You’re Not My Mom. (Except you, Mom. You are. STOP DENYING IT.)

After numerous inquiries about my mental and physical health in relation to what could easily be interpreted as a pervasive bout of alcoholism, I thought it best that I clear the air a teensy tiny bit. While I welcome any and all reality television shows to show up at my home and give me national exposure, I’d prefer if it weren’t a misguided, b-list version of Intervention hell-bent on clearing up my drinking and man-sexing habits in some twisted, two for one special. Although starting up an ‘Ex-Gay’ blog where I consistently post about how often I’m NOT thinking about either of these two pictures would be hilarious.

No, friends, I am not an alcoholic. I am just easily influenced. Say we were to have a big deck party and invite all of the newf’s coworkers who all brought bottles upon bottles of wine and Grey Goose and we never cleaned up afterward, leaving a veritable liquor store strewn across our kitchen and dining room. Hypothetically, were that to happen, one might suggest that I was successful in not succumbing to the constant barrage of DRINK ME’s coming from the area in question more often than not, and can therefore go on living as a reasonable human being without any vices to speak of.

Not counting puppies and cheese.

But like many sober-living gays before me, I have realized that alcohol has its time and place. And that time and place is when you need the courage to sleep with a stranger or go out in public wearing four-inch pumps just to try it or take your mother who hates shopping out to find a dress for a wedding (just kidding mom, you and I both know I was hungover then…not drunk). Every good, weight-fearing homosexual knows that continuous alcohol consumption will simply leave you bloated and squishy which simply doesn’t fit into my plan for the summer.

We have a hammock now – do you even understand how terrible it looks when you have red, bold fishnet print indented into your love handles after a nap? REALLY TERRIBLE.

So there. Let’s put it to rest. If I’m going to get put into rehab for anything, it should be for Applewood Cheddar and good European Swiss. And maybe the Internet and Miley Cyrus’ new album. And at the very least for all that gas that I huff before I go to sleep. And for hating strangers and ugly people and dumb people. But not drinking – THAT I have under control.

Cheers.

DAMNIT!