I am a gypsy.

I have a job right now. It’s 9-5 job–well, technically it’s a 9-6 job with a mandatory unpaid hour-long lunch.  I know that I’ve said this before, but it needs to be said again: I have a degree in theatre and creative writing. I feel so many things.  I’d say that on average, 90% of my day consists of just sitting somewhere and being emotional about nothing.  To cope with this, I’ve done a number of things:

1) Drawing 3D boxes all over my work notebook, and then analyzing what that might mean (“Perhaps my creative self is trying to tell my professional self that I have boxed us in! All of the Keelys are in a box!”)

2) Constantly eating. Just constantly.

3) Venting my frustrations by creating my own memes. Here is a completely not random sampling:


4) Trying to figure out what to wear to work.  This is difficult, because for three and a half years, I was academically required to play dress-up.  It’s now ingrained in me that if I wake up feeling sassy and free-spirited like Esmeralda from The Hunchback of Notre Dame, I not only can, but should go ahead and dress up like her–because it’s what I feel, and goddamn you if you disagree, and god bless the outcasts.

I just have no idea how to dress for work. I’ve tried skirts, dresses, tights, slacks, everything. My only safe bet is to wear all black, because when I’ve tried to integrate any kind of color into my work attire, someone makes some kind of veiled (or unveiled comment). Here is s medley of my favorite comments:

Hey, Barcelona! Wanna Flamenco? –Gay Man in a Gay Bar

Wow, knee-high socks. Have you seen Spring Awakening? –Interviewee

Nice pantsuit! I had one just like in the ’70s! –Building Maintenance Man

You make such interesting shoe choices. –Coworker

That’s a brave outfit. –Building Janitor

I try to just brush it off with a toss of my hip-scarf as I shimmy away.  But where do you draw the line? It has to fall somewhere between dishy Esmeralda’s ever-bared shoulders, and Dana Scully’s hermaphroditic pantsuits.

The truth is out there.

Fantasy guys.

I can’t go to the gym anymore–not that I have been on an even semi-regular basis. I just can’t do it.  For the past three days, I’ve put on my sports bra and spandex, filled up my waterbottle, and put on my still-white tennis shoes, only to find myself still sitting on my couch an hour later, watching Legend on HBO. I think it has to do with two things:

1) I haven’t seen Girl with the Dragon Tattoo lately–and nothing makes me want to work out like seeing Rooney Mara’s coked-out ribcage.
2) Lack of a support system:

3) Lack of suitable fantasy guys.

All of the guys I fantasize about when I work out aren’t exactly the kind of guys who would demand a bodacious bod in the woman they date. I think they’d sooner demand a thorough knowledge of the Periodic Table than a chix pack.
And I’m certainly not fantasizing about their bodies.  My gym fantasies generally involve montages of studying for an AP English Wuthering Heights exam, a chaste kiss, and then an adorable water balloon fight. It’s the gayer bits of Dead Poets Society meets the paintballing scene in Ten Things I Hate About You. Except instead of beefy, foreign Heath Ledger, my gym fantasies star the following:

1) Egon (Ghostbusters)
Why: He’s an emotionally distant Bill Nye, and he has the proportions of a maypole. Perfection.

Fantasy: We’d discuss his collection of spores, molds, and fungi over a candybar before catching a latenight showing of Chimpanzee.  He would not get choked up when one of the baby chimps inevitably dies, and awkwardly hand me his handkerchief.

2) Wash (Firefly/Serenity)
Why: He’s a leaf on the wind. And he almost makes the short-sleeved Hawaiian t-shirt look good.

Fantasy
: After his wife Zoey finally leaves him for Mal (cue audience cheer!), he finds solace in our daily heart-to-hearts in Central Park. After a year or so of just friendship, I confess that I have romantic feelings for him, but he, still smarting from his wife’s abandonment, doesn’t reciprocate. I weep prettily and he kisses my hand in farewell. We end up getting together around age 60, until I die tragically in a Dante’s Peak-like volcano eruption.

3) Preston (Can’t Hardly Wait)
Why: He would always give me the second Strawberry Poptart in the pack.

Fantasy: We find an abandoned tree house and spend all of our time sneaking out at night to meet and share poetry with each other and roast marshmallows on a Bunsen Burner. Sometimes we quote The Sandlot. He eventually leaves me for Jennifer Love-Hewitt, who I call “Sweater Cows” in a fit of anger (because of her huge boobs).

4) John Keats (Bright Star)
Why: Lord Byron was obvi gay. Keats was maybe only bi.

Fantasy: We make out a lot and I try not to be bothered by him weighing less than me.

5) Beaker (The Muppets)
Why: Sex. That’s why.

Fantasy: We just have lots of crazy sex.

6) Katniss (The Hunger Games)
What? I’M ALLOWED!

 I couldn’t even muster up the motivation when Lilly texted me, “oink oink.” All I could think of was Wilbur from Charlotte’s Web.

Didn't go to the gym today, Charlotte.

My BFF got engaged.

Why I have not updated for a month:

1) I have been busy trying to save money–and failing miserably because of the random products they nestle into Gristedes, like irresistible little $10 booby traps.

2) Lowered self-esteem.  My cat yells at me a lot.

3) Relationship trouble.
4) The crushing realization that my dreams of a life where I get paid to do what I love may never come true.  Or, more largely, what goes on in my head versus what’s actually going on around me.
Example:

A text I recently received:
The text I felt I should have received:

5) The discovery of a kindred spirit.

6) Unabashed selfishness.
(And yes, he tooootally did!)

7) And my best friend got engaged.

The guy in the mini-Indiana Jones hat is Nick, her fiance.

So that’s hard.

Wedding Party.

Lilly getting engaged actually has  a lot to do with my not blogging, because for a while, it made everything in life seem futile.  Firstly, Lilly will be–and this is not an exaggeration–the most beautiful bride ever.  Once Lilly gets married, there won’t be much point in even buying wedding dresses anymore.  If I ever get one of my gay guy friends drunk enough to marry me, I might as well might as well just throw on a burlap sack and crocs. That’s how beautiful she’ll be.
Even more tragically, I’ll have one less person to make fun of happy couples with on Facebook.  When Lilly and I were roommates sophomore year of college, roughly 80% of our non-homework time was spent perusing the FB, laughing at young engaged couples, being all smarmy about how mature we were to know that nothing is permanent–marriage is crazytown!  The other 20% of my non-homework time was spent writing terrifying nautical-themed notes to my friend Gillian:

Plus, there was always this very specific something in Nick and Lilly’s relationship that I felt would keep them from ever being together long-term. For the longest time,  Nick thought I was totally gaybones for Lilly–and I am, I’m super gay for Lilly.  But not in a sexual way.  I love Lilly in that chaste, courtly love kind of way, where I would write her poetry about how perfect her boobs are, but never, ever in a million years want to motorboat them. (Unless it was to make sure they’re real, cause they might be fake. No one’s boobs are that naturally perky.)  But that isn’t the reason I didn’t think they’d make it long-term, this is why:

THEY HAVE THIS IN THEIR APARTMENT!!

The first time I ever visited their apartment, I saw this thing–this THING–with red eyes, that might be a dog, but is absolutely haunted.  Its head moves, and it’s probably Satan.  For ages I’ve been expecting to walk in and find Lilly and Nick in a pool of blood, hands clutched in a final sign of love, with this nefarious dogthing on the pool’s edge, its head still bobbing.
I think that as a wedding present, I’m going to steal this, have a priest exorcise it, and then bring it back, no one the wiser.  Then, when they’re all, “Keely, we never got your present!”  I’ll just smile, look up at the ceiling, and say “Oh?”  They’ll never know that I saved their lives.  Except if they read this.

But, in all seriousness, Lilly and Nick share that rare kind of love that I hope to one day convince my gay friend Jared we might find through perseverance and denial.  Their love is rivaled only by the love Muffin has for The Dr. Seuss’s Pubic Hair Pillow.