Do you ever wonder about those people who just seem to be larger than life? I do. I want to be one of them. I’m not gonna risk looking pretentious to you and pretentiously claim that I don’t want to be a bad ass.
We all know of one of these kind of people: They emerged from the womb winning. They are more intelligent, artistic, healthy, attractive, philosophical, patriotic, athletic, eloquent, and affluent than everyone else, without even trying. And when they DO try… whoah. They become rock stars virtually overnight.
I’m starting to think reincarnation is real. I have this theory: Once you’ve lived many times and mastered all of life’s lessons, and are about to transcend to Godhood / nirvana / heaven / whatever, God gives you one more incarnation on earth: a victory lap.
“Okay, take one last spin – you’ll be able to fuck, eat, spend, travel, sleep, work, whatever – to your heart’s content. Enjoy it all! Soak it up! You’ve earned it.”
We all know one of these. This is their victory lap. Don’t get in their way. Make friends with them, learn a few things – ’cause they know more than you do, and they aren’t going to be around for long. They won’t be dying any time soon – these people fuck like porn stars until 3 days before they pass on. But, they are going to move to a city more awesome than yours, soon.
It’s how they roll.
This is obviously not my victory lap. That’s not going to stop me from pretending like it is. I went out with Jory, Melissa and Kim for dinner, beverages and great chat. I’ve started to form a bit of a tradition: no pants on the weekend. It’s friday night. I could wear pants, or… I could not wear pants. What would you do if it was your victory lap?
Yeah, me too.
I wore my “Fuck You Paul Duane” t-shirt with a white dress shirt under it, camouflage mini skirt, nude pantyhose and black heels. No, I didn’t take any pictures. I’m feeling kind of camera shy lately (more on that later, maybe). I’m still not sure if the outfit works or not. I know some of you are saying, “YOU IDIOT! OF COURSE IT DOES NOT WORK, you are a dude.” Yeah, yeah yeah, I know. Bear with me here. I regularly rock an all black outfit like this, and on some level, I know that it works. It’s not for everyone, but I don’t care. It’s *me*. When I walked into Lucky 13 last night, I could feel all eyes on me. It was a bit intimidating. I knew it would be. You know what’s even more repugnant to me than the idea of catching some ridicule? Making decisions about my enjoyment based on the preferences of uncultured, ignorant, repressed worker bee common folk that inhabit such places. While taking a leak in the men’s room, I used the stall instead of the urinal. Some dudes walked in and, upon seeing my feet under the stall wall, said, “There’s a chick in here!” I emerged out and said, “Nah, just a guy that’s dressed really fucking cool”. They all laughed and then said something to each other about seeing a “tranny” and “This is what we come down here for, to get some culture!” Silly rednecks. I was aware of the energy of some of the people around us. I think a hand full of people were on the verge of ridicule, but ultimately kept to themselves. This I do know: for every group of people saying, “WTF?”, there is a big, burly, overtly “straight” guy in that group who will go home, lock himself in his office, put on his wife’s bra, panties & lipstick, and then masturbate to midget tranny porn and “barely legal” gay sex videos.
But that’s neither here nor there. I don’t care what he does. This is my practice victory lap, bitches.