All I Want for Christmas is My Own Reality Show

Why I need my own reality show by Christmas

Reason #312: All my exes live in Texas.

And they’re female…

I’ll give you a second to catch your breath. Go get a rag. Clean up whatever you spit up. Your coffee, orange juice, or hopefully not your bloody mary because that’s a waste of vodka and I’m mad at you for that.

I’ll say it again now that you’ve calmed down. I have exes in Texas. And they had and, from what I know, still have clitori (plural for clitoris). Not that I have seen them. I’ve only read about the clitoris in picture books.

For the purposes of my soon to be fame I will make up new names for all of these women. Some of them are married now and some of them are Mormon and are going to a higher level of heaven than me and I still wanna stay on Joseph Smith’s good list.

Subliminal messaging I want to be in Book of Mormon if Andy Cohen doesn’t notice me Subliminal messaging

My slutty adolescent dating career began in the 5th grade. And by slutty I mean I touched a lot of vaginas through a pair of burnt orange gaucho pants. Oh and she was wearing American eagle cut offs.

It all started with Sheeara. Sheeara and I were on the market for a solid 30 days hours. I grew up the courage one snack time to ask her if she’d be my girlfriend. So that afternoon we swung in synchronization on the swings (which is really difficult to do if you know anything about morbid obesity at age 9), we played on the monkey bars (and by played I mean she flew across them and I couldn’t hold my body weight past bar 1 of 5), and we slid on the slide (well she slid, I more screeched because my excess body sweat made me stick to the plastic-wear). Ugh it was an amazing day/relationship. We broke up the next morning with a classic, “it’s not. you it’s me”. You know the saying, “once you go black in fifth grade for you’re desk mate, while you’re a closeted BO ridden preteen, you will never go back”… well it didn’t stick. I never dated a black girl again.

My middle school dating installment included the classic must’s for a well balanced dating diet. I call them:

The Four M’s.

Mormon, Mexican, Mousy, and Muslim

Mormon: I have never seen someone perspire from one’s upper lip at such a vast excess. So for the purposes of this blog her name’s going to be Pam Sweaty-face. PSF for short. PSF is the second longest relationship I’ve ever had. Which is … well … a bit sad seeing that I maintained a longer relationship while having bacne then as an anorexic gay boy living in the village, but we aren’t going to dwell on that ok (cries softly under breath). PSF was a Mormon. Pretty much everyone in Flower Mound has dated a Mormon mostly because they make up half the population. We dated for six months. These months consisted of playing with each other’s upper lip hair with our tongues and dry humping under the seats at the local AMC Theatres. Them Mormons get kinky huh?! We broke up because, well I don’t actually remember. I just remember having a crush on her older brother.

Mexican: Alejandra Perez. (for the record: I say Mexican not as any form of racial slur. She is literally from Mexico.)We dated for two weeks. Which covered the time period around Valentine’s Day. So I had a Valentine! If my ankle roles could find love at age 12, anyone can! She bought me a heart shaped box of chocolates that was an appetizer to my large fries that lunch period. I gave her a sonic gift card … that I used to buy a sonic blast with earlier that morning. I couldn’t wait. I needed that Reese’s Blast. So instead of $10 to Sonic … she had $6.75. She broke up with me.

Mousy: I’m just gonna call her Mousy Brown. She had a mustache (which seems to be a common thread in these women … foreshadowing?) Our relationship was short lived. Like a couple of hours short lived. Not worth going into. I gave her a “will you go out with me check yes or no?” note. She made her own box that said maybe. We weren’t meant to be.

Muslim: Shmezgi, I’ll call her. Unfortunately of all of my pseudonyms this is the most similar to its original form. You can’t make this shit up. We met at the fall formal. Middle school grinding sessions formals are the downfall of our generation. They just shouldn’t happen. I honestly think the chaperones should be wearing Hazmat Suits. There’s more bacteria in a Middle School dance than in a Bath House in the village during the 80s. “Hot n’ Here” (the romantic theme song of most teen pregnancies of the early 2000’s) was playing in the background. Shmezgi was standing across the room in a mesh crop top that was layered over her Pink unwashed Hollister tank. She had a little bit of a lazy eye so you could never quite tell if she was looking at you or at the No Reason Boner in your pants. She walked slowly towards me through the fog of Axe Deodorant Spray that filled the dance floor. Grabbed my sweaty hands and started grinding on me. Her bony butt slid up and down my cargo pants as I sang, with girlish vibrato, “It’s getting hot in here so take off all your clothes” to which she would reply in her Middle eastern accent, “I em getang soooo jot. Imma ake mee cloz juf”. This was love. We dated for only that night. I never spoke to her again for couple of reasons: I couldn’t ever understand what she was saying to me, I always thought she was looking at my penis, and she smelt like a dead animal. And that’s a lot coming from the boy who smells like rotten garlic butt.

Those were the ladies who rocked my world from 6th-8th Grade. What can I say … I was the Mckamy Middle School Harlot.

Don’t worry though, we aren’t finished. The grand finale.

My High School Relationship:

For privacy reasons I will call her Church Pew. You’ll see why.

This was senior year and I knew I was a homo. I just was so scared of people finding out so I covered it up with a relationship. Coming out to a right wing, half mormon, half southern Baptist High School just wasn’t in the cards for me. So I did what all gay men do. Suppress there feelings. I dated CP for a solid five months. I’d known her for all of high school. This was just a sort of last minute fling to make the questions about my sexuality disappear. And of course I went for maybe the most religious girls I knew (slaps face idiot idiot idiot). I went to go pick CP up for our first date. Her mother answered the door. And escorted me into their beautiful home. We were doing the typical small talk, and finally CP comes downstairs and asks if I’m ready. We start to head towards the door, and I nearly collapse on the floor.

Me: What is that?

CP: What?

Me: That… (trembles and points to living room)

CP: Oh our couch?

Me: Ummm is that a couch?

CP: Oh well I mean. It’s a church pew.

Silence

It was a 15ft long church pew lining the home. It was their TV room. With a fucking church pew. I should’ve turned around and ran, but I decided to be a gentleman and stick it out… even though I knew I was gay and I knew I didn’t like her that much and I knew she think I’d go to hell for watching brokeback mountain alone in my room once a week.

So I drove her to a classic game of putt-putt, and then made our way over to a local park for what would be the hottest make out I had since my fantasies with Jonathan Taylor Thomas. I didn’t know how to appropriately dress my undergarments; so I was wearing silk boxers that were five sizes too big for me. You do the math. Hot make out, silk boxers, and a playful imagination that made me pretend I was making out with Jack Twist on Brokeback Mountain naked in a tent. I had a boner. A boner that I couldn’t hide. We finished making out and I stood/crouched. Did the classic cross your legs and keep your hand in your pocket to cover the one-eyed snake sticking out of your cargo pants. And shamefully drove her home.

We went to church together once a week, and that was about the extent of our relationship. We never made out like that again. I wouldn’t allow it.

So there ya go.

My hot love life.

I’ve gone from hot mustached muslims to … well … more hot mustached muslims. They just don’t have lazy eyes. And well have peni (remember, it’s the plural).

Cohen I am thinking we could make a two-part episode where I go home and find all of these ex lovers. We could film their reactions to me telling them I like it up the butt. Sounds pleasant right?

Until next cocktail hour time,

Why I need my own reality show by Christmas

Reason #30: Gay ain’t a choice. I’m living proof.

I’ve been gay as long as I can remember.

You heard me Michael Williams. I give you permission to gloat in an “I told you so” (my childhood bully. def his name. not a pseudonym. I mean I highly doubt he is reading this but if he is. S my D. I should’ve won homecoming king #notbitter).

Had to get that off my chest.

Lets try this again. I’ve been gay as long as I can remember. You see I’m the daughter my mom never had and my sister is the son my dad never had. I loved My Little Pony, Lisa Frank, and Bewitched (both the TV Show and the hit Liverpool Lady Band). My sister liked sports, ground beef, basketball shorts, rap music, and curse words at an un-lady-like age.

One of my first memories as a child was being angry at my parent’s Christmas gift to my baby sister. She got a fucking Barbie dream car; while I had to pretend to be perfectly content with my chemistry kit that consisted of food colored soda water. If only they’d known that that gay-ass suto-automobile my sister was living for was all I’d ever dreamt of. Also I’m sorry. That was even my sister’s lesbian phase. Mom and Dad, what made you think she gave a rat’s ass about a pink Barbie dream car when I was the one who dressed the dolls, painted the nails, and predicted Lance Bass’ homosexuality before TMZ? I remember crying under my pillow on my sister’s 8th birthday (my 11th) when they gave the dream-car away. Not even for a dollar. She gave it to a homeless shelter. Just gave it away to under-privileged children. I’m the under-privileged one! All I had to my name was an NSYNC cassette tape, a Lisa Frank folder (that I stole from my female reading buddy), and a soda water science kit.

Not only did I love the gayest things in the world when I was a kid, but I had the gayest friends. My two best friends in first grade were Patrick and Bryan. (It was a big deal they were boys because most boys called me gayfer on the daily. I thought it was because I was fashion forward with a fat ass cute little figure, but I think it was because I worked a sibilant S before Perez Hilton was a glimmer in pop culture’s eye.) Through the progression of grade school my ‘guy’ friends, Patrick and Bryan, turned to ‘gay’ friends. Patrick in 4th grade, Bryan during his short-lived career on the wrestling team, and me post high school. Proof that gay is not a choice; our gaydars were blazing at age six.

The estrogen that’d been festering my Elementary brain, started to turn its ugly head in Middle School with a little word we call Puberty. I bloomed pretty early, like most girls do. I started growing hair under my arms, on my legs, and in my lady parts. I found myself PMSing like my other female friends and I even started secreting menstrual odors. Or maybe that was just my lack of bathing? You can imagine how much I was liked by the prepubescent football team I was on. God I’m a catch. (flips hair)

One of my fondest middle school memories was finding my female parts for the first time. I was sleeping over at a friend’s house and we were getting ready for bed when he went to hop in the shower. I thought he was done showering, when I barged into the bathroom and saw him standing there naked. My eyes found themselves staring at his preteen schlong for what felt like the most blissful two seconds of my life.

My glaring caused him to scream and close the shower curtain.

I replied with a hesitant, “Ahhhhh I’m so sorrrrrry Adam…..cough…not sorry…cough?”

Was he screaming at me because I was staring or because he was in love with me? Definitely in love with me. (clearly I haven’t changed).

Then later that night. On the bottom bunk of his bunk bed. I decided to touch myself. What better time than at someone else’s house, in someone else’s bunk bed, under someone else’s sheets? Seems logical. My mind started to race about this first romantic experience. Maybe we’ll fall in love. Maybe we will run away together (granted I am eleven). All of the sudden, my thoughts hit their climax. And tangible love-stuff shot out of me and went all over my XXXL mickey mouse boxers.

*Cue Hallelujah Chorus*

And it was on that starry night I became a woman.

I couldn’t wait to tell my lunch table of PMS-ing, metal mouthed, pubescent girls. They’d be soooo jealous.

I slept like a true lady that night.

However that erotic night wasn’t enough to solidify my gayitude, I still dated a couple of girls, (I know how lesbian of me.) and played a little football (once again I know how lesbian of me). It wasn’t until one blustery fall morning when my homosexuality solidified itself. I was in gym class pretending to be jumping rope. AKA laying on the ground dreaming of Barbie dream cars. You see I had this little knook where I could hide from the world. It led to this courtyard where we had recess. I had assumed my position against the door, and wanted to feel the breeze of the first fall of the season. I leaned against the door, reached my hand out, and instead of a breeze I felt warmth. Hmmm it was cold when I left the house this morning. It felt clammy too. Hmmmmm. What on earth could be warm, moist, and fishy smelling?? … I slowly turned my head to find not a cold fall day, but the cold look of a 6th grade girl being felt up by my gay-ass, seaman crusted fingers. It was in the stillness of that moment with her I realized … just … how gay I was. The mere touch of a vagina sealed the deal. To this day I know nearly nothing about the vagina and still wish I knew less. I’m not one of those gays who had sex with women in High School and couldn’t keep it up. One touch was enough for me. It was as if when I pulled my hand away from that twelve–year-old va-jay, a rainbow lightbulb lit brightly above my head … and it hasn’t dimmed since. It’s been exhausting to fight off the hundreds of women who have waited at bated breath to give me a peek of their beautifully blossomed lilacs. Sorry ladies, it’s schlong love I’m looking for.

I may be no Jew-Bear-Producer Cohen? But I’m as gay as they come. My only redeeming straight attribute is that I know a little football. After all I was an all-star lineman at Mckamy Middle School (that’s a story for another day). So give this Barbie loving, left guard, wino his own show already. I promise I wont feel up any more children in recess courtyards!

Unitl next cocktail hour time,

Why I need my own reality show by Christmas

Reason #77: I put myself out there. Part 1: Online Dating. 

I had to separate this blog entry into two parts. What can I say, I’m a persistent son of a bitch. This edition of “I put myself out there” is going to be directed towards my obsession with online dating. 

WARNING! If you are a member of my family or a friend of my parents, continue reading at your own risk. I’m rating this one a big fat NC-50. (for adults under the age of 50 only)  . . . Sorry mom and dad . . . 

Here. We. Go.

The way to a gay mans heart is through his penis. And to get to his penis you need to find him on an iphone app. “Why don’t you meet them in person?” you ask. Ohhhhhhh no no no no I have wayyyyy too much social anxiety to meet someone in person. Nice try though.

Below are the dating outlets in which I meet my many husbands.

Scruff: I like older men. I don’t know if we’ve talked about that yet. I just really want a daddy.

                Daddy: (my definition) Salt and Pepper hair and beard. 6’4”. Muscles. Like I want a guy who could literally throw me out a window, and tell me how much of a worthless human being I am.

                         What can I say, I’m a hopeless romantic.

This app narrows my search greatly. I can find 35 year-olds with hot beards and money. With that also comes the 50 year-old hairy 300 lb men who want me to sit on their face. As Jack McFarland says, “All in a day”. 

Two amazing features of Scruff are that you can woof at people (a la poking on facebook, but a little more romantic. I mean who doesn’t love a good woof from a bear, cub, or otter every now and then), and you can have “private pics”. This way you don’t have to take your dick pic. Save it. Send it. Delete it from your phone. Scruff does the dirty work for you and saves it all on its lonesome! It’s foolproof sexting of the future! Unfortunately, I have never actually gone on a date with any of these primal creatures. They normally stop talking to me after we share our private pics. #signyourfat #lifestylechange? What they really need next is a specified search engine category called how far you can throw a 148 lb twink? That would make things easier for me. 

Grindr: Classic. It’s even becoming a little Vintage now #trendy. If you don’t know the premise, essentially you can find men close to you who are DTF (down to fuck), DTB (down to bottom), or DTTTOAW (down to throw tom out a window). I met two people on it in college. The first said he was a baseball player. By baseball what he really meant was he played for an all-gay softball team and was a TA at Emerson. Eh. Not a huge deal-breaker, but I mean TA’s can’t cover my credit card debt. The deal was broken when he stopped close-mouthed side smiling and showed his true colors. Bitch had a snaggle-tooth. NEXT. The other was a scientist who appeared to be 6’ ish on the app and then was 5’6” when we met at a local coffee shop. (cue my fear of dating the vertically impaired)

          A bit of a tangent: I have a crippling fear that when I go on a date with these men that they will secretly be dwarves. I really don’t want to date someone shorter than me. (remember I wanna be thrown out a window), so before these dates I have mild panic attacks that go a little something like this:

           “Oh my god they’re profile says 5’11”. 5’11” really means 5’9”, but 5’9” must actually mean 4’9”. I am sure they got their number mixed up. They’re a dwarf. They must be. And even though I have facebook stalked them and they are taller than all their friends they still must be abnormally small and just surround themselves with people shorter than them to feed their ego. God those are good friends. But am I the first normal heighted person they’ve ever met? Do I have to take on that responsibility, of being the first person they have ever met over 5 feet? I can’t do that. I can’t take that on. That is not my responsibility! I have a lot going on in my life! I don’t have the time to take on his emotional insecurities about height. Ugh what am I going to do?!”

                                 I wish I were joking. But that is real.

  I digress.

  Tinder: So the premise is you swipe left or right depending on whether or not you are attracted to this person. You then can’t message them unless they like you in return. On paper, romantic and safe. In real life, a royal pain in my ass hole. I just want to stalk future husbands, but I can’t do that when they disappear forever because they never liked me back #notbitter. Also you can’t take pictures and send them via the app. You have to jump through hoops by saying things like “what do you like to do in your spare time?”, “wanna go for a walk?”, or “lets go volunteer at an animal shelter together” to simply retrieve a phone number to get a picture of their penis that they probably didn’t even take FOR YOU (see **Tom’s Major Sexting No-No’s). What happened to the straightforward “Looking? Top or Bottom? 7.5 cut here. HIV neg.  Cock pic now?”.  Oof.  I rate this app with one “you’ve gotta be shitting me”, two “I’ve met more men playing Candy Crush”, and one big ”Ohhhhhhhhh brother”. I find this app significantly more successful for straight people with standards.

PS. There is a glitch for ‘Men who like Men’, and for every five men that pop up, an 18 year-old female shows her face. Subliminal gay-turning? The Bachman’s must be behind this.

  OkCupid: Not my favorite, but my most successful. I have talked to a. lot. of. men on here. I mean a lottttttt. And by a lot I mean practically everyone in the tri-state area. And by talked to I mean I have sent many messages and about 10% of them have replied. I have gone on two dates with guys from OkCupid. They both have stopped talking to me. But if boys you are reading this I am still single if you can believe that. Call me? Oh not only have I been on two dates, but I’ve had someone try and cast me in a one man version of Hamlet performing at a local YMCA, been recruited for “southern gay republicans supremacists clan”, and I had a daddy chew me out saying I was insensitive and if we had been on a date he would’ve made me a broadway sensation. (no Bway Boys, it wasn’t Jerry Mitchel)

  Match.com: Too expensive but am still registered and simply look at people’s profiles and cry because we will never interact because I have -$50 in my bank account.

  Adam4Adam: Yes. This is essentially a porn site. I haven’t logged in for a while after I came across a classmate’s dick-pics. Don’t shit where you eat bitch.

  You do the math.

 2 Grindr Dates  + 2 OkCupid Dates – 6 dating profiles = my alcohol dependency

With so many lost loves on all of these sites I could fill up the missed-connections section of New York’s craigslist for the next five years.

And Andy Cohen, I would let you (and you’re 3 camera men, make-up artists, and costume coordinators) sit by my side through all of these trials and tribulations of love and loss. C’mon. You know you want to?

Ugh….. I’ll be here waiting for you Cohen.

Until next cocktail hour time,

Tom Hamlett 

  **Tom’s Major Sexting No-No’s**

- Do not only ask for a picture of my ass: Sure I will take one. Maybe two. But you’re gonna get double that in dick pics. I’m sorry but we are all gay not because we woke up one morning and said, “Oh my god I love men. And not only do I love men, but I love ass holes. There’s nothing I adore more than a beautiful ass hole.”, you are gay because you like penis. You are attracted to men because they have peni (technical term for multiple penis). So appreciate the picture of my penis I sent to you. You’re gonna like it. Men who like ass pics are insecure gays with Daddy issues who close there eyes and pretend it’s a vagina.

Why I need my own reality show by Christmas

Reason #88: I'm an actor. 

I want three things: to be a famous gay icon/broadway phenomenon/reality tv sensation. I've found the three of these can be combined quite affectively. 

Lets call a spade a spade. Reality TV stars are actors. When the camera goes up, who doesn't want to perform? Why not cut out the middle man and just give actors a reality show (and by actors I mean actor. and by actor I mean me. I don't want some skinny chorus boy getting their own show. I'm the revolutionary trend setter here.)

It is so interesting (and by interesting I mean amazing for television) that I commit myself to a field which has an inevitably depressing end. I will fail, cry, drink and do it all over again . . . oh and audition I guess. What can I say... I'm an actor. (and not a Heather DuBrow, Alexis Bellino, or a Kim Richards. A real fucking actor. I memorize shit sometimes.) 

Now my question is, like the chicken or the egg philosophy, which comes first: my broadway show or my reality show? Because . . . you see . . . I wouldn't say I audition well . . . I perform well . . . but c'mon give me a chance world, isn't there a way to make it without getting Bernard Telsey's stamp of approval? Ugh I guess if I am sleeping my way to the top of Bravo I better start making the rounds with Tara Rubin and Jay Binder if I wanna be on broadway. 

For every good audition of mine I have about 40 disasters. I have only been living in new york for 6 weeks now; you do the math. I was at an audition the other day, got there early, was warming up, and started eyeing my competition. I was in good company. I am a 5' 9" awkwardly average looking character actor that knows how to land a self-deprecating punchline, and everyone else there was easily a 6'3" leading man. This job was MINE!

So I'm sitting and talking with a friend and I get called in for my appointment. I get up. Walk to the piano. Give him my song. Walk to the middle of the room and begin. You know when you are singing an awkward ballad in an audition and can't seem to figure out where to look to convey your "message" (cause every casting director totally gives a flying fuck about what your "message" is), and on focus change 130 you finally find your nitch and the song is over and you realized you just looked like a schizophrenic homeless woman singing "Oh What a Beautiful Morning". Well that was me today. So I finish... the room is silent... not silent in an oh-my-god-we-need-him way, but silent in a who-the-fuck-let-him-come-in-here-to-audition-for-us way. I catch the hint and go to take my first step to leave. and well . . . my body decided to defy all laws of science and my left leg seemed to have fallen asleep while I was singing. I take my first step and collapse to the ground with a cry, "oooooooughhhghhhhhhh my foot's asleep!"

*silence in the room*

"oh dont mind me my foot's asleep (now singing to myself) my foot's asleep thats my foot it's asleep dont ming me my foot's asleep."

*silence still*

*the piano player starts to silently chuckle*

I think to myself, "fuck you you piano playing intern who ruined my audition" and leave the room. dragging. yes you heard me. draggggging my foot behind me. It was definitely the piano player's fault that my foot fell asleep and I couldn't find a focal point. definitely his fault. 

(I find actors always blame the piano player. we do. whenever an audition goes poorly we leave the room and say in the bitchiest tone possible, "I just like don't understand why they can't find a better piano player for this 10th round Non-Eq TheatreWorks tour of Quack Quack Goose... ughhhhhh I hate my life! Someone wanna go to Blockheads?")

This disaster of an audition is not new to me I must say. My frighteningly bad luck all began at an early age . . . 5th Grade . . . Old Settlers Elementary. 

I was pleasantly plump. I hadn't reached morbid obesity quite yet, just cute baby fat with an awkward ankle role here and there. It was fall. It was music class (my favorite class of the day, naturally. Only an 8 year-old gay like myself really knows how to appreciate the sound of a glockenspiel's rendition of "If I Had a Hammer").

On this sunny Tuesday my music teacher, Mrs. Dran, hadn't stopped talking about our 5th grade honor choir auditions. This was my chance. My chance to show Flower Mound what I was really about. I, Tom Hamlett was going to audition for The Flower Mound 5th Grade Honor Choir. (In my head Mrs. Dran had been begging me to audition since 1st grade, but I think in reality my butt stench simply persuaded her to say yes to my persistent questions on how I could be apart of this star-studded chorale.)

The audition prep began. We had to sing "My Country Tis of Thee" and a round to the 15th century hit tune, "How Glad I am to Sing a Song". "My County Tis of Thee" was to test our dramatic musical interpretation and "How Glad I am to Sing a Song" was sung in round with the auditioner to test our grasp of rhythm and harmony.

I had this in the bag. My voice was incredible, I mean who doesn't love a breathy low-pushed, out-of-tune head voice? The day before the audition we had a "mock audition". I did my thing. Shed a single tear in my dramatic interpretation of "My Country tis of Thee", and the round was a piece of fucking cake. After finishing, Mrs. Dran said one thing to me. One thing I will never forget. One thing that haunts my sleep, that keeps me up at night, that cripples my audition prep to this day.

"Tom." she said. "My one advice to you is don't mess up. If you mess up. Once. You won't make it. We don't have time for messer-uppers in this business. Besides messer-uppers are pathetic loser faces."

Shaking head to toe (that's including my ankle roles) I whispered, "Yes Ma'am".

The day of the audition was here and it was my time to sing. I go into the room, the piano begins to play the intro to "My Country tis of Thee", I take a deep breath, and sing. my. gay. heart. out. The tear I strategically planned comes down right on the bridge. Ugh. Magic. The pannel goes wild.

"This is mine!" I think to myself, "Ugh Mrs. Dran, my Mom, and my Dad will all be so proud of me when I stand up on that stage and sing my heart out to all of Flower Mound at the local Methodist Church every friday night! God is good!"

As my thoughts race, the auditioner begins singing the intro to "How Glad I am to Sing a Song". I take a deep breath and come in on cracked breath, "My Country tis of..... ohhhhhhhhhhh noooooooo"

I messed up. I fucking messed up. I am a fucking messer-upper pathetic loser face. 

"Nooooooooooooooo" I screamed. "No Mrs. Dran is gonna kill me. I'm a pathetic loser now." I begin slapping myself, "idiot. idiot. idiot. idiot."

I run out of the room in a gay prance screaming. 

Needless to say I didn't make it, and Mrs. Dran never spoke to me again because as she had reiterated messer-uppers are pathetic loser faces.

You see Cohen. My crazy has been at least 14 years in the making.

Andy you thought you just had an alcoholic, neurotic, 22 year-old housewife obsessed girl boy? No no no no no I am an actor. And this out of shape, average looking, alcoholic character actor needs a camera crew pronto. I have auditions to ruin, and professional connections to crush.

See you soon Andy! I'll set my alarm for 6 am, for hair and make-up naturally. Then we'll head over to Ripley Grier to get in line for the non-eq Egyptian Cruise Line production of Starlight Express. #grateful #blessed

Until next cocktail hour time,

Why I need my own reality show by Christmas

Reason #199: I have a made-for-reality-tv family. 

Warning: Family . . . do not kill me. Especially you Cix. You're scary, and I think you might have a machete on you that I do not know about. 

Like Dorothy I sit here in the Emerald City (Astoria, Queens) with my Tin Man (my mac), Scarecrow (my frighteningly unwashed hair), Lion (my courageous serving of Kraft mac & cheese), and Todo (my fag hag Rachel) thinking to myself, "Rach, We are not in flower mound anymore". Clicking my ruby red slippers (ie. Kettle One and Cupcake Sauvignon Blanc), I whisper under my inebriated breath, "There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home". If only I could be transported back to humble Flower Mound, where hopes and dreams go to die blossom. 

All joking aside. I miss my family, and I think they would be a really great addition to my ground-breaking series. Nothing quite warms my heart like the stomping of my pouting baby sister (and by baby I mean she is 19), the sound of my Chihuahua/Pug humping a stuffed duck, the farting of my thirteen year-old mut, the pop of a Cabernet Sauvignon being opened by my father over morning eggs, and the silent tension of Vicki Gunvalson sitting with her morning coffee (ie. my mother).  We laugh. We scream. We cry. We drink love. 

Everyone has to include their family in their season one, smash hit, Emmy award winning reality show. To pitch this supporting cast of characters I thought I'd give you a little breakdown. I have organized them from scary to scariest:

Chester: He's one of my dogs. He's adorably mentally challenged. 

Dad: A simple man. Doesn't need much to survive. Just an HGTV Niecey Nash marathon, box of Triscuits, a Paul Newman Cab Sav, and a block of pepper jack cheese. I warn you though. Do not. I repeat. DO NOT. get in between him and his McDonald's diet coke or he'll cut a bitch. I have hundreds of emotional scars to prove it. 

Cix (Caitie): I was tempted to make her the scariest but then I realized how frightened I am of her so I decided against it. I won't say much more because I don't want her to fuck up the money maker. (By money maker I mean my clever fingers. Can't type without em. She can jack up my face though. Haven't got a Tinder match since Kim Richard's last relapse)

Mom: I always get, "You don't know Tom til you meet his mother. Then it ALL makes sense".  I've been trying to take this as a compliment. I mean my mother is loving, successful, financially responsible and intelligent. I must say it is unfortunate that I retrieved none of those traits but got stuck with the uh how do we say . . . more colorful? ie. Her insensitivity, crassness, drama, and ability to hold liquor. Throw my mom and I a camera. A little bit of lighting. A makeup artist. And a sushi bar and you've got yourself a season finale. 

Scout: that's my chihuahua/pug who is mean as hell and humps everything in sight. Toys, furniture, stale sonic cheese tater tots. She wins most likely to get a spin-off.

Lastly, to soften the blow of me outing my family via social media, I am putting my self at the top of this list. If you need reference for my insanity reference blogs 1-6. 

There they are. The people who keep my insecurities alive and crippling as hell. I need them to be apart of my show I just . . . can't move to Flower Mound. I'm no Honey Boo Boo. Remember, I am a homosexual. I guess they could come to Astoria and we could see who gets killed first? My bet's on me after this blog goes viral though. Ya you heard me VIRAL! (Subliminal messaging) 

Andy Cohen I am sure my mom will be calling you within the hour to approach you about her own reality show because god forbid she be a supporting character in mine. You have been warned.  

Until next cocktail hour time,

Why I need my own reality show by Christmas

Reason #4: I am a weight loss success story.

WARNING: Statements made in this entry about my weight have nothing to do with my family. I was a monster, and no one (not even my parents) could stop me between me and my Taco Bell Crunch Wrap Supreme.

From age 5-16 I was beyond content with my figure. My Double D’s made me a curvy gurl, my bacne* kept me warm at night, and my dead animal, garlic, butt scent made my friends and family proud.

Bacne (noun): acne on one’s back

Use in a sentence: Ewwwwwww check out his bacne!!

(Urban Dictionary has done it again)

My Dad would always say to me, “I cannot wait for your growth spurt!" or, “any day now!". A doctor (who must have been bribed by my father) told me that I was going to shoot up to 6 feet by age 18! Well if I was going to be 6 foot, the 190 lbs I was carrying at 5’3" would distribute over my body! There was hope!

(I say this doctor must have been bribed simply because I never grew past 5’9")

My weight couldn’t have been caused by my eating habits. I maintained a low caloric, well-balanced diet:

Breakfast: Four Eggo Waffles. Each with butter and peanut butter spread on top. Doused in syrup of course.

Mid day snack: Five Rice-Krispie treats.

Lunch: Chicken Toaster Club from Sonic (Fried chicken, Texas Toast, Honey mustard, bacon, cheddar cheese). Cheese Tater Tots. Reese’s Sonic Blast.

Dinner: A box of Cheeseburger Hamburger Helper.

Dessert: Fudge Brownie Sundae

I was getting my veggies (ie. lettuce on my sandwich), protein ( ie. Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups), and a couple of carbs here and there.

Also I found that certain fashion trends flattered my shapely figure and had practical use. Istarted the oversized clothing trend with my XXL Hawaiian shirt (no i did not say shirts, I said shirt. Same shirt. Everyday). Did you know Doc Martens double as high-heal and casual footwear? They lengthen the cankle calf. Finally who could forget the cargo pant. With so many pockets you can keep first, second, and third breakfast on you at all times.

Looking back though there seemed to have been a few red flags from my family …

My mother made me an egg white breakfast burrito one morning:

Me: “What is this white stuff"

Mom: “Sugar, that is just a healthier version of eggs. It tastes the same!"

Me: “Golly gee mom that’s so cool!"

*I grab two large handfulls of cheddar cheese. Stuff them in every orifice of my burrito*

Me: “mmmmm tastes great! Who knew!"

One time in the car with my family:

Dad: “What is that smell…"

Me: *humming*

Mom: “Holy shit that is terrible"

Me: *humming*

Sister: “blaghhhh, I am gonna vomit. It smells like rotten Bologna"

Me: *humming*

*Family’s heads slowly turn … *

Me: “All my friends at school say you are what you eat. I am starting to think thats true. Ever since I started eating two Bologna sandwiches a day, everybody says I smell like them. Isn’t that awesome! At least it’s a good smell."

The worst scenario:

*while looking at a family photo album with my baby sister*

Me: “This was me with the sand castle"

Sister: “Wowwwwwww"

*flips page*

Me: “This was me and Mom at the boardwalk"

Sister: “Cooooool!"

*flips to a picture of me half naked on the beach*

Me: “and this is — "

Sister: “AHHHH, a whale washed up on shore!"

oof.

At 16 I felt puberty was on its way out, and I was continuing to tip the scales near 200 at 5’7". A lifestyle change was in order. So I said to myself, “Goodbye Bear-Hood! Choo! Choo! Time to buy my ticket to the twink train!".

With diet (simply cutting out Sonic), exercise (step-touching in a high school musical), and unrealistic-semi-anorexic weight goals I dropped the pounds.

You see Andy Cohen, with a transformation like mine, I can connect to all target audiences. I could even travel around the world to help obese, bacne ridden 7th graders find the twink inside. I mean who has lived the life of a Bear and a Twink by age 22?

uh … oh … I smell a book deal … Finding My Twink Inside: A Memoir.

Until next Crunch Wrap Supreme time,

Why I need my own reality show by Christmas

Reason #13: I have an addictive personality.

Who doesn't love someone with an addictive personality huh? You just can't get rid of me boys (ie. Robert, Samuel, Jonathan)! Don't worry Andy Cohen, I am not addicted to drugs (those are a liability). I'm addicted to the sound of a corkscrew opening a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc (just opening though definitely not drinking). I'd say that's a pretty classy of me, am right Ramonja*?!

           *Ramona Singer+Sonja Morgan=Romonja*

When the cameras go up for so many of these reality series, they try and guard their lives: Taylor Armstrong hiding her abusive marriage, Kim Richard's substance abuse, or Caroline Manzo's penis (oh wait... ). 

I was thinking about my addictions (many of which I had already shared by blog #3)  . . . and you know what . . . why not preface the premiere (assuming I start filming soon) with a breakdown of my crippling addictions for the world to see! 

My name is Tom Hamlett and I am addicted to . . .

1. Star Magazine: I like to start my Monday mornings right with literature such as Star. An Astoria socialite like myself must keep up with America's Royalty (ie. Honey Boo Boo, Mama June, or Sugar Bear ). Also who could resist the crossword puzzles in the back with such brain teasers as "Hit __ Baby One More Time".

2. HBO/Showtime: Who needs Xtube, Broke Straight Boys, or I Spy a Camel-Toe when you have Game of Thrones. 

3. Drinking-wine-in-my-bed-while-crying-to-Brokeback Mountain-on-repeat-because-it-makes-me-feel-someone-could-really-love-me-as-much-as-Jack Twist-loved-Ennis Del Mar: see Reason: #55 referencing my single life

4. Snapped: This award winning Oxygen documentary series empowers middle-aged women, like my self. Snapped tells the story of wives who have brutally murdered their husbands. I'm always moved by these Mothers, Grandmothers, or Teen Moms who demonstrate their creativity with such household items as butter knives, bleach, and rocket launchers.

5. Domino's: Tamer (Boston, MA famous Domino's chef) knows how to craft a perfectly tossed large pie. The perfect appetizer to my bottle of Rose' and pint of Ben and Jerry's Everything But the Kitchen Sink ice cream in the fridge!

6. iPhone Dating: No one feels more wanted than being quadruple messaged by a 4' 3" forty year-old Albino man on Grindr, a 400 pound bear on Scruff, or a "cock pic now?" from a 12 year-old on Tinder . I just love the attention messages. 

I am not ready to give up on these. I figure I should just continue to add some to the list until my reality show begins production. Who knows? By then I might be the next Weight-loss, liver transplant, sex-addicted success story. 

Fame is fame!

Until next cocktail hour time,

Why I need my own reality show by Christmas

Reason #55: I'll fall in love . . . with you, and you, and you, and you, and you.

I love falling in love; so why limit myself to just one Kim Kardashian fairy tell wedding when I could shoot for at least three by season five.

For god's sake I fell in love at least three times this afternoon. 

There was Business Man on Park Ave, Model in Chelsea, and my Gym Crush that I found on OkCupid.

(I view his profile at least 10 times a day. Unfortunately he gets notified every time I look at it because I cannot afford an A-list account. However I think about it as a positive thing now. With that many notifications daily he is bound to recognize me on the stair-master! )

Though I must confess this isn't a new singe-in-the-city phase I'm going through here. I have had this issue gift as long as I could remember.

Middle School: I thought Robert ( . . .definitely not his name. I highly doubt the Mormon ward he belongs to would appreciate this shout out. ) was as in love with me as I was with him. His locker was below mine. Sometimes he would slam his locker so hard my backpack strap would be stuck in his. This led to 30 minutes of trying to undo the romantic gesture, and being late for my carpool. I was forced to walk home and day dream of our relationship. Oh Robert. Hehe. 

High School: I thought Samuel ( . . . again definitely not his name. I highly doubt the Evangelical youth ministry he leads would appreciate this shout out. ) was as in love with me as I was with him. When he called me homo in the halls, he had to have just been scared to say how he really felt. I wasn't that gay then either. I was just 30 lbs over-weight and wore Flower Mound High School musical tee shirts, rainbow tube socks, and platform Doc Martens to school everyday. Oh Samuel. Hehe. 

College: I thought Jonathan ( . . .  absolutely not his name. I highly doubt he would enjoy this shout out since I am 99% positive he is reading this blog as we speak. ) was as in love with me as I was with him. He had a girlfriend that he had been dating for four years, but that didn't mean anything. He side smiled at me the first day of rehearsal. Obvy he'd be leaving longterm-girlfriend for little-old me any day now. Oh Jonathan. Hehe. 

Where are the Robert, Samuel, and Jonathan's anymore? Why cant someone just side smile at me, instead of eye-fucking* me in Wendy's**?

In the end though, my BravoTV family can count on me to bring better fiancee's than Kroy, Brooks, Jacques, or even Slade to the table. I have the Mormons, the Evangelicals, and the straight-unavailables to throw onto set.

(and by "set" I mean real life because I would never stage anything for attention)

3 crushes a day x 365 days. You do the math. 

One of those is bound to be the one . . .  that is . . . unless Robert wants me back.

Until next cocktail hour time,

Tom Robert Samuel Jonathan Hamlett

*(for definition see Reason #139)

Why I need my own reality show by Christmas

Reason #139: I'm Gay, and gay people are scary.

Gay people are scary. I said it. Gay people are scary.

I would love to sit here and tell you I am a goddess when it comes to interacting with the gays. However, that would contradict this pitch for my own reality show wouldn't it? I am extremely fragile and mean as hell. You hear that Andy! I cry! and yell! I am the Kelly Killoren Bensimon of Astoria! 

On the subway today I'm dressed in an italian vintage button down tee, argyle tie, trendy sunglasses, black skinny jeans, and earth-toned suede shoes. Cute right? I've worn this outfit for three days in a row (alternating underwear naturally.) How very Kim Richards of me.

I digress. I am pacing the subway, and I start eyeing my fellow Metro customers. In the span of 10 minutes I was "eye fucked" a good 15 times. 

Eye Fucked (verb): when you lock eyes with someone for a split second that is really hot, and then you picture yourself having wild sex with them

(a big thank you to Urban Dictionary for this didactic explanation)

Unfortunately I have a very visceral vocal reaction to being eye-fucked. In response to one man's eye fucking I made an extremely sour face and ripped off my sunglasses. "What? Huh?". Sorry not sorry you were glaring at me . . . maybe that's why I don't have a boyfriend. 

It is just so hard to meet people when you're scary like me! You see, gays at the clubs think that eye-fucking is the only way to approach people. When I walk through a dense crowd of half naked men, all staring at me, I feel like I'm in a funhouse. I scream. I cry. I crumble.

A couple of weekends ago I was at a club and was feeling pretty emotionally vulnerable because of all of the frightening bears staring at me.

Bear (noun): A term used by gay men to describe a husky, large man with a lot of body hair. 

(ugh I love Urban Dictionary)

I thought I would prove all of these bears wrong and actually approach someone. 

(I have no game. No presence of game. Complete lack of game.)

I see this tall, handsome, bald, wealthy man turn around in slow-motion right in front of me. It's all so poetic. I cannot wait to tell our children how I met their father at Industry while, "I want to see your peacock cock cock your peacock cock cock" played romantically behind us.   (I am projecting the idea of his wealth and our successful relationship on him. I know nothing about him. I am crazy.) 

I slowly approach him with stunning swagger . . . 

Me: "Hey"

Husband: "Marry me?"

Me:"I would love nothing more" 

HAAAA in my wildest dreams. 

What actually happened: 

Me: "Hey"

Husband: "Hey"

Me: "You're cute"

Husband: "What?"

Me: "You're cute" (yelling now)

Husband: "I am definitely not interested"

Me: "You're definitely not what?" (yelling louder now)

Husband: "Interested, dude! I have a boyfriend, go away"

Me: "Oh my gosh okay" (sort of crying)

I am standing there in shock while this 4' 11" deformed, wanna-be-twink approaches.

Twink (noun): the gay answer to the blonde bimbo cheerleader

(I've always considered myself twink-ish. Urban Dictionary we now are in a fight.)

My worst nightmare is coming to fruition. Was Igor his "boyfriend"?  Igor slowly links arms with Husband. Husband bends down so Igor can reach his mouth so he can suck on Husband's bottom lip (for what seemed like an hour). They finish and Husband says with a snarky undertone, "sorry".

It is hard to remember what happened next, but there were tears and a loud vocal sound that cannot be documented via writing. Think Vicki Gunvolson and Teresa Giudice's screaming love child. 

What can I say, I am an easy-going guy. 

Gay people are scary. Actually verbalizing all of this makes me think I might be scarier than the average gay. I guess more the reason to hire me Andy Cohen. I'd give Jeff Lewis' Flipping Out a run for his money.

Until next cocktail hour time,

Why I need my own reality show by Christmas.

Reason #67:

Poor is the New Black, and that makes me trendy as hell.

I need to start this entry with a big thank you to Lena Dunham. She has shown us that you can be the voice of a generation by being a couple pounds overweight, drunk, naked, and poor.

Check.

Check.

I can be naked if I need to.

Check.

Poverty is so hilarious these days. Television has enforced becoming famous for your level of wealth. Now god knows no one is going to notice me for my American Express Black Card or my Gold-Laced weave (Adrienne Maloof you heard me). So why not draw attention to my self for my poverty (Self-deprecating perhaps but that is my middle name).

Living in Astoria, Queens for 10 years five weeks I have created some amazing memories:

I paid for a 40 of Bud Light in dimes to pre-game for an OkCupid date that was purely set up so someone could buy me my one meal for the day. #poor #trendy

I ate Wendy’s left overs. #poor #trendy

Coffee filters make amazing toilet paper. #poor #trendy

I have instagramed photos of my over-drafted bank account 5 times in three weeks. #poor #trendy

Pimento cheese and Two-buck Chuck make an amazing wine and cheese night. #poor #trendy

You know how to stretch a dollar? I know how to stretch a dollar at Broadway Wine and Liquors. #poor #trendy

My card was declined at Duane Reade while buying Advil because I drunkly over-drafted it the night before trying to purchase 70’s gay porn. #poor #trendy

I mean I am living in Queens, need I say more. #poor #trendy

Maybe this won’t attract @BravoAndy because of its lack of glam, but I am willing to set my sights low. I smell a New York 1 Reality Web Series! Everybody starts somewhere!

Until next cocktail hour time,

Tom Hamlett

hmmm where do I begin. I cannot help but want to pitch myself to you world (Andy Cohen). Lets consider this a "candid" reality show interview. You know at the beginning of each Real Housewives series the new girl has to introduce you to her family, friends, and lifestyle. I am going to treat this entry like that. So here we go: The "completely candid-not-staged-for-TV" Introduction Into My Glamorous NYC Life!

Name: Tom Hamlett

Real Housewives Intro Line: I fought too hard for this martini to go home sober. 

I was born in Flower Mound, Texas.

FAQ

No: It is not a gay bar.

Yes: There is a mound.

No: It does not have flowers on it.

Yes: It is covered in weeds.

No: I do not want to move back there.

Yes: I am a homosexual.

Education: I just graduated form The Boston Conservatory with a degree in Musical Theatre. 

FAQ:

Yes: You can major in that.

No: It is not useful.

What do you do now?: I am living in New York pounding the pavement and living the dream.

Who am I kidding right now? I am not pounding the pavement. I am laying on my couch with my NYC family: Cupcake Sauvignon Blanc, OkCupid, Princesses: Long Island, a jar of peanut butter, and self deprecating tweets. 

Cupcake Sauvignon Blanc: we've been dating for a good three years now. The crisp taste of this white wine at 4 oclock in the afternoon is the perfect post-workout snack and pre-tweeting treat.

OkCupid: I have to make sure to stay connected with the loving and prude gay community. Who needs bars to meet people when you could just read responses to "The Six Things You Could Never Live Without" , "My Self Summary", or "Top? or Bottom?". 

Princesses: Long Island: There is something so charming about 30 year-old Jewish girls interviewed infront of their twin sized, pink princess beds. It leaves me wanting more Yamakah, Torah, and Hypnotic in my life.

Jar of Peanut Butter: A high low-calorie medication for the stress of everyday life. A jar spoonful a day keeps the love handles away.

Self-deprecating tweets: America's pastime. 

I cannot help but think that these ingredients would make the most entertaining reality show on the planet. I can interview at the end of my twin bed in a Juicy Couture Valor tracksuit too! Ugh I cannot wait for Andy Cohen and I to look back on this day and laugh at how desperate I was for attention. 

Hope my little intro intrigues you to come back for more deliciously depressing updates on my life as a single New Yorker.

Until next cocktail hour time,