I'm choosing optimism like it's my daily probiotic—curating hope, manifesting vibes into existence, because what else is a faggot to do in this dumpster fire of a world? But then the universe—or, let's be real, that orange administration—serves up a "challenge" on day THREE of 2026: Trump pulling an international kidnapping stunt from Venezuela, snatching a head of state and his wife like it's a bad reboot of House of Cards gone straight to Freevee. It's chaotic neutral energ

Men are like fine wines—sometimes you glance at the bottle and think "eh, pass," but then your fag palate matures, craving depth, body, that subtle oak of lived-in grit, and suddenly you're obsessed, uncorking fantasies nonstop. Which brings me to the latest uncorked obsession on my Shit List: Channing Tatum, darling, the vintage that's been quietly ripening into pure perfection. At 45 (Taurus king—stubborn jaw, loyal abs), he's not the twinkish marble of Magic Mike anymore;

Heated Rivalry has turned this entire planet into a pack of rabid, slobbering animals overnight. I’m not kidding. When was the last time the gays and the straights united this hard over a sport? (And don’t you dare say The Cutting Edge—that’s eternal scripture, not a debate.) Straight women are now fluent in the offside rule, my group chats are just goalie memes set to Chromatica, and TikTok is collectively on its knees for these Canadian beasts who glide around looking like