Kinda nervous about this

Alright, so after a lot of thinking and a lot of going back and forth, I've decided to let you guys read the beginning paragraphs of the novel that I'm working on. Please keep in mind that this is just the first draft and a lot of the specifics need to be worked out BUT it's what I have. If you have questions, comments, criticisms, whatever, I'd love to hear it so leave a comment and I'll respond in another post later on. So....yeah. here goes...everything.



The town of Rondy was situated in the center of an island just off the coast of Massachusetts. With a population of only 20,000, Rondy almost never showed up on maps, leaving many to simply forget it existed. In the middle of town was the library with most of it's books donated by either the more wealthier residents or by the larger library on the mainland that didn't have enough room on their shelves. A wide span of grass spread out in front of it; dotted with trees and centered around a fountain featuring a Grecian woman pouring water delicately from a stone pitcher in her arms. Just beyond the park were the shops: Perkin's Grocery, Lucy's Fine Apparel (that sold apparel but nothing anyone would call "fine,") and Hop Up Soda Shop. These three shops were frequented by most of the town as they provided most of the needs anyone in town would have. On the weekends, Hop Up would show a drive-in movie projected onto the back wall.

Rondy continued listlessly further onto the island with more shops and stores, neighborhoods, Benjamin Franklin High School and the Sacred Heart Hospital which employed five doctors and twelve nurses. On the opposite side of the library, backing up so closely to it's rear that if two people were to open the windows, the could speak comfortably without shouting, was City Hall. The mayor, Stewart Patrick, had decided to place the two buildings so close together because of his deep love of books and the fact that he had donated a good portion of the fiction section. City Hall faced quite possibly the most beautiful view in all of Rondy. Short houses rested comfortably on the shallow slope towards the water. The boardwalk lined the shore and met up with row upon row of boats. There was a boat for nearly every citizen of Rondy. Most families owned one or two but the citizens born of fishermen or professional sailors owned three or four. On some nights, when the water is still, the fish aren't biting, and most of the boats had been ported for the night, it was possible to cross over to the mainland by jumping from boat to boat instead of driving over the thin bridge on the edge of town. In the morning when the rising sun brings promise of a better catch or a more suitable condition for sailing, the boats will carefully and slowly slide past each other with the ocean in their sights, pushing just enough to guide their neighbors past them.

More often than not, when it was raining and the sailor's boats are docked, the teenagers would race one another to see who could get across the fastest. The trick is to choose the moat direct route while jumping as few boats as possible. And of course, not to slip and fall into the shimmering water below. Rondy was a quiet town with little to do with the rest of the world. Everyone was kind and helped out when they could. It wasn't until the summer when the lives of four friends would change forever.

All by myself

Sometimes I just need to do things on my own. 

Sometimes I just need to stand on my own two feet and suffer. 

Sometimes I just need to stare into the sky and be.

It's really hard for me to do things on my own. There's just something dependent about my personality. I require people in my life and lots of them. There were times in college that I couldn't even eat by myself. I just need a face to look at. I don't mean to say that I am completely incapable of doing anything by myself. I mean, I can still shit and sleep and masturbate and breathe by myself. I am capable of those things. But there are somethings I find just completely impossible for me to do if I don't have someone there to experience it with me. I recognize that I am 23 years old and I should be able to and probably really want to do a lot of things on my own. I should want to be able to pay my own rent and pay my own cell phone bill and get myself to work on my own and make my own dinner. But I don't. I hate all of those things. I want the world to be handed to me. I don't want to work for anything. Just ONCE, I want things to be easy.

I know this sounds like I'm a whiny 3 year old and not a (sort of) mature 23 year old but I feel like I've been fighting my entire life. In elementary school, I fought to understand why I wanted to be friends with the girls and not the boys. In junior high, I fought to make friends and understand my hormones. In high school, I fought with coming out of the closet. In college, I fought to make good grades and still maintain some sort of social life sanity. And now....now I don't even know what I'm fighting any more. I just feel like I'm constantly at war with something, someone, or myself. Is this work? Is this what it means to earn what comes to me? I have no idea.

I feel leaderless. In a lot of ways, I'm a natural leader. I can direct a troop of 16 girls to do whatever I want but when it comes to leading myself, I'm at a loss. I just want someone to tell me what to do. I'll do it. I'll put the work in. I just don't want to have to figure it out on my own. I feel like my inner self is akin to Swiss cheese. I'm missing so many crucial things, it's hard for me to be happy. I am leaderless. I am missing that ever desired cheerleader in my life. I suppose that's what it really comes down to: support. I don't need a leader, I need a support system. I need someone there telling me that I'm doing great and I just need to push through. I need someone to look me in the face and tell me that I'm just as good and just as capable as everyone else in this world to go after my dreams and get things done. I'm not talking about love. I have plenty of love in my life. My parents love me unconditionally. My brother's will always be there to calm me down and will defend me until the end. And there's my nephew, who thinks I'm a super hero and personal toy to play with (and on) for hours. I adore my best friend and stand in awe of the love she has for me. No, my cup overflows with love. I'm talking about support. Maybe it seems odd but I just feel like I've never really had someone look at what I've done and said, "You know, this is incredibly amazing." And what makes it all the worse, what makes it nearly impossible to bear, is even if someone told me that, I don't think I'd believe them. I don't think I could. After 23 years of trying to be my own support system and slowly taking hits to my self esteem, self worth, and self image, I don't think that hearing it now will make one bit of a difference.

That's the real reason why I've never published anything. That's why I'm constantly putting off finding an agent and getting my stuff into publishing houses to really achieve my dream. I don't think I could take it if I'm told that I'm not a writer. I've changed my life's plan so many times and been pushed back to square one every time. I don't think I could mentally hold myself together after a blow like that.







And now, I must apologize. To you, dear readers of my blog, I'm sorry that I went on like that. I'm sorry I whined for a good four paragraphs. I'm sorry that you had to read it (or chose to, rather.) I'm sorry. I find that if I don't put my feelings somewhere where I might find a connection to another person, they become constipated and I feel like I'm going to explode. Words spew out of me. Anyone that knows me in person knows that I talk incessantly (partly to express every thought and partly to fill as many awkward silences as possible.) But for now, to keep my mouth shut and my mind flowing, I put my feelings here for you to read and experience and feel. I'm sorry.

Don't call the cops, I'm fine. Really.

I thought about killing myself again today. I'm not quite sure what it is about suicide. I'm not depressed or sad. I'm not angry with the world. I'm actually quite happy with myself and my life...most of the time. These ideas just get into my head and I can't let them go until I've thought them all the way through. Today I thought about walking in front of a city bus instead of boarding it like I always do. I imagine the look I'd give the mass of metal and rubber as it hurled itself at me. I imagined the thump as my skull knocked hard on the concrete leaking blood out in a gory halo around me. I imagine the phone call the police would make to my parents, maybe using my own cell phone to look up the number if it weren't in pieces. And that phone call would result in a series of phone calls: first to my brothers, My grandparents, all of my aunts and uncles, and finally my roommate who probably would end up calling my parents after I didn't return home from work. The women would sob, my father would hide in the bathroom and quietly weep. My brothers would be the strength my parents would need, carefully encouraging them to make the arrangements and doing it for them when they couldn't.

In my imagination, my roommate would tell my parents how I'd like my remains handled, donating everything I can and cremating the rest. But who would call my other friends? The ones I rarely see? My employers? That guy at the mall that I gave my number to?sadly, I think that task would fall to my roommate. She'd have to be strong an make dozens of phone calls to people she had only met once or twice. But she'd do it because she'd want me to make those calls of it were her that had been mowed down by a bus.
Afterward, my mother would be constantly consoled by her bother who also had to bury his child. I'm unclear as to whether this would actually comfort her or completely annoy her.

I imagine what would happen to my mind after I died. What would happen to the voice inside my brain, constantly narrating my own life. Would it finally grow silent and lie still? Or is there a place for it to form a being for itself and live on in peace? I suppose that's part of the attractiveness of death. What comes next? Where do we go from here? Not to mention the drama that occurs after a death, especially a suicide. People ask a million questions after a suicide. Why? Why didn't we see it? Why didn't he say something? Why did he do it? Why didn't we do something when we saw signs? Why didn't we try to help?

And that's the irony of my suicide. I am a happy. There are no signs, no reasons, no downward spiral. Just the curiosity of death and the desire for a little drama in my lfe.

The Disappearing Act

Texas is the last place anyone would look for a gay guy. In most of the major cities, there might be a dozen decent gay bars and  half as many gay clubs. But the funny thing about gay bars in Texas is that they suck. Bad. Like they're the last place a 23 year old would want to go to find someone to take home. They're usually full of men in their 50s, or huge, hairy men that'd rather swallow me whole as a snack than buy me dinner. If they're not one of these two men, they are closeted, married gay men or creepy desperates that don't have the social skills to pick anyone up anyway. No, the clubs are the place to be. Full of beautiful men, dancing, drinking, rubbing sweaty bodies together; a club is the place to find someone to spend the night with. The trouble is, and I'm being completely conceited here, I'm too pretty for bars. But at the same time, I'm too ugly for clubs. So where am I to find a boyfriend? Simple: online.

Well, I say it's simple. It's not at all. First you have to find a website that's the perfect mix of not creepy but still has a variety of men on it. Then you have to build your profile to make you seem like you're at least twice as good as you really are, and then comes the hunt. I've literally sifted through hundreds of profiles. I scrutinize everything they write down and only after they pass my rigorous test do I contact them. And as always, after the first date, I realize what a mistake I've made and completely ignore them. I just don't know what else to do. I don't want to see them again and I don't have the heart to verbally reject them.

I'm a bitch. I'm a wuss. It's fine. These men will bounce back. If they cant, they shouldn't be dating online. Sometimes I can't help but wonder how they see me though. "I went on a date with this guy and we had an okay date but then he never spoke to me again. He sort of just disappeared."

That's me, I guess. The disappearing act.