I am in desperate need of a really bad break up. I’m talking about a wrenching, retching, tooth gnashing, fall down into the dirt, shriek and wail like a drunken banshee, probably barf, and just want to roll in it and DIE kind of break-up. Seriously! I could really use some stone-cold betrayal right about now.

I’ve never underestimated the transformative power of shattering heartbreak– I respond quite well to negative motivation, you know—and, let’s face it, with glutinous Thanksgiving laying thicker upon us than a smallpox blanket and Xmess’s holly-jolly, gravy-sotted ass looming large, my strained, tortured waistbands JUST. CAN’T. TAKE. THE. PRESSURE.

See, the last time some little turd burglar broke my heart? I lost like 15 pounds! It just slid right off. It was glorious! It’s the perfect weight loss plan. I mean, besides starvation, trucker speed and daily coffee colonics (the “Karen Carpenter Three”), as far as I can tell total emotional devastation is the only diet that actually works. Not counting, you know, actually exercising or something. Fuck that noise with a screw driver. And I need to lose at least 10 pounds by New Years…

No, I am NOT body shaming or anything so silly, hush your sassy mouth words. I’m just too lazy to buy new pants.

So…are you single? And awful? A Gemini, perhaps? (Probably?) Are you free this weekend? Wanna Netflix, chill, and totally wreck me (in both senses of the term)? Well then! Snapchat my Tiwttergram and let’s make this shit happen, baby! Make me fall madly in love with you and then do your worst! And my waistline thanks you in advance.

Anyway.

Happy holidays, every ‘mo! Or as I like to call it, Cold and Flu Season.

As an extra-special Turkey Day treat, please to check out this rather alarming little story, which is not only almost worse than people who call Thanksgiving “Turkey Day”, but has me, well, rather a little alarmed.

Look at all of those fabulous (and semi-fabulous, and even some not-so-fabulous-at-all) things that are currently in serious peril! The Ace Hotel! Café Fiore! Cafe Pettirosso! Even Elliot Bay Books, for heaven’s sake! (Let’s call it, “Seattle Developers’ War on Literacy”.) It makes me chew my nails down to bloody little nubs worrying over the continued existence of many of our beloved (remaining) standards that you just know vulture developers have in their beady little crosshairs or whatever. (How Linda’s Tavern and that dingy little convenience store next to it that’s shaped like the Alamo is still standing is a total mystery.) When you get right down to it, nothing is safe.

Nothing.

On the bright side, there are still tens of fun and exciting things to do on Capitol Hill…for now (like dodging bullets!). It’s crucial that we chew every little morsel of deliciousness out of What’s Left of It™ while we still can. To this end I have developed Adrian’s After Thanksgiving 2015 Pub Crawl so we can express our appreciation to some of our old favorites that, let’s face it, might soon be singing their swan song and enjoy them why they are still kicking in this strange and confusing landscape they are calling, “New Seattle”.

Let’s begin at good ole Charlie’s on Broadway, which, oh my God, HAS BEEN SAVED SOMEHOW. (A miracle? A curse? You tell me.) Tonight, in fact, marks its grand re-opening after many sad, dark months of not really existing anymore. Stop in and order a nice Long Island Iced Tea or three (Charlie’s served me my first Long Island ever, after, you guessed it, a devastating break up with my ex Mark, who, strangely enough, has never been heard from again. Lost about ten pounds on that one. Have you Twittergrammed me yet, future ex?). Remember to bring some Windex in case you get munchy and have to dust off the food. (Personally I never eat when I’m drinking—it’s a waste of perfectly good alcohol.)

Next, mount your solo-wheel and motor your man bun down Olive Way to The Hillside Bar. DO NOT GO IN! Stand outside and squint really hard at it and imagine that the good old Elite Tavern is still living there, with its weird Egyptian statues and awkward fireplace darts, but especially the cramped, creaky old bathroom in which me and my ex Rick once naughtily fooled around just days before he dumped me. RIP, Elite. Screw you, Rick.

After that, go down to that ugly old painted whore The Crescent, which is the last really gay dive bar on the Hill. Have lots of shots to honor the memory of good old Star who occupied the end of the bar for roughly twenty thousand years, rocked the heavens with her singular Karaoke stylings and who sadly passed to her glory just earlier this week. But please note: I never met or broke up with anyone at The Crescent because EW! Dan Savage did grope my bare butt there once, though. Long story. RIP, dear Star.

Then, Uber your glitter beard on up to Neighbours, the oldest gay bar on Planet Earth. DO NOT GO IN. Squint really hard and think of all the reasons you don’t ever want to go back into that old barn again. These could include, but are not limited to, being old enough to rent a car, fear of being set on fire, being pathologically afraid of drag queens, or that time you threw up, fell off the box, and security tossed you into the street (or alley. Whatever,). But especially think of the mirrored post on the South West corner of the dance floor (which I have officially dubbed, “The Pillar of Desperation”) where I met my ex Julian, who smashed my little black heart into roughly twelve gazillion pieces. Weird little ginger bastard.

Then leap onto a passing herd of woo girls and head East on Pike. Dodge a few aforementioned bullets. (Bang! Bang!) As you pass, please note the old, still-shuttered Lobby Lounge. DO NOT GO IN. Because that’s trespassing. Think about that huge asshole, Shawn, who picked me up on Easter there one time. I totally broke up with him though, so. You know. Who cares—no love (or weight) lost there. Next, steer the woo girls South passed Diesel. You can go in for a beer or whatever if you want, but nobody ever broke up with me that’s even slightly associated with the place because I like really skinny guys. Heroin chic. That’s what I‘m about.

Finally walk your lazy ass the scant few blocks up to Pony, do shots until you pass out, and hope you wake up with a boyfriend. Me maybe. Then be really mean to me.

Seriously. I want this gut gone by New Years. I’m counting on you.