{bazima.com}

Doug snatched a free sample of some sort of baked good from the front counter of Sweet Melissa, popped half of it into his mouth and, without warning, shoved the remainder into mine as we walked down the street. I nearly choked, Doug laughed, and then he blew crumbs from his mouth into my face. I called him names. This is what we do when we're together. We're like an old married couple. Or maybe more like children with behavioral problems.

Then my hiccups began.

"Why are you doing that?" He scoffed and yelled at me when I kept hiccuping.

"I'm not doing it on purpose!" I said.

"Don't yell at me!" he said.

"I'm not yelling!" I yelled. "I have the hiccups because I almost gagged when you shoved that huge thing into my mouth!"

He scoffed at me again. "Wow. You are like a gay man with your sexual double-entendres," he said. Because he's gay.

We were taking a one-drink break from the work we both had to do last night. I splurged on a $9 cocktail that was absolutely an instant anti-depressant, which, I know is weird because alcohol is a depressant and all, but this was the most heavenly delight of my entire drinking career.

The drink was called La something or other, but I'm renaming it The Summer Vagina Bazima Experience in my own honor. This magical elixir consists of Prosecco, simple syrup, and mint leaves. The mint lingers in your mouth like the taste of the best french kiss you had with the first boy or girl you ever fell a little bit in love with the most.

Doug and I talked about many things. The things we talked about included, but were not limited to: boys who are detached, boys we love, how good Nick Denton is at coming up with clever names for companies and blogs, and we brainstormed titles for Doug's documentary about suicide. The top contenders were "Dark Legacy," "The Utmost Tragedy," "Death to the Max," and "Megadeath."

On my way home, back to work, I passed two boys hanging out on the corner. "Hell-ooo," one of them said. I said hi as I walked by. The other one called out after me, "Are you GORGEOUS? Are you SEXY? Are you SINGLE?!?"

I laughed, but then I thought, how does that actually work? How would I answer those questions, particularly the first two? "Hmm... I wouldn't say I'm gorgeous, no. And I'm not really all that sexy. But I am available so if we went out you'd at least have that going for you!"

When I got home my roommate was watching David Letterman instead of doing work that she said she had to come home to do. Rufus Wainwright was the musical guest, cute as ever, and wearing lederhosen.

But also? I don't have a roommate—it was just me.