Dear Roommate…

About your dinner last night: whatever it was, please forward the recipe to NASA. I’m pretty sure they could use it to stick those pesky ceramic tiles to the hulls of their shuttles. Honestly, a little nab of that gunk here and there, and they could fly those suckers through the friggin’ sun without so much as a bolt jimmying loose.

If you promise to never again sub-molecularly bond the stuff to the counters, stovetop, and good mixing bowl again on a day it’s my turn to clean the kitchen, I promise not to clog the sink drain with coffee grounds and then use the toilet plunger from my bathroom to unplug it.

Think about it. This might be a fair trade.

Best,
Zach

Dear UPS Driver…

You are a nasty little shit-stain and I hate you. You were supposed to be here this morning. It’s very cold here in Phoenix today, and since my boyfriend’s roommate is finally out of our hair for the weekend, I was supposed to go to his place and stay buried in a pile of blankets all afternoon.

Thanks to your tardiness, I’m instead sitting at home on my couch with just my laptop and a cup of coffee to keep me warm. I am fully clothed. My boyfriend is waiting patiently at his place. I keep wondering what underwear he is wearing.

Dear Fruitfly…

First off, let me apologize for the things I said about you in this weekend’s post. You’ll notice that I’ve deleted that blog entry, as common sense prevailed (imagine that!) and I realized I really didn’t need, after all, to start World War Three. And really, my point here isn’t to attack you. It’s to make you think about things a bit.

That said, on with the show.

Thank you for going away this weekend. I hope you enjoy your trip, really. I know I will, because it means I actually get to spend the weekend with my boyfriend, alone.

I’m going to put all this as diplomatically as possible. It’s not that I think you’re a bad person (really). It’s not that I dislike you (really). You’re probably a nice girl, and I’m sure if we’d met under different circumstances, things might be different (maybe). I admit I probably haven’t given you a fair chance, and maybe that’s not very nice of me.

The fact is, though, you’re clinging to my boyfriend’s ass the way turds cling to my roommate’s cats’ ass.

Let me be blunt: he’s my boyfriend. Mine. Not yours. He is your friend and roommate, not your life partner. And that ass? Is mine to cling to.

Zach Gets Handy, Wants Wood: In which old flames are rekindled

You might not know this about me, but I love a good, strong piece of wood.

I love taking it in my hands, caressing it, feeling its solid heft and satin smoothness. I love turning it over and over, running my fingers softly over it, feeling its every curve, every grain. I love bringing it to my face to inhale its sweet, delicate scent, and examining its every detail up close. I love taking that raw, untamed form and, with just my two hands, slowly, lovingly watching it change and blossom, its final beautiful end result coming closer with every delicate stroke of my fine, sharp chisel.

Oh, what? You thought I was talking about something else? You should really know better than that by now, shouldn’t you?

Anyway…

All About the Boy, Part One: I Heart My Boyfriend…

Earlier this week, one of my favorite readers and a good online buddy and I were chatting and the subject of relationships came up. Specifically, we were discussing our mutual aversion to commitment and relationships, and the crush he had on my boyfriend simply because Lee had been able to sneak past my anti-boyfriend and anti-bullshit filters and wormed his way into my shriveled little heart.

Can You Hear Me Now???: In which Zach, like J. Lo, gets loud

Because so many of you have emailed me regularly asking for status updates on the LUSH job, I suppose one very last entry is due. Turns out, folks, that the job was mine. It was so mine, in fact, that I would have had to absolutely bomb the floor trial to lose it.

As we know, though, the job is not mine. So what happened? Especially since I killed the floor trial?