Every time I write an angsty rant about why men suck, I always question the decision later. Like, if only I had watched He’s Just Not That Into You for the thirty-seventh time while inhaling frozen chicken wings and a case of light beer before opening my laptop, last week’s post could have probably been avoided entirely.
But then again, it was met with an overwhelmingly positive response from women far and wide — so at least my anger was able to cultivate some kind of sisterhood united against noncommittal a-holes. That’s always good.
In any case, I’d like to bring some positivity back up in here by presenting you with a photograph of a mural-sized rendering of the tattoo I’m strongly considering getting inked between my shoulder blades:
Or, if we want to be a bit more specific — a combination of:
- two hot dogs,
- a cheeseburger,
- three grilled shrimp skewers,
- approximately fourteen steak tips,
- eight pieces of marinated pork,
- a quarter of a rack of ribs,
- probably a bag of chips,
- too many Coors Lights to tally up, and
- another cheeseburger
Because that’s what I ate on Sunday throughout the course of tailgating and attending the Patriots home opener, and it was definitely love in its purest form. And/or its most obese form — which is fine, because I’m totally over those body image issues, Lou. Because really, unlike a gay bar, Gillette Stadium is something of a judgment-free zone.
I don’t know what it says about the world that I’ve come to associate gay men with rejection and ostracization while I associate NFL games with love and acceptance, but the irony is not lost on me.
As far as the game itself, we couldn’t have sucked more. But I’m getting over it.
And yeah, as far as the men I’ve dated this summer, they couldn’t have sucked more. But I’m getting over that, too. Because — when it comes to both dating and football — it’s early.
And there’s always next week.