I try to make it a point not to share too much about my personal life here, but seeing as we spend most every day together, I felt that owed you, dear readers, at least some small explanation for my absence these past few weeks.
It all started when I went to Los Angeles to spend my vacation – as I do every summer – camped outside of The Motherf*cking LaBeouf’s mansion in a week-long round-the-clock candlelight vigil with the hope of catching a live glimpse of the world’s greatest Mangod in his natural habitat. Due to the terrible desert heat, by the third day I’d already consumed my entire supply of Full Throttle Energy Drinks, and having replaced the contents of each spent can with my own urine, which was beginning to stink, I briefly abandoned my post and voyaged into some nearby tree-cover hoping to find a clean and more private place to relieve myself.
As I made my way through the brush, I came to a small clearing in which I discovered something that would change the course of my life forever: hunched against the trunk of an old dying tree was the form of what appeared to be a large boy or small man, whose head was buried in his knees as he heaved and sobbed violently.
“Are you…okay?” I asked, ever so gently.
When he looked up, my heart nearly exploded out of my chest, for there I stood, face to face with the glorious tear-stained visage of Shia LaBeouf. However, my joy was quickly overtaken by confusion, as I marveled at the impossibility of The Beef, in the flesh, crying. This had to be some kind of trick being played on me by my senses, due possibly to the foolish combination of heat exhaustion and energy drinks.
He stood up and quickly turned his face from me, shouting, “Don’t look at me like this, please!”
I moved to him and placed my hand on his shoulder, gentle but firm, and whispered, “It’s okay, Shia…I understand.”
See what happens next, after the jump!
We spent the next several hours there in the clearing, Shia explaining the sorrow of his loneliness to me, both of us sharing honest words in the way only two wounded men can. By the time twilight began to set upon us, a miraculous bond of friendship had been forged, and we became instantly inseparable.
The following days were long and lovely, spent mostly drinking Gin Fizzes, snuggling, and listening to the DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince’s “Summertime” on repeat. I held the LaBeouf close to me, keeping him warm with my beard, assuring him everything would be okay in the end. We transformed each other.
One night we decided that we would no longer hide out together, that the time had come for us to go out and announce our special new friendship to the world together, TMZ be damned. But before we could even breach the entrance to an El Pollo Loco in the Valley, where we had planned to have some lunch, the paparazzi heat was all over us, clicking and snapping and shouting and gnashing.
The bastards never let up. Wherever we went, be it the spray-on tanning place on Wilshire or a fancy sushi dinner at Benihana, the paps were inescapable, dogged in their determination to take what we had, capture it as ones and zeroes to be sold to the highest bidders for tabloids and blogs to chew up and spit back out with their cruel, petty headlines and assumptions about the nature of our relationship.
Shia became withdrawn, distracted, and developed a poor tendency to drink in excess. We began to fight with an intensity matched only by the passion with which our relationship began. He hit me a few times, but said he was sorry.
I knew he had been seeing that little strumpet from Tranformers on the side for a few days, but chose not to say anything in hopes of his coming back around to me once he’d gotten this new object of lust out of his system. But nothing could prepare me for the devastation of discovering that he had nearly died in a drunken car crash – with her, this whore – after reading it here, on my blog. Such sad, cruel irony.
You may not believe this, but I’ve become convinced that the impact of heart breaking is what in fact caused the California earthquake.
In my infinite sadness, I left California without ever saying another word to my beloved. Instead I booked passage to Paris, then Amsterdam, hoping that a few days in Europe would provide an adequate respite from the woes in which I was drowning. But sadly, every time I went to a French restaurant and saw beef on the menu, I was only reminded of my lost love. Even the allure of the eurotrash hippie coffeeshops in Amsterdam did little to lighten mood.
Upon my return to New York, I received word that a package had arrived for me in my absence. I opened in the post office and was startled to discover a note reading “I’m sorry, please don’t forget” that was affixed to a porterhouse steak, which was now rotten on account of having sat untouched in the weeks I was away. That rotten meat was like the love I had for The LaBeouf. Once delightful, with the possibility to be delicious, it had become decrepit and reeking. I knew then that I would never hold his strong hand again, for it is crushed, like my heart. The Beef is dead to me now.
So here I sit, having returned to my florescent-lit cubicle-spotted pop culture wasteland in Times Square, wondering whether everything that happened was worth it, or even had a lasting effect on me of any sort. Only time will tell, but I’m back, I’m over the Beef, and I’m ready to blog.
Oh, also I got married to the most wonderful person I’ve ever met in my life.