As most of you know, I have a particularly distasteful aversion to the cliché loathings of love's loss; usually over-generalized hyperbolic statements pseudo-intellectually (emphasis on 'pseudo') intended to demonstrate wisdom - and most often induce my vomit-reflex or the mandatory roll of the eyes.

You see it from a girl, usually, who says some retarded shit like "nothing is harder than love," or the like. So here's mine.

Time goes by, and the raucous nature of filthy whores engenders self-pity once again in the solitary confines of blogs, alcohol, and pathetic self-loathing. All at once, in some higher act of twisted simultaneity, the coexistence of pain and extreme relief begin an emotional dialectic; albeit, this time hopefully, without the bottle.

In another mandatory act of gratitude, a special thank to you to all my friends and family; all of whom have put up with the fact that I've been a douchebag for the last 7 months.

These posts are getting all too familiar. As Jon Stewart says regarding the daily search for material, "as long as they keep being absurd, I'll still have a job."

It's been awhile.

If you are as gay as I am, no problem too large exists that can't be solved with a home-cooked omelet breakfast, a mid-afternoon chamber music reading session with Beethoven and Brahms, a late-afternoon museum run to see Gertrude Stein-Picasso portraits at the Yale University Art Gallery, an evening of chinese take-out, and a night of single-malt.

But only if you're as gay as I am.