One of the more disappointing discoveries I’ve made since crawling out of my hermit cave and becoming a reasonably well-adjusted social butterfly is this: The vast majority of gay guys are flaky as fuck. Especially those living in Los Angeles County.
They're not necessarily evil or malicious. But far too many seem utterly incapable of making plans...or keeping them.
Last night, I had dinner plans with someone I'd been looking forward to meeting. We'd been chatting for about a week. I texted to confirm the night before, and he even gave me a detailed play-by-play of his day.
“I’ll text you when I get home.”
And then...absolutely fucking nothing.
No text.
No call.
No carrier pigeon.
No smoke signal.
Here's the thing: it wasn't the canceled plans that irritated me. Shit happens. We've all had to bail on something. It was the complete lack of communication.
Last time I checked, “Hey, something came up. Can we reschedule?” takes about ten seconds to type.
A few weeks ago, several old friends pulled the exact same stunt and earned themselves a one-way ticket to what I not-so-lovingly call “Friend Purgatory.” They are now one flake away from becoming people I used to know.
I've simply reached the age where I don't have the patience or time for chronic flakes.
Yes, life happens. Cars break down. Work runs late. People get sick. Dogs eat your homework. Fine. Whatever.
But we also live in an age where you can order dinner, summon a stranger to drive you across town, Venmo your roommate, stream drag queens lip-syncing for their lives, and argue with someone in Australia before you've even brushed your teeth.
You’re telling me you couldn’t send a text? Gurrrrl, please shut the fuck up.
What really fries my grits is when people pop back up acting like nothing happened.
“Hey! What’s up?” Oh, what’s up is you flaked, motherfucker.
And yes, for the record, I’m keeping score. Not because I’m looking for reasons to cut people out of my life. But because I’m looking for reasons to keep them in it.
Reliability matters.
Showing up matters.
Respecting another person’s time matters.
When someone disappears without a word, they're telling me everything I need to know. They're telling me my time isn't as valuable as theirs. And they're telling me they're a fucking rude asshole. No ifs, ands, or buttheads.
We’re not talking about forgetfulness. We’re talking about disrespect.
Ironically, life was easier when I was agoraphobic.
I wasn't exactly living my best life, but at least I showed up for myself. Even when I was anxious, depressed, and hiding from the world, I knew I always would be there.
Now that I'm happier than I've been in years and actually making the effort to rebuild a social life, I have zero interest in chasing people who treat plans like vague suggestions while they wait to see if something better comes along.
Years ago, I said something to an ex-boyfriend who had a habit of shutting down whenever conflict reared its ugly head: “I can be alone all by myself.” It still holds true.
As an only child, I earned a PhD in entertaining myself long before smartphones existed. Solitude and I go way back.
I don’t need people in my life.
I choose to have people in my life.
But if showing up—or simply sending a damn text—is too much to ask, then I'll happily spend my evening homo alono with a good meal, a good movie, and my own delightful company.
Because I can waste my time all by myself.
Because I want to focus on the good guys.
Keep calm and be impeccable with your word, y’all!
Clint 🌈✌️
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"Fries my grits" Love this and I'm going to start using it!
Clint, That pisses me off as well. In many Spanish speaking countries it is "tradition" to agree to attend a function and then to just not show up because that is easier and more "socially correct" than apologizing, saying I'm sorry, or cancelling ahead of time. Especially after he had confirmed and behaved like a "normal" person, then just not show up. Wonder if you will hear from him? Is that what they call ghosting? Maybe he had a last minute panic attack and instead of a lovely time with you was hiding under the bed? Fondly, Michael