I just discovered my AIM buddy icon was some gay-looking pink flower.  That is emphatically not the image I wanna convey.  I dunno how it happened and to be honest, I didn’t even know it was there.  Who knows how long I’ve been trying to hit on chiks with this pink flower supposedly representing me?  No wonder I haven’t been doing too good with the ladies lately!

As if my life hasn’t been humorous enough for those who follow it, it seems somehow I’m cursed with a gender identity crisis.  I know who I am--I’m a dude and got a schlong to prove it.  Yet somehow, some way, weird shite keeps happening to me that says otherwise.  Like back in high school, when due to a paperwork error, I was somehow enrolled in girl’s tennis.  Then a year later at career day, somehow I got sent to the “Women in Technology” seminar (I suspect fate had a good laugh over that one--I really want to attend the “Lotto Winner’s Workshop” instead).

During my bad hair phase of 2001-02, quite often I got mistaken for a woman.  I mean, I knew my hair was long and the envy of chiks everywhere, but you’d think the facial hair was a dead-giveaway that I peed standing up.  The worst was when I got pulled over by a cop--he was holding my driver’s license and still called me “ma’am.”

Maybe it’s ‘cause I watch too much “90210,” “Dawson’s Creek,” and “The O.C.,” but I swear--they’re good shows.  Or my insistence that Brad Pitt is a good-looking man (it’s nice to know what I’m competing against).  But that doesn’t explain the strange, dumb luck I keep having in this matter.

What makes this mistake even more ridiculous is that anyone who knows me would tellya how insane it is.  I don’t have a single personality trait that’s common amongst women.  I burp--a lot.  There ain’t a curse word out there that I have sworn, yelled, or physical performed.  I drink whiskey--straight.  I’m not big on personal hygiene and often go days without showering.  I like “Fight Club.”  I don’t watch “Oprah.”  I leave dirty clothes on the floor.  I fix cars; give girls ruffies; hunt wild buffalo; killed a polar bear with my bare hands; vote republican; have posters of naked women all over my walls; slept with my girlfriend’s sister; grunt; have 4,672 nicknames for my penis; break cinder blocks with my forehead; break cinderblocks with my foreskin.

Well...you get the point.

I’m gonna change that icon now--I wonder where I can find a picture of Brad Pitt...