The Realization of Me

Question:
Who am I?

Answer:
Polygamist.
Lover of Bestiality. “Oh, baby! Baaaaa!”
Pedophile.
Conspiracy Leader.
Terrorist of Families.

Janet Rowland - Republican Candidate for Colorado Lieutenant Governor
"Homosexuality is an alternative lifestyle. That doesn't make it a marriage. Some people have group sex. Should we allow two men and three women to marry? Should we allow polygamy with one man and five wives? For some, bestiality is an alternative lifestyle. Do we allow a man to marry a sheep? At some point, we have to draw a line."
March 17 Colorado State of Mind Rocky Mountain PBS public affairs show about the gay-marriage issue

Rick Santorum
“In every society, the definition of marriage has not ever to my knowledge included homosexuality. That's not to pick on homosexuality. It's not, you know, man on child, man on dog, or whatever the case may be. It is one thing. And when you destroy that you have a dramatic impact on the quality.”
AP interview

James Dobson
"Dear Friends, I write to you today with a profound sense of concern...Barring a miracle, the family as it has been known for more than five millennia will crumble, presaging the fall of Western civilization itself....
For more than 40 years, the homosexual activist movement has sought to implement a master plan that has had as its centerpiece the utter destruction of the family."
in a July 2004 letter to supporters

(I stole the above three quotes from a news article on Connexion.org.)

It is one thing to hear people debate with passion and vehemence whether I should be allowed to one day marry the man I love. It hurts. It causes anger. It causes a feeling of helplessness. It causes me pity, yet understanding. I understand how and why some people have questions of the correctness of gay marriage. I may not agree with them in the slightest, but I can step into their shoes and see either their concern or their fear.

It is quite a different issue to know that, to SOME people, the very essence of my being defines me as vile, corrupt, evil, dangerous, demented, sick, perverted, abomination, malicious, parasitic and infectious.

Most of the time, I can shrug it off and roll my eyes and tell myself they don’t know me, they are not really talking about me, it’s nothing really personal. But it hit me tonight, reading these quotes, they don’t know me, but they are talking about me. They are saying these things about ME! Seriously? Me? And about many of the people that I love? Me loving a man is equal to fucking a dog or sheep? Me always knowing that I have been attracted to men is equal to molesting a child? Me wanting to have a wedding (not a damned civil ceremony) is equal to me plotting the demise and annihilation of straight families? Did I not come from a straight family? Are not some of my dearest friends straight—along with their wives and children? Well, tonight, it is personal. Tonight, they are talking about me and others that I love. Tonight, they are talking about people you know, people you love, people in your family, maybe they are even talking about you! It is fucking personal! And as childish and pathetically weak as this sounds, it hurts me. It hurts my feelings. It makes me cry. It attempts to strip away the good aspects of who I am (and the good of others) and turn me into a monster, something less than human, something evil.

Question:
Who is the monster?

Question:
Who are you?

Gay Morailty? It's funny, 'cuz it's true. . .

Confession time:
In order to live life as a gay man, I have had to reject the values I grew up with and that were instilled into my very fiber. I have had to come to believe that the Bible is not 100% accurate or factual (or simply that sections are not what is the core of who God is, but simply a reflection of the culture it in which it was written). I was taught to never lie, cheat, covet, steal, kill, act impure, or write down or tell others all the secrets of my life (they will always come back to ruin you). Obviously, I have rejected that teaching as well. If anyone is the king of over-sharing, it is me. Some would say that I have simply used justification and twisted fact and truth to suit my own needs and desires. Easier than actually staying in therapy and having faith for God to change me, right? I’m not so sure. Walking this path is not easy either, although I will admit, I have much more peace and contentment in this state of being than in my previous.
The problem with rejecting values and beliefs you were raised with is, ‘where do you stop?’ If one thing was inaccurate or untrue, then it goes to follow that other things are too. For instance, we were taught to never lie, under any circumstances. Looking back, I remember conversations where we discussed if we had been alive in the Holocaust. What would we do if we were sheltering people in our home so they would not be murdered? What if a Nazi knocked on our door (you see, I come by my overly dramatic self naturally) and asked if we were hiding people? If you tell the truth, you and the hidden are sure to be killed. If you lie, then, well, you are lying. Wrong! Sinful! Always tell the truth and trust God to do His will. Well, if I am ever transported back to the Holocaust and a Nazi knocks on my door when I have people hiding under my trap door (not a sexual reference!) I am gonna lie to the fucker.
So, where do you stop? When are some things simply black and white? It would be easy to reject everything and live a purely hedonistic and self-absorbed life. I started down that path myself for a few years. I found it empty, dark, and joyless. Maybe sex really is best kept in a loving, trusting, real relationship. Go figure!
I was faced with what many would consider less than a bleep on the morality scale yesterday. I had jerked around and messed up a homework schedule. I needed to perform an assessment on some students and have another of my classmates observe me and give feedback. It was due at midnight last night, and I don’t even have an opportunity to be with my kids until Thursday. I talked to a couple of my classmates. A few of them didn’t do the assignment either. They simply made it up and typed a fictional report. Honestly, I am so disillusioned with grad-school and the pointlessness of playing the game for a piece of paper, that I don’t have much of a problem doing that. (The idealistic fifteen year old in me just flipped me off and died.) However, this professor is one that that has gone out of her way for me on several occasions, helped me have courage to quit my job, and genuinely cares and believes in the process we are undertaking. It is not a game to her, as it is to so many of the other professors. She doesn’t expect us to play the game. She expects realness. Making up a paper for her would not be playing the game. Making up a paper for her would be lying. If I did not make up the paper, I would get a bad grade in the class or have to withdrawal and take the course again next semester, causing me to stay in grad school longer. What is a recovering fundamental fag to do?
Well, I wrote a paper discussing an assessment and observation that I had overseen while I was teaching in the Spring. I turned that in. I also turned in a page telling her that I had procrastinated and messed up the assignment, and that I will take what she recommends—the bad grade or the withdrawal.
I value that I will be able to look her in the eye with honor, and that I give her the same consideration and respect she gives to me. No grade or easy shortcut is worth sacrificing that. Plus, as far as I know, no minority will die if the truth was told in this instance. Unless someone reads this and kills me. (I still find it fascinating that I am technically a minority. I should start a club! Oh, yeah, we already have one, the gay bars. I forgot.)
Still, the question remains and other moral dilemmas and hazy situations are on their way. What is truth and goodness? Do those concepts apply for those of us whose very existence and way of life contradicts those values of so many? Of course they do. Still, though, where is the gray appropriate, and where should we use more definitive shades to color our lives?
Regardless, I think God smiled on His little red-headed gay boy last night.

Falling in Love Again

You have no idea how truly fortunate you are currently. You are in a situation that very few find themselves honored enough to be in. You are on a date with me. That’s right, you! At this very moment! Try not to pee your pants from the excitement—there are few ways to ruin a date more expediently. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch though. If you expect me to, huh, well, get giggy with it later tonight, you need to pick up the tab. I may be easy, but I ain’t free!
Right now, I am at the Cheesecake factory. I decided to take myself on a date (along with my computer). Hell, if no one else is gonna ask, I will take myself out on the town. At least I know I won’t break up with myself later! There is nothing quite like being in a fairly romantic setting—lights low, candles flickering, couples dinning, music wafting gently over the senses—with only your bitter, sarcastic wit to keep you company. Wow, I am turning myself on, I should be careful, people may start to stare.
Speaking of being desperately in love with myself, I got an email from a friend the other day, praising my blog. Now, he, admittedly, doesn’t give out blog complements easily. He feels that most people’s blogs are just tools to stroke their own narcissistic adoration. He heaped his accolades upon me for doing something more and maybe a little deeper with mine. I was greatly flattered, and, in truth, felt a little guilty. Surely if there has ever been a blog centered around obsessive contemplation and self-superiority, it is Ramblings. However, I have learned to take a compliment wherever I can get one. And, yes, I did look in the mirror to tonight and comment on how hot I look for this tender date with myself. I really do look unusually attractive this evening. It only happens about once every seven and a quarter months. It is a pity it is wasted on my straight waiter. Hell, he is bringing me mashed potatoes, cheesy chicken, and maybe cheesecake later. I think I am in love.
Pause for a little bit, please, my glorious dinner has arrived.
Dear Lord, that was sinfully good, and I am perfectly full right now—a little too full, I should stop before I order the Carrot Cake Cheesecake or the Cookie Dough Cheesecake (it is still too early for the Pumpkin Cheesecake [Heaven]). Remember just a few short moments ago, when I was pledging my unending devotion to myself and all my stunning beauty? Well, the honeymoon is over, and I am breaking up with myself. God, I hate me! I was in the middle of my scrumptiously delectable dinner when piece of chicken fell off my fork and splattered mushroom sauce everywhere. I quickly looked down to observe the damage—there was none, somehow my shirt was spared. I could not believe my good fortune. I never have such luck! Blessed be! Shortly thereafter, some of my euphorically creamy mashed potatoes felt athletic and jumped off my fork and dove into the mushroom sauce, again, splattering everywhere—including my shirt. It is one thing to be an attractive, single man of mystery out on a date with himself. It is quite another to be a short, pathetically lonely excuse for a man with food dribbling pitiably down his shirt.
Oh, I have to leave you now, I hope you have enjoyed the rest of our date. My Carrot Cake Cheesecake is here!!!!!

emerging

“Who is the man I see
Where I’m supposed to be
I lost my heart and buried it too deep
Under the Iron Sea

Oh crystal ball, crystal ball
Save us all
Tell me life is beautiful
Mirror, mirror on the wall

Lines ever more unclear
Not sure I’m even here
The more I look
The more I think that I’m
Starting to disappear

Oh crystal ball, crystal ball
Save us all
Tell me life is beautiful
Mirror, mirror on the wall

Oh crystal ball,
Hear my song, fading out
Everything I know is wrong
So put me where I belong

I don’t where I am
And I don’t really care
I look myself in the eye
There’s no one there

I fall upon the earth
I call upon the air
All I get is the same old vacant stare

Oh crystal ball, crystal ball
Save us all
Tell me life is beautiful
Mirror, mirror on the wall

Oh, crystal ball, hear my song
Fading out
Everything I know is wrong
So put me where I belong”

Song: “Crystal Ball”
Artist: Keane
Album: Under the Iron Sea, 2006

Today is milestone for me. One week exactly. One week since I broke down and wept. I didn’t think I would get here. Maybe it should have come sooner. Do most people grieve for a solid three months? Do they shrug their shoulders and simply say, “We’ll that didn’t work out, what next?” I hope not. I hope not everyone grieves for three months either. It ain’t fun. Even if some say that I have chosen to grieve and hurt to an extreme. Maybe that is true, maybe it is not. Neither negates the truth of the matter.
It is funny, maybe not funny Ha-Ha, but still funny. I was so afraid that I would lose myself in my last relationship (in an all-consuming way—like in my first) that I messed it up, not able to really show and give the love I felt. Even with all my walls up to protect myself, I lost myself—just in a different way. Not to another man like I had feared, but to pain. I would look in the mirror and not see Brandon anymore. I used to be happy in the very core of me; now, all I saw in my eyes was dull ache and desperation. I thought I had already worked through the things I didn’t understand and yet I was thrust under the waves of compounding unanswerable questions. Life was, once again, shaken to the very foundations of my stability. It scared me, thoroughly. More than ever before in my life, actually. I was not sure I was going to get to the other side and regain a semblance of sanity again.
I disappeared for awhile there. That Brandon is not back yet. He never will be. That is ok. A new Brandon is emerging. Breaking out of the chrysalis that has enclosed me for the past ninety days. I am new. Some good, some bad. I have a whole new set of baggage attached and some hurt that will rest in my being for the duration of my life. I also am stronger, a little wiser, and while I have a whole new set of guards up, I also am more willing to risk those being breached and let myself be open to the possibility of being truly loved and even truly hurt again. You see, I learned that if you protect yourself so much that you can not risk real love, you won’t get to experience love fully, but you will still get to experience the pain, fully. Pain comes if we choose it or not. Protect ourselves or not. Love is always a choice, always a risk.
Are the tears over? I doubt it. Is the constant state of desperate insanity over? I think so. Am I going to choose to risk love and being loved? Although it will undoubtedly be clumsy and awkward, yes, I am. There is a man I am familiar with, a man who has new aspects to him, a man who is scared and excited about who he is becoming that looks back into my eyes from the mirror now. Yes, there is still pain in those eyes. The sickeningly beautiful thing about pain. . . it is where joy, love, and hope blossom from.
“Tell me life is beautiful!”

Lube: The Quest for Equality

I thought I would switch things up a bit tonight as I blog. You know, try something new—something different. I hope you can handle the shock to your system. I am not going to talk about how simple, easy, and fair life is. No, no. I am going to bitch. Maybe even be a bitch. Maybe both! Gasp! The audacity! Yes, that is what I am going to do: Bitch and Be a Bitch! I may also invent a cereal and name it that. That would sweet.
Today, as it should every crisp, partially overcast, yet oddly muggy Sunday morning, my mind turned not to tulips, daffodils, and chrysanthemums, but to AIDS. Hard to make a bouquet out of, but still deserving of attention. Today was the AIDS walk (for which I raised a big whopping $0—thank you so much, all you faithful who gave so generously! I did put in $20 for myself to walk—maybe everyone was already giving to the Help Pass Ref I & Default Amendment 43 fund—yeah, that’s it). Anywhoooo, the AIDS walk. . . (remember, I said I liked to use these [. . . ], you were forewarned).
I saw something there, while I was helping to defeat the virus by shuffling my feet on asphalt, that I see at every ‘gay’ event that always makes my hackles rise. I could choose to go off about how the AIDS walk is a ‘gay’ thing, but I will save that delectable treasure for later consumptional delight. I am upset, offended, astonished and ashamed of the trash cans! The Trash Cans!!! Burn them all! No, they are not made of dented, tacky aluminum, or as boring as black bouncy-back Rubbermaid receptacles, of such I can only wish. They were made of cardboard. I have no particular problem with cardboard. It is fairly multifunctional and is very equal-opportunistic. I do, however, take issue with the design gracing the ever humble surface of this miracle named cardboard. It was plastered with ads for ID Pleasure. For those of you innocent types (as I laugh, like you would be reading this!) that is a [use your whisper voice] personal lubricant. I actually have no problem with ID Pleasure. It is the one I have chosen to spend my money on, and would recommend it to others if so asked—and obviously, even if not asked. However, could we be more tacky and socially offensive?
Why is it, that every single gay event I attend I am accosted by free condoms, lube, or cock rings, porn, dildos. . . (ok, not all those are free, but still)? Why is my identity as a gay man synonymous with all of that? Yes, yes, I know that ‘gay’ is SEXUAL identity, but come on, really?!?!? Can we grow up and have some class yet? If we wanna do lube wrestling later on at Tracks or something, great! But maybe we can save some of our so-called ‘liberation’ for when it is a little more appropriate. It greatly disturbs me to see children, families, and helpless puppies walk by all of the propaganda and smut. My family has greatly struggled with me being gay. They are wonderful, truly, to me. They love and adore me, but they have fear of what it all means and what the consequences may be for me. Why wouldn’t they? I will never ask my family to lower themselves and deface their sense of decency (based not at all on gay or not) by shoving their faces in the blatant lack of moral sensitivity. I wish they could join me in an AIDS walk or a PRIDE celebration one day. No sooner would I ask or expect them to take a field trip of a bath house.
Most of what we show the world is simply for shock value, to get a reaction, to say ‘fuck you! I am who I am, and you will never tell me who I can love!’ Well, I echo that sentient, fully! But, I would like to say ‘fuck you!’ in ways that show who I am and who I love, show them that is what they are judging and condemning! They are judging love and passion and something real and genuine and pure. Instead our ‘fuck you’ comes out confirming everything they are trying to condemn. In that endeavor, I join them. I condemn a culture that has no problem shoving every form of sexuality in the face of children--that has lost its morality and decency compass. It is no different than all those preachers who scream about how great God’s abundant love is and, without so much as a breath, bellow of His hate of faggots and dykes!
None of this is said in shame of who I am or in devaluing my gay brothers and sisters. I am proud that I am gay man. I have no shame in kissing the man I love. Kisses and hand holding, etc. should be done in public, if done for love’s sake and not to make a statement. I have no shame that I am sexual. I am not going to go to hell for having sex with men. However, I will loose who I am if I am not true to the belief that we are more than just animals, that I have more to offer as a gay man than just my cock, that we have an obligation to each other to show the true beauty, goodness, and brilliance that exists within our Gay kingdom (or queendom, whichever you prefer). Let’s promote safe sex, and NEVER be ashamed of who we are or even of what we do in the bedroom (and other places [on really good days]), but let us present ourselves with pride, honor, responsibility, class, and sensitivity! One of our stereotypes is that we, as gays, have the patent on style and taste. Let’s live up to that stereotype, shall we?

Good Luck With This One. . .

For having been, for all intrinsic purposes, more miserable than I have ever been for the past twelve weeks, the past two days have been very nice. Last night, my friend KE came over and we watched “Four Weddings and a Funeral.” Everyone said that this movie is wonderful. Everyone is stupid! I wish there had just been five funerals! After that extravaganza, I went to a late movie with my friend R?. We saw “The Covenant.” It is done by the same people who did “Underworld” (one of my all-time favorites). ‘Covenant’ was not near as good, but, dear Lord, the eye candy and homoeroticness of that movie. Hallelujah! Then, this morning I had brunch with my wonderful friend SH, followed by a second viewing of “Little Miss Sunshine” with TB (not tuberculosis), JS (not jock strap), and SM (not S&M). Very, very fun. Now, I am getting ready to go to a huge gay party with KE. Not in the mood for a big party, but we are going to ‘make and appearance’ (apparently, my adoring public needs to witness the glory that is me) and then we are going to go do something low key.
Now, wasn’t that a fun little overview of my last twenty-four hours? I thought so. Especially with all the damned initials!!!
There was one thing that the horrific Wedding/Funeral movie did bring up for me. There is a scene where a man dies, leaving his gay lover behind. I can not imagine going through such a thing. I have barely managed to stay partially sane through a break-up—significant though I believe it is, it is nothing compared to my lover dying! How do you go on?
To top it off, you not only have to face live without your love, you don’t even have the same status as a man and woman, even if a lot of it is just in name. You were never legally married or husbands. You are not a widower. You do not get to stand up in church and give a eulogy of your husband. ARGH!!! It blows my mind, really. The more I think about it, the less I understand the reasoning behind the popular opinion’s stance. Yes, I can have a ceremony; I can be married in the eyes of God and friends. I can change my will to include him and give him power of attorney, blah, blah, blah. Sounding Spoiled Warning: I want to be really, really married. I want, I want, I want, I want. I am willing to throw myself on the floor in the supermarket and kick, scream, and tirade until I can. So there! Nah-nah-na-na-nah!!!
Well, that was fun. Random fact for you. Tonight (for the party), I am wearing a dress shirt and sweater. It is official. It is sweater wearing time. While I love wearing sweaters, it is way too early. I am not ready for summer to be gone. Of course, I am sure everyone else will show up wearing tank tops and jock straps, but I have never been one to follow the fashion trends.
Addendum (five and a half hours later):
So, KE and my “appearance” at the party turned into a closing the place down. Very fun though. And, I was right. Everyone had their skinniest T-shirts on, muscles bulging—everyone but MR, who also had on a sweater! Thank you MR! The sweater I was wearing is a very nice one from NYC. However, it was big when I bought it and I was fifty pounds heavier—two years ago, almost. At some point in the evening, I took the sweater off, folded it and put in on the sofa. A little while later, a guy came up to KE, who was sitting beside it and picked up my sweater, started unfolding it, and let out a little squeal, “Oh, what is this afghan? Oh, my, it’s got sleeves. It must be a fat-girl sweater!” To which KE and I died laughing. The guy’s face got so red when he realized the sweater belongs to me!
Even if I didn’t just wear my jock strap, at least I made an impression!

Terror on the Playground

I just wrote last week about turning old. Well, that is still true, but there are certain qualities about being old that I have not yet been able to encase into my being. I bought the first season of “Supernatural” last night. I had not seen any episodes of it, but it looked like something I would love. Kind Buffy-like. Hence, much television pleasure. I started watching the pilot episode as Dunkyn and I crawled onto the futon to sleep. Apparently, the fear part of me is sill about five years old. I was terrified. I think it was mostly the music, but still. I had to keep fast forwarding so that I could see whatever was about to pop out and how the scene would end. Then I could go back, all the while glancing over my shoulder, and watch it again in normal time. I discovered that if you do that about fifteen times, a normal hour show takes a hell of a lot longer to get through. Just extend the terror. Can’t wait to do it again tonight. Although I should probably save it for the daytime or until I am dating again (if that ever happens). Maybe I will just stick to Will & Grace.
I find it fascinating, not to mention frustrating, how so much of myself seems to be divided. In so many ways, I am an old soul. I have always been responsible (excluding the paper we value so much—money), fairly boring and more thoughtful and self-aware then many in my age group. However, I feel like I am twelve when in a relationship. It freaks me out, I have no idea what to do or how to be, not to mention being able to stay sane through it all. I still don’t quite know what I want to be when I grow up. Yeah, I have wrinkles around my eyes now, and a few gray hairs (that blend very nicely into the blond and red around them, thanks for noticing), but part of me is still in diaper training.
Will there ever be a day when I am completely one uniform person? Probably, when I am old and get Alzheimer’s. Then all of me will be childlike, maybe even the diapers!

Lotto Winnings

I just got home from a movie, after which, I had ice cream cravings, so I went by 7:11. I got a snicker’s ice cream sandwich. It was not what I wanted, but it had ten less fat grams than the good one. What’s a recovering fat kid supposed to do? Right after I paid, I had a feeling that I should buy a Lotto ticket. I almost did. I was too embarrassed to ask the sales clerk to ring me out again—she was already pissy. Oh, well, since I did not collect my winnings, it enabled a poor homeless family (who should be buying food instead of Lotto tickets) to win and change their lives. It feels good to do a good deed.
I am learning more of myself all the time lately. I put my feelings out on my sleeve and tell people things when I should keep my fat mouth shut. I already knew this about myself, but still, it bears relearning. However, I really don’t want to learn that lesson. Why is it bad to tell someone you love them? Why is it bad to say what you think is great about someone? Why is it pathetic, needy, weak to say what you feel and desire and care about? People always tell me to play coy, play hard to get, don’t let someone know how much I like them. After all, it is not attractive to look too eager or appear that you need someone. Heaven forbid you just be straight forward!
If it looks like I am playing hard to get, it is because I don’t want you to catch me! I hate all this stupid game playing crap. Granted, I overdo it. No question. I can’t seem to only say something once; I have to say something every time it is in my mind. I can see how this would freak people out, or simply wear them out. Who wants to hear someone say they love them all the time when you don’t have the same feelings? Who wants to hear about someone else’s hurt and worries all the time? Who wants to constantly be deep and real? It is not as much fun. I should know, that is why I don’t watch the news. The last thing I heard was that there is some war going on somewhere and some natural disasters were obliterating stuff and unnatural queers were still denied equal rights. Do I really need to absorb anymore information of which I have no power to change? No. I do have the power to change my compulsion to say what I think and feel at all times. No more of that. From now on when someone asks, “How ya doin’?” the answer will be, “I am fucking fabulous! Wanna hear about the family I helped out with my Lotto winnings?”

Untitled

I swore to myself, when I started this blog, that this particular subject, at least in much detail, was off limits. After all, it is not sarcastic, pertinent to anyone but me, and entirely too much of my heart to share with a haphazard assortment of people who may stumble across these words. Tonight, I don’t care. I just want the illusion of someone listening, caring, making a difference—not that I don’t have a billion people in my life that do that (I have THE BEST friends). However, as I have witnessed so many of my peers in grad school assert their views over and over and blabber on and on, I have come to this generalization/fortune cookie statement: ‘Keep talking, no one will hear you.’ The people who speak incessantly are never heard. It is those who choose to speak on occasion and with purpose who demands attention and respect. Likewise, talk about heart ache endlessly, no one will hear the hurt any longer. Tonight, I don’t care. Maybe I will even delete this later, who knows?
I am lonely. I have been lonely many times in my life and childhood. However, this loneliness over the past two and a half months is different, and never ceasing. Before, I was lonely when I was alone and wanted companionship. Now, I am lonely for the specific, and simply companionship will not suffice. I do not just miss being in love or dating or sleeping with someone or being held. If that were the case, I could find someone to hold me, kiss me, say they love me. That is not what I am lonely for. Trying to fill the void in this way would increase the loneliness by shoving in my face the opposite of what I crave. I miss the person. I miss his laugh, his eyes, his voice. I miss his kisses, his hands, his smile. I miss his sarcasm, his intelligence, his compassion. I miss his mood swings, his insecurities, his cockiness. I miss our relationship, the way we interacted with each other, the love I knew from him. Even though it terrified me, I miss the realization of the possibility of a person I could spend my life with.
The loneliness has once again morphed into a new entity. Before it was like a dragon, ravaging my mind, thoughts, well-being. Now, it is a dull blade, barely moving, deeper, into my heart. I was watching tv the other night, not dwelling on things, not particularly sad or depressed in the moment, and I became aware that tears where streaming down my face. I was soaked. I didn’t even know I was crying. I am always crying, even when my face is not wet. Even when I am laughing, even when I feel happiness, even when I pretend I am ok. I am no longer crazy insane with panic and desperation. I just know who I have lost and that a part of me was lost as well.
I have always thought it was a fool who said, “It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.” Well, they were right, and I was the fool. I have hurt more than I have ever hurt, still do. I have cried more than I have ever cried, still do. I have tasted what I may never taste again. And, yet. . . I have experienced love that I never really thought existed. I have loved deeper and risked more than what I thought I was brave enough to love or risk. I have experienced living life with man who is amazing and inspires awe in me—even if that experience was fleeting and brief. It has changed my core and my future. For these things I am thankful and welcome the tears. Maybe I am still the fool.

Decrepit

On May 30th, 2006, I turned twenty-eight years old. Today, August 29, 2006, I simply turned old. I got a phone call from my doctor with the results of my physical that I had last week. I had not had a physical since going out for track in high school. Well, my doctor was very impressed. He poked, prodded, and punctured me (for blood—you’re dirty. I like that!). He went on and on about how in shape I am and what great care I have taken of myself. He said I would live forever. He really did. I believe him. Directly after the physical, I decided to celebrate, with a double cheeseburger (with mayonnaise, without pickles), tatter tots with cheese, and a cherry-vanilla coke—followed by a large portion of Cake Batter ice cream with cookie dough, white chocolate chips, walnuts, raspberries, and malt mixed in, from Cold Stone. Here’s to my perfect health!
Well, today I got the call. I have not been stressed about it, but when they called fear shot through me. HIV test! Now, there is no reason to be concerned. I got tested before and after my boyfriend broke up with me over ten weeks ago, so I could assure him we are both healthy. I have been celibate ever since (too much information? Nah, you love it!). It is physically impossible for me to have become infected. Still, my wonderful fundamental roots show their heads every now and again, GAY=AIDS. Just by breathing, I will contract it. Right? Well, that was fine, of course. Disease free. However, the doctor informed me that my cholesterol is rather higher than he anticipated. Well, Duh! I could have told him that. My fundamental upbringing came with a side order of deep fried beef! Vegetable? Why that baked potato with cheese and sour cream covers that concern. He said, I should eat less red meat (more chicken—I mainly eat chicken anyway, but why argue), stay away from saturated fat (I did not mention that I used to eat Crisco out of the can when I was a kid), and eat more “leafy greens” (I assume he means the crap I feed to my lesbian sister rabbits in my back yard). He may as well ask me to forget how to say ‘worsh’ instead of wash, ignore my cowboy boots, break my Pasty Cline and Marie Osmond albums, deny my chicken raising past, and suppress the legacy of religious guilt. Stay away from fried food? I will starve. There is no other kind of food. Maybe we could reach a compromise. Ever had fried spinach? Amazing!
Oh, well, I am going to live forever—he promised! Sonic, anyone?

Paranoia Personified

It was brought to my attention yesterday that I need to be more careful. I appreciate this, really, as I would rather stop a mess before having to clean one up. I apparently was being somewhat of a naïve fool. It had not crossed my mind that the things I spew onto my blog space could be used to hurt me or misconstrue my meanings, or, even worse, hurt someone else. I had meant to change the world for good through my views of dog shit. I had not thought twice about using people’s names that I love. I have no enemies, that I know of, so nothing to worry about—says Santa as Rudolf drop kicks him off the roof.
Therefore, I have gone through and edited my blogs. It was like raping myself, but not as fun. See, there again, probably shouldn’t say that. I will get brought up on rape charges. I wonder if I will have to testify against myself? Luckily, with my many conflicting personalities, that shouldn’t really be a problem. I have changed names to initials, which is much less fun and personal. I have also removed the “threats” that have been previously posted. I don’t even kill spiders (and I do truly hate spiders), but, still, misconstrued. Oh, how quickly the joys of blogging have been tainted.
Just for those of you out there chuckling menacingly and rubbing your hands together in anticipation, my previous blog with the word Pedophile in the title is speaking AGAINST such behaviors and actions. Very gross and very wrong. I have worked with pedophiles to help them alter their behaviors to the more appropriate sources, not the other way around, thank you very much!
It always surprises me when I realize I actually have innocence to lose. Just when I think it is all gone, something comes to kill a little bit more of it, proving, at least in some small measure, it had been previously alive.

Shit Equals Love

Caution: Those of you with sensitive constitutions or are easily offended may wish to read something else, although if you read my blogs, your constitution is firmly intact and it is nigh impossible to offend your senses—you may want to pray about that, it probably shows a lack in moral fiber.
I just got home from a walk with my four-legged life partner (I hate that term), husband, Dunkyn. Well, my little guy, although near perfect, has a little quirk. He has a sensitive stomach. Even if he eats the exact same healthy dog food every day, one moment he will be fine and dandy and the next we are up to our necks in matted, shitty fur. This happens nearly every other day. I am now quite proficient with the garden house (the winter freeze makes this more of a dilemma). He is clean, although soaked, within ten seconds. Today, apparently, is one of those days. Happy, happy!
I was talking to MM the other day, via email. He was telling me about his latest backpacking adventure. He and some of his good friends went together. They brought their dogs. One of these little angels continuously threw up. Often in the tent and on their sleeping bag.
This, I feel, is the test of true love. I don’t go on and on about Dunkyn’s personal problems. I just lean over, with a bag, and scoop it right up, all the while speaking in baby talk to my furry boyfriend. Did MM and his friends offer the dogs up as appetizers to the bear and cougar population? No. Undoubtedly, there was more baby talk (intermingled with curses, knowing MM).
Love is not roses, diamonds, nor fancy dinners. Love is not even passionate kissing and hours of making love. Love is shit. Love is runny, chunky, smelly, striated shit. (Ok, I did that just to be gross and rude. It was fun! Gross, but true.)
Love is forgiving someone for betraying you. Love is loving someone after they have broken your heart. Love is a wife caring for her cancer ridden husband. Love is knowing every evil, hurtful thing someone has done and embracing them within your arms. Love is weeping when the other is weeping.
Although often painful, my life is very blessed. I have shit by the trucks full!

Man, Friend, Lover, Teacher, Artist, Pedophile

I just got done reading a few articles while I wait for my roommate to get home in a few minutes. One was about all the places in the world where you either go to jail or get executed for being gay. I forget this alot. It is easy for me to get caught up in how hard it was for me growing up and being attracted to men and how it angers and frustrates me that I am not allowed to marry in my own country. However, while both these are important, I don’t have to go to jail or be killed for who I am. I do have to be more careful. If one of my students makes a false accusation about me, who are people going to believe, the kid or faggot teacher? Ain’t gonna be me, and I know that. Still, while there is always the possibility of gay bashing (a group of us got harassed and threatened while we were at a restaurant a few months ago), it is a far cry from sanctioned execution! To a degree, I understand where it comes from. I grew up in the teachings of how and why homosexuality is wrong. When people are raised that way, it is a major change you are asking them to accomplish by rewriting the core of what they have been taught. However, there is a huge difference between being worried about someone’s soul and saying that they are on the same level as a pedophile or that they are on my way there. I don’t know how many politicians and ministers I have heard/read say such evil shit! If there was anything I would never be, it is that. There is nothing even comparable between homosexuality and pedophilia. Nothing makes me so furrious as that comparrison! It is also demeaning (although well intentioned) when people view us as a helpless cause, like the animals left homeless in the wake of Katrina. Thanks for having sympathy, but I am not a lesser, and not a puppy! What will it take for this transformation? Who will be our Martin Luther King (hopefully without the assassination)? Who of us will stand and be honorable and not degrade ourselves by tormenting the protestors who scream at us at our PRIDE parades (not that I really love the PRIDE parades myself)? Who will speak out in strength, pacifism, determination, and declaration? Who of us will truly demand equal rights? Who of us will help stop the murder and imprisonment of our brothers and sisters who did not have the luxury to be born where they can at least live free? How does one even begin to start on that path? How does one truly change the world’s situation? How do we earn the right to be heard and have our words taken into account? How do we destroy the fear and hate? How do I?

aPATHETIC

I finished my first three days of evening classes yesterday. Today, about two hours ago, I hopped online to do whatever assignments are due for this week for my four credit online class (of which 100 points are possible). Most of the time, online assignments are due each Sunday, as they are in this class. However, there were some beginning assignments due on Tuesday. Opps, missed those. They equaled about seven to eights points. Therefore, I am already at an A-. I want an A, so I can’t loose any more points the rest of the semester. Joy. I have A’s in every single grad class I have taken, except the online law course in which I got a B+ (Even Judge Judy could not have gotten an A in this class, let’s pretend that means something, ok?) I should have gasped (or whatever is the butch, masculine equivalent), gotten angry, and felt some guilt (remember the blog about wasting time?). Strangely, I simply looked at the screen and went, “huh.” I went ahead and completed the assignments, one was a one page power point describing myself and the other was a survey asking what my feelings were towards an online class—easy points, if done on time. I am sure it will do no good, but I turned them in anyway. I am nothing if not a kiss-ass.
This was a confirmation of something I have been suspecting the past couple days. I am apathetic. I don’t care. I am sitting on my front porch swing, Dunkyn asleep by my side, as per normal, my legs are cramped, I have on dirty underwear, my hair looks like shit, I need to go check on financial aid, make a dentist appointment, and right now there is a raccoon chewing on my foot—the first three toes are gone and he is quickly finishing off the fourth. I don’t care. (There is not really a raccoon, but wouldn’t that be great! I have always wanted a baby raccoon, or penguin. Or a seal.) I just got my garage finished. The boards on the ceiling are not stained the color I asked for, and the floor, which was supposed to be a warm, inviting amber glow, in now poop brown. I don’t care. Alias was canceled last season. Macaroni Grill quit carrying my favorite nachos in the world. Thousands of unsuspecting pregnant mothers are gulping in cigarette after cigarette and downing jugs of whiskey, mutilating their unborn spawn. Don’t care. Don’t care. Don’t care. Ricky Marin is daydreaming about me right now. Don’t care. Well. . . maybe just a little. . .
I hope this apathy does not last very long. It is not my normal state of being, it is a little disconcerting. My theory is that my feelings and emotions have been on a heightened state of crisis (Amber Alert anyone, quick, Bush, start a war!) for the past two and a half months (what with the self-introspection, crying, questioning, weeping, angst, sobbing) and accidentally blew a fuse. Pop! Just like that. Wonder how long this will last?
Truth be told, I should take advantage of this situation. I should drop out of school. I should rob a bank. I should buy a convertible Mini-Cooper (steel blue). I should go on a whore-my-brains-out campaign. I should take a little trip back to Missouri and tell off those who tormented me with the word “Faggot” in high school what a pissed off queen can do. After all, I don’t care. No guilt. Of course, if my emotion fuse ever gets reset, I will have no degree, have to hide from the bank police, have a smorgasbord of STDs, and have useslessly pissed off a bunch of Missouri folk, all causing my fuse to flip again. Of course, I would have a really fun little car. Maybe it would be worth it. . .

Nicknames

I just got an email from my best friend. We have known each other since seventh grade. For those of you good with math skills, that is a long time ago. AA, being the beautiful man he is, posted a comment under each of my blogs so far. You should read them, and get a taste of his humor. You'll want to come back for seconds, trust me. He and his wonderful wife just had their first baby. They named him Brandon, after yours truly. Ok, fine. They didn't, even though they should have. Whatever. Don't know why they thought they had to give the kid a cool powerful name. Brandon has a very nice ring to it. Like how I share about your family with the world, bud? Just my way of covering your ass so everyone knows you're straight, even though your best friend isn’t. Straight. Shudder. No, judgment, it’s your lifestyle choice, not mine! :) Anywho, in this email, AA asks why he does not yet have a nickname (mine is Fitch, you can ask him if you want to know why. Here’s his phone number: (970) 555-POOP—just kidding.) I am in a mood today, just warning ya. His pondering made me think about my favorite topic: ME!
I have had many nicknames throughout my life. The first being: Red—due to the red hair, yeah, points for originality on that one, people. Thanks! In high school, one of my nicknames was Rip. Because I was so tough that people compared me to the Grim Reaper. Or because I ripped my jeans in front of one of the school hotties while I was lifting weights and then again on our senior trip as I was getting on a horse, whatever.
In college, I was Yee-Haw, ‘cus I was a wrangler wearin’, big belt buckle tottin’, country singin’ fool. I was also called Wolverine, because people thought I looked like an action figure when I ran (honest, really not making that up). My favorite, of course, is Fitch, because it came from AA. Today, my nicknames are Pumpkin, Dear, Sweetie, Lamb-Chop, Honey Baby, and Big Hunk of Man Meat (ok, I only wish I were called that last one). That is because I hang out with a bunch of fags all the time, we all have those nicknames. I liked having nicknames that were specific to me. For a boy who felt hidden and unequal all the time, nicknames gave me a sense of belonging and showed me people at least noticed specific things about me enough to christen me with a alias (wonderful show, btw, you should watch it). It is something I carried over into my counseling job. Most of my kids had nicknames from me. I was informed as I began teaching that such a habit is less than professional. If Bill Clinton can get off in the Oval Office and George Bush can lead a crusade to prevent me from getting married, I can give my kids nicknames!
While adults do not normally acquire new nicknames to identify themselves, I can not help but wonder what nicknames I might pick up in the next phase of my life. I hope they are along the lines of: Mr. Luminous Creator of all that is Satyr, or Enlighten the World Man, Sexy Hot Man, or even Mr. Brandon Ricky Martin. Chances are the nickname will be more along the lines of: Likes to Hear Himself Talk Boy, Ignorant Blowhard, or Short Hairy Troll Guy. Whichever, I will take what I can get. Bad attention is better than no attention at all! See, I did learn something in my six years working with kids!

Delusions

My day of immense slothfulness is drawing to a close. Awww, sad, I know. I did go to class, though. I am tempted to blog about that--it is all such politically correct bullshit; all you have to do is know how to play the game. Luckily, my fundamental background has taught me to play the game to perfection. But, I will save that blog for another day. It's ok, dry your tears.
Instead, I am opting to talk about, wait for it--it will be surprising, ME! I know, I know, clutch your heart from the shock, breathe deep, all will be fine.
I have not been completely sure what I have been feeling the past few days, I just knew it was growing stronger and that it was a familiar feeling. I figured it out on the way home from class tonight. I am filled with delusions of grandeur. Just as I used to be when I was growing up. I knew I was meant to be SOMEBODY, maybe famous for singing or art or my stunning beauty (quit laughing, that's rude!), or maybe beloved for my selfless acts that transformed the world into utopian paradise. Those "dreams" disappeared under tons of school work in college and then endless hours of work at the treatment facility. Since I quit work, the world has reopened to me. Theoretically, I can be anything I want to be. Maybe, someone will read my blog and want to publish me and gays will achieve equal rights due to my insights, children will never go hungry again, and families will stay together, and it will be Christmas everyday--all because of me, me, me.
I have decided I am going to drop out of grad school, not substitute and go on well-fare, until my magnificence is discovered and I transform the universe.
As I said: Delusions.
As mentally ill as these delusions imply that I am, they are enjoyable. I have not felt so many options for life in such a long time. I recommend it. You should invest in some delusions. Maybe something great will happen. Maybe. Oh, oh, maybe next week I can discover the hidden natural herb that, when taken at midnight under the Gemini constellation when wearing only a fishnet jockstrap will cause a person to grow ten inches and get a tan! Six foot four and gorgeous here I come. That's it! the world will be transformed by the beauty that is me!!!
I love when I make myself gag. ;)

Waisting Time

Today is the first day of classes for the new semester. I need to buy books and complete some assignments for my on-line class. I wanted to do some writing for a project I am undertaking. I needed to drop off my substitute teaching application. What have I done today? NOTHING. I have been on-line for hours. I discovered MySpace. Yes, I know, a little behind the times, pleases feel free to keep your judgmental opinions to yourself. ;) One of the things my summer of hurt and introspection has made me face is that I have completely abandoned amazing people I grew up with, who I loved. Part of that is due to a very busy life, trying to discover my identity and come to grips with who I am, and a huge aspect has been fear of their reaction to learning of my fagottry (love that word). Well, MySpace is fixing that quickly. I found my cousin PC and my dear friend TS. PC and I have known each other since we were both born, and TC since second grade. I am almost giddy with the discovery of these people. While I don't yet know their reaction to who I am today, I am glad I am taking the chance. They are worth it. We all have changed, gone through many hurts, trials, and successes; in some ways, we are all different people than we once were. Don't believe me: go to my space and check out my site. It has a song my cousin recorded--he is amazing!
I have also discovered wasting time. I rarely waste time. I rarely have time to waste. (I don't consider reading books a waste of time, so those of you that know I spend hours pouring over my novels, shh.) I feel a little guilty, but not really. I am slowly coming to terms that life is not meant to be lived rushing to accomplish one thing and then another. Life is also about just living, and breathing, not moving. Strange experience. Give it a shot. And, while you do that, find some of the people you love who you have let slip away or shut out and tell them you love them. Bet they still love you, too.

Beauty

This morning, I attended a birthday brunch for one of the people I love the most in the world. He turned thirty-five, my how we are all growing up. There were eight of us in all, I think. Some of them I am very close to, and others I am on the path to getting to know better, but care about a lot, already. My beautiful roommate is on her way over now with pizza in hand, we are going to have a night of watching TV and crying over our heartbreaks, etc. I have had text messages, phone messages, and other contact today from many other people who are so very dear to me. My family came down to help me with moving things out of my garage and pack up school stuff (since I will not be teaching this year). My little brother called and wanted to hang out tomorrow—can’t I start the new semester of grad classes tomorrow. I have had several others whom I love on my mind today and in my prayers. As ever, Dunkyn, my Corgi companion, is by my side. I am struck that even in the midst of turmoil, change, confusion, pain, and upheaval, I am surrounded by the riches that make life so completely irreplaceable. I am so blessed to have such amazing people around me. Things are not always clear and never easy, but I have the best people in world to travel through this life with at my side. I am humbled constantly by these lavish gifts God has allowed me to share in. The meaning of love and example of beauty is always around me in the form of those who have elected to share their lives with me.

We are Stupid

It is nearly 3AM. I should be in bed, but no. I am at my computer desk, eating a huge bowl of pasta (really going to help my goal of dressing like a whore for Halloween), Dunkyn eating a snack at my feet, and I am typing away.
Warning: Gay boys, you may want to skip this one. . . I went to Tracks tonight, after a housewarming party, gorgeous house, btw. (Tracks is a gay dance club, for those of you not in the know.) Tonight, I had to come face to face that we, as a gay society are rather stupid and pathetic. Yes I am pointing fingers, but I am pointing at myself too, so unclench! I was not really in the mood to go dancing, so maybe that I why I decided to observe instead of dance like a fool the entire time (still managed to get some fool time in), as per normal. What I saw really scared me and made me sad. It makes me worry about who we are and where we are headed. I am going to stay vague so that the stories stay anonymous. I saw guy after guy go from one guy to another, making out, flirting, etc. Several of these guys are in "relationships." Several have serious crushes on other people, etc. I even had a guy overtly hit on me. And for me to actually pick up on that without a written notice, it has to be fairly obvious. That, in and of itself, is fine. Flirting is good. Obvious is good. I am not interested in hooking up right now or dating anyone new right now. Which is a good thing, for many reasons. One of which that, in less than an hour, I observed this guy making out (obviously) with someone else on the dance floor. Now, we had not made out, I had not returned the flirting or anything, and I had and have no intention of doing so, so technically, he was doing nothing wrong. However, if I like a guy or am flirting with him, then my focus is on him, not just, "Oh, well, not moving fast enough, must get laid. Oh, you'll do!" Is 30 minutes of effort all I am worth? That’s flattering! We go from one guy to the next. We let our insecurities override our common sense and decency. I am not trying to be a prude. If you wanna have sex and hook up, go for it, but be honest about it and don't lead others on. If you want a relationship or a boyfriend, keep it in your pants! We are grown men acting like crazed baboons. I love to dance and I love to dance like a moron (I pretend to anyway, since I can't dance cool, I act like I mean to dance with no rhythm). However, as I sat and watched others for about twenty minutes tonight, it was just stupid. There was a guy in front of me, with a fairly hot body, pants half way down his crack, his hand stuffed down his pants (doing I rather not know what) and his other caressing his naked torso, gyrating the entire time, of course. Looked like a complete dumb-ass. Pull your pants up so no one thinks you’re a plumber, and if you really must touch yourself like that--find a stall! I want us to have the respect I believe we deserve. I want us to be treated like the equals I believe we are. I want the right to marry the man I love one day and have children, if I choose. Are we living lives that come even close to deserving those things? No! I don't think those things should be earned, they should be automatic rights, but still. Let's deal with our issues. Of course we have a ton. We're gay. Most of us have been told our entire lives what an abomination we are and what gay people are like (drug and disease infested, whorish, non-monogamous, heathens)--of course we have issues, of course we sometimes fulfill the self-fulfilling prophecies told to us. Let's break that. Let's face our insecurities. Let's face our hurt and sadness and sit with it, and then deal with it; not just cover it up with alcohol, sex, and drugs. We deserve more than this. We deserve to be whole people. To have amazing, fulfilling sex and love lives that cause us to be better people, to truly love (in my case at least, I guess I won’t force my preference for monogamy on anyone else) one specific person (whoever I will one day marry). To not be hurting all the time, to not be so insecure, to be valued and respected, to treat our bodies and lives with respect. To not cause and participate in drama, to not back stab and gossip, to not tear each other down. We have the rest of the world doing that to us. Why must we do it to ourselves, to family? I am in the process of growing up too, and nowhere near to having it figured out, so I am preaching at me too. I look forward to being able to be in a room of tons and tons of gay people in all of our differences and look around and see mature, honorable men and women, who still cut loose, have fun, and dance like morons, but who are also full of integrity and love. Let us prove all the stereotypes, generalities, and damning proclamations faulty, instead of living down to them.

Reset

I am sitting on my front porch with Dunkyn. It is still raining from the downpour we experienced about fifteen minutes ago. The breeze is cool, the birds are chirping like crazy--probably excited about the feast of worms the rain has surfaced. Everything is glistening green and beautiful. Perfect day to curl up on the front porch swing and snuggle with the boy you love. Sigh. Thank God for Dunkyn, at least.
Rather than simply sitting and enjoying this beautiful world I live in, I think I will delve into my haphazard psyche yet again. I have recently (within the past two weeks) decided to hit the reset button in my life. I guess this is mainly coming in the form of work, but hopefully reset will also happen within the realms of my thinking and feelings as well. I have worked at DCH for the past six years, since one week after college. Five of those years as a counselor and one as a teacher. I have no doubt that the counseling job will always be the best job of my life. I loved it. One of those things you love, but could not go back to because you are not the same person.
This summer has been the hardest(hands down) of my life and has made me a little unstable and concurrently caused a hell of a lot of introspection. All of which has caused me to take some steps or at least begin preparing to take some steps. While not everything has to be perfect in life to work at DCH, it helps when you are on top of your game. I know that if I go back right now, I will be eaten alive and not really be able to give my best to my kids. In addition, I have realized that a huge portion of my self-worth and self-definition is based on my performance at my job. I have not had an adult identity outside of DCH. Who am I if I am not "sacrificing" myself for my kids? What is my worth if I am not "changing the world, one life at a time"? What do I have to offer someone (friends, family, lover) if this is not who I am? Answer: I don't know. I am going to find out, however. I am scared. I just jumped off a cliff and I have no reserve in my parachute bag. I am excited. I am going to takes some risks. I am going to live and not simply do what people expect of me and what I think is the simplest path. In this vein, I have decided not to get my doctorate after I finish my masters. At least not directly after. I am going to take art classes! I have always wanted to make a living doing art, and I have always been too insecure, too afraid, and felt like it was too selfish. Well, done with that. Right now, if my professinal dreams come true, I will be publishing art books, children's books, prints, and maybe even some novels, and still work/volunteer/substitute with kids (I can not imagine my life without them--of course maybe one day, the kids I work with will be my own). Maybe none of this will come to fruition, but, maybe it will. I am going to start down that road, nevertheless. I am excited about really becoming the man I meant to be. Instead of operating out of a sense of obligation and insecurity, I will be able to function out of a sense of abundance and security. In theory, anyway. When people tell me they love me, I will be able to accept that to higher degree, because I will be more me. When a man decides to build a life with me, he will have an equal, not a subservient or half-personality.
In addition, and seemingly contradictorily, I plan on doing less over-analyzing. I tend to pick things apart until there is nothing left. Everything doesn't have to be perfect, and I don't always have to know the final outcome to give myself to something or someone. I learned this lesson a little too late. At least, I had better have learned it by now.
Well, I need to take Dunkyn on a walk, get a housewarming gift, eat some fattening pasta, and watch a episode of Charmed (shut up, no judgment) before going out tonight. This entry was not the sarcastic diatribe I was expecting, but it was fun to share some of dreams and plans of the moment.