please

Help me quit missing him already. Please! Please...

no play button

I realized today that we are almost done with February. It made me very happy. Then, I wondered why such a mundane thing would make me happy. Why should I want time to go quickly? I actually, despite all the new kids and all the drama, quite enjoy my job. One part of it is that I can’t wait for summer so I can have time to write. I thought that would be the ONE good thing about him leaving. I’d have more time to write. If anything I have less. I am so busy with having to have the second job and trying to squeeze in so many different friends and family, that on the extremely rare night I don’t have work/plans, I simply fall asleep on the couch at a ridiculously early time. I’m always tired. Part of it is financial. I will have a paycheck come the first, and I can pay bills. Of course, the pay check is gone by the fourth, so that doesn’t help much, but it does alleviate the pressure for a moment. Another reason is that the sooner April comes and goes, the better. It will have been a year, everything from there on, I will have already gone through at least once.
However, while all the above are true, the thing that resonates the most is this: Once again, I feel like I’m living my life on pause. That it is just an in-between time, not real life. So, the more days that pass, the sooner I will get to my ‘real’ life. You know, the one where he comes back and wants to spend his life me. Or, maybe, the one where I don’t want him to, and I’ve found someone who won’t find me a waste of their time and life. The one where I’m published and I’m not writing compulsively because something inside needs to for no reason, but for a genuine purpose—for an end.
I’ve always struggled a little bit with this. Except when I was with Chad (and I’m not being sappy, just honest). With him, I was able to love the moment, I felt like I was really living life, not a bit of it on pause. True, I was looking forward to the day where I was published, but even that process simply felt like life.
Maybe (well, no maybe about it) this is simply the life I’m meant to have. Right here. This, in this moment, even though there’s very little in this moment that I want to be true about my life (except for my family, friends, and dogs), is really just my life. There isn’t something have I rush towards. What if I rush and rush and rush forward to get to my life and discover that this is my life. Like some foreign art movie where you keep waiting for the movie to start and suddenly the credits roll and you realize you watched the movie—all of it. What you thought was prologue and build-up was simply the story.

HERO

To no surprise to anyone, I haven’t been willing to listen to much news surrounding the shooting at DeerCreek Middle School yesterday (it was in my district, but far away from my school). I was working with Young Life with the Chatfield and Columbine schools when the shooting happened at Columbine (I wasn’t there at the school at the time), and have rather had my fill of hearing about the shootings—they seem to always say the same old things, and rarely offer anything helpful. However, the bit I have read about this one has been pretty amazing, but as I started tearing up at Starbucks, I decided to put the paper down and get on with the day. However the tearing up was a happy and proud tearing up. I’m sure there have been others, but I don’t recall hearing of a teacher/s tackling a shooter before—saving who knows how many lives. I have to pay homage to David Benke, Math Teacher turned Superhero. There was a message on my phone from our district head honcho this morning praising the effort of the DeerCreek staff—which is vastly deserved. However, it also stated that it demonstrate the importance of our training. I don’t recall any training telling us to tackle gunmen. I’m pretty sure it was more along the lines of keep the kids safe and out of the way and let the professionals handle it—of course that would have to be the official american policy. However, David Benke did the heroic, manly, and only right thing to do. While I hope I never find myself in the situation in which Mr. Benke found himself, I only hope that I would show the courage and strength he demonstrated.
My heart and respect go out to you, Mr. Benke. You are most definitely on my short list of heroes!

turn about is fair play

My big discovery for the day didn’t even come from me. It was told to me at a dinner party last night: How to block certain updates on Facebook. I no longer have to hear about what people are doing to their zoos, their farms, their whatever. It has been very fun to go a little block crazy. I must say, however, the last thing I blocked did give me pause. Before you block something, it asks you if you are sure you want to blog such and such. Well, this last one asked: Are you sure you want to block: What God wants you to know…..

I hit yes.

I’m sure for all those who were one the fence about my damnation, the fires just got clarified for you.

Of course, if there was a real Facebook app that actually came from God, I’d not have clicked yes. Unless he kept telling me how he was altering his rollercoaster themepark to attract more visitors.

I do wish I could block certain theme’s of people’s posts. The ones about how drunk they got or how bored they are in their life or how many cheeseburgers they ate (oh, that’s one’s mine…) rather drive me crazy. However, the one that drives me the most insane are the ones about God. Not from people who occasionally put up something about their feelings about God (good and bad) or requests for prayer or thanking him for something, but there seems to be an endless supply of rote, asinine, cliché blabberings about God. And an assortment of various Bible verses spewed forth from the same people over and over and over and over again—the ones that are clearly not something that was on the person’s mind or heart, but are coming from a place of ‘witnessing’ via Facebook or preaching at others. I think, honestly, the part that gets me the most is the fact that the select people that do this seem to believe that this does some sort of good for God. As if their endless Bible and cliché abuse causes people to want to know God. The worst offender of this is an old college roommate (not from the Christian University) who used to go tear the posters off of other people’s dorm room doors (that’s a lot of O’s) with which he didn’t agreed (in the name of witnessing). Every post he puts up talks about reaching the lost, searching for sheep, exulting the most high. I can’t help but put myself in God’s shoes (I know, I know, I would never be so assumptuous). After a long day of hearing my name spouted by endless children and a Para for no particular reason, I swear I will kill the next person that says it. Luckily, no one outside of school calls me Mr. Witt. Except for my folks. Just kidding.

Likewise, I turn to my gay website (not a sex hookup site—really) and am accosted by the opposite. All these gays going on and on and on about every single straight man who stands up for us (Ewan McGregor, etc) obviously being gay and needing to come out. While I would be the first in line if he ever did, is there a faster way to alienate straight men from treating us as equals and standing beside us for our rights than to call him out for being a fag? Likewise, the exhaustive onslaught against those who stand against us the most—those that are homophobic and hostile to us… What is our argument against them? They must be closeted gays, of course. The whole ‘doth protest too much’ argument. Wonderful! I’m so glad the biggest assholes of the world are assholes because they are really just like me! Yay! Great argument guys. Way to see ourselves as an insult. You hate us? Hmmm, what’s the worst insult I can come up with… Let me think. . . Oh, right! You’re a big, cock-sucking queer!!! Now don’t you feel ashamed and dirty? Sick! Oh, wait a minute….

lingering chocolate wine

Complaints (cause what would my blog be without more complaints):

***Snow: broke my passenger side windshield wiper (not the blade—the wiper), and made it where I barely got home (TDC had to literally push me to get my car moving)—wasn’t even that much snow!

***The weekend is over: still exhausted and didn’t get to write! However, wonderful time with friends

***(Fill in the proverbial blank: _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ )

Happy Things:

***Dunkyn and Dolan

*** Bedtime in a few minutes

***Disgustingly straight vampire romances on my iPod

***Nephew

(see, more happy than complaints!)

Blog:

It really was a great weekend. The boy I’ve been seeing and I actually had an honest to goodness date yesterday—an all day date. It was very nice. He took me to a dinner (which I could NEVER afford)—a wonderful Italian place and to this fancy movie theater where they give you free popcorn and coke (cherry)! It was fantastic. I don’t know if I’ve shared this before, but he was also in a two plus year relationship where he thought he was going to get married, with a really great guy, ended sortta out of the blue, completely devastate. We actually haven’t talked about on any of our dates, until for about five minutes at dinner last night. It was the first time I really felt someone truly got nearly everything I felt. Every word out of his mouth could have been from me, and has been in this blog—including, that if his man came back this instant, he would take him back in a heartbeat. I know most people would probably find this a really bad thing to say to someone else on a date, but it is exactly where I am as well (duh), it made me feel safe with him, knowing that he truly understands what my life is like right now. His is the same.

Tonight was a really nice Mexican dinner with friends (some of my oldest friends, some). I don’t understand myself. It can be so hard to force myself to see my friends still and actually have the nerve to speak. It truly takes everything in me to make myself be a part of the conversations. With a room full of strangers or people that I’ve barely met, I am charming, witty, clever, and dynamic. With most of the people I should be the most comfortable with, I’m a wallflower and anxious to run away.

You’d think I need therapy. I think just need more cheeseburgers, cookie dough, and icing.

oh, goodness............

I don’t wanna talk about myself today. We’ll actually, I really do, but it’s the same conversation I’ve had for months on end and I am equally mad at myself for continuing to have such hard days—it makes no sense how one person can hurt so much while the other enjoys freedom.
I made probably the best dinner I’ve ever made (for PCSV&LDRL) last night. I made roasted root vegetables (with tons of whole garlic—paying for that today)—inspired by the boy I’ve been dating, and crab cakes and whiskey bread pudding, which was to die for (thanks SLunna!). Not huge news to most—but perfect food is always news worthy in my world.
I am feeling lucky to be alive and uninjured this morning, and even though it’s been an hour, my heart has not yet returned to normal. The small amount of ice and snow we received yesterday proved to be too much for my little car, which spun out of control as I was heading to a stop light (no I wasn’t speeding). I was barely able to keep it from sliding into the cars on either side of me—one of which was oncoming traffic—and the horn buttons are so small that I couldn’t find them in the moment to warn people. I punched the center of the steering wheel for the horn like in my old car, but now it is just an airbag. Thank God it was a green light, I finally came to a stop in the center of the intersection, a few feet from the person waiting to turn right. It truly was due to guardian angles—had to have been, I was inches from a horrible wreck at least four times in those few seconds—and taking someone with me. It was also surreal that I was in such a state of terror and trying desperately to keep the car under control and no one seemed to notice. The people in the oncoming traffic didn’t try to move over—they just kept coming, and I couldn’t find the damn horn to get their attention. Just one more reminder that so often we walk through this life alone, inwardly screaming and wailing our fear, heartbreak, and terror—all the while wondering why someone can’t hear it seeping out of us. Maybe this is why I keep a blog.
Due to being sick of writing about the things in my personal life that disturb me, my kids have given me lots of things to be disturbed about at work—for which I am grateful. Some of them cringe worthy, but also fun enough to pass on to you.
I have a fifth grade boy who is rather (well, I was gonna say chunky, but let’s call it what it is) fat, and rather gross to be honest. He reminds me of myself in grade school—in looks—not actions. He was sitting in class two day ago, voraciously picking his nose and then eating his snot—all the while surrounded by his classmates. When redirected in this action, he gave the teacher a big ‘fuck you’ look and took another slurp. I later found out that earlier, he had been lifting up his shirt in class and having another boy stick his finger in and out of his vast belly button. Talk about something you don’t wanna dig around in—loose an arm. Later that same day, as I was walking to the teacher’s lounge to grab my leftovers out of the fridge, I was walking by the fifth grade lunch line, and I hear this comment from one of the boys, talking in excited animation to another boy (both surrounded by little girls), “Yeah, I’m totally getting pubic hair!!!” I skidded to a halt in my track, put my hand on the back of their necks and leaned forward, “Not something we talk about in the cafeteria line. Understand?”
I rushed to the bathroom (threw up—not really) and then gathered the other fifth grade teachers and we all died laughing.

notsodeep

Typically, when I fall asleep cuddling with Dunkyn, I wake up within half an hour, ready to go to bed. Last night, I didn’t wake up until four. While I’m not tired, it felt strange to have just crawled into bed and get right back up again. I like that I get to cuddle with Dunkyn (I know he loves it, and it typically makes me feel less alone), however, it is a lonely feeling to wake on the couch in a dark house in the wee hours of the morning and crawl into a cold bed—no one missed you or wanted you to be in bed with them. Boohoo, poor poor Brandon. Blah.
You know, I have been sitting here for the past four minutes since writing that last sentence, trying to think of something cute, funny, or self-deprecating (humorously) to say or tell about. It seems that’s just not where I am this morning. So, screw it. I’m not gonna force it, and I’m not going to go on and on about the same shit that is happening in my heart for the billionth time, so I will take Thumper’s advice and simply get on with my day.

outofthebleu

I just returned from my bff’s birthday party. I’m going to officially quit saying that I have any insight whatsoever into my own psyche. I wasn’t worried about my emotional state at all for this event. The crowd was small and no one I am uncomfortable with (like we don’t know who that means), in fact several people I love more than life were there. There were two couples and one single girl and one single guy (beside myself). So, I shouldn’t have felt like a third wheel. I don’t know what it was. I hate feeling lonely, but it is so much worse when you are around people, people you love, and you feel so utterly and completely alone. Alone. I’m really tired of missing him. I’m tired of being his fool for no reason.

Hosed

It’s amazing how a morning can start, and within the hour, you want to run screaming into the night—straight into the arms of any waiting zombie, just to get it over with. Okay, even I can admit that is tad bit dramatic.
I have had to remind myself several times just to breathe today, and I’ve only been awake two hours. I have so many great things this week: bff’s birthday tonight, dinner with PCSVLDRL’s on Thursday, and an all day date on Saturday. All which require money. While going over things this morning, I was reminded how money seems to be allergic to me. The fun fact about all these ‘things’ that require money? You can’t do your second job during those times to earn the money to do them. Conundrum….
Then, I get to work, and see an email that says I’m getting a new girl today. (SIED girls are SCARY!) This after learning I’m getting a new fourth grade boy in the next week. This puts me at fourteen kids. Which sounds like nothing—but just to give you perspective—MOST SIED programs have four to eight kids (or at least they used to). Breathe!
On a fun note, the huge bump on my head is a lot smaller than yesterday, only hurts a little, and I am no longer dizzy. After a dear friend did a lot of research on vacuums a few years ago, Chad and I followed her results and bought one of the heaviest vacuums ever made. I’ve always thought women should be insulted by vacuum commercials by insinuating that they are so weak they can’t lift a vacuum. Well, I’m one of the stronger people I know, and I hate using this vacuum. It’s exhausting! I honestly have no idea how women and smaller men use it. It was crazy expensive (of course, I hate the idea of paying for things that cause you to do work that you don’t wanna do—so there is no such thing as a cheap vacuum). Anyway, as I was vacuuming the steps yesterday (I was a good boy—had the day off—didn’t write, didn’t go to a movie, didn’t even sleep in—cleaned for hours!). I was on step four, which means the monster vacuum was four steps above me—I was using the hose thingy. The vacuum decided it was not satisfied to simply kill my back and make me breath hard (if it ain’t sex, it ain’t worth it), and wants to kill me instead. It flies off the landing (it really must have, because it didn’t hit the other stairs on the way down) and smashes into the top, back part of my head (from landing, into air, into skull). I screamed (not girl scream, but wounded animal scream—didn’t know I could make that noise), threw the vacuum across the room, cursed worse than ever before, and laid on the ground in a fetal position with my hands clasped over my head until I could quit bellowing. I thought the whole egg on the head immediately was only in Donald Duck cartoons. Nope. It was instantaneous. When I looked in the mirror, where the bump was, my hair was standing straight on end—which was pretty humorous, I must admit.
Today, I’m wishing the vacuum would have done it kamikaze mission a little more thoroughly.

le jour de l'amour

Just finishing up Valentine’s Day on the couch with the puppies. Always a good way to end the day. I think today would have been a lot harder if I hadn’t written him (and visa-versa) earlier in the week. As it was, I had a pretty perfect day. (Even ended with a pretty great phone call from the boy I was/am going on dates with!) I spent nearly the entire day with my gorgeous girl, MD. We had such a great time. So much laughter, so much sharing. (Although, I have to point this out—I decided I was going to get he flowers, which I normally don’t do. I hate cute flowers, such a waste of money and life. I went to a florist. The cheapest thing they had was TWO roses in a nasty glass vase for FORTY bucks!!!!! I laughed and left—she got a cinnamon vanilla candle (yum) and a chocolate rose (which her dog ate! LOL) We saw Valentine’s Day instead of Dear John, which was a great call. I loved it! So good. Plus, she bought me one of the most perfect shirts I’ve ever owned (from Guess). I couldn’t believe she did it. She convinced me to try it on (it was $90), even though I told her there was no way I could ever buy it. You have to see this shirt—it screams my name, really. I came back out from trying it on, and she handed me the receipt and told me she had bought it for me. It bowled me over. I really am so surrounded by people who constantly show love for me. I am so blessed in that way. Not just in that she bought me a shirt, but that she chose to spend her Valentine’s Day with me. While I easily could have focused on the love I no longer have, by wrapping myself in the love that has continued to choose to walk by my side, I couldn’t have asked for much more.

VD EVE

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. Hadn’t you heard? Huh, you really should keep up on these types of things. I’ve been dreading Valentine’s Day soooo much. I’m sure you’re surprised. I thought I’d at least have a date with the boy I’d been seeing—not sure if I can say I’ve been seeing since he’s so busy—but no. So, I am spending the day with my one of my best girlfriends, MD. And, actually, I’m pretty excited about it. We always have such a great time together, and we both give each other free therapy, so it will be pretty perfect. We’re going to see Dear John tomorrow night—what Valentine’s Day is completely without tears? I’m glad I have someone so wonderful to spend VD with.

I did get a bottle of wine for the boy I’d/I’ve been seeing. His project ends late tomorrow night (Yay!!! We will see were we go from here), so I thought it would be good to give him something to celebrate (he loves wine). I also got him a Valentine’s card. I wasn’t sure what was appropriate to say in a Valentine’s card when you’re still in love with the man you planned on marrying but are having feelings for someone you are kinda dating, so, I got one in Spanish. That way neither of us knows what it says—can’t go wrong! I have to admit, I think that’s pretty fucking cute.

I’ve had a pretty good day writing—it’s going slow, but I got some new inspiration on one of the new sections that I think can take me quite a ways.

I am hoping for a dreamless sleep this evening (on clean sheets! Yay!!!!). Last night, I dreamed that Chad came back to me. It was really a wonderful dream and very real—except he had horrible long hair for part of it—not sure what that meant. However, it was one of those where I woke up at least four times, and realized I was dreaming, which was not fun. I’d go back to sleep and tell myself to dream something else (sans Chad) and, sure enough, it was the same dream theme—just twisted a bit. Lasted all night. Kinda just pissed me off, honestly, and made me in a really weird mood all day. I’m hoping to dream of nothing or a young Paul Newman tonight. Or an old one for that matter, at least I don’t have real feelings for him—plus, I really don’t care for his dressings.

highs and lows

It has been a roller coaster of a day. Not compared to some I suppose, but still—pretty big for a Thursday. Part of the day was pretty beautiful. I wrote Chad last night. I know most of my friends would tell me that I am pathetic and weak—but, you know, I think the strength that I do have comes from an honesty and transparency that many both lack and see as pathetic. I wasn’t sad or mopey, he was just on my mind and I have been thinking how much I love him—if he’s with me or not, that fact of who he is doesn’t change, nor that fact that I love him, nor that I enjoyed my life the most and had the most fun and love in my life when he shared his life with me. I just wanted him to know that he is loved. I asked him not to respond—I know that’s probably not fair, but I didn’t think I could handle a response. He wrote back this morning. His response made me know and believe that he still truly loves me—even if it’s not in the way I wish he would. It’s enough that the person I love the most, simply loves me. I can live with that. Maybe I can even move on knowing that.

Another aspect of today involved one of my students. One of my sixth graders that I got this year. I hate getting sixth graders. They give you a kid who has never been really asked to do anything their whole life and then expect you to ‘fix’ them in nine months. Ridiculous. Anyway, this boy’s mom called me last week in tears because they didn’t have any food for the weekend, they had enough for that night, but then would have to go hungry. They had already used up their food bank and they wouldn’t give them any more. The office helped me get a list of resources that I could give to the mom of where she could get free food. It worked and they were able to eat. Later, she called and told me that she also thought she might be pregnant, again. Also, yesterday, they couldn’t afford Valentine’s cards for the Valentine parties as school today, so I went and bought cards this morning. I bought a lot of extras, thinking I could use them next year in case someone else couldn’t afford cards—turns out, lots of parents didn’t see it necessary to get cards for their kids, so it turned out to be useful today. This morning, she called, furious at our sixth grader because he was cursing and calling her a selfish, worthless bitch all last night and refused to shower, etc. Then he woke up and started all over again. (I have kids that I have to call every day to make sure they are showering and getting out of bed, since they won’t do it for their folks—he’s not typically one of them.) She then told me that he was mad with her because she got trashed last night. She was letting me know, in front of him, what an ass he was, and that he probably didn’t deserve any Valentine Day cards to give out. I got on the phone and got him calmed down, and assured him he wasn’t in any trouble and that he just needed to leave the house without fighting more with his folks. Most of the time, calls from Mr. Witt in the morning have a very mean sounding Mr. Witt on the other end of the line. Not today. Lady, I’m sorry your son has the clarity of mind to call you what you really are, but I ain’t gonna punish him for saying things to you that I wish I could. So glad you don’t have money for food for your kids, braces for their teeth (oh, yeah, we hooked them up with that too—or at least found someone who would), Valentine’s card, or anything else, but there is ample money for you to buy enough alcohol to get wasted in front of your kids on a school night. Oh, and how’s the potential unborn baby, by the way. Yeah, your son was really outta line with what he was saying. I am very against abortion, but I would vote on forced sterilization and applications to procreate in a heartbeat—not kidding.

Another moment happened at school yesterday, but one that made me laugh, and this probably won’t be so funny since you don’t know my kids. Most of my kids don’t have what I would call true disabilities, just one’s are popular with our culture when it decides to label instead of actually doing the hard work of parenting, teaching, and following through with consequences and consistency. However, one of my sixth grade angels does have some Autistic tendencies and a horrible/use-to-be-adorable lisp (that he can control, but is too lazy to). He also has no social clue whatsoever. Anyway, he and I were doing a Wilson lesson (a program that helps kids learn to read—he reads at about a early second grade level). Two of my fourth graders had been throwing fits and climbing on tables and trying to tear up the room most of the morning, and I had spent most of the day using my nearly abusive sounding Mr. Witt voice. Things had finally calmed down enough to teach a little (what shock). Anyway, I knew the fourth grader was pacing behind me, but I knew he was fine. However, while I’m teaching my sixth grader, the little one decides he needed a hug (he often goes there after one of his tantrums, even when the result is one or both of us bleeding or getting bit). Without me realizing what he is doing, he wraps his arms around my head and face from behind and squeezes, which startled me. I turned to him, rather astounded, and asked incredulously, “What are you doing?” He looked a little flustered and rejected. “I was just trying to give you a hug.” It was then that my socially clueless sixth grader mutters in his lisping sing-song cadence, “Awkward.” Which came out: awwkwooord. I lost it. I think I laughed for five minutes straight. It was one of those rare, movie perfect moments that can’t ever be truly repeated, and timed just perfectly to remind you why you do what you do when all you really wanna do is throw you hands up and declare there is no hope for humanity of any kind.

If nothing else, I can hold on to this: I am blessed in both my work life and my personal life that I get to experience every emotion life has to offer: the heartache, the rejection, the deepest pain, the loneliness, the confusion, as well as knowing that I have and have known true love, known deep friendship, pure joy, pure peace, and pure laughter.

Because sometimes morbid is real

I had a very strange and wonderful experience this evening. My dear, dear friend. PRL (straight, married, father of two) and I were on our way to see Avatar (for my fifth time). However, we ended up seeing A Single Man (don’t worry RB, I’ll see it again). I’m not going to say much about it, as I don’t want to give anything away, but it is about a gay man dealing with his ‘partner’s’ [hate that word] death after sixteen years together. It was amazing to see this gorgeous film with my straight friend beside me. It felt like a gift of somesort. Such love, acceptance, and pure coolness that most straight men would never be willing or able to give. It was humbling.

I have also decided that I am going to quit saying my feelings are overly-dramatic and silly. Maybe they are, but who the fuck cares. They are real, truly and deeply real for me. That said, the movie was a very hard to watch, as so much time was given to how he felt after the death and how he dealt with it. People who don’t think breakups trigger the same emotions as death have never been through a genuine breakup. It was like I reliving moment after moment—some of them months ago and some current. As horrible as it sounds, there have been times I have thought a death would have been easier—at least he wouldn’t have stopped loving me and wouldn’t have left me on purpose! There have also have been times I’ve felt cheated in that way. When I die, he won’t be loosing a husband. Just some guy he loved for a bit killed over. I know, my thoughts are morbid, but they’re real.

Again, that being said, I have to say this: I am so very thankful that Chad broke up with me and didn’t die. Though it hurts to know he is out there and doesn’t wanna be with me and I even though I don’t wanna run into him at a party, my life is better knowing that he is in this world. That he is happy and well.

If you get the chance, see A Single Man. Not happy. Not funny. But beautiful and very real.

just plain mean and judgemental

Last night I had one of the gayest, if not the gayest, experiences of my life—which is sayin’ somethin’. I got to see Legally Blonde—the Musical. It wasn’t something I wanted to see. Love the movie, thought the play would be ridiculous. And, it was. In the most perfect way. Top four theater experiences of all time! (Here’s the order, just so ya know: Tied for first—Wicked and Avenue Q. Tied for second—Mamma Mia and Legally Blonde. Wow. I haven’t laughed that hard in. . . actually, I truly don’t remember the last time I laughed that hard. Thank you so much for the free tickets, RB! (plus it was fun to both see all the gay gay gay boys at the play last night, as well as the old people (especially the men) who just weren’t quite getting what was going on around them. Priceless.
While we are on the subject of old men not getting what is going on around them, I once more have to talk about the gym. There are several things that make me furious when I am at the gym, which I have talked about before, but there are also several things in the locker room/sauna/steam room that drive me crazy as well (which I know I have mentioned before). There are these old, fat, fat & old men that simply sit in the steam room and stretch their necks—literally. They will turn their flabby heads as slowly as possible to one side and then hold it for an eternity and then rotated it the other direction. Sometimes, apparently when feeling overly energetic, the will lift their chin up to the ceiling, and then lower it to their ‘chest’ (really, if I wanted to see breasts, I’d sneak into the girls’ locker room). Sometimes, they will go so far as to raise their arms up to shoulder level and then slowly flap them like a featherless bird who ate the rest of it’s flock and now doesn’t know how to get up in the sky and can’t understand why they are alone. I’m not completely sure why their pointless and asinine actions drive me nearly to the point of violence, but it takes everything I have in me not to verbally assassinate them. I am okay will the right to be fat. I’ve exercised the right plenty myself (and am sure I will again)—however, when your waist has more inches than your height, just stop already. Yesterday, there was a skinny older man in the steam room, and it was one of the creepiest experiences of my life (not kidding). His face was completely slack, like someone who had just died (I’m really not exaggerating at all, in fact, I’m not a good enough writer to truly share what this was like), it was sallow and waxen. He moved at a snail’s pace—a snail with a limp. He sat there, doing the motions described above, slower than you’d ever dream possible, and after each movement, he would turn at stare at different people in the room—the kind of stare where he is looking just above your head, or just to the left or right of you. You know my fear of zombies. Well, he was one. Had to be. He truly looked like nearly every zombie I have ever seen—the only difference was that his skin wasn’t rotting off yet. I truly was prepared to leap from my seat and rush to the door as soon as he launched himself, mouth gaping, towards someone’s face.
While we are on the subject of old men, let’s talk about old women. There is this woman who works my Starbucks who I thought was playing a joke the first few times I was in, or thought she had just had a surgery of some sort. Her voice isn’t gravelly. It is like a semi and a concrete truck smashing together and be drug, shredded metal pieces raking the ground, ceaselessly. Not to mention, she’s more baritone than any daddy singer in a barbershop quartet I’ve ever heard. Now, you might assume someone cursed with such a painful voice (it has to hurt her to talk, it just has to!) would limit their volume. No. She is always five to ten decibels above everyone else—typically hollering out the window to a customer or across the store to someone else, typically making a joke—causing everyone in the store to pee their pants in fright and anguish. After I realized she wasn’t sick or suffering a surgery, I thought maybe she was going through a sex change procedure. Nope, she’s all woman (well, I’m pretty sure—not gonna do the investigation required to confirm). Today, to my utter astonishment, her husband (HUSBAND—SHE’S MARRIED!!!) brought in her glasses she’d left at home. You should have heard her rejoice. Rejoice. From the top of her lungs. For a long, long time. (I wonder if her husband has hearing issues, maybe to him, she sounds normal. Either way, I’m not going to think about how she married the man she loved and I can’t. Seriously!) While I’m always glad to get out of her vicinity (I’m not exaggerating when I say it hurts to hear her), there is something very endearing about her. She doesn’t give a shit (or is blissfully unaware) that her voice causes miscarriages in people miles and miles away—she just loves being alive and telling everyone within earshot (even those who technically shouldn’t be in earshot) about her life.
While we are on the subject of old women, there is a check-out lady at the Safeway I go to that I inevitably end up with. She is this cute woman, cuddly and mid-western in appearance. She carries on a normal conversation and is always friendly. A very nice woman. Until she hands over the receipt. Then, for some reason, she transforms into having non-cursing turrets syndrome. Her voice suddenly raises an octave and her speed increases as if she’d just taken fifteen shots of espresso. “Thanks for coming, Mr. Witt. Have a great day. Thank you. Thanks for coming in, Mr. Witt. You have a great day, Mr. Witt. I hope you have a great day. Bye now. Thanks, Mr. Witt. See you later. Thank for coming in. Have a great day. Thank you, Mr. Witt. I hope you have great day, Mr. Witt.” All this said in a rush (plus some), within in three seconds, truly. I try to copy her on my way to car, every time. I never can do it. I get too tongue tied. I’m not sure what happens to her in that moment, but somehow I always forget that she does it, and she startles me every single time. I’m manage not to jump anymore, but it’s like someone pours a bucket of ice water on you when you’re off daydreaming every time she tries to say goodbye. It’s rather nice, I always leave the store laughing and shaking my head.
Sigh, old people…

Bachelor Degree

While watching the Bachelor with my folks (and Gavin) tonight, I noticed several things, (plus I was in the mood to do a list):

• Jake is so gorgeous that it hurts, and he makes me want to never eat again
• A lot of depressed people watch the Bachelor, there are more advertisements for anti-depression medication during this show than any other show on television
• There is a huge difference in how people respond to women getting their heart broken than men—even by me, which is disturbing to a very core level.
• White trash boys can be hottttt! White trash girls. . . not so much.
• Parents can make a potential mate suddenly unattractive
• I’m comfortable enough in my sexuality (finally) to not turn away from the TV when my parents are in the room when Jake’s in the shower
• Our hearts and fate are always in the hands, whimsy, fears, and choices of another, and there is nothing we can do to alter that—a lesson I have already learned way too well, but bares repeating nonetheless
• I can kiss better than all the girls on the Bachelor. J

The Only Woman to Have My Heart (besides my mom)

I’ve always sworn that I wouldn’t put pictures on this blog. It is only an ode to the written word, nothing that can’t be expressed in letters would ever go on here. I’ve almost broken that several times. Pictures of him and I that I treasure. Pictures of my nephew. Etc. I am sure it will come as no surprise to anyone that the picture that finally makes it on the blog is of Ariel. I’ve seen many different renderings of her in human flesh, all of them pretty but not her. I’ve finally found her. The real her. How I’ve always seen her in my mind. The painting is by Meirou, on Deviant Art. You can find a lot of my stuff there as well, stuff just for fun. Here is the link to Meirou’s representation of Ariel, check her out: http://meirou.deviantart.com/art/Ariel-and-Flounder-120588501

I’ve been utterly captivated by this painting, I can’t stop gazing at her.

Kickoff

I did something tonight I haven’t done since college. No, not pot. I didn’t do pot then either. I went to a movie by myself. It’s not all that uncommon for me to take myself on a date to a restaurant, but it was a little strange to go to a movie alone. Especially a chick flick. There is no way to buy a solitary movie ticket for a romantic comedy without looking like a complete fag. That would bother me a lot more if I weren’t a fag. Plus, I just realized, I did this on Super Bowl day! Perfection! I really do love me at times! I must say though, When In Rome is one of the worst movies ever made. I knew it would be bad, but I thought it would be enjoyable bad. Not so much, just bad, bad, bad. Even made Josh Duhamel less hot, which is a pretty huge achievement—didn’t think it was possible. However, I greatly enjoyed myself. I have been so depressed the past couple days, for some reason, maybe it was the popcorn or the huge coke, but just sitting there as the previews started to play, I was able to breathe and relax for a moment. I knew everything would disappear for a couple hours, at least mostly, and I could be safe in the dark, surrounded by strangers, a fantasy played out before my eyes. I LOVE going to the movies. I must say, if whoever wrote this can get a job writing, I’d sure as fuck better get published at some point. I know I’m not the best writer in the world, but I am a hell of a lot better than that trash! Wow! In all honestly, it’s probably a good thing that it was so horrible. I also want to see Dear John, but I knew that would be good, and I knew I’d be in tears, and more of an emotional basket case coming out than I had been going in. This way, I was able to laugh and go, ‘Wow, that was bad! I think I go get an extravagant dessert from Whole Foods, go home and eat dinner, watch HGTV while I dine, and then write for awhile.’ Which is exactly what I’ve been doing. Like movies, I was far away from my own life for a bit, lost in world of demons and vampires. It’s probably strange that that kind of thing relaxes me. After all, there’s nothing more scary than the stuff that makes up the daily happenings of real life.

...how to wipe up the mess...

I just returned home to my vomiting puppies from dropping my bff off at his house and found a roll of paper towels on my porch. Very sweet! Thank you whoever did that. Very timely, too. With Dunkyn puking for three days and now Dolan starting (not having any paper towels), I have literally used every actual towel I have, so they will come in handy tonight! Since I spent all day doing massages, I can actually go out and buy more tomorrow—as well as detergent! I have discovered you can refill your detergent container like three times with water before it stops being soapy! So, it’s time for new now! Yay recession!

It’s been interesting with sick puppies. I had been saving to take them to the vet for way too long and finally took them two weeks ago—got them all caught up on shots and everything. They never get sick. They always have weak stomachs and all that goes along with that, but never sick. So of course, they get sick now, after trying to make sure they stay well. I was really scared for Dunkyn two nights ago. I honestly wasn’t sure if he was going to make it. He was barely walking, ended up not eating for three days. I just lay on the couch and held him. He is almost back to normal now—thank God, I couldn’t handle loosing him. And, now Dolan is starting in. He’s a lot stronger then Dunk, so he’ll be fine. Plus, he’s not as smart, so he keep chugging water, only to throw it all up again, so that will probably help him not get as dehydrated.

So, by the time I see the boy I’ve been dating next, we will have seen each other exactly three hours in three weeks. Pretty poor timing. Or maybe the timing is perfect. Who knows. This three week hiatus started right at the anniversary, and for some reason, I haven’t been the same since. The day of was a lot better than I feared—mainly being with PCSV&LDRL for Project Runway night. However, since the day after, it’s sorta like he left me all over again—except not nearly as painful, not a tons of tears or anything—just continual awareness of the hole deep in me where all he took with him used to be. Maybe it would be have been easier if I could have been looking forward to going on dates with someone I care about—even when neither of us know where, if any, this thing is going. Maybe, however, I’m supposed to feel this. I can’t help think that’s not quite right though. Why should only one of us be supposed to feel this? I know he doesn’t. Why do I?

On a wonderful note, I got to work on the novel for a couple hours yesterday. Finished reading it again (the fantasy—not the one that got rejected). It had been long enough that I had forgotten several things. It’s funny how something you wrote could surprise you, but parts of it did. It was a really fun experience, actually. I really liked most of what I’d written, and I have a pretty clear view of things I want to change and a few sections I want to add. I’m a little nervous about the new sections, since it will be from another character’s point of view, which I wasn’t going to do until the second book, but got try it and see what happens. I hope to have some time to starting writing that tomorrow. I don’t know why writing is so therapeutic for me—especially when it’s not even about things that are real, but I feel so much more whole when I am doing it.

Speaking of things that make me feel whole, if you are on facebook, you need to get on my brother’s profile and see three video’s of Gavin: one eating sweat potato baby food and the other two laughing at our folks dogs as they play ball with him. There is nothing more soothing than a baby that you love’s laughter.

DADT

In keeping with the angry (at times furious) mood I have been in since last Friday/Saturday, I blog yet again.

But first a truly wonderful moment from the newest Garfield book (that’s right, I don’t have money for paper towels at the moment, but I did buy a Garfield book—one will make me smile, one will make me clean, hmmm, hard choice). It’s the very first strip is his 49^th book: Garfield Weighs His Options:

In each scene, you see Garfield at the fridge shoving things in his mouth: Ketchup, mustard, relish, onions. . . then he has a problem. Last scene, he goes up to a wide-eyed Jon and asks, “Got a spare wiener on ya?”

Really, outside of love that will crush you flat, where else are you going to get happiness like that!

On to the anger:

I was listening to my conservation radio again today (I’m waiting for the library to call and say they have the next installment of my vampire romance on CD in for me to pick up), and they were discussing the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy. Of course, their main reason for being against its dismissal is that it would be condoning the homosexual agenda and lifestyle. Which is obviously true. In our meetings, one of our keep points in indoctrinating others into our cult is dying for our country. Well, right behind child molestation, bestiality, and cannibalism, of course. This vein of conversation went on for quite some time. I was able to laugh here and there, roll my eyes at places, and guffaw in sheer astoundation (New word: State of being astounded). However, then a young man serving in the Army or Air Force or some other military branch called in and told a story:

It seems he was on a plane and there was a man (soldier) who came on board who was not on the manifest. When he asked the man why he showed up for duty (they were going into a war zone), the man replied that the pilot was extremely handsome and looked good in his uniform, so he wanted to be near him and see him in action. This made our young solider feel unsafe and that he would be in danger on this mission because not everyone would be truly focused. Everyone on the panel agreed wholeheartedly that open homosexuality would indeed endanger our boys serving their country for the right reasons.

If I had a nickel for every idiotic fag I’ve met I’d be able to afford lots of paper towels. If I had penny for every idiotic breeder I’ve met, I’d never have to worry about being able to purchase Starbucks ever again.

Then, I arrived home, and saw a newscast from MSMBC, where Peter Sprigg was one of the panelists. A few of his points were these: If this ban was lifted, the country would be in danger due to 10% of the military refusing to serve. The moral and the morality of the country/Service would be non-existent. Gays (even those on the down-low) should not be allowed in the military at all. That homosexuality should be illegal not only in the military but also across the nation.

Fact after ‘fact’ was quoted, and on the radio, verse after verse was spewed forth to support their bigotry and hate. In fifty years, our nation will look on these people in the same manner as we see those pastors and advocates who said similar things about African-Americans, Mixed marriage, and countless other stupidities.

I have been thinking this for quite a long time now, but think I am going to actually look it in the face. It is one thing for people who don’t know any homosexuals, who aren’t educated, to hold on to these views. It is quite another for those who know someone—in my case, who know me, can call themselves my family and friends and sill refuse me the right to die for my country, get married, adopt a child, etc, etc, and not even attempt to open their minds or hearts to the man in front of them. That person is neither friend nor family. Obviously.

Cock-A-Doodle-Doo

I just spent fifteen minutes answering all these questions about people on facebook so that I could find out which one of my friends thought I was hot. Hey, it’s important to know such things!!! After all my question answering, the Luster was uncovered. It seems a lesbian friend of mine thinks I’m hot. Well, thanks dear lesbian friend. Glad you think I’m hot. Does me no good though. Better hot to lesbians than hot to no one at all, right? Actually, it seems I am very attractive to lesbians. I know when he (I miss being able to type his name—plus doing control I before and after masculine pronouns is irritating) and I went dancing on lesbian night at Tracks, the lesbians were all over me. Grabbing ‘stuff’ and taking off my shirt to touch my chest. It was a little strange. Maybe my chest looks like hairy breasts, I don’t know. If they do, don’t tell me—I’ve face enough these past several months—I couldn’t face that reality too! I ended up convinced that I had managed to find some horny straight girls there, but he assured me they were just being friendly. More people should be so friendly.

Earlier, I was planning on blogging about how sad I’ve been today and how he always seems to know when I’m missing him the most, since he, once again, emailed me today—which was nice. So nice the man I thought would marry me found time to think about me once in the past four weeks! However, I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to blog about that. Not even going to mention it.

Instead, I decided to have a Mike’s Hard Apple Cider. I bought them for NYE to put in a cheese fondue, which was pretty orgasmic. I now have four more bottles in the fridge. This was the first time I have ever drank anything alone. Ever. And if you know me, you know what one bottle of anything can do to me. So, here I sit, a little fuzzy brained, watching a muted House Hunters on HGTV and not blogging about him.

Actually, now I have three left in the fridge—just went and got a second one. Maybe if I finish it before I am done blogging, I can simply fall asleep with Dunkyn and not have to think about who I’m not mentioning at all. They are surprisingly not bad, however, I much prefer them in melted cheese. I wish I had cheese.

Speaking of cheese…guess what I found on the internet tonight while, uhmmm, searching for updates about, uhm, the war on terror… Yep, you’re right! Clothes for your penis! Not kidding. Really. It can be a pirate, a matador, and several other things. I don’t remember right now, but you get the drift. Each little ensemble even comes with a hat!!! I want either a vampire costume or a merman costume (not that either of those are known to wear hats…). Or maybe a giant costume. ;)

Honestly, considering this is a blog written by a big old fag, consider yourself fortunate that this is the first blog about penis. I think.

Speaking of penis…I was listening to a Stephen King book on my iPod today (which was boring and I quit). It talked about a weather vane that was a big copper cock that was spinning. At first I sniggered to myself and said, ‘Cock.’ Then I realized that many of the younger generation (yes, I’m old enough to say younger generation) probably wouldn’t have any idea what a weather vane is or know that a Rooster is called a Cock. Which is all pretty awesome. It would have been pretty great to simply have a visual of a big copper dick spinning in the air and have no idea what the author was trying to say.

So, the next time you feel your life spiraling out of control or simply missing the life in which you were actually happy, sit down, mute the TV, drink a hard cider, and contemplate on big (has to be big), copper, spinning cocks.

hole

I know this isn’t kosher to say when you are dating someone else (even when that dating hasn’t been defined), but since when am I kosher: I have missed him so much today. Not sure why, not sure what triggered it, nothing. I simply know I miss him. Each moment that I knew he was leaving me and afraid to admit it haunts me, but I’m so glad I shoved them aside and chose to enjoy every moment I had with him—even if he wouldn’t stay. I don’t’ believe that there is only one person for everyone. I’d like to believe that—it’s more romantic, but I really think there are several or even many people that a person can spend their life with. However, he was the one I chose to spend my life with. Within a couple months, it will be a year since he left, and while I don’t cry and weep and mourn every minute like I used to, while I am learning to live again, there isn’t a moment I don’t ache for him or feel unbalanced without him.

On a happy note, as I sit on my couch typing, Dunkyn’s head is peering around the left side of my computer, and Dolan’s is craning around the right. They really could not be cuter or more a gift of salvation if they tried.