Did these unattractive qualities cause Payne to lie and cheat? If so, if my actions were such a turn-off, then why not just break up with me? Or, if Payne wanted to have fun and hook up with multiple guys, then why not live a single life?

I have to admit: I’m also a little crazy. Not Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction crazy, but crazy enough to ask my boyfriend to post a picture of us on his social media platforms, specifically, his Instagram page. It’s a nutty, eye-opening, slow-your-roll kind of request, to which I can admit fully. Yet, in my defense, I wanted Payne to acknowledge me online so that he wouldn’t appear single. I thought if it was well known Payne was in a relationship, then it would be less likely for anymore cheating to occur.

Stupid, huh? Maybe even a little pathetic. At the end of the day, if someone wants to cheat, they’re going to cheat. It’s a choice, a choice that will be made regardless of what’s posted on social media.

Another lesson learned.

If I’m being completely honest, I wanted Payne to acknowledge me on social media for one other reason, too: I wanted him to be proud of me. After many months together, meeting each other’s close friends and family, using the “L” word, I wanted him to show me that I was important to him, that he deeply cared for me . . . that I mattered. After all, this is a man who is very social media-inclined, and I wanted to be part of that social media world, his social media world.

So, almost 3, 500 words later, lots of tears, and a couple of swipes through old pictures of us where we both look happy and in love, what have I learned? I don’t know. I have so many unanswered questions. Why did Payne do all of this, and continue to do it? And, of course, I’m still contemplating whether or not you can really ever forgive a liar and a cheater. And, habitual liars and cheaters . . . Do they ever stop lying and cheating?

I do know one thing: I want to forgive Payne, but I don’t know how to go about it. I don’t want to be angry or sad anymore. And just like Payne chose to lie and cheat, maybe I can choose to forgive and forget. I still love him, that hasn’t changed, and probably won’t, not for a while. Because, when you truly love someone, that love doesn’t just vanish, even when the person repeatedly disappoints you. Does it?

For the last time, I simply don’t know. At this point, I don’t even know if I want to know. I do think I’m addicted to Payne, though. And, I can’t help but wonder . . . Are any addictions ever healthy?

Perhaps I deserved to have my heart crushed. Even after all of Payne’s infidelities, I still wanted to be with him. I wanted to overlook all of his faults. I would have overlooked all of his faults once again . . . because I saw the good in him. I still loved him.

But, what’s that saying? “Fool me once . . .”

I’d given Payne several opportunities to right his wrongs, but he couldn’t bring himself to do the same, to forgive me for my mistakes. He lied to me and cheated on me –  repeatedly –  and then broke up with me via text message after eight months of being together.

So, no, life isn’t sweet, fair, or even just . . . but, as painful as life can truly be, at least it beats the alternative.

 

 

 

Overthinkers Anonymous

You’ll most likely be shocked to discover that I, Cutter Slagle, am not perfect. I mean, sure, I’m an impeccable dresser; I have great hair; I also know the lyrics to every single Britney Spears song (and can also dance along to them). Is there really a need to go on any further? Seriously, what more could you want in a guy?

That being said, I do tend to make mistakes once to fifteen times a year. Remember, I’m a work in progress. I’m young, and I’m very much still learning how to navigate my life. After all, I’m barely in my late twenties.

Oh, one thing I’m not so good at: math.

Anyway, as I get older and (hopefully) wiser, I want to expand my vocabulary. Specifically, I want to learn the definition of “responsible.” Or, more appropriately, I want to discover what it means to take responsibility for my actions.

Side note: Some of you reading this should think about packing a bag and taking the long journey with me.

But, I digress. This article is about me, my faults. This time, I’m at the center of the “blame game.” If you’re a constant reader of my blog (as you should be), then you know I have no qualms pointing out other people’s imperfections and mistakes. Now I’m going to point out one of mine. No, I’m not alluding to that time in my life when I thought I was going to be the next Robert DeNiro. Though, as a result, I am SAG-eligible, thank you very much.

Today, I want to explore a trait of mine that often gets me into trouble. This trait is unattractive, unhealthy, time-consuming, and a negative quality that I, Cutter Slagle, need to take responsibility for allowing to become a part of me.

It’s interesting, really. We live in a world where Alcoholics Anonymous meetings are readily available, right along with groups that include Overeaters Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous. Hell, even Sex Addicts Anonymous weekly gatherings exist. And while that’s all perfectly fine and nice, I can’t help but wonder . . . Why isn’t there a place for overthinkers to go?

Yes, that is my disease and greatest fault, the unattractive, unhealthy, time-consuming, negative quality I have allowed to rule my life: I overthink and overanalyze . . . everything! Since an Overthinkers Anonymous group doesn’t exist (at least not to my understanding), let me lead the way.

Hi, I’m Cutter. I’m an overthinker.

Now, not only am I an overthinker, but I tend to (almost) always overthink in a negative manner. My best friend cancels dinner plans with me at the last minute, then she’s obviously mad at me. My boyfriend hasn’t responded to my text within two minutes, then he’s obviously cheating on me. My latest blog article hasn’t gone viral, then obviously no one likes my writing. Oh, wait . . .

Okay, in all fairness, maybe I’m not that bad. Yet, you get the idea. I tend to think the worst, usually so that if or when the worst happens, I won’t be that affected by the outcome. In a way, it’s like I’m concealing myself in bubble wrap, preparing for the hard landing.

I used to think, and still kind of do, that my education is partly to blame. For those of you who didn’t bother to read my bio, I have a degree in English and minor in creative writing. I can’t begin to count the number of literature courses I was required to take throughout my college career, during which it was routine (and appropriate) to decode content, to interpret passages according to any given thesis. Simply put, if you wanted to prove something, easy peasy: just use the words in front of you. Or, even the words not in front of you, because reading between the lines, as everyone knows – English degree or not – is equally important.

Unfortunately, earning this degree came at a cost. Reading into situations and events, overanalyzing them, and creating possible outcomes has made me a great storyteller (my mom thinks so), but a bad human. Like I’ve already stated, at every turn, my mind tends to wander, overthink, resulting in confusion, passive-aggressive behavior, and, if I’m being blunt, yours truly acting like a complete mother fucker.

Sorry, friends and family. I’m not apologizing for my use of the “F” word, but for the fact that I’m frequently a stubborn, emotional pain-in-the-ass. Hey, at least I can admit it.

All joking aside, overthinking is a disease, much like alcoholism or pairing black with brown. And now, it’s quite possible that many of you are considering the same notion: People with drinking (eating, drug, sex, etc.) problems should stop drinking (eating, doing drugs, having sex, etc.). People who overthink should stop overthinking.

But is it really that easy?

I don’t have the answer. Previously, when alcohol surfaced as a problem in my life, I quit drinking for a while. Boom! Done. Problem solved. Food, on the other hand, has proven to be a bigger obstacle. As for overthinking, well . . . Let’s just say I can only read so many books, do so many loads of laundry, run so many miles before I give in; my mind starts wandering, creating false scenarios, which eventually lead to that gut-wrenching feeling that is anxiety.

Maybe my education isn’t to blame. Maybe it’s the cold, hard reality that in this dog-eat-dog world, it’s much easier to be pessimistic than optimistic, to think about and expect the bad, so as to save myself from possible disappointment and heartache.

Like I said, I don’t have the answer. I truly don’t know. I also don’t know how to fix or cure the act of overthinking. Quit overthinking seems logical, as does staying busy, focused, goal-oriented, and positive, despite all of the bullshit that engulfs us on a daily basis. Contemplating the negative effects of overthinking could be beneficial, too. Overthinking is wildly unhealthy, and can eventually lead to unnecessary stress, weight gain, hair loss, the aforementioned feeling of anxiety, and, possibly the worst result: the termination of a relationship.

Moving forward, I think I need to realize that many things are out of my control. If something is going to happen, then it’s going to happen, regardless if I choose to overthink the situation or not. The only thing I’m responsible for is being the best possible version of myself. No matter how difficult the challenge may be, I’m going to believe in the good. There are good people in this world, and whether true or not, it is my choice and my right to believe that good will always win. Therefore, there will no longer be a reason to overthink, especially to overthink negatively. Right?

Will this little mantra help me in my daily struggle to stop overthinking and overanalyzing my life? Time will tell. Though, at this very moment, I do know something for certain: Step one to recovery is admitting you have a problem.

So, I repeat . . . Hi, I’m Cutter. I’m an overthinker.

Mother Fuckin’ Liar

From a very young age, my mother told me that there was one type of people she could not stand: liars. Okay, if you’ve ever met my mother, you know she dislikes a lot more people than just those who are plagued with Pinocchio syndrome. However, in sticking with my last post’s theme, this article is going to explore a topic that many of us (myself, sometimes, included) struggle with: honesty. Because, as much as I hate to admit it, my mom was right about liars . . . and maybe a few other things in life.

To be fair, we’ve all told a lie at some point in our lives. If you say you haven’t, I’m calling you out right now: You’re a mother fuckin’ liar. No matter how big or small, we’ve all told some sort of a fib. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s determine exactly what can be considered “a lie.”

While the issue may seem to be pretty black and white for most people, it would appear that there is a gray area, lots of gray areas . . . 50 fucking shades of gray areas in regards to the vast land of lying.

Great!

For example, I (still) color my hair. Does that make me a liar? I don’t think so, because if you happen to stop me on my street corner and ask me what my natural color is, I’ll answer you truthfully: How the hell should I know? I started coloring my hair when I was 12, thank you very much.

Yet, to tell a lie is to “speak falsely or utter untruth knowingly, as with intent to deceive; to express what is false, convey a false impression.” Therefore, from cheating on tests (if you have seriously never cheated on a test, you don’t suffer from Pinocchio syndrome so much as Urkel syndrome) to cheating on your partner, when you attempt to hide something – anything – you’re basically lying.

Or, that’s how I’m taking Mr. Webster’s words to heart. As discussed last time: my website, my rules.

So, for sake of argument, it’s probably safe to say that 99.9 percent of the population (maybe 100 percent in Washington, D.C. – yes, my first and last attempt at political humor) lies on a daily basis. The issue becomes what kind of lie is being spewed, as well as the overall intent of the person telling the lie.

And, just like that, we’ve once again found ourselves in murky territory . . . Who is given responsibility (or power) for distinguishing the good lies from the bad ones. Or, more appropriately, the “safe” lies from the harmful ones.

Okay, I can take a hint. I guess I’ll take lead and be the power top of this discussion.

If you tell a lie that you know will later hurt someone when the truth comes out – whether it’s to a lover, friend, relative, acquaintance, or stranger – you’re a piece of dog shit. That plain and simple; that cut and dry. No gray area. Do not pass “Go,” do not collect $200, just . . . go fuck yourself.

By the way, something else my mother warned me about: The truth will always come out. It may not be today, tomorrow, next month, but, eventually, the truth will be revealed.

Now, you have to ask yourself, “Why would you knowingly want to hurt someone?” Are you that kind of person? Many may argue that they simply tell a lie to protect themselves. However, we all know damned well that when certain phrases are muttered, even when the motivation behind the phrase is solely self-protection, they still have the potential to harm. Phrases like: “I love you” or “No, I’m not dating or talking to anyone else” and “It’s really nine inches” are, according to Google, popular examples.

Let’s not forgot what our handy-dandy dictionary told us earlier: If you “convey a false impression,” you’re a liar. So, yes, if you falsely “convey” yourself as single when you’re not, straight when you’re gay, even blonde when you’re a brunette, you’re technically lying. Though, I feel like one of those examples may piss some people off  (as well as smash in the door for a munch lengthier chat), so I’m going to move on.

Of course, there are other lies, white lies, that don’t have the potential to cause harm. Sometimes, these types of lies are considered “good,” or, in the least, “safe.” You know the ones: “Your baby is cute” or “I liked your performance” and “It was good for me, too.” The list goes on . . . and on, and on, and on. Interestingly enough, there can be times when it takes a lie to prevent harming someone.

Unfortunately, there’s a thin, red line between knowing when and when not to lie that many of us (myself still included) don’t know how to properly balance on.

To add more components to the already confusing equation, besides the definition of lying, and bad lying versus good lying, there is one more thought to consider: lying to yourself. Though I’ve touched upon lying to others, I haven’t considered the consequences of lying to yourself. As a result, I’m left wondering . . . Is it worse to lie to yourself? Or, is it worse to lie to other people? Or, are both actions (for the most part) one and the same?

You may think that when you lie to yourself, there’s only room for one victim: you. But is that correct? I’m not going to pretend to be a therapist, though, I have seen Girl, Interrupted – twice – yet, when we lie to ourselves, we typically create this dark, inner turmoil, often becoming angry, bitter, confused individuals. I don’t know about you, but I think it can be a real bitch to be around those angry, bitter, confused individuals.

And, don’t even get me started on those psychos who consistently lie to themselves, then start believing their own lies. You know the ones! You’ve heard them sing on American Idol because they’ve lied to themselves ( and believed it) about having a good voice. You’ve probably even seen them at the beach, sporting a bikini on what is not a beach/bikini-ready body. Or running for President of the United States. (Okay, political joke number two. No offense, Donald, but I know my audience.)

It’s interesting, to me, anyway: I started out writing this blog to hopefully better understand the people who lie, and why they ultimately choose to lie. Again, I’m not taking myself out of the mix. From hair dye to teeth-whitening strips, even my skinny jeans I can probably no longer pull off (I can’t, not alone, which is why I’m glad I’m not single), me too . . . I mean, I, too, lie. Hell, I’ve even padded my resume, said I only drank two beers when I really drank the bar, and faked being sick to avoid meeting a deadline.

And, truth be told, it’s been exhausting. That’s the honesty about lying: Lying is exhausting.

So, whether it’s being upfront about not completely understanding how the government works (guilty!), telling a friend they’re tone-deaf (again, guilty!), or revealing to your partner that you don’t actually like they’re cooking, time is up . . . I mean, it’s time to fess up and tell the truth.

Yes, there are many, many more examples of how harmful telling a lie can truly be, downright disgusting ones. But, to end on a positive note, let’s not explore those examples. Instead, let’s try to do better, and just say that telling the truth is a lot easier than telling a lie. And if you can’t agree with that statement, then let me leave you with this: Telling the truth is (almost) always the right thing to do.

Don’t you want to be a person who does the right thing?

 

 

 

 

 

Too Social on Social Media?

Officially one whole month into a new year, and I can’t help but wonder: How many of you have already broken your resolutions? No judgment, seriously. I didn’t even bother making any resolutions. Why? Well, it could be because I’m already perfect and don’t need to make changes in my life. Or . . . let’s just stop right there.

Of course, there are things I need to or should change in my life. But, all in due time. After all, I’m a work in progress . . . and I plan to be working for a long, long time. And while my new year may not be filled with resolutions, it’s filled with something else: questions . . . and Coors Light. Duh!

For example, when you’re in a relationship, is it possible to be too social on social media? And, if it is, who is the one plagued with drawing that line? More so, how do both parties come to an agreement of where that annoying, albeit needed, line should be placed?

If there’s one thing I can admit, it’s this: I’m not a natural blonde. Okay, two things I can admit: I don’t know shit about shit. Perhaps that’s why I’m a writer. Whether I’m writing about a serial killer who gets off on strangling young women (have you picked up my novel, ‘Til Death, yet?), the highs and lows of relationships (because I’m such an expert on the subject, right?), or the benefits of cosmetic surgery (a bitch has to eat), I get to explore the whys and why nots of, well, almost every aspect of life . . . and, hopefully, learn something in the process. Because, eventually, I would like to know shit about shit.

Or something like that.

Anyway, as previously mentioned, today’s final Jeopardy is social media – specifically, Facebook and Instagram. Oh, and one last thing I’d like to admit: I thoroughly hate social media – specifically, Facebook and Instagram.

After reading that last statement, you’re probably betting that I’m currently living a social media-free life. In a word, you would be, well, wrong. Hopefully, you didn’t wager it all. And just like that, it would appear that I’m a hypocrite. You’re welcome. Though, at least I’m an honest hypocrite.

So, why do I hate social media, yet continue to have an online presence as if I’m a long lost Kardashian (ick, by the way)? Let me count the ways . . .

First, most social media profiles (male, female, gay, straight, K9 … these people should be killed) are full of bullshit. From filtered photos to faux check-ins, I often need thigh-high boots just to scroll through my newsfeed. And don’t even get me started on the “story” feature that now stains Facebook, Instagram, and Snapchat. There is only one reason why people use this feature: attention. In fact, it would be highly appropriate for content to automatically populate as soon as a story was created, content to accompany all pictures and videos. This content would obviously read: “Look at me! Look where I’m at, what I’m doing! Aren’t I cool? Are you jealous?”

Yes, my name is Cutter, and I’m still a hypocrite. I’ve never used the Facebook or Instagram story feature (though, I most likely will to promote this article), but I have dappled with the Snapchat one. Why? I done told you: attention! However, when it comes to seeking attention on social media, I would like to state that I don’t think I’m as bad as some people. I recently heard a guy say, “Don’t post that picture of me; I’m going to lose so many followers!” What a toolbox!

Now, I don’t want to come off as having a completely negative perspective in regards to social media. Too late? Well, damn. But, as with most other parts of life (immediately, the important ones come to mind: sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll), there are usually pros and cons to consider. Not to mention, there is something to be said about one of today’s cardinal rules: Everything in moderation.

Truth be told, social media can be utilized in a healthy, productive manner. Many of us use Facebook, Instagram, etc. to stay in contact with family and friends who live in other towns, states, or parts of the world. Or, if you have a business to promote or a product to sell, like me (still waiting for you to pick up a copy of my novel), then social media platforms aren’t just ideal, but a necessity to help get that business and/or product in front of the public eye.

Unfortunately, there is a large majority of people (males, females, gays, straights, K9s . . . these people should still be killed) who have ulterior  motives when logging onto their social media accounts.

And here’s where the conversation might get a little messy.

How do you deem what is and is not appropriate social media behavior? Obviously, if you’re single, then you can use social media for however you want to use it. Sure, the repetitive gym selfies, restaurant check-ins, and improper use of the English language may prompt some of your followers to label you a “douche,” but, alas, your page, your prerogative. Besides, if these people are still following you, then they either like your updates, or have learned to favor the “block” button.

No, social media, in my humble opinion (meaning it’s a fact), is really only problematic when it comes to relationships. So, allow me to repeat: When you’re in a relationship, is it possible to be too social on social media?

Again, it’s up to each couple to determine what is and is not acceptable social media behavior within the parameters of their relationship. However, you’ve found yourself on my website, meaning you’re stuck with my outlook on the issue – which, again, will be considered factual.

Let’s say, hypothetically (yeah, okay!), you find yourself out at a gay bar with some friends. Your partner is, I don’t know, at home, perhaps knitting a sweater. Maybe baking cookies. Suddenly, an attractive guy approaches. We’ll call him Eric . . . or Kevin. Hell, pick your favorite.

Side note: I’m a gay male. For the sake of confusion, you, the reader, should read this as if you, too, are a gay male. Got it? Fantastic.

Anywho, Eric/Kevin starts a conversation with you and your friends. Yet, before too long, it’s somehow just you and Eric/Kevin chatting. About what, exactly? How should I know? This situation is completely hypothetical, remember? So, before you and your new “friend” part ways, you decide to exchange social media information. Specifically, you begin following each other on Instagram.

Has a line just been crossed? I’m asking you, the gay male reading this. Further, should you have told Eric/Kevin that you’re not single, but in a loving relationship, and therefore, only in the market for friends?

I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt : The initial conversation between you and Eric/Kevin was completely innocent, platonic – not flirtatious at all. Then, a day later, two days later, a week later . . . you get a private message on Instagram from this so-called innocent, platonic, non-flirtatious buddy. Another conversation ensues, and yet, you still haven’t divulged the fact that you’re off the market. Is this a form of deception? Particularly, if there are no clear-cut signs on your Instagram page that you have a boyfriend, aren’t you (consciously or unconsciously) misrepresenting yourself as a single, gay man?

I whole-heartedly believe that making friends is an essential part of survival. I’ve said it one hundred times, and now, one hundred and one times: Everyone needs at least one pal, their “person,” if you will, to make it in this crazy, unfair, fucked up world. Simply put, we’re all entitled to find that innocent, platonic, non-flirtatious buddy.

But, shouldn’t you be upfront and honest with said buddy? And from the very beginning? Don’t you owe that much to this buddy, not to mention, your partner?

Look, I’m not saying it’s necessary to wear a neon sign that says, “Unavailable.” Of course, there’s no reason to lead with the fact that you have a boyfriend. Though, I do believe it’s appropriate to make it known sooner rather than later (especially if social media information is getting swapped)  that you do have a significant other, and therefore, not looking for anything other than a friendship.

Some readers may even argue that private messaging another guy on social media, in itself, is inappropriate behavior, regardless if relationship status has been shared or not. Further, many believe that “liking” an image or post could be an entrance into murky territory. I’m honestly not sure where I stand, but probably somewhere in the middle.

How’s that for being politically correct?

Obviously, I don’t think there is anything wrong with having friends, even gay, male friends (remember, you’re a gay male reading this). There does seem to be something rather sneaky about private messaging a new friend or bar buddy on Instagram, especially if they don’t know you’re committed. Then again, it could depend on the conversation that is taking place between the two of you. Are you guys talking about the upcoming Justin Timberlake concert that’s scheduled to take place in the midst of some football game? Or are you discussing sex positions, penis size, and who looked sexier in their Halloween costume?

Bottom line: No two relationships are the same. We are lucky enough to live in a world where everyone can make their own rules. To me, it’s all about honesty and communication. If you are proud of your partner, and happy with your partner, then you want people to know you’re not single. There is no reason to be deceitful, or to imply to Eric/Kevin that you’re available. Respect Eric/Kevin, but more so, respect your boyfriend and loving relationship.

Perhaps the issue in question isn’t social media after all, but rather, deceit . . . or fraud, even trickery. Again, pick your favorite. Is it possible that social media is just the innocent bystander here, so to speak? Merely another tool to help us lie and/or cheat?

Either way, the true lesson here, what I think I’ve come to learn most about social media, is this: Social media can definitely be a tool of destruction . . . but only when we allow it to become one. Oh, and be fucking honest – to everyone! It’s really not that hard of a task.