Satyr revisted

Most often, when a goal comes to fruition, or an anticipated event has passed, I am overtaken by a sense of melancholy depression. Who would have thought? Well, the exception has taken place. Halloween was wonderful. No, my body did not look like I fantasized that it would, and my back hurt from how much I sucked in my stomach, but I fulfilled what I promised myself a year ago: I was daring and half naked for Halloween! JS and TB’s Fairytale themed party was a complete blast. I had so much fun, even if I was a nervous wreck over my costume! It was a near perfect day. End scene.
This is where depression usually has its reservations, however, not so this year. The following day was just as great as the actual holiday. For two good reasons. One, friends. Second, Food!!!!!! I ate and ate and ate and ate!!! It was reward day for fulfilling my goal. I ate enough to last a week. The diet is back on today, but wow, the hedonistic values of yesterday will sustain me for quite awhile!
Nothing huge or life moving to say today, but I had to draw the Satyr extravaganza to a close.

Juxtaposition

Those of you who read these self-absorbed words on a regular basis and those of you who love me or know me at all are aware of my self-proclaimed favorite food: Sonic. Double cheeseburger, with mayo, without the pickles; side of tatter tots with cheese, and a cherry-vanilla coke. Here is a well kept secret. Very, very few people know this: My favorite food is not actually Sonic. Gasp! Heart-palpitations! Deceit! Shock! Planets colliding! My real favorite food: My dad’s homemade fried chicken, with mashed potatoes and gravy. True, it is partly that reminiscent aspect of feeling like a safe little kid again when I eat it. It is also true, though, that it is partly due to the fact that my folks are the best cooks anywhere.
Being raised in Missouri (Missoura, for you natives) ensured that my main food group was grease. Fried okra, fried zucchini, fried catfish, fried steak, fried spinach, food, food, food, fried, fried, fried. While I never want to live in Missouri again, never ever ever, I am still very proud of my white trash, Ozarkian, hillbilly roots (truly, I am). Part of those roots is the love of grease—to the point where part of my blood is grease cells, it helps the blood flow more smoothly.
Last night, I came face to face that I have shed the last vestige of my upbringing, all very unintentionally. I had already lost most of my accent (most), I quit wearing the fourteen pound belt buckles, I traded my Wranglers in for Luckies, I even eat Sushi at times. The only thing holding me onto my roots, my sense of where I come from, and where I am going was my love, adoration, and worship of grease.
In the goal of creating the body I have always wanted and getting ready for Halloween, I have been eating healthier than I ever dreamed possible. Compared to most truly health conscious people, I am sure that what I consider healthy is laughable, but still. . . As I was saying, last night, I went out with my beautiful friend MD. We got salads and then went to coffee at Diedrich. While there, we decided to go see the movie “Capote” (an absolutely wonderful film, by the way—if it does not win some awards then someone very evil and corrupt is in charge of the movie voting process thingy). While there, she and I split a huge bag of popcorn. Coved in butter. It was delicious.
The movie was nearly a fourth over as I tilted the bag in the air and let the remainder of the carton empty into my ever ravenous mouth. As the last kernels slide down my esophagus and into my awaiting belly, a rumble coursed through me. My stomach cramped and I let out an uncomfortable groan. About half-way through this perfectly crafted film, I embarked on my first of three trips to the bathroom. Vomit galore.
I managed to finish the film. MD kindly brought up the fact that we had just eaten salads. With the rash of nasty sickness imparted by such deceitful vegetation lately, fear shot through my body. I was going to die. All for trying to be thinner. Serves my vain and conceited self right, I supposed. I was able to make it home before the final (and much more painful) throws of bile overtook my being. My neighbor enquired of me when he saw me today because of all the retching sounds coming from my house last night. (That is embarrassing on so many levels.)
Shakily and weakly, I crawled into bed with Dunkyn and fell asleep. I woke up feeling perfectly fine and dandy this morning. No Ecoli. No death by greens. No drama. It was the popcorn. Grease overload. Grease has transformed from being manna from Heaven to being poisonous Kryptonite. It is a sad, sad day. It wasn’t enough of a slam to my upbringing that I am a gay, mostly liberal man. I am now a tree-hugging, health conscious vegetarian. I could just shoot myself from the shame!

In search for the gay Jean

I was in the mood to blog, but I had no idea what I wanted to blog about. Most of the time, when I feel like that, something normally pops into my mind while I am on a walk with Dunkyn, or something flies down my shirt, or something sparks the tears and loneliness. I had decided that I was not going to blog today, but I still had to get out of the house. So, I came down to my favorite coffee shop, Diedrich, so that I could kill an hour before class starts. I have done homework all morning, so nice break is in order. Of course, after I get my drink and biscotti, I discover that the internet connection is down here, as per normal. What to do, what to do. . .
Well, I read some of the voting recommendations from OutFront and decided that I should probably leave and try to accomplish something. That is when I saw it. Inspiration. Muse. Juxtaposition. Today is October 23rd. It snowed last week. I had to turn up the heat in my home today because I was shaking as I was working on my group project. I have had to get out the heated water bowls for the bunnies, as they were trying to lick ice cubes for a day or two before I noticed—I am such a bad dad. I am planning on putting my Christmas tree up this coming Sunday (No, it is not too soon. Keep your opinions to yourself—who asked you?). Oh, yes, inspiration, sorry got distracted. Anyhoo, I looked out the window of Diedrich and saw a skinny, yet muscular, boy at one of the out door tables with his shirt off, displaying his body for those at his table. I almost burst out laughing. It is nearly November, time for sweaters, scarves, woolen jackets—not time to be dressing like we are laying out by the pool.
Now, to be fair, it is warm right here. Somehow much warmer here than at my house, only a few short miles away. The sun is bright and cheerful, pleasantly warm. Still, who else would be shirtless, outside of some gay twinktified man-cub? No wonder people laugh at ‘the gays’ and call us shallow. Just because you have no fat on your body does not mean you have to show it off at the beginning of winter. In fact, it would make more sense to go shirtless if you had fat on your body—more insulation. Disgraceful!
Who am I kidding? We all know I am just jealous!
Speak of jealousy. . . I attended JS’s housewarming brunch party yesterday. Ok, let’s sit with that for a bit: HOUSEWARMING BRUNCH PARTY. Really, could we be any gayer? I love it!!! As I was saying before you interrupted with your stereotying of my Sunday recreational activities. . . JS’s home is beautiful, perfect for him. A perfect blending of the modern, industrial, cutting-edge chic, and downplayed elaborate. Speaking of downplayed elaborate: have you seen my friends lately? I really do forget how gorgeous they are until they are all crowded into one small space. Each body perfectly quaffed, each stomach washboard flat, each bicep containing enough muscle to make a Cornish hen jealous, each hair laborishly windblown, each eye brow perfectly arched and shaped. Every pair of designer jeans snug and appropriately distressed looking. Every shirt with just enough tightness to cut off circulation at the bicep and to show the faintest hint of constantly aroused nipples. Each person perfection in their individual outfits designed to look as if they had just rolled out of bed and thrown something on. The interesting thing is that if you do actually roll out of bed and throw something on, as I did, it does not give the sexy mussed up look (that takes hours to create) and simply looks unkempt. I had one of my moments (lasting two hours) of extreme insecurity, where it is nearly impossible for me to converse with those around me. Instead, I focused on the food (yeah, that helps the situation) and then became consumed by cleaning up and drying the dishes. You see, the dishes don’t give a shit if you look like a male model or if your triceps flex and tremble as you pass the dish towel over their surface.
Gay boys. How shallow. All they care about is how they look. Lost in the self-absorption that is their existence. If they saw a baby drowning in a mud puddle, they would screech in abject horror at the audacity of the baby to get its clothes dirty and step over the pathetic thing for fear of getting their new loafers scuffed, but not before scooping up some of the wet earth. Why waste an opportunity to be there recipient of a luxury mud mask?
I am so thankful that I, the gay anomaly, am immune to such ridiculous endeavors and focus more upon the development of my mind and morality.
Speaking of morality, the count down is on. Five days to get my body in as good of shape as possible to dress in my whorish satyr costume. I bought enough canned tuna and yogurt to feed a small Somalian village. If that doesn’t make the fat pour off, I don’t know what will. Now only the largest of pressing questions remains? Do I trim the chest hair for the costume or not? Satyrs are hairy, but smooth is sexy. My life is so hard! Why must I be faced with such dilemma and confliction? I could just weep!

Side note: One of the most wonderful blessings of my life is that my extremely gorgeous friends are even more beautiful on the inside than they are on the outside. It is such a inspiring situation to be surrounded by men and women who push each other to be better human beings, put each other before themselves, and are full of integrity and passion.

Crimes Against Nature

Today has been a day of realizations. Some old. Some new. Some borrowed. Some blue. Wait a minute. . . sorry, none are blue, and I don’t think any are borrowed, but who knows. . . In my attempts to be whorish material by Halloween, I have been at the gym a lot more lately. I have also been eating more, that is not helping. While at the gym there was something extremely horrific going on today. I don’t know if it is something that has been a constant fact that has only now made its way into my consciousness or if there is some highly contagious virus that is spreading through our beloved city. About a third of the men that I saw in the locker room (and it was around noon, so there were many to see) had their shirts tucked INTO their underwear! I know, at this point, you may be feeling that if I can make up something so heinous and preposterous that I have probably made up most of the other details of my life. Well, one may hope, but, sadly, it is true. Shirts tucked ceremoniously into unsuspecting underwear. I was shocked and morally outraged! I am going to attempt to get a proposal on the November ballot to ban such outrageous and unsightly behavior. If you are one of the guilty, for shame!!! In penance, place your face in your toilet and flush.
I have also had to come face to face that I have been lying to my students for over six years. Anytime a bee, hornet, or any other winged stinging thing entered our presence, my students (most often those of male persuasion) would scream in abject terror, flail their arms about haphazardly, and either run for the door or attempt to kill the poor creature for no greater offense than being what it was born to be. Perhaps I project too many of my own issues upon said insect, but still. . . I would roll my eyes, and calmly tell the children to sit and leave the poor, frightened being alone. If they would not bother it, it would not bother them.
Tonight, as fate would have it, within the same twenty-four hours of being a victim of fashion pornography, the insectile world plotted against me. I was in my grad class (the one that is the largest waste of time, btw), and we were all circled around in the front of the classroom, discussing the merit of our readings. Many of my classmates were deeply affected and invested by what was read and discussed—one day they will learn it is all a game, and all bullshit, and that teaching has nothing to do with what we are being taught at present. As I sat there observing the so called educational process trudging ahead full steam, a yellow-jacket (or wasp) began to introduce itself to many of my fellow academics. They, much like the younger academics that I have had so much exposure to, yelped, jumped, and squealed in that strange combination of fear and giddiness. I simply sat with my arms crossed and let my misunderstood friend buzz around my head. I gently swiped my hand across my face so that he could not inspect my eyes intimately. He flew away for a second and then, missing me, returned to my presence. Apparently, the diets and workouts are having an effect and have increased my robust attractiveness. Wanting a better look at the slowly changing physique, my little friend glanced once more at my face, tucked his wings to his side, and plunged down my shirt. I stood up, books falling to the floor and asked for clarification of the situation. The other prospective teachers assured me that my torso indeed had an uninvited guest. I excused myself (manners always of up-most importance) and left the classroom. Outside of the class is a hallway, and one of the walls is completely formed of windows looking out upon the campus. I unbuttoned my shirt, in practice for Halloween, and stood half naked in my grad school. Having finished his inspection of my body, Mr. Hornet flew to the window, perched, and gazed down at me, buzzing his wings in contentment. I think I should be insulted that he chose to not plunge his dagger into me—I knew having Sonic last night was a mistake! Shaking my head, I buttoned up my brown flannel shirt and returned to class and sat down. Everyone smiled at me and inquired upon my health. After being reassured that my skin was still in virgin form, they informed me that I had buttoned my shirt incorrectly. Indeed, I had done less than a sufficient job to cover my ‘nakedness.’ I returned to the glass hallway to strip once more. My friend was still in his voyeuristic position and watched as I made myself presentable once again. Thankfully, as I did not tuck my shirt into my underwear, and I actually was wearing underwear today, I was able to survive this encounter without having to drop trou and readjust, much to my little friend’s disillusionment.

tatters of closure

I am sitting at Diedrich’s Coffee (the gay one), having just finished my decaffeinated, non-fat Mayan Mocha. My new army green hoodie from the GAP (that I look adorable in) having just had some of my Mayan poured down its front. The question I have now is which is more appropriate—forcing others to view my now stained clothing or take it off and make them endure my sleeveless Xena shirt beneath? Outside the picturesque windows, the first snow of the season is falling. Fall will soon be over, and winter will be upon us. I am not ready for fall to be done, however, it does mean that I will get to put up the Christmas tree soon, so that is joyful! As ever, the workings of our world cause me to be ponderous. Will my life take a hint from nature and enter a new season of its own? Will I wake one quickly approaching morning, look in the mirror and see that I have finished the transformation and am ready to emerge as the new creation that will inhabit this body for the next segment of my existence?
I am trying to bring that occurrence about. In addition to counseling, wrapping up my larger writing projects, I have also decided to catch up with my scrapbooking. I was up until three on Sunday morning working on my ‘closure’ relationship page. There were certain items that I have had within arm’s reach at all times whenever I am at home for the past four months. They are now safely enshrined in their protective temple within my scrapbook. Through tears, tape, ribbon, and paper, I enclosed all the hopes, promises, and dreams that I shared. I laid them to rest. They are there as witness that it wasn’t all a dream and as proof that someone really loved me, if only for awhile. My life as a scrapbook—why is it so many of us find such a variety of ways to document our existence, chronicle our loves and loses, immortalize our journeys through this life?



love, the passage

the breath of love, lips upon my brow
the promise, whisper of soul-mate in my ear
the safety found, powerful arms around my chest
the grasp of hope, fingers interlocking mine
the hint of eternity, walking side by side

Questions of intention linger now
Questions of heart crushing fear
Questions of worth and significance stealing all rest
Questions making every moment spent looking for a sign
Questions only brought on by love that has died

now all that is left, reverberating vow
now love’s most tender expression, unending tear
now soul-mate/companion/lover, mythical quest
now empty arms/empty eyes, insatiable pine
now sun and moon still rise and set, hearts lied

--bjw

More self-aborbed bitching ahead. . .

I have been doing so completely wonderful on my diet to be shirtless by Halloween! Yes, yes, keep up the applause. Standing ovation? Well, if you must. . .
Ok, truthfully, I have been doing fairly well on the diet. However, yesterday: lunch with my folks (never good for the waistline) and then a home cooked dinner from KE’s parents for GG and I. Parmesan Chicken, tortellini, garlic bread, salad, pumpkin cake (Heaven)—I had two or three helpings of each. Outside of the food that will force me to wear a parka outside of my satyr costume, the amazing thing at dinner was the atmosphere. I am out to my parents, and they love me completely, but it is not a topic discussed in a casual manner. Yet, here we were with KE’s parents randomly discussing each others’ love lives (or lack thereof) and it was NORMAL. Oh dear Lord! Normal? I know, crazy, right? It was wonderful. It was an experience I had yet had the pleasure of being privy. It made me fantasize of one day being with my husband and our families, laughing, joking, planning the future and it not being tense, forced, or fake. I am not sure if any of those things will come to pass for my life, but it is wonderful to think about.
In the aftermath glow, as I was driving home, I turned on the radio. I was listening to the country station, and an ad came on discussing the November election. It spoke about how ‘no-fault’ divorce was voted upon a couple decades ago and how our children have suffered ever since. Then, with such a paralleled segue, it brought up how we have an opportunity to protect our children from more horrific attacks upon their wellbeing. Vote No on Ref. i.
How silly of me, for a moment, in the bliss of being treated like I was an equal member of a family that only just met me, I must have forgotten what a heinous, vile, dangerous monstrosity I really am. Whew, that was close. Another half an hour and I would have made up my mind to try to sit at the front of the bus next journey into town.
I hope news doesn’t get out that I am gay, the authorities would probably come and take Dunkyn away, as being under my care and influence will harm his emotional and spiritual maturity. I should hand in my teacher’s badge (it is star shaped, like sheriff’s, only with an apple in the center) before my students transform from law-abiding, moral straight beings of light into murderous, perverted faggots. I hope the school’s receptionist office has abnormally strong disinfectant to cleanse the badge. Maybe I should purchase an incinerator, just to be ethically and socially responsible.
And here I thought the name calling on the playground was over. . .

Fears and Supplications

Last night was the second installment of TB’s ‘Life sucks and then you. . .’ Bible study. For the better half of our time together, I was in tears (may wonders never cease). We are working our way through IPeter, but also spent a few seconds on James 1:2-6. We were talking about suffering. A subject (regardless of anyone else’s views of the genuineness of suffering based on a break-up [fuck off]) that I feel more than adequate to address. Some of the messages I took away from last night (not even new messages, but ones I had forgotten or something) were that suffering leads to maturity (Yeah! Let’s get old faster) and completeness. Completeness. I think the tears began to flow with the utterance of that word. Completeness through suffering. Hasn’t my suffering made me incomplete? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I really will become more of who I truly am through the darkness of the past four months. I hope so. I long to be complete again. Maybe more complete than ever before. It was also spoken last night that the suffering will lead to us not lacking anything. How wonderful does that sound? Not lacking ANYTHING! I wish I were fool enough to simply fall under the assumption that this is in regards to my life here on Earth. I know better, but still I can hope. To not lack my companion—whether that be a someone who has yet to enter my life or the man for which I yearn currently. That sounds dandy!
I have had a new fear, which went right along with the whole suffering extravaganza of yesterday. The night before last, I had trouble even sleeping due to it. It feels (I know, overdramatic, self-involved, all-about-me attitude) like most of the things I love and depend on to be stable and whole get ripped away—boyfriend, family members dying, temporary loss of pictures, etc. I am terrified I am going to lose Dunkyn. Irrational. Stupid. Finding new reasons to be afraid. Still, I am afraid. What if he runs out in front of car? He is scared to death of other people, but seems to think it is fun to run directly at oncoming moving vans (I wish I were kidding). What if he gets sick? What if, what if, what if. . . There have been so many moments, hours, days, that I truly don’t think I could have gotten through without him in my life, without him asleep by me on the futon, without his adoration every moment he is in my presence. I know we are to be the examples of God’s love to each other, but really, I think He just tells us that to make us feel important. He really gave that task to dogs. I thought I loved my little guy before all of this—nothing compared to the love I have for him now. There is no question but that I would take a bullet for him, or run in front of the moving van. Thankfully, I don’t think my faithfulness factor is up as high in importance as dear old Job’s was, or Satan would be requesting the life of my furry little bundle of devoted sanity. Tempting fate with these words? I doubt it. I refuse to give into superstition. (Knock on wood)
I have had several people ask me about how therapy went the other day—once again, blown away by the number of you that read these words, much less care to remember and inquire. Thank you. Well, the session was fairly uneventful. My therapist is an older woman (50-60ish). I think we are going to get along just fine. It feels so decadent, even more so than my endless blogging, writing projects, etc., to take her time to ponder over the shambles left in the wake of the breakup. I need to get over that, though, and just dive in and allow more wallowing to transpire in the hopes of maturity, completeness, and the state of not lacking anything. Wow, I really was in the mood to be sarcastic and droll. I would like to smirk at my own cleverness or at least make a pounding social commentary. But, as ever, life is what you get and what you do, not what you want or what you plan. Probably a good thing. . .

Preparations and the back-up plans that love them. . .

It is time. Time. Time. Time. Time to stop the tears, moaning, the bitching, the self-pity, the heartbroken forlorn sense of existence. Sure, the only man I have ever been in love with doesn’t love me. I’m not the only one who has gone through this. While I hope I never have to go through this again, there is a good chance I will. So, it is time. Time to live, really live, again. At least as much as I can make myself. To do this I have to prepare.
As proof that I am serious, I have my first therapy session in about an hour and twenty-one minutes—ok, exactly in an hour and twenty-one minutes. Four months of desperate angst and weeping is sufficient, so professional help is a must! To think that I began this with the notion that it is time to stop the tears. . . yeah, ‘cus therapy never leads to more tears. I hear tears heal though. Shit, I should be near invincible by now! So, therapy, becoming whole, healthy, and optimistic once again. Be able to look at the past with tender reminiscence and fondness instead of overwhelming regret. Yeah. Of course, should this not work out, the tears and heart shatteredness makes for great writing material and a great excuse to indulge in Cold Stone and Sonic. So, either way. . . I win!
That fat little boy (let’s call him Wilbur) that still resides inside this short body of mine is busy making preparations of his own. Last year, at TB and JS’s Halloween party, Wilbur saw, through mine eyes, my friends SM and TH in their costumes which left little to the imagination. They were GORGEOUS. Well, Wilbur, being the superficial, insecure little shit that he is told the body in which he resides that it needed to be in equal form by this Halloween. I was well on my way this past March, then love happened, then life-altering pain and damage occurred and that goal went to inhabit some other gym bunny. Wilbur has little patience and has decided that he doesn’t care about the events of the past several months—for being such an obese little fuck, he is very militant—kinda scary; kinda hot. Yesterday, he forced me to purchase (or rent—tomato, tomauto) a rather sluttish costume. JS and TB’s party is Fairy Tale themed this year (rather appropriate, don’t ya think?). I will be in attendance as a Satyr (think Mr. Tumnus or Puck). So, while my legs and hooves will be covered with hair, from navel up, all that will be seen other than my skin will be a pair of goatish horns. Rutting season, anyone? Back up plan? Over-sized vest and mammoth scarf. I suppose I could just tell people I am a jiggly stuffed pig. Cheers to no Cold Stone or Sonic over the next few weeks. Therapy had better work, or Halloween could be an embarrassment of colossal proportions! God, I hate Wilbur!
Preparation to the third degree: Finish the Master’s degree, write and paint full time (on my off time from underwear modeling), and never work again. Why get a degree if you are actually going to use it?—how unoriginal and lame. I will find a way to turn the inevitable sense of joy, purpose, love-fulfilled state that I will undoubtedly be living in into a muse to further the destiny of my writing/art/modeling career and become the next Emily Dickenson (just with a thicker cock and less suicidal ideation). I suppose, by the slightest inference, that this may not come to pass. “What then?” you ask. . . then I will be back at Diedrich, sipping my blended drink, blabbering on about my life, as if someone could find something redeeming in my words, covering my pain with sarcasm and self-proclaimed wit, returning home to my furry, four-legged romeo, and making ever-unending preparations and plans. Huh. . . I wonder what it would be like to be living a life like that. . . intriguing. . . I should give that a shot sometime. . .

Candlelight, Lovers, and Me

The candle glow from the walls highlight their faces. Their eyes twinkle. Their lips curl in soft private smiles. Their arms drape casually, almost absent mindedly over each others’ chairs or shoulders. As they turn to speak to someone else, their fingers reach behind them and trace the seam going down the other’s thigh. A haphazard glance, a private laugh, unspoken messages through their eyes communicated across the crowed restaurant filled with their friends. The loud conversations, the distracting music in the background, the clatter of forks on china all impede my ears’ attempts to intercept the words spoken from pairs of lips into lovers’ ears. Still, my eyes rise to the occasion and absorb it all. Their beautiful faces, their unintentional glow, their contented happiness just behind the windows to their souls.
The candle glow from the walls color the hairs on my arms golden. My eyes do their best to look others in face and not stare at the table. My lips twist into the most convincing carefree grin I can conjure. My arms rest on the table; my fingers trace the edge of the corn chips before passing my lips. I do what I can to make my eyes turn up at the edges and emit a semblance of a glow so that the walls built up behind them are not as easily observed. I laugh, I hug, I say, “I love you,” and, “Happy Birthday,” and I mean them. I sit, I listen, I watch, I see all that I am not, all that I have lost, and maybe what I shall have again.
I wish I could hate the beauty of the commingled pairs on display. I wish I could. I can’t. There is love for the pairs, both as single bodies and united entities. There is rejoicing for them and pleasure taken from their happiness—there can be no hate.
There can be no hate, but there can be hurt. There can be the constant reminder of love lost and promises destroyed. There isn’t a hand on my shoulder. There isn’t a whisper in my ear. There isn’t a kiss upon my lips. There isn’t a companion by my side. He is elsewhere. He is not thinking of me. Nor will he.
There are chips, though, and taquitos masquerading as enchiladas. There is a dog waiting for me at home, who will cuddle up against my back as we sleep on the futon and try to convince me he is other than dog. There is ‘Will & Grace,’ ‘King of Queens,’ ‘Frasier,’ and ‘Friends’ to fill my ears with voices and laughter as I drift to sleep. There is ice cream to be eaten, papers to write, songs to hear, and emotions to feel. There are candles to light so that they may illuminate the truths of my life yet again.

A story of two days. . .

[Disclaimer: this is not a witty, sarcastic diatribe—sorry—more like journal entry. Hate to disappoint, but what are you gonna do? Sue me?]
Let’s start out with yesterday, which was Wednesday. It was the quintessential fall day. Gorgeous. Perfect weather, perfect breeze, perfect colors. Fall. Fall. Fall. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Nearly. I have been sick all week, and yesterday I woke up after five hours of sleep and could not go back to bed. So, I stayed under the covers on the futon with Dunkyn and watched a few episodes of King of Queens. It was the most relaxed and as close to feeling really sane again as I have felt in months. Then, I got on my computer (still in bed on the futon, mind you) and decided I would send all my pictures that I had been taking the past year and a half to get processed so I could put them in scrapbooks. Yes, I scrapbook. Yes, I am a fag. Yes, people do throw sharp objects at me as I walk down the street—who asked you! Anywho, please quit interrupting, I hit the button to go to ‘My Pictures.’ It opened, as per normal; however, there were no pictures to be found—anywhere. Literally thousands of pictures simply gone. All my pictures of Dunkyn, all the family holidays, the parties with friends, and every picture I have of the man I fell in love with—gone. I searched everywhere for about ten minutes to no avail. Lost it. Completely. Well, you know, Heaven forbid I actually go a whole three days this week without crying!
Needless to say, hours were spent on the computer, on the phone to the expensive help line, with my nose in a paper towel and the bags under my eyes growing ever more obscene—still, no pictures appearing. Just when I think I really don’t have more of my heart to hurt or lose, life just bitch slapped me across the face. There is a certain pleasant tingling sensation as the salt first hits the open wound, but that exotic thrill soon wears off and all that is left is excruciating pain.
While I could go on for several paragraphs dwelling on my angst, anger, and annihilation, I will spare you the torment. I will delete all the tears and mortal wailing and pleading with God. See how much I love you? So, cut already, you are saying. Fine: Mid-Afternoon: my wonderful neighbor KK (wonder what his middle initial is? Hmmm. Curiouser and curiouser. . .) came over looked at my computer, hit one and a half keys and bam, there my pictures flooded before my very eyes. True, I can not yet manage to get them printed off, but they are there and at some point will be made flesh. All praise to the Lord Most High. Not even being facetious. So, a wonderful day turned horrible day, turned miraculous.
Onto today. . . I have been depressed all day. There I paused in the typing for several seconds. Have you recovered from the shock? Ok, good then. I did teach today, though, and that was enjoyable. I brought in cookies for the kids. If you can’t teach ‘em, bribe ‘em!
Tonight, despite my everlasting gobstoper of melancholy, I was privy to a miracle of another sort. There is something about seeing someone in the state for which they were created. It is transcendent. Really. I had the honor of being one of the chosen to attend the beginning session of a six (tmi alert, every time I type six, I accidentally type sex, then have to go back and change it—can we all say ‘sexual frustration’ together?) week stint of TB’s Bible study. Now, I consider TB to be one of the most fine, wonderful, honorable, genuine, real men that I know. He has changed my life and in many, many ways saved it—and I am not even being my normal dramatic self. In addition to being a friend of mine, he borders on being a hero as well. So, with that said, the boy could talk about asparagus fungus, and I would be enraptured and enlightened. Still, though, it was awesome to hear him teach tonight. I know of the pain he has been through and some of the curves life has sent his way. To see him and hear him speak of his faith in God and be able to journey down this road with him is miraculous. In spite of hurt, in spite of our brokenness, grief, doubt, and anger, God uses us. God loves us. God allows himself to be seen through the eyes of those like TB and heard through the voice and felt through the arms of those like TB. I was humbled and induced with hope to see God use His people in a real and purposeful way.
I sit now with my ever faithful companion asleep beside me on the front porch swing, as he drools on his paws. I sit now, just as hurt and broken and sad, and growing ever more lonely by the day, to be honest, but still, I sit here now. I am alive. The fight is not over. The end is not present. The truth (not life’s secrets, but the truth) as plain as the tears. Life is good, even when it is not—I still choose to live. I still choose to hope. I still choose to love.
I looked in the mirror today and noticed that my cheeks are starting to sag, just like my fathers. I am already debating the pros and cons of plastic surgery. While I may loose in the art of boyfriends, I will be damned if I am going to let gravity beat me! How’s that for a final thought of the day! Can’t accuse me of being deep!