lessons in paw and fur

As the day of being employed draws ever closer, I feel my anxiety level rising. Like Eve, I have tasted the forbidden fruit, and I want second helpings. Adam tasted it too, but, being a man, he was too preoccupied with the comprehension of nudity to be aware of what he had bitten into. I have experienced how life is meant to be lived, partially. If grad school were out of the pictures, the scene would be complete. I know the story of the grasshopper and the ants (if you don’t know it, I am not gonna tell you—pick up a book). I know I should desire to be an ant and be productive and responsible. Well, I don’t. I don’t want to be an ant. I don’t do well in lines. Neither do I want to be a grasshopper. Have you seen their skin tone? Even Noxzema isn’t going to clear that up. Just because it looks good on Elphaba, doesn’t mean it will be appealing on me (again, pick up a book—or attend the theatre [please note the fancy and pretentious spelling of theater—yeah, you wish you could pull that off with such ease and culturability]). I want to be human. I want to be a man. I want to simply be alive and enjoy that most basic of truths. Of course, I want nice clothes, phenomenal food, a gorgeous house, limitless music on my iPod and DVDs on my shelves, and boundaryless (please note the fancy and pretentious invention of words [yeah, you wish you could pull that off with such ease and culturability]) flight miles. It is a flaw of the world’s economic structure that those items are dependant on money, which is (in most cases) dependent on hours worked. See, I really don’t want that much or ask for the unrealistic.
As the day of being employed draws ever closer, I see the trappings of the universe clearer and less diluted than previously. As is typical, God chooses to reveal His most enlightened truth through the living example of one of his children, Dolan. Dunkyn, Dolan, and I (often accompanied by Chad, as of late) take at least one rather lengthy walk each day—sometimes two or three. Dunkyn enjoys these, waddling along in a rather adorable manner, stopping to sniff every putrid scent along the way—sometimes happening along one that is delectable enough in which to wallow about blissfully (you have not seen Heaven on Earth until you have witnessed Dunkyn in such a state). Dolan, too, loves his walks. He enjoys many a delightful sniffs as well, but he is much more visually stimulated. He trots here and there, up and down, in and out, taking in every sight for consumption. Between the two, Dolan enjoys his walk time the most. Dunkyn would be fine watching TV and snuggling with his Daddy and never leaving his home. Dolan’s sanity, on the other hand, is dependant upon his walking adventures.
As mentioned in other blogs, Dolan and I have started a tradition of racing the last quarter block to the front door. This race is rather difficult and dangerous for all involved. He doesn’t grasp the entire point of racing. All he knows is that he should be in front. To him the vast measurement of that advancement is inconsequential. Instead of running beside me, Dolan runs sideways, about two inches, directly in front of my feet. He darts back and forth, tongue lolling, eyes cast up watching my face in anticipation—worried that if he runs too far in advance he will miss some part of the experience. As a result, it is a rarity that the racing extravaganza ends sans paw squishing, owner tripping, puppy yelping, daddy squealing, or some combination thereof.
As the tradition has become more and more firmly engrained in his psyche, his expectations have been ever raised. It started several weeks ago. We would be three or four blocks away from the house and Dolan, caught up in anticipation, would begin to traipse back and forth in front of me, eyes rolling up to mine, bouncing in excitement, waiting to break into a limited run. Currently, it has reached the point of this example of delighted impatience begining about halfway through our walks. All scents loose their potency, all sounds fade into murmurs, all sights blur to impressionistic watercolors, only the pounding of heart, quickness of breath, and tingling expectancy remain. At first (after overcoming my annoyance at the hindering of my walking ability) I thought his exuberance one more expression of his adorableness. However, I begun to see myself (and most of humanity) through his eyes. What used to be a nearly euphoric experience from beginning to end for my little one has now only half as joyous. Regardless of where he starts his race preparations, the race will only start once we have thrown the poop bag away a little distance from the door. In an effort to not miss a minutia of the race, Dolan has lost half of what is one of the largest highlights of his existence. Instead of allowing himself to enjoy every nuance that lends pleasure, his entire sensibility is overwhelmed by the brief seconds spent in a race where he analyzes each moment so that he will not miss a second.
I love my little man. I hope dearly that he will learn to enjoy each moment, the calm, repetitive, and soothing, as well as the thrilling, heart-stopping, and anticipated. I hope the same thing for his daddy.

Dream to be Desperate

I wanted to be a detective when I was a little kid. Just like Nancy Drew. Uh, I mean the Hardy Boys, of course, my bad. Then, I realized that there is a lot of night work involved and sometimes even in graveyards and such. Gross and a wee bit scary. Next, I thought I would be a photographer for National Geographic and/or People. Getting to see the rain forest and photograph Dean Cane in his bathtub (and out of his bathtub, he he he. . . ). Apparently, you have to wait an exorbitant amount of time for one of the Anacondas to try to devour Jennifer Lopez. God made me many things: tall, tan, taunt, and gorgeous, however, He forgot about patience. However, I would still be willing to document Dean Cane’s bathing procedure for the benefit of future generations. At one point in my Freshman year psychology class in college, my professor said to close our eyes and picture what our life would be like, and whatever we really pictured would transpire within ten years. I saw myself on a stage, singing country music to a sold-out theater, with my wife and adoring children worshiping me from the second row. That was in 1996. You do the math. After falling in love with Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Anne Rice, I decided I want to be a Vampire. I still want to see that one through…
At the end of all my planning, day-dreaming, and foreseen opulence, I am left with a new dream, one that I really didn’t see coming. I want to be a housewife.
A housewife. Some of you would say that I am already there with the amount of scrap booking material I possess. It is a new revelation. Not one that I really wanted. Maybe it is just delusion from being a successful relationship for four and a half months. I wanna stay home all day, cook/clean, have two babies, shop, scrapbook, luncheon with other mothers, write novels during nap time and while they are in pre-school. I am sure it would all be so picture perfect and serene. And even it were, I would shoot myself so that I would have something to stress over. Anyway, new desire. I had gone from wanting to adopt at-risk teenagers to never wanting any kids, to knowing the entire names of my two new-born’s that I will meet one day. I wonder if there are adoption agencies that consider debonair vampires of the homosexual variety worthy candidates.
It is a strange thing to think about. What would the kids do when the school makes cards for Mother’s Day? And their little hands would fall off from all the Father’s Day crafts they would have to make. Since I will do most of the cooking and be the over-protective parent maybe they would just call me Mamma B. I really don’t have the figure for that title, increasingly curvy as I am.
We have even had an offer from a dear friend of ours to carry our children. Hello cart. Meet horse. However, we feel a moral obligation to adopt outside of our sperm banks. There are so many babies who have no parent that they can’t be overlooked out of a desire to produce an overweight, show-tune singing, socially awkward red-headed offspring. I think the cart just rolled two miles away from the horse and crashed into a Japanese Maple tree (those are so pretty, aren’t they?).
While I am sure many, many would find multitude of reasons to deny children to a household that I occupy (my flagrant cursing and inappropriate innuendos, for instance—oh, and the faggotry aspect as well). My only real question: What negative affects does a tattooed mother transpose onto her children? Ah, big questions for another day.

academia

they long for the music
of their own making
to be embraced by hollowness
of their own deluded grandeur
too busy engaging in
pampering adulation
lost in universe of self
knowledge, enlightenment disregarded
wallowing in the filth disguised as
diamonds of their own words
clamoring to voice over others’ souls
betraying shallowness

My Little Disease (not to be confused with My Little Ponies)

As you may have read in the recent news releases, I am gay. Due to this fact, I purchased tickets to Wicked nearly two years ago for the time it would come back to Denver. Well, that time has come and gone now. The boyfriend and I went two nights ago. You would have thought that buying tickets for the best seats possible two years ago would have ensured a prime location smack dab in the middle. You would have thought wrong. We were close, but were off to the left of the stage. Still, it was a delightful experience. Glinda’s part was over the top perfection. Died laughing. I probably annoyed everyone around me by singing along on occasion. I am sure I should have felt some moral compass restraining my impulsivity, but I didn’t. Who says gays have class? I seem to have gotten off track on what I wanted to tell. Deepest apologies. My boyfriend, Chad (I asked, I can use his name), noticed a 30ish or 40ish year old woman a couple rows in front of us. She was a rather large. Not fat, but large—could have put me in my place (which is Sonic). She had on a black dress with white lettering and a white ribbon around her waste. She looked nice, not too dressy, but nice. There were several in attendance who should have been taken out back and stoned for their lack of decorum. Shorts, T-Shirt, Flip-Flops. REALLY? Anyway, about five people down, on the same row, sat an adorable girl. Probably about eleven or so. She also had on a charming black dress with white lettering and a white ribbon around her waste. Well, isn’t that cute? Similar dresses. Oh, wait, no. The SAME dress! Everything, identical, a study in cloning and contrasting size. I though it was cute that a mother and daughter would dress up alike for the show. That would have cute. Somewhat incestuously enmeshed, but cute. Chad heard the little girl lean over to her mom and say, “Look mom, that lady has the same dress as I do!” Sigh. It made buying tickets two years ago for off-center seats totally worth it. It is one thing to show up wearing the same outfit as someone in your own class and peer group. It is an entirely different thing to be attired in the same fashion as a fourth grader. It is even another to not only wear the same garb as a toddler but to be outdone by said infant in the same damn row! If only she had thought to wear her cut off shorts, halter, and sandals instead.
Earlier that day, Chad, Dunkyn, Dolan and I went on one of our walking adventures. While enjoyable, and one of my favorite parts of the day, these walks normally consist of a vast amount of sniffing, pooping, tangled leashes, and pooping. I tend to plan ahead and think of everything that could go wrong in every aspect of y life so that I can be prepared to take some form of action. Well, while I hate to admit it, you can’t plan adequately for everything, and every so often little acts of sheer terror occur that are utterly out of our power to control. It is God’s way of rapping us on the head and saying, ‘Yeah, I’m still here, Dip Shit!!!’ You don’t think He would say that? Well, then let’s blame the devil. Although I must say, I think he would be much too suave and debonair to curse in such fashion. You can be the judge. As I was saying, however, we went on our normal stroll, unawares that potential death was stalking us, determining which of the four seemed the most succulent upon which to feast. We proceeded through our little journey without so much as a snag. I don’t even think I stumbled or tripped once (always a bad sign). The flowers were beautiful. The birds sang in sheer pleasure of the warmth of the sun and the caress of the tender breeze. Butterflies drifted around us in abundant colorful displays of affection. At one point, their colors blended to form the shape and shades of rainbow. Not sure if this was a reminder of God’s promise not to flood the world again, a sign of gay pride, or an omen of a flood coming to wash over the gay community. What do you think, Mr. Falwell? Regardless, beautiful day, beautiful walk, beautiful dogs. What, I left out one? Oh, yes, Beautiful Boys. Why thank you for saying so. I am flattered. Just as our time of perfection was nearing a close, about a hundred feet or so from the front door, Dolan and I embarked on our traditional race of the final steps. We made it a few feet when from the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a plague ridden squirrel leap across the neighbors’ front porch, bounding off their table, chairs, and railing. Being the brave, daring, heroic man that I am, I continued the race so that my youngest would enjoy our bonding experience. A few feet closer to the door, closer to salvation, the besieged squirrel sprang from his crouched perch on the porch and leapt towards me. He found his pray in the form of my upper left thigh. Some would say that I screamed little a little girl in a black and white dress running breathlessly from the clutching grasp of Rosie O’Donnel. (Sorry Rosie, really do love you.) Some would say that. They would be wrong. I let out a roar that would have made the Spartans in ‘300’ tremble in fear and loosely concealed desire. The squirrel bounded off my thigh. Dolan tore after him. Being the forgiving example of Christ that I am, I restrained him from defending my honor. We made our way back inside and collapsed in trembling exhaustion. This may be my final blog as I may soon go the way of the poor monkey whose life was also taken by Denver’s Al-Qaeda squirrel population. Farwell, cruel (yet pretty) world.

Chandon

You brought laughter
I reenacted Titanic

You bequeathed steam
I provided music

You were patient and steady
I was flighty and terrified

You transformed when falling
I saw myself


You honor the moment
I agonize over the minutes to come

You make me protected
I make you moan

You swish
I strut


You will drink
I will drive

You shall find your wings
I shall plant my roots


We have a long trip together

Unanticipated

i took your outstretched hand
expecting fleeting kisses at my command

I was granted consistency and foundation


expectations of consuming fire
momentary instances of lackadaisical desire

Gave way, strong stream of steady devotion


pretty face, silly boy
thought would be shallow, pleasant toy

Transformation into substantial, honorable man


guarded heart and protected eyes
sheltered from you originating my cries

Gentle and firm your heart melted mine


your laughter to entertain
only a lover to hold until the rain

Solidly secure, now, within your arms I stand

XXIX

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

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

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

full disclosure

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

I am who I am

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

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

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

new ways of things

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

Inky Emotions

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

State of the Union

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

the last monday in april

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

The Company We Choose to Keep

Upon arriving home a few minutes ago, I begin to make the turn into my drive and notice two old women on my porch. I pause briefly, speed up and drive on. The last thing I need is two old biddies in rayon sweaters inviting the tattooed faggot to church. They were probably very sweet, and when I didn’t have blogging to do, I might even invite them in for tea. We could converse about the types of men we find attractive. Today, however—wasn’t gonna happen. I circled around the block and came to my house again. They were still on the porch, knocking. At least their love for Jesus is persistent. I circled a third time. This time the women were standing at the end of my walk motioning for two old men to hurry up. They were at the opposing corner. At this point I am not sure if it is persistent devotion or just slowness due to oldness. The fourth time around, the four of them were gathered at my neighbor’s house trying to open her rod-iron gate. Persistent slowness. They will have about as much luck with her and they would have had with me. I quickly zoomed in, jumped out of my car, and rushed through my front door. I am now in the back yard, far away from where the pounding on the door could reach my ears…
Last night, at Jrs, my dear friend TH (happy bday TH) came up and asked me a question to make sure he had not accidentally fallen through some vortex and landed in a alternate universe. He asked if I knew the movie ‘Pollyanna.’ I was like, “The one with Halley Mills?” Relief flooded his face as he uttered a reassured, ‘Yes!’ Apparently, there were only a total of three and a half people in the entirety of Jrs who even knew who Pollyanna was. The half is due to a middle aged woman who kinda remembered but not really, partly because she thought it would make her old to admit to knowing that. Hello! Do I look fifty? I grew up on that movie. There have been several things that make me nervous about the direction our world is taking: shootings, grand theft, low fat chocolate, but none have induced terror into my soul as the realization that we are a society who has forgotten Pollyanna. Maybe that is why everyone is so erratically screwed up. There has been no infusion of cheer, optimism, and unfettered love from an obnoxiously proper little girl. [All praise, honor, and devotion to Halley Mills. She is truly the MOST perfect girl in the world. Really.]
I found myself in the middle of a literacy meeting the other day at school (where I teach, not were I am ‘taught’). All the teachers were discussing their plans and strategies of how to increase their middle school classes’ literacy scores and comprehension. These are all, nearly, professional, qualified teachers. The are many different assessments the students are forced to endure under the glorious ‘no child left behind’ act and a billion other reasons concocted by people who have no plausible educational background or experience. Most of these tests were created by individuals with tragic last names. My deepest sympathy and consolation is extended to them. Anyway, in the middle of said meeting, the leader of the group, a pregnant lesbian (can’t make this shit up) was speaking of a certain student [who’s name has been change to protect the innocent] and she casually stated, “In order to progress off this status Jenny needs to get off her Woodcock Johnson and her Flint Kooter [have no idea how that is spelled, but that is how you say it].” I almost burst out laughing and realized everyone was moving on as per normal. I looked around the room, no reaction. Did they not just hear the lesbian said one of the kids needs to get off her woodcock johnson and flint kooter? Let’s see, little Jenny needs to get off her hardcock dick and [insert dirty word for vagina, my fingers refuse to type that]…. Both of those are everyday assessments that we give our students. And we think that they get an overdose over sexual stimuli from the TV? No, my friends, no, it’s from school. Their teachers. Lesbian and otherwise. And, really, do you really think the people that made those assessments weren’t ridiculed horrifically their entire lives? Did they really want that to be their legacy? Didn’t they have first names or something? At any rate, somehing that wouldn’t qualify as an acting out behavior for those in a twelve step sex addiction group. Perverts….

April showers bring May flowers bring allergies

I have my huge grad school project due in a very short amount of time, I have about fifteen pounds to loose, and my garage needs cleaned. Instead of doing any of these productive and needful things, I am sitting in front of my computer and my fingers are moving as if there is some greater purpose in my words than procrastination. I don’t feel too distraught over it all though, since I have not written in over a month, I feel that this is due me.
The past month has been a whirlwind, internship, job interview, etc. Internship is over. Got the job for fall. Clap. Clap. Let’s move on. And let’s work backwards. Starting with an hour ago. Now, for all intensive purposes, I have been celibate for most of the past year, since the break up that I may have mentioned before. Therefore, there was little to no worry that a HIV test would provide anything other than an excuse to get poked by a needle. Nevertheless, I managed to work myself up into a tizzy, thinking about telling certain people that my white blood cell count would never meet theirs. Three years ago, my doctor told me that she was fairly certain I had HIV. I lived the next two months in agonized terror, telling no one, except my asshole boyfriend who refused to get tested because he was scared. Poor baby. Well, today’s test came back negative, yet again. Praise God (not said in a sarcastic way in the slightest)! Here’s to being able to worry about nothing another day!
So, remember the boy I mentioned that I was VERY casually dating a bit ago? Well, as of three days ago, we are officially exclusively dating. Shockingly enough, I have not freaked out yet. Don’t worry. If I still am who I am, I will. I am proud of myself in this though, I must say. At this point, I have managed to live in the moment, and not over think things to a ridiculous degree. I simply enjoy being with him. He is a very good, kind, sweet, genuine man. I am not thinking marriage or baby carriages, so that helps the blood pressure remain at its normal monsoon rushing pulse instead of the hurricane that normally comes with matters of love. Love. I love him. It is strange to say that to someone after all the time spent anguishing over my past relationship. Not that any of that is negated in any way. It is also amazing to see how different love can feel with different people. The love I have with each of them is not even comparable to the other, but both are love. I am sure if I spent much time on this vain of thought the hurricane would arrive and my head would explode. Therefore, on to other things….
I am still in the process of the tattoo pondery, but I do think the process will begin some time before my birthday next month. Oh, did you forget that next month is my birthday? That’s ok. You can get me the new Mustang in that horrible sixties green. It is FABULOUS!!! Or a burnt orange mini-Cooper. You know, whatever. I have drawn so many tattoos that I could cover the worlds fattest man (which I must say, seems to be a competition that is gaining more and more applicants—they say the rich are getting richer, but really, the fat are just getting fatter; having been in the relationship realm the past three months seems to have made me begin the application process myself; sooooo NOT ok). Maybe if I get enough tattoos on my shoulders and arms, they will distract from my expanding waist and ass.
There have been so many things that I have wanted to blog about over the past month, but getting up at five and going to bed before ten has hindered the rapid firing of my synapses, so this will be all for today. Besides, I have dogs to walk, and pizza to eat and a paper to avoid.

Skip this one. Really. Pathetically juvenile.

I didn’t really want to use this blog space as a place to vent, unless that venting has a higher purpose of some sort. However, that is all I am going to do right now, vent. I’ll start out by bitching at myself. I am fully aware of why I am in the mood and place that I am in. I know what the causes are, I know when the causes will be eliminated, and I know that I will soon feel better. I would hope after all the years of therapy, the amount of writing and introspection I participate in, and my years of maturity would allow the afore mentioned to matter to me. It doesn’t. All the matters is right now. And right now, I feel pissed, frustrated, depressed, on edge, and ready to rip anyone’s fucking head off at a moment’s notice. All of this comes from me feeling belittled and weak. I have knowingly let powers outside of myself determine how I feel, how I see myself, and take control of my emotions.
One aspect is being sick, not such a huge deal in and of itself, except for the working out factor. I have been physically too weak and exhausted to work out (lift weights or do any cardio). I typically do this between and hour and an hour and a half everyday. It has been a week since I have worked out. I not only workout to look better and be stronger, but to regulate my mood. When I work out, I am happier, less depressed, have more energy, work harder, and simply feel more masculine, healthy, and in control. So, it is a given that I am in an emotionally weaker place.
Another aspect (again delving into an area I did not want to go [I feel it is unwise to make current occupational issues public knowledge]) is my cooperating teacher at my internship school. Throughout my life, I have been overtly blessed by the majority of adults and power leaders in my life. I have always been told I can do anything I want because I’m smart and talented (neither of these come naturally, but hard work has made them mostly true), and these people have reinforced areas of my personality that I am most proud of in regards to work and profession: I am dependable, trustworthy, hard-working, professional, and typically one of the more desired worker/employees/team-members/etc. Given that these words have been fostered in me to such a great degree, I guess it makes sense that I am rather thin-skinned when it comes to this area. Anyway, two weeks ago, due to a poor choice of calling off work on my part (however one that my teacher said at the beginning of the year would be completely fine), my cooperating teacher went off on me, telling me how I am undependable, unprofessional, immature, and generally not up to snuff (a complete 180 from her normal bragging about me). In one sense I knew she was reacting to me because of other things going on in the school at the moment—a very stressful time right now, and I also knew that I needed to be ready for her to lash out at some point, as she does this with a vengeance to the students and is never willing to forgive or forget. I apologized for the part my decisions played but was not willing to continue to grovel. We have gone from relatively easy working relationship to one that is tension filled. Today, she very clearly (without saying it) set up a situation in order for me to fail and be ‘punished.’ Kinda felt like Anne Hathaway in Devil Wears Prada when Meryl sets up a situation where Anne will fail and she could then have a justified attack. Well, I didn’t fail, but it wasn’t the point.
I have learned how to manage being called names for my appearance, sexual orientation, and even for my lack of affection for alcohol. I am not used to dealing with attacks on my character or work ethic.
On one hand, she could have done nothing that would make me more determined to succeed (or more sickly sweet and helpful, for that matter). I have no delusions that she will acknowledge any such achievement on my part or wrongful accusations on her part, but I will know and she will know, and that is enough.
In the mean time, I need to figure a way to get my head out of my ass, out of this funk that is making me irritable and reclusive. I really am acting like a baby! I hate that I am weak enough to allow one person’s tirade effect me to such a degree, even after the supervisor took me aside and said none of it was warranted or true and that it was not even about me. Must I have accolades from every person who draws breath in order to keep my fragile self-worth intact?
My deepest apologies for this blog. I will begin working out again tomorrow, eating better, and getting back in shape, and my humor will swiftly follow suit. I will be back to mumbling nonsense and ranting about my various political and religious causes. Who knows, maybe I will even write an erotic exposé from the view point of an SOS pad. Now if that ain’t a reason to switch over to Rush’s commentary/blog, then I don’t know what is…

Speaking of...

I’m a-settin’ just a-jivin’ to Joss Stone’s new CD. Never really liked this kind of music before, but I have not be able to stop listening to her today. Doesn’t hurt that she is nearly as beautiful as a girl I had a crush on in high school. One might think that such a girl would have to be fairly masculine to capture the attention of such a die hard faggot, but no, she was (still is) one of the most femininely beautiful women on the planet. Of course she married a complete fucking ass-hole, but I guess that is better than marrying a gay guy. Of course, I would rather marry a gay boy than an asshole, but, whatever—to each his own. Lauryn Hill sings (raps) on one of the songs with Joss. I love her. I wish she would quit rapping and sing, since she has one of the best voices ever. Have you not seen Sister Act: Back in the Habit? If not, you’re probably not gay. If you have every song and dance move memorizes, you probably are gay. No equal rights for you. Better go off to your corner and sing about the theme to the Love Boat. Yep, it is going to be one of those blogs. The kind where you have no clue what I am talking about. You a get a pretty good look into how my brain functions. Lucky you. And, don’t even try; I’m able to burst out of those straight jackets.
Speaking of bursting, I am down to two pairs of jeans that I can fit into. Sure glad I ate an entire pizza by myself tonight. Just in time for my trip to Vegas in a few days. Don’t matter anyway, nothin’ in Vegas besides female strippers and midgets. Really, the one time I went to Vegas, there was a little midget (not that there are big midgets) dancing on a box in this club. The things they do in straight clubs… And they call gaydom an alternative lifestyle. I believe the correct term is ‘small person,’ for all you midgets out there who faithfully read my blogings, I apologize for my un-PC-ness. Feel free to call me a god-damned-faggot (Jerry Farwell does, as well as that Ann Coulter chick).
Speaking of faggots, there seems to something caught in my throat. (Even I can’t claim I don’t deserve Hell for that one.) I finally broke down and went to doctor today after five days of coughing, fever, chills, and body aches. It shows my progressive development that I was not convinced that I was going in to receive the word that I have AIDs and that I will die next week. Used to, it wouldn’t have mattered that I haven’t had sex in nine months and my last HIV test was more recent than that. Cheers (with green beer, of which I had none) to personal growth! The doctor said I had the flu and it is morphing into Bronchitis. I was relieved; after all, I was running out of things to be dramatic about. Let’s cross our fingers and hope for further progression to pneumonia or scurvy.
Speaking of scurvy, I have grown more solid in my assertion that humanity is a plague upon civilization. I first became disheartened of this state in the workings of the Church. Later, I came to see the same thing in the world of counseling. I most recently have been swamped by the sickness in graduate school. Now, I am facing the facts that it is everywhere in the teaching population as well. I must cancel my support of the “Save the Human” campaign, and transfer those funds to “Save the Ferrets in Botswana” movement. In all these places, I came to face the bitter facts that the majority of the humanoids are full of deceit, speaking kindly to one-another, smiling, and acting of sweetest intentions and not even waiting for the scent of the other person to evaporate before slitting their throat through their words, slander, and gossip (in all fairness, I guess I will admit if your odor is so saturating that it lingers much time after your presence, your throat is better off slit). People seem to simply want to hear the sounds of their own gurgling and piss over any small grains of purity or wisdom that may accidentally make an appearance from time to time. I don’t feel like I am above these things (there mere act of writing them is proof that I am not), but I can not grasp why we as educated, ‘sophisticated,’ cultured adults have less gentility than a gaggle of hyenas. I think this, more than any altruistic motivation, is the cause of my desire to work with children, and those that are deemed socially unacceptable and hostile. They are simply who they appear to be (most of the time) and when they are being manipulative little bitches, it is obvious they are being nothing other than what they are. In their blatant, self-centered, arrogance there is a measure of pure, undiluted honesty and even compassion, that is rare to come by in ‘polite’ society.
Speaking of the serine beauty of God’s children, through my sickness, I have had many heartfelt gestures from loved ones who embrace their bitchiness. Many offering to come by, some watching movies with me, calling to check in, even one offer to supply a dildo. Still waiting on that one… Well, I guess no one can be perfect… Through it all, those who have chosen to walk their lives along side me continue to show me the splendor of the light of who God is through their consistent passion, love, and genuine tenderness. Maybe I won’t give the ferrets all my money. Maybe…

Curious, Curiouser, and Curiousest

I’m in one of my moods at the moment. No, not the kind where I write soft porn from the vantage point of a squirrel. I wish. Those moods are fun. I am in a semi-depressed/melancholy state. As surprising as that is… The wonderful thing is that I am on my front porch swing with Dunkyn and Dolan. The first of the year. Makes me happy! Winter will soon be dead. Dolan will jump down from the swing any second in deceleration of his independence. Dunkyn, my soul in a dog, will remain ever enmeshed by my side, occasionally nudging my hand impatiently for attention. I could ramble on about my mood, how I am more confused by the quasi-romance happening, how it is making me very happy in one sense and lonely in another, or how I have to spend the rest of the semester getting up at 5:45 AM to teach in a classroom where they teacher wants to be on her own and resents my presence and is making it known more all the time, or how I seem to be stuck in the state of binge eating, and my jeans and self-worth are paying the price. I could tell you about those things, but I won’t. Glad I didn’t bring it up.
I think, instead, I will focus on three strange happenings in my life, ending with the most recent. None particularly interesting or valuable, so it makes perfect sense that I would spend precious time documenting their existence.
Over the past two weeks, I have been struggling to see: eyes burning, hardly able to have my eyes open in daylight, the surrounding word haphazardly fading in and out of focus. After nearly fourteen days and a variety of eyes drops, I decided to go into the eye doctor, convinced that they would tell me that I was being a dramatic and that I simply needed to bathe or some such nonsense. Well, upon sitting in the chair, and the first optometrist aid calling in another optometrist aid to see if they noticed anything strange in my left eye, the real doctor was called in. His first comment was, “You must be tough as nails, most people wouldn’t last five minutes with this in their eyes.” I smiled and nodded, and opted to not mention the six months of the previous year spent in tears. He took a pair of tweezers (after applying numbing drops) and pulled out a piece of plastic that he said was working its way into my eyeball, resulting in a delightful infection. Who else would have plastic stuck in their eyeball, have no recollection of its origin, and walk around ignorantly for two weeks with it protruding out of its new sheath? There is reason I don’t do drugs or drink to excess. This is me sober!
The second thing is not strange, it just is what it is. I love my neighborhood. Love, love, love it. Now that the weather is nice, the boys and I have been going on two hour walks (one hour at a time because their little feet and legs get tired). We roam all around the area, enjoying the sun, older houses, and the spring flowers beginning to bloom. The boys are so different, Dunkyn being petrified of every person in existence and nothing else, and Dolan being terrified of everything but any person who ever existed. Whenever we come across someone, Dunkyn tears off behind me to get away from the evil monstrosity that is humanity, and Dolan charges forward to embrace (by leaping upon) each mortal flaw and virtue. It is amazing both of my arms have not been permanently removed from their sockets. We made the mistake of taking a walk around six in the evening, not thinking about the rest of the world just arriving home from work. Throughout the entire walk there were never fewer than four other dogs and their owners in sight (not exaggerating), accompanied with a host of wives, husbands, same-sex lovers, friends, children, strollers, cigarettes, walkmans, poop-bags, tricycles, and cell-phones. Most of the time I consider myself to be one of the most of loving of humanity kind-of-person I know. I have now decided that human-kind is a plague akin to the mosquito population and should promptly be exterminated.
Finally, today, ending my bi-annual beard growing extravaganza, I decided to shave. There are two good things about beard growing, during that time, my blue eyes look gorgeous (not sure why, but they only look like that when the rest of me is covered in hair), and when I shave I look fifteen years old for about thirty minutes. Very fun. Today, I decided to splurge (again, complete shock, I know…) and got a hair cut and a shave from Floyds Barber. This is always where I get my hair cut, every two weeks, but have never got a shave. It was an hour and a half process. Thirty minutes for the hair, and an hour for my face (it takes me about three minutes to shave it myself). For those of you that know me, you are most likely aware that I have a bit of an exhibitionist streak in me (lucky you, if you are dating me, or just happen to catch a show). However, having my face shaved by someone else and in public was near scandalous. I felt more than naked. It felt very pampering and S&M all at the same time. I have never had a blade held to my throat before. In different circumstances, it might be a good thing; nevertheless, I will here on out be shaving myself, where people can’t see me. On a good note, with the exception of a few missed hairs (how there is skin left, let alone hair, after an hour of shaving, I have no idea) my face was as smooth as it has ever been—for about two hours. Kinda like trying menudo, glad I can say I did it—might puke in my lap if I had to repeat the process. And now that I have turned the conversation over to involuntary regurgitation, it is time to go iron and watch Lost…