I'll just be mad

This blog post is useless. I'm not saying anything interesting or new. No, what I really want to talk about is how angry I am. I'm just so mad all the time. I'm mad that I can't afford to go back to school. I'm mad that decisions in my life are made for me. I'm mad that I allow others to be selfish to the detriment of my happiness. I'm mad that I can't talk about what I want. I'm mad that I can't live the way I want. I'm mad that the guy I want to date just wants to be alone. I'm mad that as much as I tell myself I'm a writer, I still feel like I'm not. I'm mad that I'm poor. I'm mad that I feel like I'm fighting all the time. I feel like my life is a constant battle against something or someone. I'm mad that "I'm sorry" doesn't have meaning any more. I'm mad that "I love you" doesn't either. I'm mad that it feels like I never get what I want and things never go the way I want them to. I'm mad that I have to compromise. I'm mad that at 23 I can't focus on myself even a little bit. I feel like I'm always considering others when I make life decisions and I'm mad that it feels like I'm the only one doing that. I'm mad that I'm mad. I'm mad that as I write this, I can just FEEL the comments building up. "Let's talk about this. I don't want you to be mad. What's wrong? Here are 100 excuses for why you shouldn't feel the way you do." Fuck you. I'm mad and I have a right to be!
It's the most frustrating thing in the world because of how I have to censor myself because of other people. THAT makes me mad. I'm mad that 44 states have yet to legalize gay marriage. I'm mad that I want to get married. I'm mad that this blog post started out about something else and morphed into a post about anger and loathing. I'm mad about wrinkled clothes. I'm mad about dirty dishes. I'm mad about rotten food. I'm mad about high pitched voices. I'm mad at tobacco companies. I'm mad about drinking water. I'm mad about baby talk. I'm mad that I can't let things go and let little things drive me up the wall. I'm mad that I'm so unwilling to compromise. I'm mad that I'm self-centered. I'm mad that I'm vain. I'm mad that I'm apathetic. The phrase "Look on the bright side..." makes me mad. It makes me mad that funerals are being protested. Of all things in the world to protest, you choose funerals? Really? I don't think you could sink any lower. I'm mad that I feel alone in the world on most days. I feel like I'm in high school again with no one to talk to about the problems I'm experiencing in my life.

I wanted this blog to be about happiness and pleasant experiences.  I'm just so angry. And it makes me MORE angry that society acts like it's not okay to be mad. I just want to be mad and not have someone try to fix me or make me feel "better." I feel mad. Let me do that. Let me feel mad and don't try to fix it. You have two choices here: sit down and tell me all the things you're mad about or get the fuck out. Seriously. If you're not in the mood to be mad with me, then just stay the fuck away from me because this anger needs company. I suppose I know the real reason why I'm so angry. I need a gay friend. I felt EXACTLY the same way in high school when all of my friends were straight. Back then, I chalked it up to teen angst. Now that I'm in my twenties, living in my hometown again, with all straight friends and have gone through these feelings before, I understand that I'm mad because I don't have someone that I can just go to lunch with and talk about gay things. Much like men need man friends and women need girl friends, gays need gay friends. And I think this is completely reasonable. I suppose for now, though, I'll just be mad.

Is this thing on?

First, I'm sorry for not posting as much. I told you I felt a reading cycle happening.

Here's what I'm thinking about today: do you ever have perfect moments? When you're just at the right place, at the right time, wearing the right outfit, holding the right prop, with the right music playing, the right lighting and the world is spinning at just the right speed? I had such a moment just now.

It's Tuesday, for one which is perfect. Tuesdays are always the best days for being productive and lazy at the same time. When I realize that it's Tuesday, I always thing, "Well, I should get stuff done because I didn't do anything on Monday because I was so hungover. But on the other hand, I have the rest of the week to get all of this stuff done so I'll just do a little bit, plan my week out as I go." See? Productive yet lazy.

It's also right around noon. I think of all times of the day, noon is my favorite. It means it's lunch time. It means the day is half over. It means that I can stop saying "Good morning!" because no one likes mornings that much. The sun is out but for some reason, it's not hot. There might a breeze but it's not noticeable. The cicada's are out and I can't tell if that's normal or weird.

I have my iPod playing the jovial tunes of Owl City. Hey, I know what I like, okay? And I like pop music. Get off me. B, the dog, has come to visit and lay on top of my dirty underwear on the floor. I have a coffee mug of Dr. Pepper because I'd rather drink out of a coffee mug than anything else and I'm just not in the mood for actual coffee right now. I'm smoking in my room which makes me feel not only aloof but also incredibly cliche and I love it.

The only thing that could possibly make this better would be the gentle humming of my typewriter sporadically interrupted by the thwacking of the keys. I miss that old girl. She died recently. Her name was June (the month I bought her in.) She died of a fatal ribbon rupture. I was attempting to adjust it and ripped the ribbon. They have ceased manufacturing typewriter ribbons now. So she sits like a ghost in my closet. A useless, romantic dream of a 20 something writer hoping to make it big.

So my moment was perfect. I feel if more of us treasured perfect moments like that more often, the world would be a lot happier of a place. We would realize how trivial some of our problems are and grudges would be let go. Beauty queens everywhere would get their wish: world peace.

Oh. My. God. That was either brilliant and beautiful or incredibly sappy and disgusting. I can't really tell which.....you know...it's interesting how quickly emotions can change. I was JUST having a perfect minute and now....Now I miss R, my friend in the Peace Corps. I wish she were home and I hope she's happy. I worry about her happiness sometimes. I feel like she's always looking for it but doesn't realize that it's all around her. Happiness is a funny thing if you think about it long enough. It happens like waves on the shore. Sometimes the waves crash quickly and pull back over and over. And sometimes the waves will swell and seep deeply into the sand, warming itself in the sun. Yeah, happiness is a funny thing...

Let's talk about cliches for a minute. You know how sometimes, people want that "movie moment." They want to be Carrie Bradshaw and live lushly in New York. Or they want to be Bruce Wayne, billionaire by day, striking Batman by night. Maybe it's not even that extravagant. Sometimes they just want that perfect movie minute where their handsome boyfriend takes them for a walk in the snow and leads you over to where he's written "Will you marry me?" in the snow on the path and  the next thing you know, there's a ring on your finger and you're crying and nodding and kissing and embracing. I'm not saying everyone wants these moments but they are out there. And I am one of them. And sometimes I wonder, are these movie moments cliche? And what does that say about the person who wants their life to be cliche?
(By the way, how cliche was THAT moment when I wrote that last line? I was SOOO Carrie Bradshaw minus the New York and plus a penis.)

I Write, You Read

So I've been struggling to write recently and I've discovered that for me, writing comes in waves. I'll go through about a three week period where all I want to do is write and be creative and explode all over the place. And then for about another three weeks, all I'll want to do is read and be silent and observe the world. I can feel myself slipping between these cycles and I'm afraid that my reading cycle is creeping back early this time. I read four Vogue magazines in a day, cover to cover, even the articles no one reads. So I've decided that I'm going to combat this oncoming cycle by rambling on in my writing and forcing something, anything to come out. I will not edit and I will not write entire blog posts and then delete them because I think they're trivial. I will write and throw it to the world because that's what writers do.

I can tell this plan will work. Just by sitting here and writing this post, I am bursting with ideas for more. I've had to start a list just so I can remember it all. This is what artists do: the create because they have to, not because they want to. I can't breathe, can't sleep, can't work unless I've written something that day. I have so many thoughts and so many emotions whizzing through my head that if I didn't allow them to escape, they would continually bounce and terrorize my brain until I did. I am a tea kettle, explosive with steam. I don't live so that I may write, I write so that I may live.

I don't know if I've mentioned this before but I struggle with confidence. I often feel like I'm good at a lot of little things but not great at one thing like everyone else seems to be. And so I often struggle believing that I am a writer. I have to wake up everyday and repeat to myself that today I am a writer and one day I will be an author. There's an enormous difference between the two. Its akin to saying, "I am a singer" and "I am a star." Anyone can be a writer. I'd say that 98% of the world's population are writers. But to be an author means to present language in a way that moves people, changes them and challenges their very thoughts. To be an author, you have to have the ability to enter peoples minds, implant a story and make them believe that it was there all along. And then convince them to share that story with everyone they know, spread it around like warm butter on hot toast.

No, I am not an author. Today I am a writer. But one day, I will be an author.

Cerebral Ceremonies

I think that I think too much. I feel like I'm constantly in my head, having conversations with myself, playing through scenarios in hopes of preparing for all the possible outcomes. And what sucks is that sometimes, when someone asks me a question, they think I didn't hear them because I've gone off, staring into space trying to erect an answer while at the same time, try to guess what you're reaction will be.

This gets me into most trouble during funerals. I spend the whole time trying to create the most appropriate reaction for the situation that I forget that not only is no one looking for my reaction, but they don't care. And so I sometimes forget to just allow my body to react naturally and then I forget to grieve. (Grief usually catches up with me about a week later when I can do nothing but cry.)

I also find myself doing this at any important, crowded events. At weddings I'm focused on looking so happy I'm almost crying but also dapper and sophisticated. At award ceremonies, I try not to look expectant and more "just happy to be here" or "they totally deserve this award."

I know I'm not the only one who does this. We all have different masks we put on in social situations like those. Especially if our true feelings are inappropriate for the event. Which is usually my problem. At funerals, I don't feel sad typically. It's more like...reading an out of order sign. I'm not emotionally invested, I just sort of let it happen to me. I mean, I'm not a robot, I do feel some level of sadness or disappointment or regret but I'm not weeping over it. I mean, it's an out of order sign. I simply accept the experience and move on.

Weddings are a different story. Weddings are supposed to be joyous and celebratory. Meanwhile, I'm sitting in the back pew, sipping out of the flask I snuck in and trying to decide if I should make a scene or not. I don't give up attention very well (Youngest Child Syndrome) so attending weddings and having the entire event all about the couple is something I haven't gotten used to yet. So I usually spend my time flip flopping between secret disapproval (I'll admit to a hint of jealousy in there. Someday I think I'd like to get married and I'm jealous that they can and I can't) and being regal and classy. This is all for the ceremony mind you. At the reception I am all about four things: drinking, dancing, hooking up and cake.

At award ceremonies I am typically seething underneath. As with the weddings, I don't enjoy attending events like that where I'm not the center of attention. If I'm not nominated, I'm not going. And if I AM nominated, I practice my "Just happy to be here" smile and gracious clap for at least two days before attending. It's not that I'm cynical, I just know two truths: 1) I win about 1 out of every 100 awards that I'm nominated for. 2) if I DO win, I want my surprise to be genuine. So I prepare to lose everytime.

I'm aware that in all of these situations, I'm completely self-centered and unapologetic for it. But I'm 23. If I've ever been allowed to be self-centered its now. I know all too well from watching WAY too much Will & Grace and Sex and the City that your 20s is the time for you to find out who you are and completely focus on that. Will I eventually be able to express sympathy for the family instead of trying to put on my best "tragically upset" face at funerals? Probably. Will I be able to attend weddings and not want to casually knock over a candle in the middle of the ceremony? Yeah, probably around the same time that I learn how to attend an award ceremony and not care who wins.

I'm 23. I think too much and I'm only concerned with myself....sometimes...for now.

Character Introduction: Scout

Soo...while writing, I realized that I need to flesh out some of my characters more. Scout is my main character and the realest to me so I figured I'd introduce you two so you could get to know him (and tell me what you think.) If you have other questions you'd like Scout to answer, please post them in the comments.




Tell us about yourself.
My name is Scout Thanos. I'm 17 years old and sooo close to graduating high school. I really can't wait to get out of that place. It's suffocating. The teachers are always telling you what to do and where to be, what to wear and how to act. I don't understand how anyone can survive with all those rules.

What do you do for fun?
I spend most of my free time keeping myself from being bored. Sometimes I watch TV or chill in my room and listen to music but for the most part I like to go out and find something fun to do. One time I got home from school and spent the rest of the day gathering all of the pillows, mattresses and blankets in a pile outside of my bedroom window and then I called my friends over and we all took turns jumping out the window onto the pad. It was a blast! It felt like I was flying... Someday I'm gonna fly right out of this place, I swear to God.

Can you tell us about your family?
I have two older brothers, Eric and Jonathan. They're alright. They've both been away at college for the past few years so I don't really see them. When they lived at home though, they used to drive me nuts. Eric would always come home and change the TV to some anime show he liked, even if I was already watching something. He was really annoying growing up. He kind of seemed to calm down when he left for college. I don't know if he matured because he's at college and not living with Mom and Dad anymore or if he's matured because he's gotten older. Haha! Jonathan still comes home every weekend. He went to the community college on the mainland so he's only a half hour drive away. I don't think he's changed as much as Eric has at college. He's still the same, quiet Jonathan that stays out of everyone's way but makes a point to do his own thing.

And your parents?
My parents are alright. My dad, Will, is a truck driver. He's been all over the United States and most of Canada. He's home about 6 times a year and never for more than a weekend at time. When I was really little, I used to beg him to take me with him on one of his trips and he'd always say, "When you're older, Scout." Then he'd hop into his cab, make the engine scream to life and drive off. He's always driving off. My mother, Molly, raised us pretty much by herself. My dad would send her money throughout the year but I still don't remember a time when my mom wasn't working. She's been the receptionist at Dr. Scalaf's office since before I was born. There's nothing really special about her. She's a good mom. She taught me to tie my shoes and pee in the toilet instead of my pants. But I honestly can't remember a time when she kissed my knee after I scraped it on the ground or smoothed my hair trying to get me to close my eyes while I fought off sleep. I don't remember her reading to me as a child or telling me how good my finger painting was. She just isn't an affectionate mother. She's reliable, that's for sure, but definitely not affectionate. But I mean, I don't think it changed me at all. I'm okay. I go to school. I make alright grades. I have friends. I'm not socially awkward. Yeah, I'm alright.

What are your favorite things?
My favorite things in life is kind of a complicated subject. My favorite color is anything bright. I like things that catch people's eye. I want them to stare and wonder what the heck I'm wearing or what I've done to my hair. I don't mind being the center of attention. I guess I get that from being the youngest in my family. I like doing anything that's outside: running, biking, swimming, sailing, laying in the grass, going on walks. Staying inside just seems so boring to me. I need sunlight in my life.

What are your friends like?
My best friends are Mena, Catherine and Greg. We've known each other since elementary school and it SUCKS that we're all going to different colleges. Well, they are. I'm still not sure if I'm gonna go or not. I told them that I applied to all these places but in all honesty, I haven't sent out one. It's not that I'm scared, I'm just not sure it's something that I want. Who wants to move out of their parents house where they have to pay for everything and CHOOSE to go to school? No one. Especially me. No, I'd rather spend my time sailing around the world or going on an archeological dig and finding the next King Tut. I'd rather be having tea with Queen Liz or meditating with the Tibetan monks. I guess I just want more of an adventure and college just can't offer that to me.

What do you want to be when you grow up?
You know, I'm not really sure what I want to do with my life. I think I'm too young to decide on that right now. I figure I'll just see where this summer leaves me off and go from there.

An Open Letter to My First Love

My First Love,

I want....no, I need you to realize that I loved you first. Before you ever loved me, I was head-over-heals for you. I locked eyes with you and lost a part of myself in their deep blue abyss. You took a piece of me and honestly, I don't want it back. You can have it. It's yours to keep forever and ever. I will always be incomplete because of you. I've grown to accept that. I've learned to compensate. I limp because of you. I hide bits and pieces of myself in fear that someone might steal them from me like you stole that part of me. Just the important parts, though. Just the parts I'm afraid of losing because I just don't think I'd survive another theft like that.

It's important that you know that I don't blame you. I don't hate you. In fact, I still love you....very much so. I still have dreams about you. I still wonder what it would have been like if we had fallen into deep, real, long-lasting love. I wonder what it would have been like if you left me whole. I wonder what kind of a neighborhood we would have lived in, if we would have had kids, if we would be friends with our neighbors and participate in the PTA. I wonder if you'd beg me to let you paint my writing room the same way you begged me to let you paint all over my writing notebook....to "inspire" me, you said. I still have that notebook, you know. I can't bring myself to throw it away. I don't know if it's because of what I've written inside or because I'm still clinging to you through that paint you left on the cover. It's just attached to me like a tan line that won't fade. It's always there. Sometimes I take it out and look at it. I flip through the pages of my sobbing teenage years and smell that scent you always had on you: paint mixed with a subtle hint of crayons. And I remember. I remember what it was like to be with you, to laugh and argue and make out on the futon in your parents house. I remember watching you stare at the canvas, paintbrush in your mouth, smudges of color all over your face and in your hair. And I remember the way your arms felt around me when we would watch movies together. See? It wasn't all bad. Just the end. And I don't even really remember the end...or I choose not to. I'm not sure which.

I also need you to know that I never told anyone what really went on between us. Whenever I spoke of you, it was almost always a lie. When I was mad, I made up stories that turned you into a monster. But when I was happy, I turned you into a prince in shining armor. To my friends, you were whatever I needed you to be. I lied to you and about you. For that, I'm sorry. You have to understand that you fulfilled my teen angst and hormone-driven lust. You were my first love and very much a convenient escape. You made me feel like trash. You made me feel special. I was special trash to you. Special trash that you know is garbage but you can't bring yourself to throw it away. To you, I was that notebook I cling to.

Love,
your special trash,
K

A Piece of Paper

So today at work (for those that don't know, I work in a restaurant,) my boss's boss was in observing her (my boss) technique on the line. (Again for those that don't know, the line is where the food comes from the kitchen into the servers hands.) Anyway, he was in observing which immediately put everyone on edge because our boss threatened our jobs if we weren't cooperative. Cool. So already at 11:00 AM I'm stressed out. But I tried to ignore him and just do what I do everyday: take the shit orders, bag the shit food, give them to shit people and take their delicious money. I do try to help my friends out when I have the time. Mostly because their my friends but also because they help me out too. If I'm being completely honest, I bust my fucking ass there. I'm always doing shit for people, even the people I dont like. I greet tables, seat people, bus tables, just generally help out when I can. I mean, I'm a nice guy and if someone asks me to do something when I'm standing around not doing anything, of course I'm gonna help out. But that's neither here nor there, really.

At the end of the shift, my boss's boss gathered us all together to thank us for "allowing him in our kitchen." Whatever, he pretty much owns the place. But he was trying to be respectful, I get it. And after thanking us he said he wanted to recognize someone who was always available to help out, constantly refilling drinks, stocking and running food even though it wasn't his job or his table. That person was me. Hurray.....kind of. See, the company I work for, instead of giving monotary rewards (raises) for jobs well done, they give these slips of paper that say, "hey. Thanks for doing that. You're a real team player." ......mother fucker, does it look like I can pay rent with this shit? Don't get me wrong, I'm greatful for being recognized for doing a great job. I really do enjoy the praise. But if you're going to give me something in return, make it cash or gtfo. I have received 23 of these little slips of paper since I started working at this restaurant. 23! That's more than once a week! I just don't even know what to do with them any more. At first I put them on my fridge but that seemed silly. I didn't even want them in the first place so why was I keeping them? I WANT to rip them up and give my boss tiny paper cuts on her eyes...but I don't. I just give her my best "who me?! Thank you!" smile and take the paper home. It promptly goes in the trash but at least I take it home.

Maybe I'm ungreatful but I like to call it poor. I struggle every month to pay rent and all of my bills. I'm lucky that I have the most understanding roommate and parents in the world who are always willing to help me out. But seriously? I bust my ass 6 days a week for you and all I get is a piece of paper? This little scrap makes me want to NOT bust my ass for you. And maybe it's just me but giving out THAT many "rewards" so frequently doesn't really make them rewards anymore. They're more like their true form: shitty bits of paper with my name spelled wrong.

My Brothers

I need to take some time and discuss my brothers. I'm the youngest of four boys and while it has taught me a great deal of things, having only brothers, I also feel its left me lacking in some areas.

A - A is the eldest. He set the bar when it came to making rules for the kids and paved the way for the rest of us. He's always been a leader and a trouble maker. He taught me how to defend myself. The first time I was ever in a car accident, the minute I got home, I ran into A's arms. I have always felt safe with him and I think I always will. A got married when I was 18. The family flew to the Bahamas and watchedwith tears in our eyes as he said "I do." Since I was months away from leaving for college, giving A over to his new wife was pretty easy for me. I just figured that it was time for our family dynamic to change. And as I stood with my toes in the sand and waited for the photographer to stop taking pictures of me, I thought back to when he left for college and how, then, I wasn't ready for him to leave. I still needed him. I still needed to learn how to think logically when tackling a problem or how to pull someone off me when they're pinning me down. A taught me to pick up a shield and defend myself first...always.

D - D is the second eldest and radically different from A. D is aggressive and unbelievably cunning. While A joined the percussion in the school band, D went out for wrestling and football. D was the one who taught me how to throw a football, swing a bat and how to pee standing up. He taught me that it was possible to be creative and still be the toughest guy in school. He knew how to manipulate my parents from the start. D taught me how to attack as a means of defense. Use your words first, cut them deep and hurt their feelings; strike them only when they strike first or you absolutely have to. Though he never said those words to me, that was his message. Growing up with D was very much a trial by fire. I rarely have a memory of D where we weren't fighting or playing a game where we pretended to fight. It's no surprise that now D is in the military. Him being gone all the time is hard. It's hard on all of us. I know we all worry even when he's stateside. I just can't imagine life without him. D taught me to pick up a sword and use it. My best defense is a good offense. He'd probably rather me pick up a gun but that doesn't really fit into my imagery, does it? 

J - J is the youngest of my older brothers. He is shy and quiet. He has always kept to himself and always preferred to be alone rather than play with others. J was the peacemaker of our family. He always sacrificed himself if it would make his brothers happy. He too joined the percussion and finally found a means of expression. J taught me to be merciful and how to play. J gave me my imagination. He taught me to look at the world and only see what I want it to be. In a sense, J gave me a pair of rose colored glasses that I sometimes still struggle to take off. J taught me what it meant to be independant. He wants to do everything himself to make sure that it is exactly the way he wants it. He taught me not to care what people said or thought and to go after my own dreams and do what I want to do. J taught me to find my imagination and how to run away with it.

So there are my three brothers. They are the three people I always look to first. I seek their approval before anyone else's. They have been my teachers, my friends and my defenders. I can't tell you how many times my brothers protected me from physical attacks in school. I can't express the love I have for them. I owe so much of who I am to them, the least I can do is blog about it.

Figments of my imagination

Sometimes, while standing at my bus stop, I feel completely alone in the world. The cars and buses and trucks pass by without passengers. The other beings that exist on the bus seem like only figments of my imagination. Like I'm a dreamer who has lost control. It makes me ponder the truth behind things like love and hate. The figments had to come from somewhere. Are the people I love just the things I love about myself? And alternately, are the people I hate just things I despise about myself? In my dreamland, I am every person there is, ever was and ever will be. I burned millions of Jews in concentration camp ovens, I bombed and wiped out an entire city to end a world war, caused by and fought against myself. I have been President of the United States 44 times and every King and Queen of England and the Commonwealth that ever lived. I invaded China and then built a Great Wall to defend against myself.

These figments come and go so quickly, I stand in awe of how rapidly I can create and destroy such unique entities. The world is a testament to my imperfectablility. I am the world and the world is me. These thoughts I have are being shared with all of the pieces of me that I have spread so thickly across the earth. We are all connected, linked, sewn together so tightly that we rarely see the stitching that binds us: an invisible thread that makes us say, "I am you and you are me and we are we and we are all in this together because we have never been apart."

These figments of my imagination. I wonder if they even know...

Questions

I have a lot of questions for people that usually go unanswered. Mostly these questions are for people I ride the bus with. Here's a sampling:

Why are you carrying a bejeweled cane? I understand that you need it to walk but why the jewels? And they're not just regular rhinestones. These are giant princess craft time jewels. Did your daughter get a hold of your cane? Why didn't you stop her?

Ma'am? Ma'am...it IS ma'am isn't it? I was thrown off by your combo- exposed bra strap and full mustache. Anyway, why are you not wearing pants? I see you have some tights on but did you forget that they go under something else or did you forget that something else at home? Or did you spill something on that something else and took it off out of embarrassment? Either way, I just wanted to tell you that it's way more embarrassing that you're not wearing pants.

........ARE YOU WEILDING A SWORD?!?!?!

Um, bus driver...you forgot that old lady in a wheel chair. Like you legit closed the door in her face. What's that? You're an asshole? Oh okay then. Carry on.

I'm sorry. Did you not see me standing here, clinging for dear life as the bus careens down the highway? No, you're right. Your newspaper needs a safer place to rest than I do.

Is it because I'm white? Is that why you asked me for a dollar but ignored the other 15 people riding the bus? Or are my sunglasses just THAT convincing that you thought I was loaded? Let me tell you, there only there so I can give you the bitch eye in private.

And those are just my questions from this afternoon....bus riders are lunatics.

Bitter

I'll be the first to admit that I hold grudges sometimes. Usually it's irrational and childish but I'll cling to that grudge like it's the last cashmere scarf at a Bloomingdale's sale. I really will. And as I'm writing this, all the grudges I have had (and some I still do) are flooding into consciousness. One of the more trivial grudges is the one I hold against all Broadway dancers on So You Think You Can Dance. I still maintain that Evan not only should have won his season but is and always will be the best Broadway dancer the show has ever seen. All others can exit stage left with the other haters, thank you.

But the biggest grudge I hold and have held on to is one against a politically conservative person. And before I go into this rant, I want to say that I understand not all conservatives are like this and that I even have a few conservative friends  and coworkers that are very dear to me (they're hard to avoid in Texas.) BUT for the sake of argument and because the type of people I'm talking about like to lump all homosexuals together, I will be doing the same thing to them.

I'm getting ahead of myself. My roommate, S, works in an office with many many conservatives. Today one of them was distraught over the fact that she had to put down one of her horses because he's old. S texted me that she was resisting the urge to make jokes about glue and jello. And I couldn't help but wonder why? Sure, she's upset but why should I spare her feelings? Did conservatives spare my feelings when I wanted to go to high school and kiss my boyfriend before we went to class? No, we got the shit kicked out of us. Did the conservatives spare my feelings when I wrote an article about being sexually attacked at a party by another man? No, they made me change the narrative to a woman's perspective. This is what I'm talking about. The double standard. And I don't mean the political double standard (because that's a post of a different color.) I'm talking about the emotional double standard. Conservatives want to protect their children from being "brainwashed" by the "homosexual agenda." But in reality they're just teaching their heterosexual children about intolerance and their homosexual children to be ashamed of something they can't control. There's a reason why homosexual teens are the leading demographic in teen suicide in the United States. So in short, no, conservatives. I will not spare your feelings and I will attack you where it hurts. Because I'm hurt. And I'm not sure if I'll ever get over it.





Okay, readers, I want all of you to know that in my rant I was speaking to a very specific type of person. There are THOUSANDS of sympathetic conservatives out there that see the double standard and genuinely want to work to change it. The world isn't full of monsters and you don't have to be afraid of everyone that says, "I vote republican." They're not all bad. Alright? So don't live in fear. And to my younger readers, don't let my rant jade you. Leave your mind open and do your best to accept everyone and find the good in them. There IS good in everyone.

10 Fictional Characters I'd Totally Date

I know, it's ASTOUNDING that in the southern coast of Texas, I can't find a quality man to date. Let me tell you. But the truth of the matter is every guy I find has something that I'm just illequipped to handle. So like every other gay man in Texas, I fall in love with fictional men...here is my list.

1) Heathcliff - Wuthering Heights
He's dark, he's brooding, he's almost always depicted with long curly locks. AND he fucking fought for Catherine like a boss. That bitch didn't know what she had. In the world of Wuthering Heights, Heathcliff's only mistake was falling in love with Catherine. And really, who could blame him for falling in love? His life was ruled by his love for her. He did everything for her.

2) Jim Halpert - The Office
There's not a woman or gay man I know that watches this show and hasn't uttered at one time or another, "I have a TV crush on Jim and I live vicariously though Pam." And if they haven't, they will now. Jim is almost too perfect. He's hilarious, adorable, sweet...not too mention he's totally willing to settle down and provide for the woman (or in my fantasy, man) that he loves.

3) William Hayes - Definitely, Maybe
Let's all just take a moment and imagine Ryan Reynolds naked....delicious. And as if that isn't enough of a reason to date him right there, Will is probably the sweetest guy ever created. He found that girl's book that her father gave to her!!! He kept it for a few years but the point is, he eventually gave it to her. He's passionate about politics. I know jack shit about politics but I love a man who has passion in his life. And honestly, who can't love a man that tells a story like the one told in Definitely, Maybe?

4) Adam - Beauty and the Beast
Betcha didn't know Beast had a name did you? Well his name is Adam...allegedly. There's still some controversy about that. And I know he is a cartoon but still. All he wanted and needed in life was true love. I can't think of anything more endearing than that. Also, he's a hot prince...helllooooooo?!

5) Bobby Drake - X-Men
If you've ever laid a hand on my arm, touched anything after I have or sat next to me on a couch, bus or plane, you know that lava runs through my veins. I'm a good 2 or 3 degrees warmer than anyone at any given time. (Trust me, it may not sound like much but it is.) So because of that fact, Bobby's power to create and manipulate ice/water is appealing. Ever since I saw him kiss Rogue and her breath was frosty afterwards, I've been lusting after him. He's also a rare eternally good person. He honestly wants to save the world but doesn't want to be showered with praise because of it.

6) Spencer Reid - Criminal Minds
I love the fact that he doesn't understand how adorable he is. I find his fact ramblings fascinating and the limits (or lack there of) of his knowledge amazing. He's sensitive but willing to do what he needs to ensure goodness prevails.

7) Legolas - The Lord of the Rings
There are many reasons to date Legolas: fierce warrior, cunning and light on his feet not to mention, he's an elf. (If you're unfamiliar with the world of Tolkien, elves are among the most beautiful creatures in the world.) He's also compassionate and level headed. He's loyal and smart and fights for the greater good.

8) Jack McPhee - Dawson's Creek
Jack is wrought with emotions and issues. With his crazy ass sister, crazy ass mother, dead brother and absentee father, Jack is a whole bag of mess. So what makes him so attractive? He was there for me. When I was coming out of the closet and wasn't sure how I was going to tell my friends, much less my parents, Jack was struggling with the same issues. And while telling my parents wasn't quite the "sobbing on the stairs screaming 'No, I will not calm down and I will not be quiet!'" scene, he was there for me afterwards when I was struggling with my parents' acceptance. He taught me how to be okay with who I am and ignore what everyone else said.

9) Augusten Burroughs - Running With Scissors
Okay, so Augusten isn't fictional. BUT I kind of imagine him to be because of the impossible life he's led and because I only know him through the books he's written. Augusten is....in a word: peculiar. I often question the validity of his stories but I can help but fall in love with the way he thinks, the way he acts, the way he talks...I find him fascinating. He reminds me of a boy I knew that thought he loved me very much but it turned out to be only lust. He's neurotic and a little bit crazy and that's why I'm drawn to him.

10) Calvin -Calvin and Hobbes
Okay, before you go off on me about him being a boy, let's just remember that he doesn't even exist. Anyway, I have to say that Calvin's naivete (because he's a boy) makes him 10 times cuter than the animators drew him to be. He sees the world with honest eyes. He's an adventurer and a dreamer. I connect with Calvin on a creative level. He's who I wish I was when I was a child.

So there's my list. 10 men that I would TOTALLY date if they existed. Now to find just ONE man that comes close to ANY of these guys...

Am I a Bitch?

I've been called a lot of names in my life: fag, queen, pussy, baby, fragile, asshole, jackass, and, of course, bitch. The only one I ever thought had a ring of truth to it was bitch. I can be a bitch. I was the Gretchen Weiners of my high school and yes, my best friend was the Regina George. In high school I quickly learned how to manipulate and intimidate people to get what I wanted. I abused peoples trust, lied, gossiped, anything I could do to make sure that I was treated like royalty and everyone else was miserable. I was a perfect angel for adults that kept a close eye on me but a tyrant to my classmates. Yes, back then, I was a bitch.
But when I went to college, I changed and reinvented myself. I'm not sure if it was because I had matured when I stepped onto my college campus or because I had finally gotten away from the poisonous influence that was Sarah (my Regina.) I became a new person; I was nicer to people, forgiving, sincere and loyal. I made new friends and learned all over again what it meant to be a true friend to someone. I wasn't a bitch, I was brutally honest. There's a fine difference, trust me. A bitch says something mean while making it sound sweet. Brutally honest people say mean things because they need to be said.
But now I'm no longer in college and while I don't think that I've reverted to my high school ways, I can't help but wonder if my bitchiness ever went away or just redirected itself to another group.
I never dated in college. I was too busy going to class and getting drunk. I didn't have time for boys. But maybe if I had taken the time for them, I would have noticed this pattern before. I started hooking up on a regular basis when I moved back home with my parents and now I am the king of one night stands. I've hooked up with more guys than I care to count and most of whom I don't even know their names. I'm pretty sure there have been a few guys who's faces I never even saw. Don't get me wrong, anonymous hook ups can be fun and exciting and, I have to admit, make me feel pretty cool. But they're also dangerous and usually creepy or crazy or both.
And now, like most people, I've grown tired of faceless, nameless fucks and have started looking for something real. Someone I can bring home to my parents. Someone that's in it for the long haul. There's just one tiny little kink: I'm a bitch (or at least I used to be.) I'll find a really nice guy that treats me well and is hot as hell, go on one or two dates with him, find something I don't like about him and then just completely ignore him. Like cut off all communication with him, defriend him on Facebook, block him on Skype, unfollow him on twitter, all that fun jazz. (What can I say? I'm a product of the 21st Century.) I've become that guy that never calls you back and leaves you wondering why I won't return your phone calls or texts and when we see each other at Kroger, I turn and walk away. (I can always buy trash bags later but not when you corner me in the paper plate aisle.)
I don't understand why I can't just tell him that its not working out and I think we should see other people. I guess I'm just tired of having that conversation. I'm tired of being convinced that people can change and that it'll get better if I just give it time. If you rub me the wrong way, its over. Just take me ignoring you as a sign that we're through and move on. But does that make me a bitch? Or just sure of what I want?

Maybe I'm a bitch because its my only defense mechanism that's proven to work. Maybe I'm a bitch because I know what I want and I'm not concerned about other people or their feelings when it comes to me getting it. But people being too sensitive about their feelings is another story for another time. Yes, I may be a bitch. But honestly, I think I need to be a bitch when it comes to love. I refuse to let heartbreak jade me. And the way I figure it, you can't get your heartbroken if you don't give it to anyone to break. I'm happy being a bitch. Maybe everyone else needs to get over their stigma of bitches and realize that we're doing what we can to survive. Bitches.

The bag man

Today I saw a man sleeping on the sidewalk. He was tucked away in a doorway, off to the side and hardly noticeable. He was dirty and tired and just wanted to be left alone, or perhaps a dollar if you had one to spare. No one did.
Plastic bags, like the one groceries usually come in, were piled high around him. Some of them held belongings: a blanket with large holes in it, a windbreaker jacket, four left shoes and two right. The other bags just held more bags. As he slept, he rested his head gently on his bags and tried his best to cover himself with the others. He wanted to be invisible.
After a while, a man came out of the building where the bag man slept. He wore a nice, pin striped, navy suit and and expensive looking shoes. He walked over to the bag man, gently nudged him with his shoe and said, "Get up. You can't sleep here. Come on, get up." The bag man didn't move. He laid perfectly still in hopes that the man in the suit would go away. Again, the man in the suit kicked him.
"HEY!" he shouted, "GET UP! LEAVE OR I'LL CALL THE COPS." At this, the bag man stirred. He slowly lifted his head, peered at the man in the suit through sleepy eyes, and slowly rolled over onto his knees. He started to collect his bags and carefully placed them over his shoulder. The man in the suit stood by impatiently tapping his foot.
"Come on. Get your trash and get out of here." said the man in the suit, checking his watch for the third time. The bag man continued to slowly pick up his bags and place them over his shoulder. Once he had collected them all and they hung about him like elegant drapes on a large window, he shuffled away. The man with his suit caught my eye as he turned to go back inside. "Some people," he said, "just need to get a job."
I looked at him and shook my head, " He does have a real job." I pointed to where the bag man had stopped and was now loading his bags into a green recycling bin. "He's picking up after you." The man in the suit scoffed and hurried inside.

Still nervous about this

So, I got some good reviews of the first page (sans the last line) of this thing I'm writing so I'm posting a little more. I don't think I'll post this sequentially any more. I think I'll just post parts as I come to them. Also, I kind of want this thing to be published some day and if I post it all on here, there will be no point to buying the book so...yeah. Here we go...again...Still terrified. haha

It was hot. Scout reached up to wipe the sweat off his forehead that he wasn't quite sure was there or not.
"What a day to wear a polyester tent." he thought as he readjusted the brilliant blue fabric draped around him. His cardboard hat sat awkwardly on his head as it did for everyone else in his graduating class. And  like everyone else, he was growing increasingly bored listening to the vice principal list off the various do's and don'ts  of appropriate behavior for the impending graduation ceremony.
"Why do we even need a dress rehearsal? It's not like wearing this stupid thing changes the way I walk." Scout whispered to Alison Thyme sitting beside him. She completely ignored him and continued to text her best friend sitting three rows ahead of them. Scout sighed, adjusted his robe again, and slouched in his chair.
"What's the point of being funny if no one listens?" he muttered.
"Oh, I heard you," Alison replied without looking up from her phone, "I just don't think you're funny."
"Whatever, Alison. Go back to texting your lesbian lover." The heat was making Scout cranky.  After reading the rules, Vice Principal DaMarco began reading the names of every one of Scout's classmates. Knowing this was going to take another two hours, Scout groaned loudly and continued to slouch and ignore the world except for the first, 19th, and 23rd names. These were his best friends: Mena, Greg and Catherine.


This is terrible. Like for real terrible. Also, boring. So I'm sorry you read it but it's what I have and people have been asking for more so there you go. Bam.

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.

When I was younger, Part I

You know, I always thought I was different. When I was little, I thought it was because I had some sort of untapped magical power. I spent countless mornings lying in my bed wondering if today was going to be the day that I would discover that I could fly or become invisible or move things with my mind. When I was 10, I read the Harry Potter book series and was convinced that on my next birthday, I would get a letter from a giant with a a tattered, pink umbrella.
These things, clearly, never came to pass. Instead, I found myself playing dress-up in my mother's clothes when she wasn't looking and playing the captured princess in my brothers' make-believe games. When I went to school, that's when things really began to come into focus. Making friends with the boys was clearly more difficult than making friends with the girls. I wasn't interested in the same things as the boys, though for the life of me, I did try. On the playground, I would try to get into their games of tag and football and baseball. But the girls just looked so happy in their tea parties under the jungle gym. I didn't understand why it was strange that I wanted to join them. "Why can't I just do what makes me happy?" I thought. When I was four, my grandmother had crocheted  a blanket for me. It was lovely really; green, white and pink. When she gave it to me, I spent hours just staring at the intricate needlework, poking my fingers through the weaving. That spring, I discovered that if I tied the blanket around my waist, I looked just like Belle from Beauty and the Beast. Sure, the color was off but I was four, my imagination would fill in the holes.
Every morning, I would wake up, eat my cereal and then tie the blanket around me and spin and twirl around my room. Jacob, the brother that I shared a room with, never seemed to notice my alleged strange behavior, but, he was 6 after all. Jacob was never one to create conflict in the family. Always willing to do whatever everyone else wanted to do, always the one to sacrifice his happiness for the happiness of others. Growing up, he was my best friend. We were inseparable. He was the one that taught me how to pick my nose without making it bleed, how to use the toilet, how to tie my shoes. And when I asked him if he wanted to play make-believe, and told him that I wanted to be the one he needed to rescue, he was all too happy to play my knight in shining armor.
It was never romantic, him saving me, purely make-believe. There was never a kiss shared between us or him sweeping me up in his arms. It was more about him slaying the dragon and chopping the lock that kept me in my cage which was really our mother's laundry basket. And typically, after he saved me, I would suddenly develop some sort of magical power that I would then use to defend us against our enemies as we escaped the castle.
At the age of 5, I had my first experience with shame. I was playing in my room, my blanket tied around my like a skirt and my mother's best friend came over for lunch. I have always loved her. She was a large person; she seemingly was so tall that if she turned her nose to the ceiling, she could lick the tiles. But not only was she large in stature, she had a personality that seemed to fill the room and infect everyone in it. So naturally, when I heard her voice booming from the kitchen, I excitedly ran to her...forgetting all about the pseudo-skirt I was wearing. When my feet touched the linoleum of the kitchen floor, and I saw her eyes widen and look me up and down, I became all too aware of what I was wearing. I remember standing in front of the two women, my mother and her friend, and feeling my face turning as red as a beet, trying my hardest to quickly untie the knot around my waist. My fingers fumbled and clawed in embarrassment.
"Oh! Isn't he darling?" my mother's best friend exclaimed with a wide smile. Her ability to look past the skirt and see something sincerely "darling" caught me off guard. I stopped fidgeting and stood there looking at her. She just laughed, swept me up in her arms and hugged me hello. To this day, I'm not sure why I felt ashamed of what I was wearing. Maybe it was because for the first time in my life, someone had seen a part of me that was reserved for the privacy of my own room. Or maybe it was because I knew that the skirt didn't match the shirt I had paired with it. Who knows? But that afternoon, I took my now very worn out blanket off, folded it carefully, placed it on the floor of my closet and never touched it again.
When my family moved from Dallas to Houston the next January, I didn't even bother to pack the blanket. I just left it sitting in the bottom of my closet, a distant memory of something I never fully understood.

My Body, I Love

I love my hair. Sometimes, it falls in the perfect way and makes me smile. The color can be a vibrant blond or an even, soothing brown. It's a chameleon. I love my eyes. They're expressive and give away my every emotion. I love my nose and the way it turns up slightly at the end. I love my lips and the way they curl into a smile when I'm truly happy. I love my teeth and the fact that they're perfectly straight without dental work.

I love my shoulders and the way that you can see my clavicle which gives them an interesting shape. I love my arms and how, when I'm all alone and needing love, they hug my body and remind me that even if it feels like no one loves me, I love me.

I love my chest and the way that it rises and falls, keeping time to my life. I love my stomach, especially my bellybutton. If anyone were to have an attractive bellybutton, I would have one.

I love my back. I love that when the world is crushing, and I feel like I can't carry any more weight, it takes the brunt of it and allows my mind to relax just a little bit. I love my bottom, a much needed cushion for my life.

I love my thighs. I love the way that funny feeling I get when the muscles sways back and forth when I jiggle my legs. I love my knees, the way they allow me to run...either from things I fear or to my heart's desire. I love my calves and the fact that if I try really hard and I'm wearing the right shoes, it looks like my knee swallowed a grapefruit. I love my ankles and how they were instrumental in causing me to fall in love with dance. I love my feet, my base, the thing that let's me continue on. They are the things that keep me going when everything is pulling me back.

I love my body.
I love my body.
I love my body.

I hate my body's perfections.

My Body, I Hate

I hate my hair. It never does the crazy things I wish it did. It lies flat on my head, plain, and boring. I hate the shape of my head. It's skinny...almost too skinny. And the circumference is enormous which means that hats are almost always out of the question and cute sunglasses are impossible to find. I hate my eyes. They're not the vibrant shade of green that I want. They're more like murky brownish-green. I hate my nose. It constantly breaks out with acne and is perpetually covered in blackheads. I hate my lips. They're too thin, almost only the idea of lips. I hate my teeth, stained with too much soda, coffee and tea. They're filled with cavities because I refuse to go to the dentist. I hate my chin. It's anything but defined.

I hate my shoulders. They're slender and effeminate. I hate my arms, gangly and weak. They can't even reach down to my toes and can barely lift anything. I hate my chest. It's completely flat and nearly hairless. My nipples are gigantic saucers on a pane of white. I hate my stomach. It bulges forward, jiggly with fat and lack of exercise.

I hate my back. It's plagued with acne and eczema. It hurts constantly and gives me poor posture. There is a distinct lack of dimples right above my bottom which I find so attractive. My spine sticks out in places, which is awkward to look at and to touch.

I hate my thighs. They're rotund and weak like my arms. Sometimes they can barely even lift my body. I hate my bottom. It's flat and shapeless, looking like only an extension of my thighs. I hate my knees, knobby and  strangely hairy. I hate my calves. The hairiest part of my body, they're nothing special with little to no muscle definition. I hate my ankles, constantly dry and cracking whenever I walk. I hate my feet. Unnaturally small with hairs on my toes that I can never maintain.

I hate my body.
I hate my body.
I hate my body.

I love my body's imperfections.

Censors

In my junior year of high school I realized that I was a writer. My English teacher, Mrs. Dozier, pushed and pushed me to do better. To find my voice, to be as descriptive as possible, but mostly to be proud of my written words. She was the type of teacher that never gave an A unless she felt the student had truly written to the absolute best of their ability. She never settled for mediocrity and forced everyone of her students to work for their A.

Weeks went by and the highest grade I received on my assignments was a B+. I listed after her coveted A's. And it wasn't until our first assignment of the spring semester that I saw my chance. We were challenged to find a political issue that hadn't already been exhausted by the media (abortion, civil rights, higher/lower taxes, etc.) and argue one side of it. The issue I was destined to write about took a week after we received the assignment to smack me in the face. As editor in chief of the school newspaper, I had been challenged with creating the main story or "the spread" of the newspaper.  Having just attended a conference for high school reporters, and hearing hundreds o personal stories of traumatic childhoods or troubled teenage years, I created a spread entitled "the loss of innocence."

I included 5 stories in which high school students from all over Texas recounted stories from their that emotionally changed them forever. One accounted sexual advances of a father to his daughter, another a story of a boy losing his little brother to cancer, and in the middle of the page, was a story written by me about when I was 13 and I thought I was loved and ended up raped. All the names had been changed to protect the writers and I was the only one who knew the real names so I was only slightly nervous to include my story.

My adviser thought the pieces were powerful and moving so I submitted it to the administration for review. Three days later, I got their edited version and right over my story was a giant red X with a sticky note that said "see me." I immediately walked nervously to the principals office, holding the newspaper in one hand and a note pad for comments in the other.

I sat opposite of the principal, the newspaper spread widely across his maple desk. He gave me a look of complete seriousness, knowing exactly what I came to talk about.

"We can't include a story about homosexuality. Especially gay sex. It's just not appropriate." as he spoke his voice grew quieter and quieter, afraid that someone might hear him.

"So how do we fix it? The paper goes to print today. We don't have time to find a new story."

"Well, why not just keep it heterosexual? Should be simple enough, just change the name; it's already written in first person."

I sat shocked. We could include a story about rape but not homosexual rape. I didn't know what to do or say so I just left the room. Back at my desk in the newsroom, my advisor was pressuring me to send her the final copy of the paper to send to the printer. I knew that if I didn't change the paper, the administration would simply shut us down and there would no longer be a paper but how could I change the story, censor myself because what I had to say wasn't "appropriate?"

I sent the paper with the principals changes. I hated myself for it. I immediately got to work on my paper for Mrs. Dozier writing about censorship in schools and how unfairly students are treated because they're minors. I got my A but the paper still printed the wrong story. Everyone congratulated me on such a moving topic and told me how it really opened their eyes to the situations of others. I took the praise with a sort of half smile, knowing that I had failed myself and gave into my oppressors.

Thinking bak on it, I should have done whatever to took to print the real story. The school would hve done abything to prevet a lawsuit and I probably could have made life easier for other openly gay students. I still hate myself for not standing up to the principal and demanding my rights. But that was five years ago and there's nothing I can do about it now.

Of God

I'm a pretty nostalgic person. I've saved every letter, every note my mother and father have given me. I have movie tickets from every movie I've seen since I was 14 years old. It's kind of ridiculous really. I know that I need to throw it all away and only keep things that are truly meaningful to me but that's the part that gets me; it's all meaningful to me. So I keep it all in shoe boxes in my old closet at my parent's house.

Before I connect my nostalgia to my main point of this story, you should know that I'm not very religious. I say I don't believe in God or any part of Christianity but I find myself praying that things work out okay. I suppose if I'm being truly honest, the only reason I can give to believing in a god is to give you hope that they can control the things you can't. But I digress, I'm not religious but I used to be...and so did all of my friends.

I was raised Catholic and believed in God my entire life. When I got into high school, I started hanging out with kids from my church and this only strengthened my relationship with God. I became highly active in the youth group which was more or less an excuse to hang out with my friends all the time. We went on retreats, attended bible studies, went to mass, and even got together on our own to sing praise and worship songs. We loved God immensely and it bonded us tightly. And frankly, being openly gay, a sexually active gay man at that, was a constant struggle for me. But I was in high school and like every other teenager, I was doing my best to fit in.  I stopped having sex, pretended that my feelings for other men didn't exist and poured my everything into religion. I constantly fought an internal battle of "if acting on gay feelings was a sin, why did God allow me to have them." I often got the reply from the leaders of my church that "it all comes down to free will." but to me, being gay isn't a choice and I knew that I've had these feelings my whole life. I might not have understood them at first but they were there. I felt confused, frustrated, and alone. I felt like no one else understood my struggle to understand God and they could never understand what it was like to have such polar opposites fighting within their body. I felt like a token friend; someone people was nice to because they thought it made the a better, proactive person because of it.

Eventually, I went to college and discovered that The Church wasn't as welcoming without my group of tight knit friends there to protect me. I fell away from my faith and was only reinforced by the fact that my friends from my golden days with the church were slowly losing their faith as well.

Now, as I listen to songs about Jesus or the love of God, I remember those times fondly. I feel nostalgic for the times when I could spend time with all of my friends enjoying the things that bound us so tightly together. I don't miss the fight going on in my head, I don't miss the guilt or the sense of obligation. But I miss the simplicity of that life. I miss how easy it was to blame everything on God, good or bad. I literally had no responsibility for my actions. I felt free to do as I pleased because I trusted that God would take care of eveything. I only realize now that I was extremely lucky.

Reading reading reading

Since I was little I've had this affliction for reading anything and everything. I truly believed that it was the gateway to everything. Often I would sit in the car and read every single sign we would pass. I'd crane my neck and stare behind us in order to read signs we had passed. Eventually, I resigned to just reading the signs that caught my eye which were inevitably street signs due to their bright green shade and clear Helvetian font. As I grew older I began to notice the advertising ploys of certain companies. For instance the arrow in the word FedEx to imply speedy delivery. Or the two people eating a chip over a bowl if salsa in the Tostitos logo. I also noticed perceptively unintentional typography like the fact that in the Jack and the Box logo, the "o" and the "x" were connected to look like a fish. I grew apt at recognizing logos even without the brand names on them. I knew the shapes of every fast food restaurant logo and can recognize nearly every clothing store brand symbol. It's completely nerdy and useless but whatever.

I noticed another unintentional message similar to the the Jack and the Box fish the other day at my stop downtown. A catering truck was parked across the street with the phrase "the preferred foods of chefs." but there, in the middle of it all was a red line underlining the letters "err." maybe because I'm so used to reading everything or maybe because I used to e an English major but I took this to mean that for one reason or another, their food was flawed in someway. I couldn't shake the message that choosing them would be an error of some sort. I giggled at the logo and imagined the ad executives that designed this laughing as well as they sent their tiny red line off to be printed all over the merchandise, quitting the next day.

Orange

One of my favorite things to do us eat mono chromatically. And one of my favorite colors to eat is orange. There are a million foods that are orange in color and no one ever notices. But only the best ones cone covered in some sort of sugar or fake cheese product.

After a pretty lucrative day at work, I walked across the street to the convenience store and picked out a snack: Cheetos, orange soda, and orange slices. I was elated. Not only had it cost me less than four dollars but now I had reason to skip lunch and eat a late dinner with my roommate, S.

When I left the store, my orange meal in hand, I spied a particularly attractive hipster sitting on the bench at my stop. Ashamed, I shoved my food into my bag, slid my green plastic sunglasses over my exhausted eyes an did my best to look cool. He had long, unkempt hair that barely touched his shoulders. His bright orange shirt displayed some band I had never heard of but the best part was his skin tight black jeans. It was all I could do to keep from sitting uncomfortably close to him and stare openly. I couldn't help but make the correlation that he was wearing an orange shirt and the fact that I loved to eat orange things all the time.

He got on the bus that came before mine and it was as he stood that I noticed his many flaws. He was about a foot and a half shorter than me and as if to mock his deformity, his apparent skin tight jeans were only skin tight because he had been sitting on the folds of fabric. Now they hung loosely from his hips like giant cylinders ha replaced his legs. As he waited to board the bus, his now extremely baggy pants billowed in the breeze. His face underwent a complete transformation going from smooth and impeccable to a face covered in blackheads and dirt. I was astonished at how quickly he had become unattractive. And also how shallow I was being. But I didn't really care; I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a bus window and saw how stylish and cool I looked and I knew: I'm a hottie and he's not so it's my job to judge him.

Packed bus

the bus was incredibly packed today. Every seat was filled and at least a dozen people stood, clutching the rails. A man with braces on his teeth but no wire to straighten them. A sphere of a woman. I wished I had picked darker sunglasses. I wanted so terribly to openly stare at these strange people but every time I did, I felt their gaze on mine. I settled on staring at a woman on the opposite side of the bus from me. All I could see was her hair but that's all I really needed. It was fascinating. Jet black and plastic looking. She had braided it into a zillion tiny braids but oddly enough, only part of it. Small, smooth locks pushed themselves between the braids. I wondered if her hairdresser just hadn't finished the job or got lazy halfway through and decided it was a new look that this woman was now destined to rock. Unfortunately however it looked as if she had cut it herself. The layers were chunky and jagged. The way her hair all came to one point on her head made it seen like it was a wig. I could see her, sitting in her tattered nightgown, her wispy hair matted down onto her scalp with sweat, slowly cutting her wig in front of her vanity mirror. As if she came up with a new hair style everyday to impress her friends with.
"why Courtney, your hair is always a vision!" they'd say. They'd compliment her on her ingenuity, her ability to completely adapt her hair to every situation.
I used to think I had this ability, constantly dying my hair, cutting it and then growing it out long. But after one too many hair cutting mistakes and after nearly chopping off an ear, I resolved to only allowing someone with a professional license touch my hair.

It was even more packed in the afternoon. By the time the bus reached my stop at the mall, there was standing room only. It made me think if there were regulations on how many people can board the bus before it's considered a hazard. Anyway, as I was doing my best to watch people without them knowing, I happened to glance down at an elderly woman sitting to my left. She was dressed as well as can be expected: Hawaiian shirt with jeans that rode up her leg when she sat, casual tennis shoes with no socks, a black bag slug over her neck and her hair was pulled up and on top of her head with a scrunchie. I was thinking about the last time I saw a scrunchie and how it must have been at least fifteen years ago, when I noticed a woman to my right. She was dressed entirely in black with gold jewelry. The neck of her dress scooped low revealing a large portion of her breasts. There was a sliver of red poking out the neck of her dress, it was lacy and nearly transparent. Her thigh high boots said "fuck me now" as opposed to the "I like things comfortable" retort from the woman's shoes to my right.

My eyes volleyed between the two women. I was loving the juxtaposition of their outfits and how completely opposite they were. Suddenly, as the old woman was putting a tissue in the breast pocket of her shirt, the top buttons separated revealing her large breasts nestled in a flesh toned bra. At first she didn't notice but after a moment she shrieked and clutched her shirt together. The woman across from her laughed and the woman next to her drolly glanced over. "my shirt's come undone." she whispered to the woman next to her. Trying to help, she held up her backpack in an attempt to shield on lookers while she buttoned up.
"you don't have to hold that thing up, honey. Ain't no body gonna look at that geaser's titties." the woman to my right cackled. Everyone ignored her but she was persistent.
"were you looking, sweetie?"
It took me a moment before I realized she was looking right at me. I couldn't breathe. This is the EXACT reason why I put on my headphones and sunglasses. I didn't want to be bothered, asked for anything or touched. I looked around at the other passengers for help, answers. They just looked back at me with the same blank expressions. I said the first thing that came to my mind.
"mango." what the fuck? Why the hell did I say mango? That's not even close to yes or no or any of the numerous answers I could have given.
"excuse me? Did you say mango?" the slutty woman was staring me down with one eyebrow raised.
"um... No I said, 'hell no.'" I sputtered out the words as if I were an old jalopy about to break down.
"see, Hun? Ain't no body looking at your titties so you just let them air out if they need to." the slutty woman told the still embarrassed woman, seemingly to forget exactly how many people were crammed into the bus. She smiled and sat back in her chair, "now these girls," she added to the sleeping man beside her, pushing up her voluptuous breasts, "I bet he WAS looking at." She looked me dead in the eyes out of the corner of hers. I could feel my face flush and I was beginning to become just like the elderly woman. Again, I resorted to the first thing I could think of: I stared straight ahead and started making a grocery list...
- milk
- plastic bags
- not mangoes

Crossing the Street

I've noticed that when crossing the street at a non intersection, everyone walks like a crazy person. Constantly starting and stopping, zig zagging between cars, it's as if we've never walked a day in our lives and must now manuever these strange extremities attached to our hips.

We constantly look from left to right and back again, never looking ahead for when the curb approaches which will inevitably send us careening onto the median in front of nearly 100 people. It's embarassing, crossing the street. Everything about the act is horrifying and shameful. No one but suicidal lunatics can cross the street with grace, confidence or assurance. It's the lunatics that walk across without looking, not caring if every car has to swerve and slam on their brakes to avoid hitting the loon.

On Writing

I write everyday. Everyday. That's how I know I'm a writer. I wake up and jot down my dreams. I have my coffee and write down how jittery I feel, if some grounds made it into the cup, if it's simply too hot to drink. I write about how reading the paper makes me think of my mother and watching the morning news reminds me of my father. I eat my breakfast an write down the witty banter between me and my roommate. I get on the bus and write about the freaks I encounter and how the views of the city from the highway make me feel like an adult and wish for an office job. I come home and take my dog for a walk and write about the extravagant houses I see and talk about how you can tell a lot about a person by what they put in their front yard. After dinner, I write about my hopes and dreams, telling myself that if I'm not already a celebrity, then I surely would be within the next ten to fifteen years. And as I fall asleep, I quietly take notes on the darkness of my room and how funny the shadows being cast by my window are. I am a writer because I don't know how to speak, eat, breathe without writing it all down first.

Dream day

I was late for my bus because I was intent on finishing the movie I was watching. It wasn't even all that good: Alyssa milano was torn between to guys, an ad executive and a writer. She ended up choosing the writer....okay, I loved the movie but that's neither here not there. The point is, I was late. As I left my apartment complex, I saw the bus pull up to my stop and pause.

"oh thank GOD someone needed to get on." I thought and ran for it. I barely made it, taking my own life in my hands and running in front of the bus before it could pull away. When the driver opened the door, I saw a large black woman in jeans, cowboy boots and a black western shirt, the kind with lassos embroidered on the chest. I reeled back. Where was my usual bus driver? The sweet old man with salt and pepper hair that always smiled and greeted me good morning? The woman just looked me up and down and asked, "well? On or off baby because I ain't got time to wait on your skinny butt." was this the right bus? Did I run to the wrong corner? Where was I? I double checked the bus number and tentatively got on. I dropped my quarters in the machine and muttered an apology for no reason.

At my transfer stop, I had to run again which was unusual. Typically my buses are at least ten minutes apart giving me ample time to walk casually to my stop a block away. But not today. I ran quickly and luckily the bus was stopped at a red light. I gently tapped on the door and the driver, a thin, greasy looking man just stared at me.
"can I get on, please?" I begged through the glass. With a huff, he opened the door. He too wasn't wearing the typical uniform of firmly pressed black slacks and a starched white shirt. He wore a pair of sweatpants, a plain gray tshirt with a bright blue windbreaker. Was today real? Or was I still sleeping in my soft bed back in my apartment? Was I late for work? Why didn't my alarm go off? Everything seemed real but just a little off, just enough to make me question the truth of the situation.

I was staring out the window trying to figure out if I was awake or asleep when I saw a man walking down the street. His wore his jeans down low on his hips, not in a stylish way but in a "these pants are four sizes too big" kind of way. He didn't have any shoes on but he WAS wearing a pair of bright pink polka dot boxers and had curiously taken off his shirt and draped it over his right shoulder. It was a nice day out so I suppose I could understand the want to remove as much clothing as possible and let the light breeze come over your chest and make your nipples go hard with pleasure. I could also understand the need for pants that fit and shoes. Today was definitely a dream day. Freaks.