The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

With nauseating certainty, I always manage to run into my ex Sean whenever I’m in the Castro.  I know that he lives there, but I only ever go there for haircuts and the rare happy hour.  It’s not like I perpetually hang out there or drop in all that often.  And still, despite wanting to avoid his hateful ass at all costs, I always end up crossing paths with his ass.

I just wish he would move away.  Far, far away.  Possibly back to Japan.  Then I wouldn’t have to deal with him, or visit the Castro without worrying about bumping into him at the Bar on Castro or Badlands.  It would make the gayborhood so much more fun.

I discovered just the other day that Sugar’s cat food comes in a resealable bag.  Like one of those sandwich bags that you…reseal.  Meaning she must’ve been eating stale cat food all these many months.  Might explain why she’s such a cunty kitty.

I was watching this mattress commercial last night that thoroughly pissed me the fuck off.  Not because I myself desperately need a new mattress and can’t quite afford one yet, but because it had "real" customers giving their "real" testimonials, and this one woman said, "When I’m buying a mattress, I look for comfort, durability, and affordability."

Well no holy fucking shit, lady!  It’s not like most people who are out mattress shopping are looking for lumpiness, flimsiness, and high prices! 

Don’t say something that’s implicit.  Save your breath.  Spare yourself from looking stupid.

I suspect that for every actor that stars in a MacDonald’s commercial, a piece of their soul is chipped away.

It is viciously wrong to honk at pedestrians.

Straight guys kissing is awesome.

Out on a melancholy, hangover-relieving walk Sunday evening, I stopped by Real Foods and purchased some white sage with which to smudge the house.  I went through each room, saying some sort of personal little prayer (plea) to remove bad spirits blah blah blah.

Not sure it much worked.

Last night’s freaky-ass dream involved some murdering madman who attempted to cut a pregnant woman’s stomach open.  Ew.  I think I may be reading too many of the horror stories on what’s going on in Serbia or Iran on CNN.com, maybe.

Tomorrow, Dasch and I are going to see "Oh My Fairy Godmother", an allegedly campy little musical.  Should be good times, I presume.  I’m just happy it’s gotten sunnier again.

I have a small knot of worry in my stomach.  The kind I feel when my world’s about to be turned on its ear.

We got a note from the landlord a few days ago stating that they were going to be showing the building to potential mortgagees.  My biggest concern was making sure the place was mildly presentable, and my biggest fear was that they would discover we had Sugar and had not signed a pet agreement and paid the pet deposit.  So I spruced up the place a bit, and figured I’d play it dumb if they asked about Sugar.

But then I told my co-worker Rose about it this morning, and she said, "That’s bad.  That means they may sell the place."  Great.  They sell the place.  I get booted out.  And I lose my super cheap, super conveniently-located posh pad on Nob Hill. 

I hate moving more than anything.  And I’d planned on living there ’til they pried my cold, dead hands from the place, or at least until I was in my 60s and decided to move into Ye Olde Gay Retirement Home.

Pray fo’ me, jiggas!

Last night’s freaky dream was some sort of class reunion with old high school-and junior high enemies.  In the dream, I was shirtless (good God), and totally lambasting all of these popular people in school who either hadn’t given me the time of day, or been mildly nasty to me. 

I started by telling them how much they meant to me and how thankful I was to have known them, in a tone that was so turgid you could squeeze the sarcasm out of it.  Then I told them they’d gotten fat, and that was that.  And it embarrassed the fuck out of all of them.

Then we all ended up trashing the house we were in, which ended up belonging to my Aunt Carol.  When she arrived home, I was mortified, and offered to pay for all the damages, to which she replied, "You bet you will!"  I was literally in a panic thinking of the thousands of dollars it would cost to repaint the walls, replace the furniture, fix the carpet, not to mention how mortifying it was to have wrecked a family member’s house…

…when I woke up, reLIEVED as a muthafucka that it’d all been a dream.

I have to say, this one was a bit worse than the one Tuesday night, in which Shaquille O’Neal served me a drink at a bar.

Mr. Alterhausen openly scoffed at my decision to purchase Mariah Carey’s Greatest Hits album at the Virgin Megastore in Times Square during my very first visit to NYC.  But scoff it up, says I.  Mariah is my out-of-the-closet, openly guilty pleasure.  And when I get soused, I love to put on that disc and pretend I can karaoke the shit out of those songs.  "I done had a vision of love!!…and it was more’n y’all done gives it ta me…"

I hate people whose sprinklers spray out onto the sidewalk.

I am so tired, and so ready for the weekend already.

Why in the living fuck is weed-smoking, 40 ounce-guzzling, bigoted chump-ass rapper 50 Cent advertising for Vitamin Water?

My mom used to watch a lot of soap operas when I was younger, and she would record them on VHS.  But I didn’t know how to spell them term, so I remember labeling one cassette "Mom’s soap bopras".

Why do babies throw up so much?