Jacob said something in my comments recently, about how I have a seven year "head start" on the gay sex--because I'm SO much older than he is!--thing (although I'm sure some guys are having gay anal intercourse at like, eleven, but I'm sure they aren't really enjoying being fucked by their fathers or gang members out for revenge, etc.), and it really got me thinking about young homos. I've noticed lately that young gay youths are looking, well, even gayer than normal. I don't know if it's because it's more socially acceptable to be gay, therefore encouraging more flamboyancy, or if I'm just getting older and wiser, comfortably seating myself in the Gay Old Timer's Armchair of Bemusement, feeling all superior about the seemingly pathetic antics of my younger brethren. But young homos seem to be getting skinnier, more thin-limbed; their mouths seem always to loll open stupidly (and when they speak it's loud and banal), and their faces are just... dang. Of course, there are some hot ones who look like they are fresh from rowing training at highschool, but I'm speaking generally.

Of course, I've never been much for "the scene", and it's probably exactly the same as it always is, except I'm getting older and therefore notice all these things, but you know. I'd rather blame everyone else, rather than face the facts that I am "maturing". Shudder.

Although I do think that today's young gays are bolder. I mean, one of the charms--and curses--of being relatively attractive is that I get hit on a lot. And I DON'T just mean by lecherous poofters, although I do get a lot of those. But the other day I'm positive I was being hit on my a 15 year old kid! I'm sure he was hitting on me. He complimented me on my shoes as I was like, walking around the 'burbs. And not in a "mad hightops, yo" way, as I wasn't even wearing appealing shoes for a 15 year old (they were crinkly hardcore leather boots under black jeans). And he was one of those fey looking skater kids, with quite luscious shoulder-length brown hair and painted-on jeans. He WILL be boneable in a number of years, but not yet. I mean, I like a sluttily shaven patch as much as the next person but only when you know it isn't naturally so (and then the novelty wears off post-cummage). Grr. He so was giving off signals. Stupid slutty homos! The sad thing is, he probably has daddy issues if he was hitting on me. Le sigh.

I don't know why you all have to make fun of me because I said I was a dominant top. I didn't say I was a raging heterosexualised homosexual, all Brut-wearing, chap-donning, blue collar-aspiring, Butchy McVadgeLick. I mean, I wear Calvin Klein underwear, have enjoyed white wine in a pub, spend way too much on haircuts and shoes, and spend huge chunks of my weekends 'antiquing' in markets and musty old stores. I'm under no false impressions. I just don't like a doodle up my arse, okay! I'm perfectly receptive for a nice probing tongue, or even perhaps a finger (or two, as I've known to tackle after a night on the turps) if a manicure has been recently had. I just don't like the feeling of it, especially as it slides out, feeling like breakfast, lunch, and dinner is about to swiftly follow. Yuck. The ass-sex-loving gene went to my sister, who professes to love it, so who knows what's going on. I mean, the genes our parents sent out are not too defective, I mean, not as bad as those seemingly THOUSANDS of fags I know who have gay/lesbian brothers or sisters. Those parents must be kicking themselves.

First off, ignore any comment-posting from anyone named "Dawei" in my comments: so clearly not me. Like, if you can't come up with an original diss at me, Monsieur Faux Dawei, at least try to mimic my acidic way of dealing with other triflings/plebs, mmkay?

Secondly, sorry I haven't been around much of late; I will try to fix that in future. I know most of you really do miss my frequent witticisms, etc. I've just been busy. A couple of things in the possible pipeline (and no, I don't mean a throbbing cock in my arse-sleeve--recently I've discovered I'm a resolutely dominant top, and proud of it--so don't get too excited about the possible double entendre), which I'm sure to mention in future if they at all become somewhat close to fruition.

Thirdly, I'm just home from Róisín Murphy: she was ace! But as her videos and albums etc., have been a bit avant-garde fashion-wise, there were a few unfortunates who were obviously trying to get in on the spirit of things. Like, girls with bad blacked, bobbed hair, 1930s school mistress shoes like it was 2004 again, and sequined tops. One woman, and I'm not joking, was wearing SHREDDED jeans and a pink tutu bow over the top. Seriously. I was pleased I played it safe with my lacquered-on black jeans, and double-weird-layered t-shirts--the outer of which is basically being made from spandex, and with a deep scoop neck to my navel--very chic, yet not too showy, you know? I'm totally into Swedish style at the moment. Anyhoo, Róisín was tops. Her whole show was like, a big-ass DJ-mixed set; "Overpowered" being the finale: the regular single mixed with more badass 80s beats, mixed with Doctor Who, mixed with a hat. It was tops. I think several people took my photo, so that's the main thing though, right?

Ugh, this was the assiest week, like, evah. Firstly, my grandmother had two heart attacks! Okay, so they weren't hugely severe, and she isn't dead, but she is still in hospital and the cardiologist said that if she hadn't already been in hospital when the second attack hit her she could have carked it. Gulp. I've been quite lucky in that death hasn't really touched me much. I've only had one grandfather die, and we weren't all that close and he died like, fifteen years ago now. I'm sort of scared of death. I don't think I'd be able to handle it.

Secondly, I had a huge-ass fight with Cap Guy over... I can't even remember what it was about. But it was quite horrid, and nearly spelled the end for us. We probably should have called it quits, but it happened at like, midnight so I just went to sleep, and then the next day was marginally better, and then you can't really dump someone the day after because things aren't quite as bad and you sort of tell yourself that you can't end a relationship over a fight that happened in the past... but things haven't really improved all that much. It's kind of obvious that things are on the way out. I don't think he loves me, and he doesn't really seem to value me/prioritise me etc. But I'm such a pussy, I can't have a sit-down-we-need-to-talk moment. Sigh.

And then thirdly, my father--at the age of 54--has decided to respecialise, which means halving his income while he does re-registrar-ing or something equally ridiculous. HOW FUCKING SELFISH! I'm having a crisis here!!!

Sorry, Heath Ledger family, no one is going to buy that he accidently died of pneumonia! Just face facts: Ledger? Suicidal, depressed, drug addict pussy. There. Doesn't that feel better?

I KNEW that line he gave a few months ago about being depressed as "the character" of the Joker was encrouching on his non-acting time as the role was so "intense". Excuse to shoot up, much? You were an actor, Heath. You wear the clothes and say your lines and collect the dough. Ugh. I HATE pretentious actors, even if they are face down and colder than a witch's tit.

PS -- found by his "masseuse"? Don't they mean "prostitute"?

PPS -- don't you just hate how the media gets comments from the Prime Minister and Mel Gibson like they are authorities on all things Ledger? Go Australian identity.

Ugh, I have a cold. I shouldn't complain, as I don't have, like, breast cancer like one of my mother's good friends, and I'm not like, projectile vomiting or anything gross like that, but I'm still wallowing in my misfortune. I've had extreme sinus pain, constant runny nose, mucous ahoy, and now I'm coughing like a beast-- and not even relieving coughing, but mostly dry hacking coughs (with only a slight "catching" of phlegm to be heard), leaving my chest sore and my throat shredded. Sigh. I hate being sick. What's worse is that all I want to do is lay around, lick my wounds, drink Diet Coke and watch poor TV and have sympathy thrown at me feet. Of course, no one is giving me much sympathy as "everyone is sick at the moment" (this is usually said with utter contempt, like I'm just bunging it on, and that I should be lumped in with the rest of the plebs who whinge and get days off work because they feel slightly sub-par). Hmmph. I don't care what people say, I know I'm sick! I have my tell-tale "cold" pimple next to my lip (I get it every time I have a cold!), and I have my other charming cold-symptom being my semen resembling warmed cottage cheese upon emission. Very, very gross.

Overheard in Louis Vuitton:

Dawei: *talking with sales assistant*

*crazed stomping of two noxious, manorexic fags with bad blond tips*

Crazed Noxious Fag #1: *thrusting hand out and pointing, directing speech to another sales person standing next to Dawei's sales assistant* Let me see that small satchel bag over there!

Sales Assistant: Uhm... this one?
Crazed Noxious Fag #2: Yes, with the zzzzzzzzi-hp!
Sales Assistant: Actually, it's a bum bag.

Crazed Noxious Fags: *both fondle and examine product*

Crazed Noxious Fag #1: How much is it?
Sales Assistant: It's *searches*... $1100.

*stony silence from the homosexual department*

Crazed Noxious Fag #2: It's... nice.
Crazed Noxious Fag #1: Yes... Thank you.

*stomping from Crazed Noxious Fags as they both flee store*

Dawei's Interior Reaction: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!
Dawei's Exterior Reaction: *smirk, eyebrow flick at own sale's assistant*

Sigh. Homos, please. Let's try to keep it together. I know most of the sales assistants at Louis Vuitton are Asiatics, but still. A little decorum is in order, n'est pas?