crush feathered

I’m in one of those moods where I want to sit down and write all day long. Some blog. Most novel. I miss getting to write on the novel. Here’s to summer.
Despite the desire to blog, I don’t have a specific direction, and with the mood I’m in, I’d end up saying things that are rather ridiculous. Yeah, maybe even more than normal. So, keep it short. (Short is good.)
I am ridiculously excited about this weekend, and can’t seem to stop myself from counting chickens. I didn’t realize I could still count chickens, or that I even wanted to. Oh well. I am going to enjoy counting the chickens and ignore the guilt for doing so that is based on a preposterous devotion and annoying logic.
It could end up where I realize the egg was meant for another within three minutes and I am stuck with the wrong brand of egg. Of course, it might be glaringly obvious the egg will be the perfect chicken.

I drive myself crazy with the over thinking and irrational emotions—as well as by the fact I can have an entire conversation where I equate my life with poultry.

intentionality

It’s interesting. When I start to feel better (actively pursue feeling better), there are always glitches that rush towards me, causing me to question if I really am getting better or not. Yesterday evening was one of those times. A few things happened. Nothing big. Just some ghosts that hit me out of nowhere as I was waiting for a massage client to get ready. I was looking the DVDs thinking I need to organize them again, and there Chad and I were, packing all his things a few hours before his friends picked him up—separating the DVDs. Still acting like best friends. My heart shattering. After, I hopped on-line and boom, there he was. I wasn’t expecting it for some reason. I jumped right off. There were a few other things, other disappointments that are truly trivial and that wouldn’t even phase someone who was a more grounded than I am at the moment.
In the middle of all this, as I drove quickly to the bank in attempt to avoid more and more overdraft fees, Dr. Laura was on. I know, I know. She’s evil. She’s repressed. Blah. I like her. It’s rare that I don’t agree with her advice. She was talking to someone who was depressed. I already knew everything she was saying. She was saying how people struggle to give up their depression. How it validates their pain. Makes them unique. How at first, other people hurt for the person who is depressed but soon see it as a burden. All of this is true. And it is true for me. I do struggle with letting go of my depression and my sorrow (although, I don’t think that is the case when it hits me out of the blue like last night). If I let it go, I’m giving up on him fully. I’m saying that it wasn’t anything special. That I didn’t lose anything. That I have all I’ve ever dreamed of right now. I know these things aren’t true. However, they are hard beliefs to shake. I guess I’m invested in the pain—invested in the feeling that the pain somehow validates what we had and keeps it alive… if only in my own mind.
Well, it is time. It is truly time to do all I can to get the fuck over it. Time to live again. Time to quit being a depressing lump of gloom and burden to my friends. Time to love what I have, not only what I’ve lost. I know I won’t do this perfectly, and that I’ve quite literally forgotten how—but, I’m gonna do it.
I’m still excited about this weekend. Crazy excited, actually. Although, one of my new ‘quirks’ is that when I want something, I get so obsessive about it and think it can’t possibly happen. Total Eyore. I wait for it to crumble and can’t really accept it until is over. And, in truth, I have some reasons to feel that way. Chad. Debt. My folks’ situation. (But who doesn’t have a list of such reasons?) So, while I am anxious for this weekend, in a good way, I keep waiting for the phone call saying he changed his mind. Or for him to wake up Saturday morning and go, ‘Uh, sorry, you’re not even close to who I thought you were. I’m gonna go spend my birthday with someone else. Anyone else.’
Yeah, one more wonderful personality flaw I need to work on.
Despite how this sounds, while I am a little apprehensive and nervous, I’m not all weepy and stuff. These are just the thoughts going on in my head and the things I know I need to work on. If I say them out loud, put words to them, I think they are more likely to get done, or at least accepted in my psyche.
It’s time to live again, even if it means need to work to learn how to.

cliff diving

This blog is reckless. Is stupid. Is adolescent.
I know better. I know how juvenile and flighty it sounds. I know I’m foolish.
However, I am going to share it anyway. What haven’t I shared? My weaknesses are evident to all. Why try to cover this one in an attempt to be logical and intelligent.
I met someone not very long ago. We’ve been talking on the phone nightly, for hours. (Lives three hours away.) He’s coming for the weekend. There are a million and one reasons I should stay away. Some of them due to him. Many more due to me. Even more due to my frame of mind.
It may not go past this weekend. We may spend more time in person together and say, “Wow, what the hell were we thinking?"
However, we might not.
And here’s what I do know. By all accounts, I never should have gone on a date with Chad. Everyone said I was crazy. And while he obviously didn’t love me enough, and while I learned what pain is, I wouldn’t give a moment away, and I’d do it all again knowing the ending. The ending, I don’t believe was destiny. It was choice. His.
So, with what I feel I’ve learned, I’m not going to let all my worries, and pre-conceived fears dictate my life.
I know I haven’t been so excited for something in well over a year. And, honestly, the timing is the one thing that makes sense. Something changed in me two weeks ago when the year past, when I was in Seattle. Love him less? Not at all. Feel more whole, like I can start living again. I really think so. Not due to the phone conversations and this weekend—due to me, to time, to lots and lots and lots of grieving, processing, and prayer (and fury).
All that said—I share with you my stupidities, my fears, my anger, my irrational drama, and the ludicrous nuances of my life. So, I share this.
I’m excited! This weekend may lead to something huge. This weekend may lead to tears. This weekend may lead to apathy. This weekend may only be a great weekend, period. I don’t know, obviously—and the positive thoughts I do have (that I’ve shared), I realize that I can’t trust yet. And while I’ve learned to live thoughtfully and cautiously, I’ve also learned to go for it. There will always be hurts and tears and pain. You can sit and drown in them. When a life raft comes along, whether it will carry you to shore or simply offer you reprieve, take it!
What shocks me the most—I had hope somewhere inside of me. Waiting. Really thought that was dead. While it’s scary, it’s pretty awesome.

golden nuggets

There are many things I could blog about on this occasion. Drama at work (not mine, but mine to deal with). Emotional stability. Romantic interests. Some of the anit-gay comments made in my presence lately. How I nearly strangled the lady taking my order at Starbucks when she laughed at me. How she seemed to recognize that very real possibility. But no, I have something different planned.
We are going to talk about something very dear to all of us. Something very human. Something that connects all of humanity—even if you don’t want to admit it.
Noses. Snot. More specific, the act of picking said snot from said nose.
Whether you’re an eater (if you are, I still love you, but you need to get help), whether you’re a wiper under your car seat or a stick it behind your ear for later kind of indulger, all of us (okay, most of us) pick our noses.
When I catch kids picking their noses in class, I tell them they need to go to the bathroom or wait till they are driving in their car, and since they’re not old enough, they’ll just have to wait. To which my co-teacher always screams. She tends to go ballistic when she catches kids picking their noses. To which I’m always like, ‘Really? This is the battle you wanna pick (Pick!!!)?’ People pick their noses. Just yesterday, I was glancing (AKA staring and drooling) at this gorgeous, GORGEOUS, man in his super nice sports car (I’m sure it had a name, but if I knew it, I’d be straight). As I’m casually glancing, his finger comes up and slowly makes it way halfway to his brain. After I finished dying of laughter, I couldn’t help but find him even more adorable. No, I don’t have a nose picking fetish, and I don’t think it is sexy. However, I love things that bind us all together and bring us to equal playing fields (unless we’re talking about Socialism, then not so much).
In that vein, and in the vein of not having an ounce of self-preservation or respect, I have two stories to share with you. They’re probably funnier in person, or if you have a juvenile sense of humor, but whatever.
Years ago, I was just leaving one of my sessions of my ‘learn-not-to-be-gay’ therapy. I don’t remember the exact topic, but, whatever it was, I was a mess. A mess. We are talking sobbing so badly I could barely see to drive.
I stop at the stoplight at Wolf Ct. and 92nd Ave. Tears gushing from me, barely able to breathe from the sobs wracking my body (honestly, I’m not exaggerating here). Without even realizing it, my finger apparently decided to be as helpful as possible and see what morsels of grief it could retrieve from inside my skull.
You know those moments. You don’t know how or by whom, but you can feel eyes on you. Cautiously turning my head to the right, tears streaking down, shaking and trying to catch my breath, my knuckle trying shove past my nostril, I see two college age girls (beautiful ones) absolutely losing their shit as they were filled with hilarity at the red-headed mess beside them in the Dodge Dakota pickup truck.
The light turned green. Laughing, they zoomed off into whatever awaited them in their lives. The sobs that I thought had been tormenting my body gave way to the real definition of weeping as salt was poured into my wounds, and I realized once again, how much of a worthless pratt I really was.
Every once in awhile, that memory will creep up on me unbidden. Every time, I am left with my body in wracking sobs again. These times, with laughter, however.

This next story is from this year (as much as I’d like to said I’ve evolved, we all know I’d be lying).
There is a young new teacher at our school. So young she looks like one of the kids. However, she is gorgeous. Really. Wow. Anyhow, the two of us have become fairly decent work friends. She often asks my advice on classroom behavior management. The one thing I actually am pretty good at.
It was a day where the kids weren’t at school and teachers could work on their own things in their room. I guess I could have just said ‘teacher’s work day,’ but whatever.
Me, working on stuff at the computer. You know where my fingers are. No, not typing—at least not all of them. In the midst of a rather satisfying excavation, I glance up (again, feeling those eyes on my skin) out the window by my door that leads into the hallway. There is the gorgeous new teacher. Her eyes wide, as if she’d been caught doing something embarrassing. Face reddening, she turned and hastily made her way back to her room.
Cursing myself and my inability to ever be cool, I focused all my attention on my work, refusing to let my hands return to their safe place.
A few hours later, once again lost in my own little world, I feel the eyes upon my flesh yet again. Looking up, the poor beautiful teacher’s face turned bright red, and she once again escaped to her classroom in sympathetic shame—all before I could extricate my lodged appendage from its sheath.
I never did find out what she needed from me so badly. Nor have we ever discussed the incident(s).

All this to say:
Life is short, hard, and full of pain. Take joy and comfort where you can. Dig away, my friends. Dig away.

a whole new kind of candy girl

After learning that that I’ve had strep (again!) all week and finally getting medication for it, I am starting to feel alive again. And to think I really kinda thought I was just being a wimp. The prospect of actually being at work and being able to do my job makes me rather happy to be at work tomorrow. I hate feeling unproductive.

I learned something rather interesting a couple days ago. I won’t fully believe it until I see it, but Archie comic books sent out a release that they are adding a new character to their comic. An openly gay character (Kevin or Kyle or something). (And before I say anything else, I fully acknowledge that the driving force behind this is exposure and an effort to drum up buzz around their product.) Apparently, Veronica is desperate to date him, but she can’t for soon to be disclosed reasons. It’s scheduled to be released in September. There can be a lot of protests before then—lots of things that will cause them to cancel the release.

I love Archie comics. I’ve been buying them since before I could even read (yes, that means I still buy them from time to time)—I have a couple thousand of them. And, yes, I’m okay that every single story is pretty much exactly the same. I got online to see some of the reactions, and they are precisely what you’d expect—from both sides. Gays rejoicing—the anti-gays screaming about putting our youths’ souls on the line. One started praying for God to return before the release of the comic. That made me laugh. The funny thing, the sad thing, is it is all too familiar—and I know which side I would have been on not too long ago. When I was in jr. high or high school, Archie tried reinventing Jughead to be more of a skateboarder and more punk. My little world about crumbled. I even wrote letters to the creator of Archies, going on and on about how Archie comic represent the purity and innocence of children and of America. Yep, I was dramatic back then too. Within a few months, that prototype Jughead was shelved and back was our A-sexual, burger-a-holic, lazy Jughead. Now, I’m not saying my letter was the deciding factor, but I’m not saying it wasn’t either. ;)

Now, here we are fifteen plus a few years later, and I can guarantee there are so many little mini-Brandon’s doing their godly duty, writing letters day and night. Emails more likely, but still.

I can tell how ‘liberal’ I really have gotten. A couple years ago, the thought of a gay character on Archie would have still bugged me. Why shove gayness in children’s faces? I think that thinking is faulty. Having a gay character is no more sexual than the straight three-way crush between Betty, Archie, and Veronica—and the comics have never done anything off-color or inappropriate that subject matter. There’s no reason to think they will just because the character is gay. For some reason, if a character (or real person) is gay, all anyone can see is sex—even when they are fully clothed, even when they are fat, ugly, stupid, or mentally retarded (yep, there are genuinely mentally handicapped fags). Maybe it’s because we are all so much hotter than our straight counter points (if you believe that, just look at Mc. Steamy, Eric Dane—the only man I’d I hesitate for on my flight into Ricky Martin’s arms), or because we have more sex (this is actually probably true). Whatever the reason (sorry got distracted by Mc. Steamy in my head), I can’t imagine how both shocking and wonderful it could have been to have seen someone I related to in the comics or books or movies I loved so much. I related to Archie because he had red hair, Betty because that was my grandma’s name, and Jughead because I love burgers even more than he, and Reggie, just because I thought he was hot—I loved it when the story line happened at the beach. . . sigh. But none of them were anything like me, only like my friends.

Everyone screams how our gay culture is such a danger to the straight good children of the world. We’re not gonna turn them. Trust me, I had no gay influences growing up, and all the straight propaganda didn’t do shit to me. No one cares about the little boy (or girl) who knows by the time they are three or four that they are different, that there’s something strange about them, something wrong. Maybe if we give them places where they can see themselves in normal every day ways, we won’t have so many go looking for it in all the wrong and dangerous places later.

That’s right, folks, other blogs will give you political debate, philosophical dilemmas, and current events. If I’m not giving you sob stories of my so-called shattered life, I’m giving you comics. Lucky you!

Speaking of, some of my emotions (the fun kind) seem to slowly be coming back. Yay for that. And, as ever, they are all over the place and exhausting. LOL!

epidemic

As soon as I got home from Seattle, I got sick. Allergy sick, but still. The allergies hit me different than they used to. Less sneezing and such, more swollen throat and fever/chills. Fun stuff. Regardless, I am so happy I went to Seattle. It was exactly what I needed; exactly the right choice.

I got good news today. I don’t have HIV! I get tested constantly. Which is good—a person should. Even when I haven’t done anything, I still get tested. I think it is still that voice inside that recalls being taught that gay=AIDs. Gay men die of AIDs. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to shake that voice in my head. Especially after the months of terror with the old asshole boyfriend—not Chad, obviously. Actually, with Chad, it was the only time I never worried about it. I miss that.

I am always convinced that it is gonna come back positive. Anytime I’m sick, I think that’s what it is. Just like when I was helping my parents move and then again in Seattle when I ached so badly from simply moving and my legs would swell, it all screams HIV! That’s why I got tested yesterday. I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to know. Yesterday, the thought went through my head, ‘just tell me I have already, so I can quite stressing about it all the time—it will be over and done.’ No sooner had the thought formed than I cursed myself and took it back. I have dear friends that are positive, and it doesn’t change them at all in my mind. However, it would change me in my mind. It is such a relief—hello, understatement—when the test comes back negative. I always feel such freedom. I don’t know how people that don’t get tested do it, I hate the test, but I have to know. I always want to know reality, even if it is bad.

So, thank you God for watching over me. I pray one day I can shake that inner voice that tells me its what I deserve. I know so many others like me. Our society has done such a wonderful job of fucking up their young gay men. Thank God not all that was taught to us was correct in that realm either.

finality

It is 9:25 PM. There is the Bear convention in town. Come to find out, my hotel is the host hotel for the Bears. Blake Lewis (who I nearly worship—not quite, but close) is performing live at the gay club I went to last night. It’s a Saturday.

I’m in bed.

And happy about it. I didn’t stop moving (or eating) all day. My legs are swollen and throbbing (still haven’t recovered from the weeks of moving the folks) and my calves and knees are screaming at me in anger—(you think I sound old now, just wait till I start blogging about blocked bowel movements and erectile dysfunction)—and I couldn’t feel better. Well, I could. Much. But that’s all relative. It was truly a beautiful day. I was afraid I’d get here and regret spending so much money I didn’t have. I don’t. Not in the slightest. I’ve only gotten teary a couple times today and then just kept moving. I had a huge and fantastic dinner at Wild Ginger. Had to ask the waiter if what I ordered would be taken care of with the cash I had—including tip and tax. He very sweetly and non-judgmentally assured me I’d be fine. If I didn’t ask, I would have been stressed the whole time wondering what would happen if I couldn’t pay and how mortifying that would be. I’ve had that happen several times at the grocery store, and that is embarrassing enough, but at least then you haven’t eaten the food.

I can’t afford to pay for the internet at this hotel (which is crazy—it should be included when you have a nice hotel). One of the perks of blogging is that it is so instantaneous. To post this some time tomorrow almost feels like lying somehow, but whatever.

ere Here is what I have learned about Seattle. Apparently, no one (NO ONE) jaywalks. Ever. They all stand on the corner and wait until the little white walk guy lights up. Even when there are no cars in sight. They all just wait there! Even when I keep walking (which I did every time), no one else joined. I was the lone lawbreaker. I honestly don’t get it. I wonder if there is some huge fine or jail time that Seattle police enforce. I guess I should be glad I didn’t get caught.

I also learned that StarFire’s husband was here first.

I don’t know what that means, but the insane woman who was yelling it to everyone that could hear was very insistent about it. And angry. She seemed to be under the impression that we were questioning his original authenticity of location.

I also discovered that I am an idiot. Not that we didn’t know this already. I am on the twentieth floor of my hotel. In the elevator back up to my room, there were guests on the 28th and the 30^th floors. On our way up, the elevator doors opened and no one got off. In my sarcastic voice, I said, “Well, okay then…” and hit the door-closed button, obviously a little perturbed and perplexed why someone would hit a button that wasn’t their floor. After the woman and her kids got off on the 28^th floor, I suddenly realized my error. The two lesbians across the elevator looked at me kind of cockeyed. Probably wondering if I was stalking them or something. To break the uncomfortable silence in the enclosed space, I said, “Apparently, I’m the moron who didn’t get out on his own floor.” To which they were still dying laughing about at they stepped into the hallway of the 28^th floor.

Dykes…

It’s amazing how much I did in twelve hours today. It feels like three days.
I said my prayers for and about Chad and myself (together and separately) as I watched the sun go down into a sunsetless sky over the water, so I am going to leave it at that.

A year later (364 days)

It’s been an experience thus far. I got into Seattle around eight last night, and then learned how naïve I still am. A lot of the time, I feel like I’m pretty aware of how things work and can take care of myself in about any situation I get into. Last night reminded me that I’m not that far from my simple Missouri roots. And, to be fair to most Missourians, I’m probably more simple than they. Much like when I got my first job, I thought I could buy things because I was working—that’s not quite how it works. Likewise, I thought once you paid for something, it was over and done. That lesson I learned last night to be untrue. I paid my hotel and rental car through Obritz before I left home and brought $200 to pay for food, gifts for Gavin and my classroom, and a few activities I really wanted to do out here.

I get to the car rental place last night, and they refused to give me a car because I didn’t have $200 EXTRA on my debit card (since it is -$18)—even though I’d already paid for the car. Of course, they couldn’t refund the car, that’s Orbitz’s job. So, I went to find a bus. I left the airport and found a bus stop. There were other people there, no vacationers, more the homeless and fringe type of people. I had my laptop bag, my carry-on satchel, my $200 cash in my wallet—staring up at the map trying to figure out which bus to get on. I also feel pretty strong most of the time, but I seemed a tad bit vulnerable at that moment. After hearing some of them talk about no busses going downtown, I decided to leave. I didn’t know if they were right or not, but I decided with my luck to not risk it any longer. Going back to the airport, I found a light rail station and bought a ticket for $2.50 (Finally, a break!). Of course, I couldn’t find the light rail itself. Some sweet Indian girl pointed me to the stairs that I had walked by three times already.

Arriving at the hotel, somewhat flustered (I left out the two different arguments I had with the car rental guy, and then his manager—I don’t like feeling screwed, and I don’t like to loose. I was so mad, I let a few tears escape. It’s a good thing I learned to cry several years ago. If I still had the temper I used to, it could have been a much worse night—and no, no one saw the tears), I went to check in. She ran my card. It was declined (probably still -$18, unless they charge for each attempt). She said they needed $100 to hold onto until I check out. I gave her half my cash, after loosing yet another argument. By this time, I was feeling completely defeated. I simply wanted to get out of town, sleep in a different bed, and not see Chad everywhere I looked and watch our ghosts as we made love that last night and packed the following day, and all that was happening was everyone telling me how broke I am and that I can’t be trusted to get a rental car back in one piece and or to refrain from peeing on the walls of my hotel room. Calling my folks, like a high school kid needing money on a school trip, I borrowed money from them that I will pay back when the hotel checks to make sure I didn’t break the bed frame while fornication with zoo animals. Turns out it was a good thing I didn’t get a rental car. When I called the hotel to check on the price of parking, I thought the man (who couldn’t fucking speak English [I have no problem with that, but really, do they always have to answer phones?]) said it was between $3 and $7 a night. Turns out, it is $37 a night. That would have been half of my spending money. Plus, I am walking miles and miles and miles. Which is good since I am eating everything in sight. I am fitting in all my favorite Seattle foods.

After a quick shower, I found the gay club, and after a watered-down shot of jegger and four beers in fifteen minutes, I spent the next two hours dancing my ass off. For those of you who know me well, you know that it all sweated out of me within two hours and I walked home sober. Although, I did end up in tears for a few minutes when I got back and started thinking of what I had been doing at the same time a year ago. I shook it off and stretched out on the King bed (which is such a bonus of being short—I can’t touch the edges!) and feel into a deep dreamless sleep.

Today has been exactly, EXACTLY, how I hoped it would be. The weather is cool, misting rain—the kind that you don’t feel and somehow doesn’t get you wet. The food has been wonderful. It has been beautiful to be alone. Really alone—not to care about what anyone is thinking. However, unbeknownst to me, there is a Bear celebration this weekend. Bears LOVE me, so it’s been fun to get all kinds of looks and smiles, and nods as I make my way over the city that I fall in love with more every time I visit.

I took an hour and a half long walking tour of the underground of Seattle. I’ve always wanted to do it (I love walking tours), but no one has ever wanted to. It was great! It is amazing all the behind the scenes of our country and cities’ history. All the corruption, sex, and illegal activity of higher and lower classes is nothing new. It was fascinating tour and took me into world that spawned lots of material to be worked into future novels.

I hoped when I sat down to write this that I’d have some better things to say after a year. I can’t say I’m published or any closer. I can’t say my heart is healed. I can’t say I don’t love him any less or that I don’t want him with every breath I take. I can’t say I’ve made progress financially. I can’t say I’m stronger or have more faith than before. However, I can say that I am still thankful for what I had with him and for every second he gave me. Every moment of pain has been a price that was worth paying for the years I had. I still hope he will return one day. I still know he won’t. Things for my family have gotten so much worse. So much worse. However, we are all still alive, together, and love each other, and now we have Gavin. For those reasons, we much better of than many of the rich and comfortable families who are dealing with deaths and absent children. I can say that I have learned what it is like to work until you don’t know if you can keep going, physically and mentally. I have learned, that even though I have so much less time to give to friends, that I have a select few who I truly, TRULY, can depend on as family. I have learned that you can see someone, feel your heart wrench and tear in your chest, as you smile and hug them, tell them you love them and are glad they are so happy. I have learned more and more of my limitations and weaknesses. I have learned the small core of me is stronger and tougher than I’d given it credit.

Now, time to seal the homage back up and continue breathing Seattle air, and enjoy the few hours I have left of sanctuary.

the best defense is

Surprise of big surprises, I have decided to irresponsible and stupid. I am going to Seattle this evening and returning early Sunday morning. I honestly don’t think I have enough money to do all the things I’m wanting to do (mainly eat) in Seattle, but at least the $50 plane ticket and hotel are paid for and I can get around. The real one year anniversary is Sunday, the 18th. However, he told me he was leaving on a Friday and then we packed and he left me on Saturday. So, in most ways, tonight and tomorrow feel more similar. I hope I can pay only a few moments of homage to him, to us, to what could have been, and what we should have been, and to the past year—then move on and live and enjoy the city. I am pretty sure I am going to go dancing tonight. I don’t like to go clubbing, but I haven’t been dancing in well over a year and I’ve had an itch to go for a few months. I don’t for obvious reasons—so as long as I’m in the mood still, I’m gonna go tonight. Typically, I dance a lot better after four shots of Jagermeister—but as I for sure can’t afford that, I will have to simply psych myself up enough to get over myself and just get lost in the music. Of course, it could be nice to simply be in the city tonight as well. Tomorrow, I am spending the entire day at the wharf and downtown, and I plan to eat my way through it. I hope I might find a few moments to write at a coffee shop, but I may not. I’ve always wanted to take the underground tour of downtown Seattle—complete with ghost and criminal stories. I think I’ll do that for a few hours. While I am nervous about what my emotions might do, I am so thankful to not have to be here, not to sleep in our bed, not to have to see anyone I know and pretend to be okay or complain to them one more time. I will spend a few moments being me tomorrow. The rest of the time, I will be someone else—maybe helping be truly become someone else.

obviously, strip clubs need a child care center in the back room (well, maybe not the back room...)

Accidentally, after Glee last night, I watched a couple minutes of the news. From the very first words, about pedophile teachers, I was reminded of why I don’t watch the news. However, one story caught my attention. A man, from somewhere, left a toddler and a baby in the car—doors locked, windows up—for around an hour as he went into a strip club (straight). As with many of the horrific stories on the news, I ended up laughing. Yes, they are terrible, but I mean, come on! You gotta love shit like that. Only thing is, if I wrote half the stuff that is reported in a novel, everyone would say it was too dramatic and not plausible.
Here’s the kicker to me. I wanted to give the exact ages of the kids and such before I made fun of their douche of a father/male care giver. When I got online to retrieve the details, I found multiple stories of different men (on different continents) doing the EXACT same thing! Apparently, swaying breasts flopping around a pole is much more enticing than either fatherhood or keeping the younger generation from neglect or suffocation! (BTW, I did this to my dogs in the car for TEN minutes [if that] as I got a plant from a nursery [on not a hot day]—you should have seen the note left on my car.)
And here’s what I love the most—on a week with Huckabee and other politicians comparing gay parents to drug users, polygamist, incestuous relationships, and alluding to gays seeing babies as puppies, we have such wonderful stories of breeders’ ability to parent. Of course, I know these are the dredge of humanity, and say nothing about true parents. However, I do feel that the vast majority of gay parents are superior to the majority of straight parents (not because they are gay). The best straight parents are those who put their children first, and are willing to sacrifice themselves for their children. They WANT their children more than anything. For a gay person to have a child, for the most part, they have to WANT a baby more than anything—it takes a lot of work, a lot of money, a lot of time, and a lot of fighting to achieve being a parent (even more so for gay men than lesbians—for obvious reasons). One of the things that is rough for straight people is the consequences of sex. For a gay person, the most that can happen is a horrible STD that kills you. Sure it hurts those you love, but ultimately, it affects you. For a straight person that ‘std’ is a baby. That affects the baby more than the person procreating. Any smuck who can’t figure out how to roll a condom on all the way can be a parent, and that baby’s welfare and stability is dependent on how its parents rise to the occasion. Some of these men and women become great, amazing parents—the vast majority (keep in mind my field and resulting disillusionment) do not.
How’s that for over-simplifying and stereotyping?

slice and dice

A tiny little snip of a woman was taking membership cards as I walked into my gym on Saturday. She was probably around twenty-two years old, and was talking to a big (and fat) personal trainer. Fat preachers piss me off—as do fat personal trainers. She was normal and average looking—nothing unusual. As I walked away, she was telling the man how she can’t wait to go into the homicide program, how she feels the death and trauma would be good for her—how she needs to see human bodies cut in half and mutilated—all said in a matter of fact way—not trying to be shocking or dramatic, just stating a fact. It was a day that I was rather furious and could actually appreciate her desire. However, looking back, it’s one of those things that make you stop and say, ‘really?’




My anxiety is escalating. I’m doing a pretty good job handling it, for the most part. However, the flashbacks and reliving certain moments of a year ago are getting pretty rough and I’m not quite able to just shut them out—maybe it’s genuine or maybe I’m calling them to me—at this point, I can’t really tell. I can’t wait until Saturday and Sunday are over—the year will be over and hopefully, I can start to heal more. Hopefully. I’m trying to make a plan of what to do on Saturday and Sunday. I don’t want to have a date. I don’t want to have someone spend the night (I know, I know—TMI, you’re used it). I don’t wanna hang out with friends. I don’t want to completely ignore it, nor do I want to set aside those days as a holiday of pain and abandonment and heartbreak. I think I wanna leave town. I have those plane tickets for $50 anywhere, but then I have to pay for food, hotel, car, parking, etc. And I have no business spending money of any kind. I am hoping my tax refund check will come through this week (which is tons less than last year—not sure how that happened). I need to use it on paying off some debt and fixing some house stuff, but I think I will use it to get the hell outta dodge. We will see if it comes through. The only bad thing beside the money is leaving the dogs. I really want to be with them this weekend. However, I can’t be at home, and sleeping in my bed on the 17th, remembering him holding me as I was crying last year—then being at my house seeing us packing up his things before his friends came to get him is too much to ask.

Even though getting out of town probably can’t happen, spending the weekend in a tattoo parlor sounds pretty great too. (Don’t worry, I’m not allowing myself anymore until I get published, just saying).

Mariah Whitney JLo

I ended up changing the first part of the article yesterday. In true artistic dramatic form, I almost sent a message telling the interviewee to write his own damned interview. I’m sure it’s no shock to anyone else, but I was quite surprised by my theatrical reaction. I guess I shouldn’t have been. I tend to be fairly accommodating and easy going—rarely pushing my own agenda. However, with my writing it’s different, and I don’t like being told what to do by anyone. I guess the combination of those two bring out the diva in me. Anyway, I sucked it up—shoved out an inferior draft that made him much happier and almost made me ask for my name to be kept off the article. Something I was so proud of turned out to be lack luster and weak. However, the draw of seeing my name in print was too much of a draw and I sold out. I guess it is good practice fore when I have an editor.

It was just one of the endless chain of events that led to a very pissed off day yesterday. Thing after thing after thing. Actually, it was kinda nice. Things that came up that typically would have made me cry (sure you can imagine what those could have been) simply made me furious. I much prefer dealing with anger and with an endless supply of tears. Plus, when I’m mad, I go out and do things—some very productive and some notsomuch. Either way, it is vastly preferable to sitting at home weeping.

And that’s all there is to say, folks…

transparent cocoon

It seems I’ve fallen into myself again. A new self. Not as happy and content. Not who I want to be necessarily, but myself nonetheless. We will see if that feeling continues, especially as the 18th draws nigh. Regardless, I’m happy about it. While there are times it seems I am sucked back in time and forced to relieve moments, most of the time, I am able to shut them out. It’s a fragile layer of cellophane that I am treading on, but at least it is a somewhat level surface. Maybe the further I go, the thicker and more secure the surface will become. Who knew I’d long for Plexiglas.
I got the response from my article last night. The publisher liked it. The interviewee didn’t like my take on it—too personal, too dramatic. It’s funny, the parts I was most proud of (the parts that will make someone want to read it), were the ones he wanted me to change. Actually, I understood why. It would be hard to see such personal aspects of your heart put on public display when you’re not used to it.
I battled with it for quite awhile last night—another late, late night to be getting up at six. I tried new beginnings and different ideas. Each one seeming lame and easily passed-over. Finally, I decided to be the pompous ‘artist’ I am. I kept it as it was and submitted it again (making all the other changes he wanted—adding more technical details) and made the argument for keeping it like it is. It felt strange to tell someone that I think I know the best way to tell THEIR story. But I do. We’ll see what ends up happening. It was my first taste of artistic differences. I can tell it is going to be my least favorite part of publishing the novels. I hope I get to experience that un-enjoyable privilege.

the stress of hate

I have just seen the most bizarre thing ever. Ever. I saw a link on Connexion (my gay website for all you breeders) that had to do with the KKK. I followed it to a new release that reads as follows:

“Disclaimer:

Note: The Ku Klux Klan, LLC. Has not or EVER will have ANY connection with The ‘Westboro Baptist Church’. [Love how they don’t know how to use punctuation or capitalization!] We absolutely repudiate their activities.

The Ku Klux Klan, LLC.

[link to their website and their phone number, which I won’t put on my blog—followed by links to their STORE and a place to make donations!]”

First off, I so wanna see the store! They have a store!?!?!?! Maybe there’s a theme park that I’m not aware of. It took everything in me to not hit the link to check out their online shop. However, the thought of that in my browsers history is just too much—that and gay porn.

Second of all, they are afraid of their reputation being damage by a supposed link to Westboro! Love it! What does that say about Westboro. It’s like Satan cringing when you fuck up and saying, “Dude, that ain’t cool.” The only thing I can respect more about Westboro than the KKK is that at least they don’t hide their damned faces behind white dunce hats.

Sigh, the things it takes to make me happy. Scary!

Opening Windows

The interview went well, and the rough draft of the article turned out pretty good. I’m rather proud of it. It’s fairly simple and clean, but I think captures the heart of both the interviewee and myself. I think. Of course, he gets to read it today, so we will see if he feels that I depicted his story accurately or not, and then the editor gets it tomorrow, so you never know.
It was an interesting experience. A strange combination between writing a story of my own and a research paper. In one way, it was easier than the writing I normally do. There wasn’t any pressure on my brain to come up with a cohesive story line or characters that are dynamic and engaging—all that was provided in reality. However, it was a challenge to take someone else’s story and figure out how to present it in a way that was still creative, touching, and made sense. It was fun. I hope I get to do it hundreds of more times.
While we’re on the subject of men I’d like to ‘interview’. . . I have an announcement. Since the man I want to marry has found everything else in life much more appealing than me, I have decided to turn my intentions to another that would never give me a second look. While only confirming what everyone already knew, Ricky Martin announced last week that he is a big nelly along with the rest of us. Duh. Most of the time, I don’t have much respect for the celebrities’ reasons for coming out; it often feels like an act of publicity. And, for Ricky, it might be. However, his statements over the timing of his outing were pretty deep and genuine. However, since he is the man destined to be the father of my children, I may be a little biased. Anyway, we are registered at Casa Bonita, Walgreens, and Archivers. Please put your address on all gifts. Ricky and my agent will need it when she sends out thank you cards. Gracias.

choose your own fortune

There is something so healing about the smell, sound, and feel of the world in-between rain showers. It’s one of the few times I actually remember to simply stop and breathe in as deeply and as frequently as possible. It’s like ingesting health, inhaling magic. It reminds me of the old (the original) Zelda game where you’d have all those hearts and at the very end you’d have that horrible beeping that made it even harder to concentrate until you found a fairy or some potion to refill all your hearts. As you inhale, you can feel the heart bar above you cease beeping and fill up to a crimson red. It was a beautiful thing to walk through this morning. Gave me the illusion (or maybe promise) that everything will really be okay.

I am so excited that it feels a little strange. I honestly don’t remember the last time I felt like this. I should have felt like this the day Gavin was born, but it was too scary and uncertain how that gorgeous little baby would alter us—I never dreamed he would be the best thing to happen to our family in years. I think the last time I felt even an inkling of this was when Chad and I were waking up to go on a vacation we’d been planning for so long. However, that doesn’t even cut it fully. That was so much fun, but it didn’t have the possible overtones that today might.

The person I am supposed to interview for the article finally called back yesterday and we are having dinner this evening. I know the article is only for a free local gay magazine, I know most people won’t read it, and I know that the person publishing hasn’t even read my work and may not like my style, but still… I get to write something that is supposed to get published—even before I write it! I’ve never interviewed someone and written about them before. We’ll I did for papers in college and grad school, but that is a completely different thing, one I didn’t care about in the slightest. I am excited how I will take an interview with someone else and turn it into something that will hopefully have my signature on it. I want the soul of my interviewee to shine through, as well as my own—a task I’ve never undertaken before. I’m not sure when I will even get the chance to write it, as I’m completely packed with my other jobs (and a half-date), and the article is due Friday. However, I will happily lose sleep over this if need be. I hope this is an omen, and opportunity, a practice run for what is to come. Not that I want to be a reporter or write about other people (not that I wouldn’t enjoy that in addition to the novels), but I am choosing to see this as one more step in the beginning. I guess it is kinda fickle, since years ago, I had a one page ‘about me’ section in this magazine—where they put your picture and you answer questions about yourself, kinda a who’s who in the gay single world of Denver. I thought it was fun, but I didn’t take it as a beginning to a modeling career or anything. This time, I can’t help but take it as commencement to things gestating. While my first choice would be something involving fiction and characters of my own, I can’t help but feel honored that I get to tell the story of a man who has given so much of himself to Haiti the past many years. It seems a story worth telling.

Looking at that. Two positive posts in a row.

Better buy a lotto ticket today.

day of sanctuary

It’s days like this that let me know that somewhere inside, I am getting better. Actually better. I am so excited to go grocery shopping for dinner with PCSVLDRL’s tonight and for the food for Easter lunch with my family (I’m hosting). I love grocery shopping for particular dinners, while listening to my vampire romances on my iPod, followed by hours of cooking while still listening to vampire romances. There is something so soothing about cooking. The rest of the world gets blocked out. All the problems. All my desires. All my hurts. Just a total focus on the art of crafting beautiful and delicious creations. It always used to be that way, and hasn’t been that way for a quite a long time. It is nice to have that part of myself nearly back to normal. Something that bodes well.

You know, I think I will just stop there. Let’s have a completely positive blog for once. A fun day of grocery shopping, cooking, walking the dogs, Project Runway, dinner, and intelligent/heartfelt conversations with my oldest friends in Colorado and their daughters. One of those days to cling to in a storm—I’m grateful for it!

pages

Past midnight and I’ve spent the better part of the last couple hours in tears. Not what you think. At least, not entirely. I just watched The Last Song, with Miley Cyrus. It was fantastic. Sobbed. Me and the other 20,000 girls in the theater. I went by myself. I’m glad I did. I didn’t have to worry about the other person staring as I cried. It was a great story, very touching. Very human, very real. As with everything Nicholas Sparks ever touches, it was about love and death and loss. The three things that seem to rule my life—or at least motivate most of my life.

I don’t know what my future holds. Maybe I will fall in love again to stay. Maybe I won’t. Maybe he’ll come back. Maybe he won’t. Maybe one of my novels will get published. Maybe none ever will. There could be much more financial trouble in the future. There could be diseases. There could be much tragedy. There might even been health, love, and happiness. At least for a long time. I hope so. The thing that I am rarely okay with, I am okay with at the moment—and probably only for a moment. My life is my life. It’s my story. My novel. Even if no one ever reads it. Page by page it continues. Kiss by kiss. Tear by tear. In this moment. I can see the beauty in that. It is an aching type of beauty, but a beauty, nonetheless.

On a fun note, I got my first paying writing gig tonight. $200! I am interviewing a gay man who has helped out in Haiti for the past several years. I will then write his story in twelve hundred words or so. It’s due next Friday. It will be published in a local gay magazine. I know it’s not much, and, who knows how the interview will go or how the writing will go, so I shouldn’t count my chickens, but I can’t help but be excited. I can actually say I’ve been published somewhere—even if no one has ever heard of it. It’s definitely not what I normally write, or have ever written for that matter, but that will be kinda fun in and of itself. It makes me a touch nervous, because the owner of the magazine, who asked me to write it, has never read my writing. He has only heard that I am a good writer from a mutual friend who reads my blog occasionally. I have a problem with people telling me that I’m a good writer from my blog. I rarely do anything creative or artistic with the blog—it is all some whiny twelve year old girl crying about how sad and unfair life is... boo hoo. The things I write in hopes of publication are nothing like this. So, someone who actually likes this blog may end up hating my other writing. They are nothing alike. However, I was too thrilled to turn such an offer down for fear of giving him something he won’t like. I will do my best to somehow capture the subject of the article while maintaining my voice as a writer. We’ll see how that goes.

foolish

Happy April Fool’s Day, everyone!

He returned. I’m engaged. I’m pregnant. I got a book deal. I won the lotto. I grew six inches. I got a tan. I have a six-pack.

There I think that about covers it.

I am glad spring break fell on April Fool’s Day. Most of the time, fortunately, my students aren’t very suave in their April Fool’s Day jokes. Unfortunately, their teacher is pretty gullible, so they don’t have to be.

I already fell for two lines on other’s face books pages. I about keeled over when I discovered one of my friends was pregnant, and how calmly she was handling it. Then I realized what day it was. Of course, the joke could be on me tomorrow when she is still talking about being pregnant.

I am always asking for prayer it seems. Which is silly in one way, because I don’t much believe in it anymore. God does what God wants. However, as I have told him so many times, what choice do I have? I have to believe in him. I have to believe, at least at little, that prayer matters, that he actually gives a shit. Well, I do believe he gives a shit, I guess the question is whether he really can/will do anything about it. The one beautiful part of it all, is that I used to be so afraid that I wouldn’t have enough faith in my prayers, in God hearing me—that I would jinx it or something. After having experienced perfect and strong faith all the while running to the rock walls that have been erected and mountains that moved, only to crash back down on top of all, I no longer hold to those certain verses that talk about how strong faith has to be and turn more to the ones speaking of faith the size of a mustard seed.

All that to say, please pray for my family. Some of you here are aware of the situation. Those of you elsewhere probably aren’t. However, I don’t believe a person has to have all the details to turn it over to God—how’s that for cliché? We need a miracle, truly, within the next week or so, or things will get much, much, much worse—and I honestly don’t see how my folks will survive it. It has been terrifying to realize how much the past weeks have aged them (and I’m not even being dramatic). We had dinner last night, and it was a shocking and painful realization.

Sadly, my favorite book in the Bible, as we all know, is Job. Always has been since the latter years of high school. So, I am also a believer that things usually get much worse before they get better. Even if the miracle doesn’t come, I pray that the five of us make it through the worse time, if it is coming, together—so that we can all be a unit when things get better. And I have to believe they will get better. I have no proof of that over the past while, but I hold to it nonetheless.