The Dingoes Are Eating My Baby

As usual, I'm quickly becoming one of the girls. It's my life story. Elementary school, kick ball with the girls. High school, reading Cosmo in the library with the girls. College, mud masks with the girls. Grad school, learning how to social work with girls. Girls girls girls.

And now? Despite an ambitious attempt to stake my claim as alpha male - albeit one who lounges about in a burgundy fur and uses the latest copy of Martha Stewart Living as something to write on while completing the Sunday NY Times crossword puzzle - I am once again falling into the clutches of womandom.

GroomzillaTM was supposed to be a vehicle for me to profess my lonely and angst-filled place in life as a gay groom-to-be, a beacon of light beckoning others of my kind to come together in a giant, lavendar Iron John drum circle as we talk about angst and gay marriage and America's Next Top Model.

Instead?

Look.

And look.

They like me now. Some of them, anyways. And they're trying to make me feel welcome and asking me questions and being all nice and smothering me in girl. And I'm falling right into it.

Must...resist......Remember...purpose...

Guys? Guys............? Are you out there..........?

(echo?)

(echo)

(echo)