XXIX

One score and nine years ago, I entered this world. Oh, the wisdom and brilliance I should share. The tales of greatness. The feats of daring. Acts of beauty. There are some of each of those I could tell, however not nearly as many as one might figure that there should be. After all, in a years time, I will be entering a whole new decade. It surprises me how much I am not dreading that. I don’t want to rush it, but not desperate to slow it down either. Eleven years from now? That is an entirely different story.
In over a decade of horrific birthday periods, this one has been wonderful. Nothing huge or lavish. Just simple, sincere, and clean. The way I like it. I am surrounded by friends that love me and that amaze me with their brilliance, family that gets better every passing year, a boyfriend who I love and am not freaking out about (who am I?), and two little dogs I would die for (however silly some would think that is).
As a child I looked to the future and pictured what I thought it would be like. This is nothing like what I had envisioned. If I would have known what my life would be: gay, tattooed, teacher, aspiring writer, occasional drinker, occasional skydiver, sarcastic. . . I would have been devastated. Thank God it didn’t go the way I had it planned. Truly.
I have no idea where the next decade, or even the next few years will take me. Husband? Kids? Book? Better body? Worse body? What amazing things will happen? What horrific things will come to pass? Who will I gain? Who will I lose? I don’t know.
I know this. Life will continue, either way. There will be many, many more tears. There will be even more laughter. For the first time on a birthday, I will look in the mirror and recognize the man peering back, and I will like that man.

Gather 'Round, My Children. I Shall Tell You a Tale.

I was in Bible study Thursday night (TB is doing another six week segment—life is good again). This time, it is about some of the ‘supporting cast members’ from the Bible. Very interesting. He is one of the few people that can present the Bible in ways that are a different perspective and with original insights that I have not heard a bagazillion times. However, this time, the part that caught my attention was something that I have heard tons of times. It wasn’t even the point of what we were talking about. Others may have even said this before. In fact it sounds like something out of a cheesy fortune cookie (ugh, not sure if I would like cheese flavored fortune cookies—can’t people leave well enough alone, don’t mess with perfection) or a mundane Sunday school lesson. He casually mentioned the custom of stoning people in the Old Testament, and then went on to his real topic. However, my mind got stuck there.
Now, let me take a moment to explain for all you damned heathens out there who don’t know what stoning means. No, its not getting all crunked up on illegal substances, although that would have gotten you stoned and stoned back in the day (I love making myself chuckle stupidly over my mundane puns!). Stoning was where the people took a sinner of the common, everyday variety (adulterers, thieves, goat fuckers, gay people [my bad, those last two are the same things, duh]) and pelt them with stones (rocks [mineral matter of variable composition, consolidated or unconsolidated, assembled in masses or considerable quantities in nature, as by the action of heat or water {mass of stone}]) until they were dead. There is one part in the Gospels that the people bring a woman caught in adultery (that mean sex without marriage—like gay people [see why we need to legalize gay marriage, one less reason to stone me]) and reminded Jesus that the law said they should stone her for her sin and wanted to see what Jesus thought they should do to her (can we say entrapment?). In pure Jesus fashion, He debonairly stated, “Whoever is without sin, cast the first stone.” This just means, if you are so perfect and have never sinned, go ahead, kill away. Obviously, no one in the crowd fit this criteria for murder, so they slunk away alone to get their rocks off by stomping on earthworms crawling upon the sidewalk in the rain.
Of course, my brain did not continue on with the point of the story or why it is in the Bible. I just thought about what if I was living in that day and needed to stone somebody. What would that look like? I had always pictured this crowd of people circled around the Soon-To-Be-Bludgeoned and every person throwing heavy stones, each one cracking viciously into the person’s flesh. Well, what if I had been there? I did not do so well in PE in school. I have never been athletic. That’s why I scrapbook. If I had to throw stones at someone, I would not be overly accurate with my aim. Especially in the heightened frenzied state that a stoning extravaganza would have fostered. I may have hit my target one out of ten times. The other nine would have gone all over the place, behind me, lost in the atmosphere, and through some of the skulls of the people on the other side of the stoning circle. Then they would have known I was a fag, because I throw like a girl (which is the definition of fag, btw [btw is an abbreviated form of ‘by the way,’ btw].
I am sure there were a few closeted ‘righteous’ Jews back in the day that couldn’t throw for shit either. Therefore, I don’t think these stoning celebrations were as cleanly murderous as I once thought, unless, they lined up and took turns throwing, but I doubt that. You know random people were getting smacked right and left. My luck I would have been directly across from another incognito faggot on the other side and would have received a cockeyed pebble buried deep in my left ear canal. I think it was their form of getting drunk, they had to wake up with at least minor hangovers the next morning.
All of this lead me to my alternative Hallmark card lesson. If we look for the sins or weakness of others, everyone gets injured in the process. Instead of throwing rocks at one another, let’s offer hugs, pastries, or cheeseburgers.

full disclosure

I am a creature that thrives on safety, on routine, on coziness. Maybe I don’t really thrive on those things, but I have to have a regular infusion of them to maintain a sense of well-being and happiness. True, I like to sky dive, stick needles and ink into my skin, profane verbally, hold my boyfriend’s hand out in public (we got yelled out by two guys the other night, calling us faggots [it’s true, we are {still, it’s rude}]), and at times be provocative for the sake of being provocative. Safety enables me to do these more ‘edgy’ activities. There are a few select things that make me feel truly safe and truly cozy. One of them is blogging at my coffee shop while drinking a hot non-coffeenated drink. Another is curling up with Dunkyn and Dolan and falling asleep to Friends or Will & Grace. Yet another is cooking in my own home (it is different if I cook somewhere else). Even sitting by a heater or using one of those automatic hand dryers ushers in such emotions in me—let’s not look too deeply at that. I am sure Jerry Falwell (just ‘cuz he’s dead doesn’t mean I can’t say the same things about him that I said before [provocative for provocative’s sake {even though I mean it}]) would say that I am just anticipating the warmth of the fires of Hell.
The focus of our little discussion today, is one other area that brings me that wonderful sense of safety, warmth, contentment, and peace. This place may seem a little strange. Not sure. It’s the bathroom. Not the big bathrooms with stalls and urinals, etc, but the individual ones, with locks on their doors. I don’t even need to use the facilities for what they were created for, just simply being there is enough. At my internship, I looked forward to being able to go the restroom a couple times a day. They had these two little restrooms for staff. They were decorated with elaborate, refined décor from Wal-Mart. Tacky as fuck (there’s that pointless verbal profanity I warned you about). Still, I would walk in, shut the door behind me, and all the weight on my shoulders would flee as I locked the door. I would simply sit in there for five minutes or so, playing a game on my phone, texting, or casually breathing (as opposed to formally breathing [?]). Nothing elaborate or deep. It was always with a tinge of melancholy that I would turn the door handle and emerge back into the world. I wanted to spend the entire day there.
Even when I am in my own home, by myself, I look forward to my times in the restroom. It is small and painted in warm earthy orangey/reddish-brownish hues. I lock both doors. Of course Dunkyn and Dolan rush in when they see me enter. They immediately lie down in their favorite spots in the tiny room and fall asleep. They are the only living things that can enhance my bathroom experience. Boyfriends, don’t even try to enter this private world. Even bathing has the same effect. There is a line from a Pink song where she is talking to her boyfriend that she loves, that says (get ready, more cussing in your near future), “No you can’t jump into my shower, all I ask for is one fucking hour.” See, even rich and famous stars like their bathroom time.
I think that line may sum up why I feel so safe there. It is the only place in the world where you can completely be yourself. It is the sacred temple of worship to yourself. Yes, I know, it is where you shit. ‘Porcelain throne’ and all, blah, blah, blah… Well, now that you bring it up, maybe that is another reason it is such a glorious place. Where else is not only ok, but expected for you to let all your shit out in the open.
One day, when I am rich, I will have wonderfully small bathroom with in-floor heating, built in space heater, and an automatic hand dryer. Ah, that will be wonderful. Can’t wait. That will be the last the world will ever see or hear from me. Well, I might send text messages, as long as I didn’t forget my phone when I went in.

I am who I am

Growing up, I was always very proud of being a Missouri boy. I am still proud of my roots. Often professing to be white trash, hillbilly, and telling people I have cousins that are married (which is true, they are 3rd cousins, but still….). However, the longer I am in Colorado, the more I go to fancy cities, and the larger my circle of gay friends becomes, the more I realize that I really am all those things I have professed to be, and at times, I can embarrass myself because of it.
I used to have very nice cars, now I have a silver contour. I sold my others when I needed cash, and this one only needs liability insurance. It’s not a bad car, it just looks like an old grandma owns it. I got rear-ended a couple months ago, which cracked my rear bumper in a variety of patterns, and I don’t feel the need to have it fixed. Looks real classy. Today, in the pouring rain, my diver’s side window wiper broke. It made a loud crashing noise. Of course, I screamed and looked up. I thought a tree branch was coming through the roof. It wasn’t. Obviously. So, here I am in my beat up grandma car, trying to fix my wiper while not colliding with oncoming traffic. Apparently, I am missing a screw. (Don’t saying anything, too easy.) I can get it attached and it stays on for several miles. I am on my fifth time of fixing it in the past couple hours. Real chic. No wonder I don’t have a boyfriend. Oh, wait, I do! In spite of said car. Wow, I must really be somethin’.
My little brother graduated from High School last Friday. Praise the Lord. To celebrate, we went to a very nice steak house, Elways. It belongs to John Elway. Apparently, he used to play professional sports. Golf or volleyball or something. Anywho, in the midst of our delightfully expensive meal, I needed to use the restroom. I do this often when I eat, typically because I drink an average of fifteen glasses of water during meal times. I often worry that someone will think that I am bulimic and that I am going to the restroom to throw up. Then I remember my vastly expanding waste line. Don’t think anyone is worried.
After I finished using the restroom, I went to the sink to wash my hands—don’t want to spread the squirrel/monkey plague that is sweeping over Denver. At the sink there were these three HUGE men. Well, huge compared to me. They were obviously very, very straight. They were discussing some sports writer that happened to be in the restaurant who misquoted some sports fact that seemed to greatly upset one of the men. They were planning on going to confront him. And they say gay men are drama. At least we only cause a ruckus over important things. I wonder if Britney Spear’s hair is growing back nicely? What if it grows back frizzy? Oh lord, I’m stressed.
As I politely eavesdropped and tried to be invisible, I picked up the soap bottle, which I thought was peculiar. It was in one of those glass bottles with the spout on top, like an olive oil dispenser. It was a cheerful shade of bright green. I tipped it over into my left hand. It poured out like water, much of it quickly wasted down the sink. I glanced over my shoulder, making sure the big straight men hadn’t noticed and were not on their way over to smear the queer. They were still ranting over the damned sports writer. I quickly rinsed my hands off, squeezed by the mammoths and made my way back over to the table.
A short while later, my mom and brother went to the restroom (mom to the women’s and my brother to the men’s). They came back at the same time, laughing. Upon inquiring into the nature of their shared hilarity, I was reminded that despite the nice clothes, good hair cut, and use of facial skin care products, I am still a redneck at the core. Apparently, they both had picked up the glass bottle containing the glistening emerald substance, then glanced at the stack of small plastic cups and realized what they held in their hands. They thought it was so funny that they had nearly washed their hands with mouth wash. Thank goodness that was avoided. That would have been devastatingly embarrassing. Or, so I imagine.

tinky winky tellatubbie is safe--is that a good thing?

I have had multitudes of people contact me over the past day asking me my view point on the passing of Jerry Falwell. They are anxious to hear my enlightened words so that they can better adjust their viewpoint to match my brilliance. When I say multitude, I mean a few. When I say a few, I mean me.
I have battled my emotions over Falwell’s death. What should I feel? What is appropriate? What is genuine? What is honorable?
There is no love for him lost on my part. I am fairly certain I have referred to him within this blog in less than positive terms. In fact, upon hearing of his death, part of me thought, ‘about damned time.’ I logged onto Connexion (a gay site [not THAT kind], to read others’ thoughts. Most were celebrating, calling him names, throwing parties (literally), and ranting and raving over how much pain and torture they hope the man is experiencing in Hell at the moment. It disgusted me. How evil are such thoughts, such words. I believe COMPLETELY that Jerry Falwell was an vile, evil (wow, same letters, different words!) person, would did as much to drag God’s name through the mud as he did gays, women, and other minorities. Even so, for a community to rejoice in thoughts of a person suffering in Hell makes us no better than that man himself (who so very readily would have condemned me to Hell).
After my initial moral disgust at people’s reactions, however, I played a little game with myself (not THAT kind of game, sicko). What if this had been Osama’s death? Would I rejoice? Hell yeah! Would I attend a party in honor of his passing? Fuck yeah! Would I thank God for his death? You bettcha! Would I take pleasure from thoughts of his torturous time in Hell? No. I would not. I have no desire for Osama nor Falwell to be in Hell.
Then I pondered over my audaciousness to compare Falwell to Osama. Falwell never blew up a building with innocent people in it. I should not compare them. Then, I thought again. How many teenagers have killed themselves due to their guilt of the homosexuality due to his influence (did I not pray for death multiple times growing up to escape gayness)? How many parents disowned their child for being gay due to Falwell’s teachings? How many people did he lead down the path of hate? How much did he fulfill scripture that say that there will be those who use God’s name in relation to their evil deeds?
Accurate or not, I would say he is in the same league as Osama, even if they used different tools of mass corruptions and destruction.
Either way, it comes back to how often I am disappointed in my fellow man, first by the ‘Christian’ community and then by the gay community. When we will learn that we must be filled with compassion, integrity, goodness, and love? It need not require that we sanction evil people, but neither does it mean we lower ourselves to their level of sickness.
I hurt for Falwell’s family, for his wasted life, for the pain he has caused countless individuals and families.
I rejoice that God is bigger than mankind, straight and gay, and that who He is has nothing to do with who extremists on both sides say He is.
I look to a day where we learn to love and learn to live up to the respect and rights we deserve.

new ways of things

There are many things I have wanted to write about over the past week: over-whelmed by school and the job next year, a suicide of a family friend, people that are driving me crazy (stranger insinuating I don’t take very good care of my dogs—grrrr), trying to sell my rabbit hutch, replanting my yard (it’s gorgeous, even if it does look at an old man lives here now), my continued astonishment of how preposterous grad school is…
Instead I have simply chosen to sit down in my yard and write about me. I go back to get tattoo filled in tomorrow. The outline took four and a half hours last Friday. My first two really didn’t hurt very much. This one hurt the ENTIRE time. Crazy. So, really looking forward to tomorrow. The tattoo enabled my boyfriend to see me freak out for the first time. I have thought about this tattoo for nearly five years and it is what I have wanted, and I think it look pretty good. However, I got home, took my shirt off and started crying. I didn’t see Brandon in the mirror anymore, it was someone else. I experience a claustrophobic type sensation, I felt trapped within the tattoo, and it seemed that would last for the rest of my life. After much consoling and sweetness, the bf got the tears to stop flowing and convinced me he really liked it and still loved me. Now, a week later, Brandon is back and I don’t really even notice the tattoo, or it kinda like it has always been there.
All this brings me back to what I want to talk about: being in a relationship. The boyfriend, CNH, accomplished something that I really didn’t think was possible. He gave me time, let me be freaked out at times, without freaking out himself, never pressured me, and always waited for me to say things first (want to see you again, I really like you, I love you, I want to be serious). I know he was worried at times, but he did the only thing that would have worked with me, he waited. This is something I am horrible at, and am so impressed by. He gave me time to hash through my emotions and evaluate every detail, all the while being sweet, affectionate, and treating me better than I have been treated, which says a ton, as my last boyfriend (who you may have heard of, lol) treated me wonderfully, completely.
One of the things that really through me off was that I was expecting my next relationship to feel like my last one: firey, consuming, take-your-breath-away, etc, only times a thousand. I have realized two things. One, that was my first love, and there will never be another first love. Two, you will never experience the same kind of love with two different people. Doesn’t make one better or worse, simply different. We are nearing our four month mark, and I am confident in the relationship, calm even. It’s strange. I don’t stress over when he will call or where he is, not devastated if I don’t get to spend every second with him, and I don’t feel the pressure to figure out if he is the one I want to spend the rest of my life with right now. It is amazing.
I have been amazed about how well things have gone. Granted, I know it is only four months, but that’s a couple years in gay time. I am intensely comfortable around him, constantly laughing, and feel like an equal. There are things I adore about him and things that aren’t the symbol of perfection, and, for once, I am completely ok with that! And, TMI alert, I never knew being intimate with someone could feel so completely natural.
I have no idea where things are going to end up, but that is just fine. Maybe we will be together for six months and go our own ways, that is fine. Maybe we will be together the rest of our lives, that is fine. I don’t have to know right now. Either way, I am so unbelievably blessed right now, and content. Wonders truly never cease.

Inky Emotions

Is it the Gemini in me? Maybe the fundamentalist? Maybe just the fact of being human. I get what I want and it either scares me, makes me feel guilty, or a joyous combination of both. Maybe this is normal. Probably. Maybe it means I’m fucked up. Probably. Maybe being fucked up is normal. More than likely.
I have wanted a massive tattoo for years. I about do it, then put it off, over and over. I haven’t been able to shake my desire for it. It’s not like I wanna get Taz, Tweety, or Timon on my ass or anything. All my tattoos have meaning to me. My first one, on my back, I got when I was twenty-one representing my masculinity and independence. The second one, a band around my left arm, I did when I was twenty-three, representing my Faith. The third, in my last few days of my twenty-eighth year, which I am scheduled to begin in less than three hour,s simply represents me, Brandon, using two symbols of importance throughout my life.
On my back upper right shoulder will be the animal I have always considered myself to be most like, a wolf. Not that I am all dark and cool and stuff, but I do relate to how they live their lives. They are the perfect contradictional mix of personalities. They are independent and solitary, and overtly social, loyal to their pack, and relish in the companionship of those they love. They can be loving, sweet, devoted, and they can be cruel, vicious, and cunning. They are close enough to dogs to be confused with them, yet are entirely different. Maybe comparing myself is just a way of glorifying all that I am without cause, most people don’t see the comparison to me, but I do. In and of itself, I think that is wolf-like. I am not one thing, I am two.
On the front, partially on my chest, but mostly on the front of my right shoulder and arm will be a merman. I do not remember a time in my life when I have not been obsessed with mermaids. I’ve never been able to understand their allure or their power over me. I used to draw them incessantly when I was younger. To the point where my parents forbade me to draw them for a period of time. One of the few orders I directly disobeyed. I have always wanted a tattoo of one (or a hundred), but never had the nerve. The merman part of the tattoo I designed myself, except for his bottom fins. Everything else was partially my design, but he was completely.
The wolf and merman will be in black, and then in purple/blue there will be tribal like swirlly patters from my right chest, the right side of my back, over my shoulder, and covering a lot of my right arm halfway down the forearm. My other tattoos I can cover at will. The only way to cover this one will be a long sleeve shirt.
As I sit here, where excitement has been for so long, now there is fear. What if I look fucked up? What if it makes me look shorter? What if my white-trash roots show through? What will I look like in thirty years? How badly will this hurt my parents? Why do I allow in guilt around something that has nothing to do with anyone else but me? Will people be able to see all of me with this many tattoos? Do I care? Will it throw off the man I may one day want to marry? Would I want to marry such a man anyway?
Well, never know what kind of therapy I will use this blog for, but here is the latest session. Actually, it helped. Still petrified, but I needed to talk through why I want it and what it means, and selfishly focus on me in it. Me? Selfishly focused on myself? Never. ;)

State of the Union

While I have become a Colorado boy at heart, there are still aspects of my Missouri upbringing that are impossible for me to overcome. One of these is after our state motto: The Show Me State. As a kid, I did not understand what this meant, and even when people tried to explain it, I couldn’t grasp the concept. It has only been in the past few years that I have begun to comprehend, once I started to see it within myself. Basically, for me to believe something I need to see it. From what I understand, this was almost used as an insult to Missourians, historically. For instance back in the days of whenever whoever it was discovered gravity, some newly informed scholar from a more high profile location, say Nebraska, came sauntering over to Missouri and told some old man about the new theory of gravity. No matter how many times the Nebraskan got an apple to conk the old Missourian on the head, he still would say, “No, I don’t see nothin’ that looks like gravity to me. What else you got…” Well, I am that man. I’ll blame it on my Missoura roots, when really it is due to me being a bitter, cynical old man myself.
We live in a culture based on drama, crisis, and angst. (And here you though gays had the monopoly on that.) There is always a new danger to be on the look out for. Last year it was sick chickens that were going to swarm over and kill us all by molesting us until we caught flu. Last fall it was Spinach danger. This year is dog food and I just heard a report about a killer Squirrel disease that is sweeping through Denver (not kidding). When I was a kid I was terrified of the Killer Bees that were swarming up from South America. They would track there progress on the news, much like the weather. They predicted the killer bees would reach Middle America by the time I was finished with Jr. High. The Russians were also a great concern, as well as the Atomic (or nuclear, don't remember) Bomb. I was constantly waiting for a sweeping flash that would cause my skin to melt before my eyes, quickly followed by the melting of my eyes, of course. Oh, and of course, the quintessential: God is coming back any day. There was not a day that went by that the news didn’t proclaimed to my parents and the surrounding community that Jesus was on His way back promptly. Even today, it is comment that I frequently hear from my father, as the state of the world worsens everyday. (Endearing, really.) There were multiple times that I tore through the house and the yard screaming and crying because I couldn’t find mom, certain that Jesus had come and left his sinning, masturbating, gay eight year old behind. There have been few moments of relief that rival that of your mother coming around the corner and sweeping you in her arms assuring that Jesus hasn’t left you anywhere. I am sure He is still coming back, but really, can we hold the party till he does? The cake is stale from waiting so long. I’ll make a new one when He shows up. Trust me, I’m gay, I can do fabulous icing roses!
We have enough to worry about without trying to decide if butter or margarine is better for us. Every five years there is a new report negating what they said in the last one. And do we really think no one had ever died from infested spinach before? We must make everything the biggest calamity in the world and blow it up to impending apocalypse in order to take any pleasure in life, so it seems. Well, there is reason to fear and the apocalypse is near. However, it cometh not in the form of bees, spinach, melting Ice Caps (Ice melts people!), or the rapidly depleting Ozone layer (God is just rolling back his sun roof, He’s coming back in about three seconds anyway, chill out). The end is coming in the form of stupidity. People are such a beautiful creation, are they not? I had to go down to the Social Security Office today to apply for a replacement Social Security card so that I can sign papers on my new job offer. I was there for over an hour. I began to understand the appeal of ‘taking everyone out with you’ (this is said in jest for all you fuckers looking for a reason to start a witch hunt). It was very clearly posted that each person had to have some form of official picture ID to receive a card. Makes sense, as they’re not lotto tickets. I had my passport and driver’s license. There were about ten people in front of me. It took me less than two minutes for the lady to approve my paper work, since I had all the forms it stated we needed—this tells you how long each of the others took. Over seventy five percent of the people in there were yelling (literally) at the ladies behind the desk because they ‘forgot’ their ID’s at home—but they had brought a piece of mail or a doctor’s signature to prove who they were. They could not comprehend why these were not sufficient. Hold on, let me scribble down that my doctor says that I am Ricky Martin. Damn, that worked, I look good. One man was escorted out screaming how he will bring in a judge to verify who he was. Then it went to the police, and ended with the National Guard. Yeah, you can’t find your ID, but you have the National Guard on speed dial. He wasn’t even drunk. One lady brought in her son’s ID to get him a card. He wasn’t there and she had forgotten her own ID. This was, obviously, due to some intentionally racist decision of the lady behind the desk, of course. My favorite, however, was this fat woman in sweats (which may or may not have had poop stains on them). She leaned against the wall, incessantly scratching her crotch. She simply watched and occasionally yelled, without moving, at her four filthy children as they fought, pushed chairs around the room, harassed other people waiting, and tossed the two month old youngest around with the care offered to bags of potatoes (don’t twice baked potatoes sound glorious right now, btw?). Later, when questioned around some discrepancies in her paper work, she tried to clarify the situation by explaining that the children had different fathers. Well, duh. That is definitely not a place a man goes for second helpings.
Not to be outdone, shortly after, I was having lunch with my boyfriend at Chili’s during his noon break; I relayed my frustrations of society with him. I had a salad (it came with a quesadilla cut up in it, yum). As I was talking to him, I absent mindedly wiped my fingers on my napkin. I looked down and I was not wiping them on my napkin. I was wiping them on a piece of my lettuce! Proving that I have an amazing boyfriend, he simply smiled at me. Comeuppance, anyone?
Sorry, time to go. I think I hear killer bees knocking on my front door. I should get that. They are only seventeen years late.

the last monday in april

Was I ashamed when I went walking today in flowered neon green swim trunks, mud covered cut off t-shirt (been working in the yard), slip-on shoes, and white socks up to my calves? Nope. Was I humiliated when I went to sushi with two friends and I ordered and ate more by myself than they did together? We call that pride baby. Was I aghast when I forgot I wasn’t by myself in the steam room and let out the biggest belch this side of Morocco? Not really, although I did think I was straight for a second [shudder]. Kinda makes a cultured person ponder if there is any amount of self-dignity left in my being. Well, what I can not seem to achieve on my own, my eldest, Dunkyn, accomplished. Once, in the middle of the street, while cars were speeding towards the three of us from both directions, he decides it is the optimal time to hunker down for a leisurely poop. I respond by pulling him by the leash across the remaining distance to the other side. This action resulted in poop being spread across the road, we walked away sans pride but maintaining our lives. Ten minutes later, as we sauntered past the shopping center’s drive way, a lady in a gargantuan SUV let us cross in front of her. Dunkyn once again assumes the position and shows the world just how sensitive his little stomach is, both ruining the pristine asphalt and the rear portion of his hair, that less than a week ago got professionally groomed. I stood there grimacing in shame, offering a sheepish wave as if I had opted to join in the public shit-fest myself. Maybe tomorrow.
You may have noticed a common theme throughout my bloggings: People need to die, or evolve, whichever. Every single person drives me crazy. As a society we have lost all sense of common decency, decorum, and simple manners. Now, every time I try to exit an elevator I find the entrance blocked by some impatient individual standing two inches from the door ready to spring inside. Heathens! Anytime I try to merge from an on ramp onto the highway, the cars do not move into the middle lane (as per the LAW) but push their gas peddles and try to get in front of me, nearly causing my to have to stop or continue onto the off ramp. Assholes! When I go to the movies, the entire experience is ruined due to those using their cell phones instead of taking a break from their self-absorption. Pricks! Truly, the fury goes all through me, and I shake my head at people’s audaciousness. Even worse, every time I am trying to get on an elevator a jerk is waiting right inside the door trying to get off before allowing me to get on! Each time I am speeding down the highway, some ninny tries to edge her way in from the on ramp, attempting to make me slow down or change lanes. Ain’t gonna happen, lady, I ain’t no sucker! And when I am trying to enjoy a movie with my boots propped up on the seat in front of me, quietly texting a friend, people have the gull to act offended and put out. Each time I experience each of these scenarios (and a plethora of others) it shocks and revolts me more than the time previous. I wish people were more like me; if they would all just simply follow the norms of common decency and protocol, my life would be so much better.
My life never ceases to be a roller coaster. Changing on the whim of a fickle breeze. Despite the fifteen extra pounds I have on my being at the moment, I felt fairly potent as I caught my naked reflection in the mirror today at the gym locker room—in comparison to the other men around me. True, most were Old McOldinskies, Skinny McSkinersons, Fatty McFattersons, or plain old Grossy McGrossersons. I saw eyes flicker towards me. Not in sexual lust, but in envy. I stood a little taller and didn’t worry about putting the towel on. Did Michelangelo put a leaf on David? A few seconds later, having nearly finished the affirmative appraisal in the mirror, I shut my locker and bent down to get my towel to carry beside me. That is when they walked in. Maybe the two most beautiful men in the world. Not a stitch on them. Chiseled chest, double sets of wash-board abs, towersome thighs, perfect… well, everythings. They walked to their lockers directly beside mine. My eyes caught my erratic reflection intertwine with theirs. Suddenly, I saw who I really was: De Mclusional. Two sets of towels quickly found their way around my body. Thank God for fifty dollars in sushi!