the true definition of rambling

Feeling a bit better today. However, the zombie flesh is getting worse, not better. Not really believing that it will heal like they say. Gonna give it a couple weeks, then raising some ruckus.
I had a great conversation for a few hours at my coffee shop with a new friend (hi, new friend, I know you’re reading this) [for the rest of you, don’t be getting’ any ideas—most coffee house time is either books/blog/agents/photo time—so… back off, love ya!] discussing life, religion, my whorish ways, my disbelief in the God I knew while clinging to God at large with all I have, and boyfriends and other stupid things. It was very nice. I love God talks, when you’re not talking to a prick (who either shoves god down your throat or can’t comprehend His existence—both are stupid). Speaking of… I keep having to block people on facebook for posting pictures of HWMNBN with themselves and him on their profile picture (I know he’s great, but does everyone have to think he’s their best friend?), but I’ve also had to block a several people who keep posting Bible verse after Bible verse or keep saying shit like, ‘This is the day God has made…rejoice.” Once in awhile, it’s refreshing that you’re reveling in your relationship with God, otherwise, it a little vomitous. You’re not only annoying me, I’m pretty sure God keeps having to throw up in his mouth a little bit when he looks at all his tags on his facebook page. Show him some consideration. (Actually, just discovered that Jesus really does have a facebook page (maybe it was Jesus Christ, or God or something)—It’s pretty funny and horrible at the same time. It seems when someone uses his name in their posts it automatically [for some] becomes a live link and also posts on Jesus’s page. Let’s just say, not every post with his name is talking nice about him… lots of it is written with Oh My F…ing …. It didn’t seem that people even knew their posts were going there. Very strange. And, rather, not good.
A large part of my day was with Gavin’s other side of the family. I did a little photo shoot so that they can be part of his second installment of his yearly photo book. {Let’s just say, I took some pictures that were not good—people did not seem to know how to be subjects of photography, and Gavin was having none if it—I worked with the end results until they are rather unbelievable, pretty artistic and rather beautiful. I fucking rock!} Without getting into detail, it was surreal and a little trippy to see more of his other life. Nothing back or anything like that was happening—not at all. Just kinda like when you’re gay friends, church friends, hippy/stoner [no, I don’t that—wow! Something I don’t do] friends all show up at the same party and your brain blows a fuse until they all leave so that your world perception can go back to normal.


And if you perchance you think I’m rambling incessantly because I’m a nervous wreck and nauseous about the potential plans tomorrow and trying not to think about it, you’re completely right. Why’d you have to be a complete jackass and bring it up? Thanks a lot. Bitch!

closing the gap

Had my doctor’s appointment. Good news. No more surgery! However, she did say the reason my throat looks like it does is due to them having to cut out twice as much they do for normal people. I knew my tonsils were ridiculous, apparently, it wasn’t all my imagination. Because of their size, they had wrapped around and gone some places they normally wouldn’t/shouldn’t. Therefore, there’s about double amount of surgery/healing area than there typically would be. Over time, the gaps in the meat should rejoin. Until then the list of things I can’t do is extensive—of all varieties…….. ugh. Hope that doesn’t take as long as it seems. They say the flesh should slowly start to grow back together. No matter how long it takes, I’m just glad I won’t have zombie-mummy mouth, even if I don’t show that part of my anatomy off to the public too often. Imagine a picture of that in the tabloids one day! Goodness.
You know? As much as I love to write and need to, between some thoughts about what I hope will happen Friday and simply being exhausted, I don’t have it in me. So, off to read a book. Reading the Underland Chronicles, by Suzanne Collins. Same author that wrote the Hunger Games trilogy. They are for young readers, so not as dark or intense, but still really fun reads. I hope to be half as good of an author as Collins on day…

all in a day's work

Yesterday was quite a day (challenging and long [couldn’t sleep till five due to ear pain] and successful, sorta).
I noticed that the floor of my laundry room/storage room was wet. In pure Brandon fashion, I decided that it was too much to deal with on top of everything else and decided it would dry up on its own. (We also found out that someone has stolen my brother’s SS number and has filed for his taxes and such this year.) I went and watched tv. I went back downstairs, found the source. A tube from the top of the water heater that connected to the water source of the house had sprung a leak and was spraying onto my drywall, which was soaking it up like it was cookie dough malt. Having found the leak, even with water shut off valve, I couldn’t get the water to stop. I tied a rag around it and called the number on the machine. Applewood Plumbing. (Please take note: Applewood Plumbing. You spell that A.P.P.L.E.W.O.O.D.) The lady told me that they would send some one out, and asked if I’d like them to come out that day or the next. Let’s see… water is going over my basement. Let’s do the next day. I’ll go watch more TV. The guy showed up about and hour and a half later, at the early part of the waiting segment they told me, so that was nice. He was kinda hot. Also nice. I took him to the water heater. He stepped to the water heater and then looked at me. Then back to the water heater. Back to me. “Well, I’ll quote you a price on a new water heater.” I felt my tonsils grow back. It took me too long to respond, I thought he wasn’t serious. He hadn’t even touched the damn thing. He was still three feet away from it. “Seriously? It’s spraying from that tube up there? Can’t we look at that?” He looks back at the water heater. “Oh, yeah. You’re right. I’ll get you a quote on that.” He shows me where the water valve of my house is, and turns it off for me. Nice. No more water spraying. Again, nice. We go up stairs. He looks through he big quote book. Bigger than the Bible. “To replace just that pipe will be fourfifty.” Wow, $4.50. That was cheaper than I expected. “Wait, Four Hundred and Fifty?” “Yeah.” “Oh… just for a tube?” “Well, I’d use copper tubing and solder it in.” “What if we just replace the tube thing with another one?” “I don’t have those in the van.” I asked the lady if this guy would come with everything he’d need… “What if I just replaced that tube myself?” “You might be able to get them at Home Depot, but we wouldn’t guarantee it.” “I think I’ll try that.” “Ok, sign the waiver that you got my quote and are refusing service.”
After returning from Home Depot, with my sixteen-dollar-and-something-cents tube thing, I attached it to where I yanked the other tube off. Onto the water valve. It was inside the wall and I couldn’t see it. I don’t stick my hand into dark spaces unless I know there is something male on the other side. If there’s something in the garbage disposal that won’t grind up, it stays there, because I know that my hand can be ground up. I got my camera, stuck it in the hole and began snapping pictures, knocking my lens cap into the abyss. Finally, I got a picture of the valve. I reached in and turned the water back on. To this point, the house has yet to flood and I was able to shower this morning. So… it’s looking successful. I must say, I was/am really proud of that. The old me would have not argued about the price, much less said no to the guy—not wanting to be rude and never assuming that I could figure it out on my own. Small achievements.
Whether brought on by the manliness of the day or my ears screaming in pain until five in the morning, around three I jumped out of bed went to the computer. I emailed HWMNBN and asked him to meet me for five minutes today, that I had favor. (To discuss what I’ve mentioned in here before, about that I’m going to start going places again, and want to see him on my own terms first, etc.) I felt such a sense of peace after, and excitement to get it over with. Time to stop living in fear. A few minutes later I got a message saying he is out of the office till Friday. Perfect. So now, I wait. Again. Either way, this ends by the time Spring Break is over. I’m ready to get it done.
It seems that they are now concerned about my description of the zombie flesh on the right side of my throat. They want me to come in tomorrow morning for an inspection. Wish they would have just listened to me yesterday.
I hate having to face these challenges that force me to take action on such emotional matters (heart and money), but by having a spine, I save myself four-hundred dollars—hopefully by having a spine with HWMNBN, I can begin to live again. Maybe even close the door on him.
On a happy note, as I sat here in my favorite seat at my coffee shop (it’s been waiting for me for the past two days!), a cute guy paying at the counter waived my book advertisement in my direction. “Is this you?” I nod yes. He proceeds to tell me that’s he’s really excited about the fantasy one and that he had already decided to order. He asked enough questions that I could tell he’s actually read the descriptor. Made my day!

you're welcome for all the answers to the world's problems

Turns out the nurses think I don’t need to go in to the doctor’s office. They think that the parts that aren’t connected will simply fall off over time. Delicious. I guess this actually makes sense, especially since other pieces have started falling off today. Never felt sexier in my life. Haven’t worked out in weeks, eaten like crazy, belly still swollen from surgery, can’t speak, breath is horrible from the decomposing scabs, and occasionally hacking up chunks of my own flesh into the sink. Come on boys, come and get it while it’s hot!
I’m very thankful that they don’t think I need to come in and stitch me up or knock me out. I really didn’t want to start the whole healing process over once more.
Yesterday, we took Gavin to the new kid’s area at the Cherry Creek Mall (For non-Denver natives—this is the ritzy part of town, snobby—I remember when I barely felt good enough to go to that mall, and when I did, I’d dress up and make sure I look good—now the clientele is something out of the Wal-Mart books—if not in looks, for sure in action). It was quite an experience. By the time we left, I was thankful my voice isn’t working very well. I’m not sure I really would have been able to keep my mouth shut. I let my distain show the way it was. There were probably one hundred kids in that small area. The parents seemed to think that this was an opportunity to sit on the benches, drinking their Starbucks, playing on their smart phones, and not think about being a parent for an hour or so. In theory, I can understand that thinking. It’s a kid’s area, turn them loose, let them be kids. However, I would argue the opposite is true. There is a lot of relationships that you learn from trial and error, that is true, however, manners, etiquette, and respect are not learned that way and are a basic foundation of how figure out relationships on your own as you grow up. Teach them not to crawl up the slides, causing other kids not to be able use the slides and causing injuries (which there were several from our short time there). Teach them not to run into other children and knock them over, intentionally and unintentionally. Teach them it is rather unmannerly to roll on the ground with each other, tugging on hair and biting. There was twice were I broke up fights between four year olds. Not little kids fights, but punching. Shoving to the ground, kicking in the face. Truly, not exaggerating in the slightest. It was like adults fighting, not kids. It was obviously learned, rather from TV or their parent’s lives, I’m not sure. However, it was not in play. It was brutal and violent. I broke the fights up, with the parents sitting less than five feet away—parents that were aware of what their child was doing. There was thing after thing, and I was completely disgusted—a lot with the children, but so, so much more with parents. To think there are those who say my kind shouldn’t be allowed to have children but these wastes of spaces are given such treasures to waste. I can’t fathom not loving that part of parenting. Gavin is spoiled rotten, and we all know it. However, even my gorgeously perfect spoiled nephew, at less than two years of age was able to comprehend some genteel mentality. He tried to crawl up the slides with the rest of the monsters, however, after taking him by the hand and showing him the process of crawling up the steps, walking across the platform, figuring out how to sit without falling, and then sliding, he was doing it all by himself after a two demonstrations. Squealing with delight at his new ability and pride at what a big boy he was! Gotta say, my chest was rather puffed out with his new ability as well!

would you like to put that back correctly or just wrap it in tinfoil?

I’ve just spent the past hour watching Chopped with both puppies in my lap. That’s one hundred pounds of dog. Thank goodness they had a bath before the surgery. It has been really nice to spend so much more time with them. While I have been with my family A LOT, once again, it is so apparent how dependant I am on the dogs. Of course, thoughts of HWMNBN have come up quite a bit, but loneliness has yet to be an issue due to family and dogs. However, with many friends, some of the effect of me pulling away and keeping to myself so much has most definitely become evident this week. At first, I was actually a little hurt, then I got over myself. I’ve not been a good friend in a long, long time. My friends have been better to me than I have been to them. I hope to change that in the next couple months.
It has been an interesting recovery so far. Much less painful than I was expecting. Of course, from what people said, I was anticipating extreme agony. It hurts—I have trouble sleeping due to pain in my ears from swelling, I can barely talk, and it takes forever to eat, but it’s not near as bad as what people said. However, mom has always said I handle being sick and hurting better than most people. I would chose physical pain over emotional pain any day of the week—that I don’t handle as well as most people, as evident by my life.
I am going to call the doctor tomorrow. I’m pretty sure they are going to have to go back in and stitch some things up. I can feel a flap of skin resting on my tongue a lot of the time. When I look in, it seems to be part of what was stitched that connect my jaw to the flesh moving up to the form the roof of my mouth. I can see where the stitch used to be that held that flap in place and it now looks like cut meat, so I’m willing to bet that ain’t right. On the right side, there is a slab that resembles those mummy or zombie movies, when their cheeks are shredded and you can see through their gapping holes… Yeah, there’s one of those back there. I’m less sure of the incorrectness of this one, however—I’m mean, they did chop out parts of my throat, there’s gonna be holes. If you’re bored, look up tonsillectomy on youtube. It’s pretty awesome. Made me glad they put me out! Although, if they go back in to do more work, I really hope they don’t have to put me out again. Just such a hassle.
I was hoping to make a lot of progress on the planning of Submerging’s sequel, but that isn’t going to happen. While the pain isn’t killing me, it’s enough that I can’t think clearly and it seems to be taking me forever to process anything. Also won’t being doing massages like I thought I would, at least not by tomorrow or anything. Which is going to make this next week tight. T.I.G.H.T. That spells tigger. Oh, wait. If I don’t have to be put under, I will force myself to accept some by Wednesday so I can make it though the week. I will just schedule a few hours on the couch after. It has amazed me how everything wears me out. Makes me feel really old and weak. I was also hoping to start working out this week. Yeah, not even a slight chance!
My computer was out of commission the past little bit, but is back now, finally time (yay!), so I am very grateful—that will help recovery. Getting to spent three(ish) days with Gavin is worth any amount of surgery as well!

day three

My parents have moved in with me since Tuesday. I think they might return home tonight. I typically hate being taken care of, but I must admit, it has very nice this time. I don’t think I could have managed staying at home as much as I have if they weren’t there. My brother has come down the past two nights too. My folks just dropped me off at the coffee shop for a couple hours while they go home to shower and such. It feels really good to be out and about. However, I’d been saying that the pain medicine wasn’t affecting me, but I can tell it is. I feel like everyone else is moving ten million miles a minute compared to me. That, and I sound fully retarded when I try to talk to people when they ask me a question. Of course, that is probably due more the cut up throat than the meds. Today is supposed to be the ‘most painful’ day, so they say. I am so very thankful for how well I am doing. Due to all the horror stories, I really was getting scared. However, by grace of God or my inability to sit still and not eat what I want, I am doing better than what anyone thought I would, so Yay!!!! However, even this has taken me forever to write, so I’m going to take it easy and just listen to music, work on some pictures on the computer and simply enjoy being at the coffee shop and out of my house!

slice and dice

Well, one day down. I am so glad to have the surgery done. So, so glad to have it over. They said tomorrow or the next day will be the worst, but today has been great, I’m starting to get a little more sore now, but not too bad. As soon as we left the hospital, we went to Sonic, where I got my double cheeseburger. However, they left off the mayo and added mustard. Dummies. I asked the surgeon when I could eat real food and she said she’d like me to as soon as possible, as along as it isn’t hard or pokey (hee, hee). I may not be quite as successful tomorrow, but so far, I’m pleased. You should see inside my throat, though. Holy crap, it is a butcher market. They said that they typically don’t use stitches, but they couldn’t get me to stop bleeding, so I have tons of stitches. One of them is rubbing on my tongue and driving me crazy. I always bleed like a river—tattoos, shaving, paper cuts. When they put in the IV, blood went everywhere—completely over my hand over the chair they had me in, all over the floor. Between the stitches, the white scabs that have already formed, the swelling, and serrated flesh, isn’t not very sexy in my mouth right now. Add to that the horrible smell they tell me will be coming from my breath for the next two weeks and you’ve got yourself one hot Romeo.
Thanks for your thoughts and care; I received many messages and calls today. That means a lot.

twas the night before...

In exactly twelve hours, I should be waking up from surgery. Despite all the horror stories (three more today—THREE!), I cannot wait to just have it over. Whatever will come, at least it will come, be here, then be over. Probably not that simple, I know, but still. I hate waiting for things. Even things that suck. Even when HWMNBN said he was leaving, he offered to stay with me for as long as I needed. Days, weeks, months. Whatever I needed. I said if he knew he was leaving, he should leave. I hate waiting for the axe to fall. Of course, I hate waiting for wings to sprout too (ie, publishing, etc.).
I will say this, it has been a fun, fun week or two, giving in to every single food craving I’ve had. Really, it’s been a blast. I finished a huge second dinner tonight of awesome burgers and I just returned from McDonalds were I had a huge iced tea, fries, and a McFlurry (Dairy Queen wasn’t open). I have twenty more minutes until I have to stop drinking water. While it’s been fun, I’m looking forward to finally getting back in shape and feeling somewhat sexy again—been a long, long time.
Alright, off to cuddle with the puppies and fall asleep, then get this thing over with!
Now, I lay me down to sleep (that prayer always goes through my mind when they put me under)…

free

After ninety-some dollars, and making exactly four dollars off my ads on Facebook, I decided to cancel my advertising. Rather disappointing. Not a huge deal, just trying things out. However, I do wish I knew if it was the ads I designed, not targeting the right audience, or if there truly is no market for my books….. I guess, either way, that was some exposure. For better or worse.
I kinda feel like today is my last day of freedom. I work tomorrow, then have surgery on Tuesday. I’m definitely nervous about the amount of pain people say I will have. However, I’m most nervous about having to stay on the couch for so long. I don’t sit still very well. Hopefully, the pain will be such that I can ignore that directive and at least get to the coffee shop and such. If I could do massage and work out, even better! While I’ve thoroughly enjoyed not working out and eating enough to feed a few third-world countries, I feel disgusting. When it’s time, it will be good to get back into the swing of things. Maybe enough swing enough that I can fit in my good jeans by my birthday. That would rock.
There actually is a lot more to say, more I’d like to blabber on about, but I think I’m going to go enjoy freedom.

pride and prejudice

I watched a new video of Japan this morning. I honestly haven’t watched that much or listened to most of the details. I’ve gotten the major picture, but really, I don’t want or need to see or hear too much. I can’t do much about it, and I’m already a little hardened against a lot of that. Even as I watched the video this morning, I couldn’t help but think of the movie Titanic as the water rushed up a stairwell in an apartment building. Even so, watching the people help save each other, from trees, from the tops of lower roofs that were soon going to be covered, etc, etc, it was amazing to see humanity at its best in the worst of times.
The thing that sticks out most to me is the reports I’ve heard about the Japanese peoples’ reactions since the devastation. Whether based on fact or ignorance, I have had (and still do I suppose) some ‘moral qualms’ with Japan—the Japanese government, more specifically. Just several larger human rights issues that have baffled my mind that still exist in 2011. (Not that these things brought on the tragedy in any way, just some personal core beliefs that have made Japan at large seem rather evil… there are several similar things I could/and do say about America as well.) Despite that, the reports I’ve heard of the Japanese peoples’ actions since have been very inspiring and redeeming, not that they need Brandon’s redemption by any stretch, nor that they would want it.
Reports of how no one is looting. How grocery stores are giving away their produce. People are giving water away. Thing after thing that live up to the Japanese stereotype of putting the nation first, honor, living to never shame your family—again with honor, I suppose. Things I try to have in my own life, things I preach constantly to my boys (It never ceases to amaze me that it’s a gay teacher who drones on and on about being a man, what it mean to be a man to students who have poor male role models in their lives). At any provocation, the American people loot, steal, kill, hike-up prices when people are most in-need, and are constantly out for only themselves. Sadly, that has been demonstrated over and over and over again in every tragedy we’ve had here (all the while having demonstrations of love and heroism and selflessness as well, no doubt). I’m sure there have been cases of selfishness and cruelty in Japan too, they are still people, just as we are, but from the reports, what I hear sounds so amazing. A quality that I wish we had in more abundance, both as a country and on a personal level.

Mexican fish

It’s late. Finished two massages tonight, then went and pigged out. PIGGED out! Let me rewind. Last night, I was craving one of my favorite Mexican places, Patzcuaro’s. OH. MY. GANDHI. So freaking good. Anyway, by the time I had a moment for dinner, it was after nine. I pulled up, all excited, had my iPod ready to watch the latest episode of Top Chef ([spoiler alert] Carla left, damn it! I wanted her to win!), ready to chow down on slow roasted pork that you tear apart yourself and eat with homemade corn tortillas, and finish with two of biggest sopapillas you could ever imagine—and the best you’ve ever had. Their door was locked. I screamed and cursed and pounded on the window, tears flowing down my cheeks. Okay, not really, but I felt like it. Instead I went to another Mexican place that’s two blocks from my house. I pigged out there thinking it would curb my craving (but knowing it wouldn’t). It didn’t. So, I was able to arrive at Patzcuaro’s tonight by 8:15. When I left a little after nine, the waiter said, “Wow! You can eat. That was a lot of food!” I took back my tip. Not really, but I should have. You don’t judge the people who are paying you. Unless you’re a massage therapist. Or therapist of any kind, actually. But, really. I gave up on the whole working out and loosing weight thing three weeks ago. I’m having surgery and won’t be able to work out for weeks. Might as well enjoy it while I can eat food without hurting. I know, I know. I should have upped my workouts and diet so that I’d be in better shape after it was all over. I suck. Yeah, yeah. Fuck you. Now, I am lying on my heated massage table, the puppies playing below, the new fish tank gorgeous beside me, completely and satisfyingly stuffed. And when I say lying, I actually mean high centered on the tale. Just in time for a date tomorrow. What a lucky guy he is!
Speaking of the fish tank, all the rocks and driftwood have been boiled (it was a horrible process) and it is now a live plant/live-bearer fish fish-tank. And, once again, it is GORGEOUS! More than ever before. Really. I’m completely in love with it. I come down and turn on the heaters (table and space) and simply watch the fish in the dark with the puppies for about half an hour every night. Several are pregnant. Babies soon. Yay!!!!! It’s exactly how I wanted it to be. However… the last traumatic experience has changed me. (Seriously, how many more traumatic experiences are going to change me—let’s not find out!) Yesterday I noticed two fish that looked a little iffy. Without much thought, I placed my hand in the tank and scooped them up (yes, with my hands, watching the stupid fish people at the store battle around trying to catch the fish I want for hours at a time drives me crazy, but they have some rule that customers can’t catch their own—makes much more sense to have incompetent people get paid and waste my time), said a very brief, ‘I’m sorry,’ and flushed them down the toilet. Horrible, I know. Absolutely heartless. However… maybe my heartlessness will save the lives of all the others in the tank. I can’t go through another black plague. Once I am certain that the tank is disease free, I will be shrinking myself down, turning into a merman and living in the tank. Truly, I wanna move in—it’s like a perfect little world in there. It’s pretty, magical looking, and no one breaks your heart. Hell, even if they do, what are they gonna do? Move out? Well, have fun floppin’ on the floor! It’s pretty perfect. Except for that big human hand that scoops you out and flushes your ass if you don’t appear to be a perfectly healthy specimen. Well, every space has it’s challenges.

Yeah..... that's it...... Stick me!

It’s already been a morning and a half. I was forcing myself to drive past Starbucks, then quickly gave into temptation. Just ahead of me in line, four women, all dressed in green for St. Patrick’s Day, who were not a group, all (seemingly) chose to bathe in perfume that morning. Even on their own, the smell was grotesque. Together, it was plainly offensive. Naturally (inherited from my mom), I can’t smell very well. However, I’m particularly sensitive to perfume and cologne scents. There are a few that are rather pleasing; many are disgusting. Some of the men’s cologne I actually like, but not much. There is even fewer of the womens’. However, no one, NO ONE, would have been able to take these. As ever, ‘thank God I’m gay,’ kept going through my mind as my stomach cramped. Once in the car, I dumped the entire large chai into my backseat. Yeah, that was a well-spent five bucks. I really need a Redo button for today.
It shouldn’t, but it’s blown my mind to discover how many of my co-workers have second jobs like me. Nearly half, I would say. One of them is a hair-dresser. She came to work telling about one of her clients she had earlier in the week.
This girl, early twenties I believe, came in to the beauty shop. The lower part of her face, mouth, jaw, etc., was swollen and blotchy-red. Apparently, she had her first true sexual encounter a day or so before. Guess what she discovered? She’s allergic to semen! (Wonder what she was doing…) Upon further testing, they also discovered she couldn’t even use normal condoms because she is also allergic to spermicide. In addition, obviously, she won’t be able to get pregnant—I don’t think they’re sure if in vitro is an option later or not. Honestly, it is a very sad story. However, I was rolling on the floor with laughter at the way my friend was describing it. The kicker? The girl has to carry around an EpiPen—like if you allergic to bees! You know, just in case you’re walking down the street and men start shooting their semen all over you! EpiPen, really? Where would you ever be where that would happen? I sure don’t know, and I’ve been a lot of places… However, I’d sure like the address. My co-worker and I decided that we’d both become lesbians if we were allergic to semen. I guess that I’d be straight then, not a lesbian. Semen allergies would have been a lot more effective than the five plus years of learn to be straight therapy I was in. Actually, let’s be real—we all know I’d simply become addicted to whatever is in EpiPens and walk around bleeding from having to stab myself all the time!

Who Knew?

I got my computer back yesterday. Have to one more adjustment in a week or two that’s pretty intensive, but I’m so glad to have it back. In addition, when my friend was working on it, he kept asking me what was wrong with my internet. I kept saying, “Nothing. This is how it always is…” Turns out, for the past six or so years, I’ve had a faulty modem or whatnot from Comcast. It has been moving slower than dialup and I’ve been paying for whatever the fast connection is called (to say I’m computer illiterate is the understatement of the millennium).
It has changed my world. It used to take over a day to upload a book on tape. It took five minutes. FIVE minutes!!!! Thing after thing after thing. Youtube and its ilk… It would often take me about twenty minutes for each video to load. Now, instantly! It seems everyone else is used to this, as my friend was laughing at my overjoyed reactions. I had no idea. None! Our computers at work are as slow as mine was, so I had no comparison. Man, if I thought I was a computer addict before, there’s gonna be no stoppin’ me now! I feel like I jumped in a time-machine and traveled two-hundred years into the future! It’s awesome! Craziness!
Now I can get rejected by agents even faster! Bwahahahahahahaha!

FiNiTo

I should have the computer tonight. Thank goodness. Although it won’t have the new hard drive that I’d purchased. The old one will be back in. It seems the new fancy one didn’t want to work. Perfect, I’m so sure they’ll be willing to refund that money… Either way, at least I will have a computer again (and a new modem from yucky Comcast—apparently, I’ve been paying for whatever the high-speed internet is and receiving dial-up speed—for years… perfect).
My fundamental upbringing has been triggered to an insane degree, even more than normal, due to the heartbreaking turmoil in Japan. I remember, as a kid, hearing what the end days would be like. Well, these are pretty much exactly what I heard about. Then again, I also remember the 88 reasons Jesus was coming back in ’88, and on and on and on. You really do get numb to it all—sadly, even pretty numb to all the wars and natural disasters too. There is always some new catastrophe that I can do nothing about. Some new end of the world disaster or epidemic. The world never ends. I guess it only takes one to change that though, huh… Plus, then you hear about statistics that this is the worst quake…tsunami…hurricane… tornado… bizarre weather since……. Then they give you a date that forever ago had some worse effects. Of course, maybe that they are all at once and so close together is the sign. So, what if the world is ending? What if Jesus is on his way back right now? Would I change? Honestly, yeah, I would change a few things. However, not that much. That, in itself, is either a scary or a liberating thought. Either I’m truly confident in my life or truly deluded. I must say, it’s interesting and beyond frustrating to hear peoples’ reactions to all of this. Preaching to high-heaven about ‘narrow the way,’ how many people will go to hell, repent, repent, repent. All the time sounding like a jackass. A jackass that will be prophet if Jesus really does show up ‘on schedule.’ The people with crazy religious theories that I’ve never heard of before, crazy, crazy shit. People that say it is all happening because of people’s sin. (Old story, really tired of that one. I’m sure there were gay people in Japan somewhere—hope the waves got them so god didn’t waste his time… fucking morons.) Even through my numbness to it all, my irritation with peoples’ stupidity, I can’t shake the notion that these really are the last days. And if they are, they are. However, I really hope not. While I can’t say I’ve loved my life the past couple years, I’m not done living it, and actually hope there are things to look forward to. Even more than that, I don’t want to be robbed of the time watching Gavin grow up, simply living life with him. Yes, I know, if the world ends, if Jesus comes back (for those of you who believe I’ll be in Heaven, it will be a moot point, because things will be perfected—for those of you who believe I’ll be in Hell, we’ll, I guess that be even more reason to hope He gets postponed—for those of you who believe I’ll [we all] be nothing, just rot in the ground, I find your outlook most depressing of all, strange that Hell wouldn’t be the most depressing; however, the thought that you, I, we are nothing more than we are now… No thank you), none of this will matter anyway.

poor, poor, pitiful me

At the moment, for all intensive purposes, I am sans computer. Made it a very difficult weekend. Okay, difficult is probably not the word. I wasn’t in an earthquake or tsunami or in a hostage situation. I know. . . poor, poor me.
I almost had to blog on paper!!!!!
I don’t know if I could even do that anymore. In addition, I’d also planned to have the entire Sunday to contact more agents. No progress on the books. Although, maybe not sending any queries and not getting any rejections is progress…
The evidence of how addicted I am to other aspects of my computer (iTunes, facebook, blogs) was cripplingly evident. And, I’d left my Suzanne Collins’ book at school, so I couldn’t even read! Again, poor, poor me.
Can’t tell you the relief of having a key board under my fingers again. Hopefully, the computer situation will be resolved this week. Goodness, please!

Only eight more days until my surgery. It seems everyone, and I do mean everyone, has a tonsillectomy story they feel the need to share—each one worse than the next. How they had never been in so much pain, how they didn’t recover for over two months, how I won’t be able to do anything at all for weeks. They’re not trying to talk me out of it (most say that it really helped them not get sick as much), they just wanna tell me their horror stories. What is that? Besides mean and cruel. I honestly have been looking forward to it so much that I haven’t been nervous at all. I’ve wanted my tonsils out for so long (even though there is no guarantee it will help). However, after all these nonstop stories, I must admit there have been a couple nights where I truly have struggled with falling asleep, almost convincing myself to cancel the surgery (I’m not going to, obviously). Maybe it’s the misery loves company condition of our psyches. Maybe people are just assholes. Maybe, after I have it, I’ll learn they actually were telling the me good parts of it—Lord, I hope not. Either way, it sounds like I have a Spring Break to be jealous of! (yep—ending the blog on a preposition—publish that!)

fins

I contacted three more agents yesterday. One of them in Denver, which is less appealing than all the ones in New York, but would be handier. However, since so many of the publishing houses are in New York, and everything I read stresses how important it is for the agents to have a true relationship with the publishing companies (duh!), I’m not sure how good of choice choosing local would be. However, they don’t have gay lit as one of their topics. However, they do represent contemporary fiction and fantasy—which is what I write, only about fags. While I was at the coffee shop for a few hours last night, groveling to agents, there was a very cute three or four year old boy and his mother sitting beside me. In the small dose, the boy was adorable, but you could tell he’s the kind that after an hour or so together, you’d want to duct tape him to the wall. His mother was very over-indulgent and adoring. Everything he said was like a treasured gem to her. Which often leads to spoiled children; however, it’s exactly how I am with Gavin, so I couldn’t help but feel a kinship with her. For most of their time beside him, the boy played with his fish. His fish was the gutted trout I assume they were going to have for dinner. He unwrapped it from the butcher paper (is that what they wrap fish in? it wasn’t newsprint) and played with it forever. Talking to it. Making it ‘swim.’ Letting it rest on the table. Not sure what my deal was, as typically I would have a problem with a parent letting a child do something so socially unacceptable. Dead fish all over the table, next to people who are eating and drinking—come on! For some strange reason, I found myself enjoying the spectacle and preparing to defend her against some sensitive queen who wanted to pass on their child-rearing expertise (as I so often do). Despite the thinly-veiled looks and glares, no one admonished her or her son or the fish. Despite that I was charmed by their little world, I was also content to see them leave. (No one cleaned the table. I know I should have, but I got a sick joy out of knowing someone was going to be sitting in dead fish slim and never know it…) I vaguely remember being a nice, contentious, good person—Hmmm, maybe that was a dream…

what a pile

You know it’s a good start to the day when your horror novel (in two non-related, non-sexual passages) used the words penetration and erect within a couple chapters of each other! Yay for Thursday, apparently. Whatever that is in reference to, bring it on!
However, things didn’t look so promising during the night. I had very long dream about receiving a massage from a girl. Naked massage. I was naked, not her, thank goodness! It also wasn’t sexual, but still…nakedness and girls…shudder. The whole point of the dream however, was that she was blown away that my socks didn’t match. She wouldn’t let it go. For some reason, it greatly offended her.
I have no idea what this dream meant, outside of the fact that my socks rarely match. I just grab two from a pile of clean clothes (I vaguely remember my life when I used to iron everything, put everything neatly away—now I’m lucky if I take the time to make sure I’m getting clothes out of the clean pile instead of the dirty pile). Maybe that’s why I’m gay—so I can get naked with someone who won’t give a shit about my socks.
If only I’d figured that out before spending so much money on five years of learn-to-be-straight therapy.

personal

It quite literally took everything in me to turn off of I70 this morning, turn away from the mountains. (I so want another weekend with the boys in the mountains.) The car was freezing, but I had my coffee, heater blaring on me, had a horror novel playing over the speakers, and fog surrounded me on all sides. Honestly, if I hadn’t known that the fog would soon leave, the day would truly soon begin, and the moment would be lost at any rate, I probably wouldn’t have been able to ignore the impulse. Not sure what I love so much about that specific recipe of environmental factors, but it always has a soothing effect on me, has the ability to anesthetize my brain.
I heard back from Daniel Lazar last night, much sooner than anticipated. He was the agent that I had such a great gut feeling about. He is ‘afraid [my] project does not seem right for [their] list.’ For some reason, this one hit me harder than any of the others, even more than the rejection from Kensington. It really messes with me when my gut feelings are so off base. I truly didn’t think I was forcing whatever emotion that was. It was actually surprising to me—how at peace I felt after I sent it to him, like I had just made the bridge that would take me to the other side. Apparently not, it seems. If not for that feeling, it just would have been one more rejection, not a big deal at this point—they’re kinda second nature—in love and writing. However, I let my emotions, unintentionally, get involved on this one. You’d think I’d learn that lesson by now. Turn it off, keep it removed. (On a similar, yet different note, I was having a conversation with a very new friend on Sunday. At his urging, not because I wanted to talk about it, I spoke in very generic terms of the break-up. He and his partner of seventeen years had split up about five years ago, mutual decision. One of his main points what that it wasn’t personal. It was just not meant to be. I laughed so derisively that it prompted him to flinch and say that I was jaded and jagged enough to cut someone if they got to close (duh). Right, not personal, not personal at all. If that’s not personal, then nothing is. And I’m so fucking sick of ‘not meant to be.’ Especially in my relationship with HWMNBN, but also across the board. People make their decisions, we have free will—to make beauty and to destroy. Not meant to be is the excuse of the weak, of those who don’t want to take ownership or responsibility. It’s personal. Whether it’s rejection of love or of my writing—It’s personal.)

wordsmith

There have been many times in my life where I have been a Grade-A pratt. Seemingly more so all the time. I’m hoping my latest will not affect potential publication (also, I know with at least one agent, it cut me out of the running before she would have made it to the second paragraph of my query.
The Men of Myth series’ concept was inspired by Kelley Armstrong’s Women of the Otherworld series. They are my favorite books (besides Harry Potter). I’ve been following her for at least eight years and have devoured every book she has written (save two—a realistic crime detective series I just can’t get interested in). I mention this in my query (from what I’ve read, it is important to draw some comparison to other works that have already been successful. My dear friend CRL was over Friday with her family and saw the first book, “Bitten,” on my counter. She read the title and the series’ name. As she read it, I thought, ‘Otherworld. Huh… that sounds odd for some reason.’ I didn’t give it another thought besides pushing the novel onto her and telling her she just had to read it.
A few hours after I submitted my final query for the weekend, to the third or forth agent for this round, it hit me out of the blue. Rushing to check what I feared, my heart sank. The series is indeed ‘Women of the Otherworld.’ However, in my queries, I’ve have referred to Armstrong’s books as ‘Women of the Underworld.’ Seriously! What kind of writer do I appear when I can even get the name of my inspiration correct? I’ve referred to that series as Underworld for years. I’ve recommended it over and over. To me, Otherworld sounds incorrect.
I’m sure Kelley Armstrong’s agent, who was my second choice, got a kick out of that—both at how dumb I am and how incompetently I did my research as I picked a series that I pretended to read (let alone love). No wonder she never even responded. Sadly, I wasn’t even that irritated with myself. It’s classic Brandon. Makes perfect sense that I would pull a stunt like this.
You just have to laugh.
Sigh… Onward we go……

tiny hands; big hopes

Yesterday was a really good day. The kind I haven’t had for a while. For one simple reason. My family. In this instance, Gavin. He’s not even two yet, and while he is an affectionate child and very sweet, his independence has grown so much. It’s fun to see, fun to see him discover the world and grow in his confidence. However, it isn’t as frequent that he falls asleep in your arms. Before I left my folks’ house yesterday, I held him as he had his nightly bottle, humming Disney songs (Cinderella, Dumbo, and Lady & the Tramp have three of the best lullabies). He fell asleep, his head pressed against my chest, one tiny hand holding the ear of his stuffed monkey he got at the zoo earlier in the day, his other laying on top of mine. Truly, those moments are singular in their ability to make everything else evaporate. There is nothing more important in that moment, no pain that can take away the peace, no worry that can steal the serenity. I know more of God’s love in that instant than in any other area of life.
I pray I have the blessing of having my own children one day. I can’t believe I’d be able to love than any more than I do Gavin. Even though he isn’t, he feels like mine. Love and life are anguish, but they are also never-ending.

It may just have been a sentimental moment or wishful thinking—or maybe it was a true moment of clarity and providence (I hope)—but, yesterday, as I submitted a query for Submerging to Daniel Lazar, agent, I have this overwhelming sense of peace. It was as if, when I hit send, I was finished. That I’d just contacted the person that is going to say yes. It was strange. In fact, in respect to that feeling, I stopped for the day. I didn’t do more research or try to find others to submit my manuscripts. Don’t get me wrong. I’m going back to the search today, as I’ve learned all to well that it takes two, but I do have my hopes up.

and they call it puppy love

Dolan has a waist again! Sadly, I think losing some weight may have given him more energy. I’m not sure how that is even possible. In addition, I’m fairly certain there is a correlation between intelligence and weight. I swear, the more weight Dolan has lost, the greater his retardation has become. I love that dumb dog, but there is hardly an hour that goes by that I don’t look at him in bafflement and ask, ‘Really?’ He is also so much more hyper and moving even faster than usual (again, shouldn’t be possible), that his feet can’t keep up with his body. About seventy percent of the time, he now falls up the stairs or gets stuck on one step, his front legs gripping a step, his hind legs flailing about on their own volition. While he always has been rough and tumble, he is constantly knocking me off balance as he tears down the steps. If you don’t see any updates on the blog for an unusual amount of time, just assume I’ve been knocked down the stairs, broke my neck, and the adoring kisses of my dogs changed to ravenous as they chow down—completely ruining their diet.

kicked

After a day or so of not being in the worst of moods, it makes sense that it would all crash down. Make me pay. However, maybe (maybe), it’s a step in the direction I need or am supposed to take. Even though there is nothing I’d rather do less.
I was reading Ricky Martin’s biography, ‘Me.’ (By the way, I know which things are supposed to be underlined and such, but I can’t the blog to publish it for some reason—computer illiterance [new word], not grammatical.) It’s taking me forever to get through. I don’t like reading biographies. By their very nature, they are self-absorbed, which gets on my nerves. I’m the only one in the world that’s allowed to be self-absorbed, remember? If other people are thinking about themselves, then they aren’t thinking about me, and that’s really not okay. This follow passage from page 82, triggered having to admit to myself something that I’ve been shoving, intentionally, from my consciousness for months and months:
“I learned that it is very easy to lose yourself in the pain. Pain comes, it seduces you, it plays with you, and you identify with it to the point that you start to believe this is how life is. When you feel that heaviness in your heart, most of the time the parameters of pain and relief become blurry, and it is very east to stay stuck in what you already know, pain. We lose our memory and forget the peaceful moments when everything was light and gravity was an ally. It’s okay to feel hurt—it’s human. It’s important to feel, but you cannot cling to sadness, distress, or bitterness for too long, because they will inevitably destroy you.”
How long have I been saying I feel destroy (though not in that exact word)? Sadly, he doesn’t say how he coped with that or give advice beyond that you have to fight. I love you, Ricky, but I really need a little more advice than that. I’ve been fighting. I’m exhausted from fighting. I ready to stop fighting.
Somehow, this triggered what I’ve been dreading saying out loud. I’ve never even said it to myself out loud, just pushed it from my mind when it comes up. I have to meet with HWMNBN and have a conversation. Not fully sure what all needs to be said, but I need to face him before I run into him somewhere else. I need to face him so that the terror I have of seeing him elsewhere doesn’t continue to suffocate me. At some point, I have to go places where he might be. And I don’t want to do that randomly and have it happen by surprise before I’ve clarified a couple things first.
There, I admit that I have to do this. While I hate knowing things I have to do and not simply doing them that instant (I want to get it done with, don’t want to dread it any longer), I also know I’m not ready yet. I need to be a little more stable to so, I don’t want to meet with him and be a blabbering, sobbing idiot. I need to see him when I feel stronger, when I can have my walls up against him somewhat, and where I don’t feel like a pile of shit in his presence. If it’s impossible to get there before seeing him, so be it, but I need to try before I bring that on myself. Maybe knowing it is probably coming will help me get ready to face it.
A couple hours after admitting this to myself, I got a text from the first man I loved (not the fucking asshole who was my first boyfriend, but the first man I loved, the second boyfriend)—the one who kissed me this summer, that rather magical night on his sidewalk with crickets singing, blah, blah, blah—the one who told me it was a mistake the next day and that he can’t be in a relationship. Yeah, that one. He texted me to ask if I knew a certain guy (which turned out to be this gorgeous guy who stood me up about a month ago), and if I had any thoughts on if he was ok or not, that they’d been flirting, blah, blah, blah. He’s asked me about guys in the past, and it wasn’t a big deal, but that was when HWMNBN and I were together, and before our last interaction this summer. Typically, I would have just answered and been nice. He picked the wrong day. I let him know that I knew that he wasn’t trying to be mean, but that it hurts me now when he asks me about other men—that I’m rather tired of being reminded that I’m not good enough for the two men I’ve loved. While, my love for him is nothing compared to HWMNBN, part of me will always love him. He responded very nicely, apologized and said he would never ask me such things again. That he wasn’t thinking. Great, glad our kiss, that night, and that my feelings are so forgettable. However, while I was glad I said what I did, it was one more twist of the already throbbing wound with the knife imbedded.
The final cut came on the way home as I listened to the radio. They were talking about the court case that was ended yesterday, where the father of marine was suing the Westbro Baptist Chruch, or something to that effect. It was determined that their actions as his son’s funeral (he died in service) are protected under our constitutional rights. While I actually agree that they are (although, if their words were racists in effect, I would bet the court would have decided differently). They played a clip of the woman signing at the funeral. “Brokeback Mountain made God angry; soldiers died and when to Hell.” (Not one ounce of that is God, and I know that.) It crushed what was left of my spirit that was actually functioning at that moment.

Veins

Tuesday night brought two small successes, both of which were unexpected and surprisingly positive. I had a dinner with a dear friend of mine who has been MIA for the past seven months. He was on a heroin binge. However, back in outpatient rehab and doing much better at the moment. He wanted to play pool. I suck at pool (it’s a sport), but said sure. What I didn’t think about was that pool tables are at bars. I don’t go to bars due to the likelihood of HWMNBN’s presence. At first I said absolutely not, but then remembered that the chances, while not non-existent were not huge on a Tuesday. We went to the bar that would be the 2nd most likely one he would go to; much to my delight, they had the pools tables inaccessible for the night, so we ended up going to another one. After staring around for several minutes, making sure he was nowhere to be seen, I began to relax. I lost every game we played, but I had a lot of fun. It was nice to feel mostly normal for a moment. The second thing that happened, during one of the pool games, was Solange’s ‘Sand Castles’ coming on the speakers. I was singing along, enjoying it, when I suddenly I realized what I was doing. This was HWMNBN’s and my grocery shopping song (yes, we had a grocery shopping song—shut the fuck up). The fact that not only had I not realized what I was singing, but that I didn’t break down in tears when I finally did realize felt like huge progress to me. Celebrate where I can, right?
Before pool, my friend and I were catching up over dinner (my addictive personality has been focused on food the past couple weeks—dangerous, can’t fit in my pants, but oh…so good…). We’ve spoken of his drug addictions many, many times. He often has said that he can’t comprehend how I seem to understand his struggle for someone who has never tried drugs at all—that most people who aren’t users just get impatient and tell him to quit, expect it to be that simple, then get fed up with him and give up on the friendship. Part of me wishes I felt that way. Sadly, the things he says he feels, from his uncontrollable urges, moods, pain to going through periods of hiding from others and being lost to his own mind/darkness, I completely understand. While he’s talking about things that are completely foreign to me (thank God!), it is often like he’s describing what goes on inside myself.
In that sense, and that sense alone, I can understand the sadness, frustration, and sense of wastefulness that some friends feel towards me. My friend is a handsome man. He is the best artist I have ever met—hand’s down—if he got the right breaks he would be one of the most famous artists of our time, and I’m not exaggerating in the slightest. He is one of the most gentle, sweet, and caring men you could expect to find. We both know that if control is not soon found, he will no longer be here. Everything that is wonderful about him, everything that he has to give and offer the world will be lost and gone. Even while he is here, the state he is in keeps him from living, keeps him from shinning like the sun from every pore of his body. It’s hard to watch.

words

Monday, Monday. Ten hours at school, followed by four hours of massage. Followed by dinner to Being Human—surprisingly good and getting better all the time.

My mind is struggling turning off. With the ability to turn off. However, I am noticing a huge difference since going back on the one pill of the anti-depressant. While I hate obviously still needing that, I suppose I’m thankful that I need them and can have them instead of needing them and not being able to have them. The intensity of the past month has slackened greatly, and I am much relieved to have some peace. I guess peace isn’t the right word really, there really isn’t a moment of peace, the turmoil has lessened so it seems like peace. The way a quiet, deepening flood would feel after being in the midst of a hurricane. Peace.
Actually, there are only three times when I’m able to turn my brain off, well four actually. One is Gavin, he is the best medicine ever—everything flees in his presence, nothing is about me, everything is about him. Love it. Two, TV. I really don’t watch that much TV, but the few shows I do watch allow me to loose most of my own reality, most—for which I am thankful. Third, my books on tape. I am re-listening to The Taken, by Dean Koontz. For the first few minutes I have to tell myself to listen, listen, quit thinking. When I finally am able to pull that off, I get lost more entirely than anywhere else. So much, I often wonder how I’m able to drive. The power of books and the power of the written/spoken word is so massive, transcendent. I am grateful for its impact on my life and my functioning. I am also thankful that I get to be a part of that process for others, no matter to what degree.
I am also thankful for cheese. Really. I am.