love? live. learn!

Tell a child from the day it is born that is wonderful, that it is loved, that it is beautiful, good, and important. While that child will not grow up to be perfect, it will, more than likely, grow up with an amazing sense of self and display many of the afore mentioned qualities—as long as there were actions that validated the words. Tell a child that it is worthless, stupid, purposeless, and revolting. While that child may not live up or down to each of those standards, it will struggle its entire life with feeling like those words were as good as prophesies. Trust me, I have seen it over and over again with the beautiful kids I work with.
Now, tell a society that a certain subset of the population is an abomination. Tell them that those people are damned, and damned for good reason. They are drug addicts, deceivers, liars, disease infested, whorish, unable to love one person truly, in short, evil—of course they are damned. Now continue to tell those things to an entire society when you are unsure which part of the population they will become. Is it any wonder that so many a homosexual person grows up with feelings of self-hate and revulsion? Is it any wonder that they feel they must sleep with anything that moves in order to feel something? Is it any wonder there are so few monogamous relationships in the gay community? It is any wonder that homosexual teens are winning the race in suicide? Tell someone that they must smother who they are if they are to be loved by God. Tell someone that God loves them, but, unless they change, that love will send them to Hell. Tell someone everyday they are hideous, broken, corrupted, evil, fucked. Now expect them to be well-adjusted, happy, and moral.

I met Carlos when I was twenty four. He told me he was twenty-six. I found out later he was really twenty-nine. I was still in therapy trying desperately hard to be straight. I had never had a relationship with anyone. I had decided that I wanted to know and find out first hand what a relationship would look like.
We had our first date. He stayed the night. He stayed for two years. After that, he moved back home with his parents. There was no courtship, no ‘getting to know you’ phase, there was nothing. Just two hurting, lonely men wanting to feel loved and special. Now there you go, judging again. Yes, he moved in on the first date. Blah, blah, blah. I know, those zany gay people. You think that doesn’t happen in the straight world? Let’s ask Brittney Spears, J. Lo, and Charlie Sheen. Oh, not normal enough examples for you? Well, who am I fooling? There is not one part of this that was normal, intelligent, or real. However, I had no frame of reference, and he had his own demons he was battling. He was a very sweet man, at times. He was and still is, to this day, one of the most talented artists I have ever seen. He could be great, if he ever chooses to.
I was in a delirium. I had a boyfriend. I went from twenty-four years of being single to having a boyfriend, not even a girlfriend, but a boyfriend. He called me sweetie. He was home when I got home, most of the time. He called twenty times a day. He let me take care of him. He told me he loved me.
Within the first week, I had to leave work in the middle of the day to rush him to the emergency room. He thought he was having a heart attack—in the middle of a screaming match with his mother on the phone. There were several times he thought he was having a heart attack. Apparently panic attacks can often resemble more deadly malfunctions. In addition, they also have the power to stop the entire universe and draw all the attention and importance upon the recipient. Starving children in Africa? Sorry, no food for you right now. There is a panic attack happening, go play with a mosquito. Maybe I should be more kind. I have had a few horrific panic attacks myself. They are scary; however, life still goes on when they are finished. He also started not feeling so well on our second day together. We had to go home and cancel our plans while he tried to sleep it off. I loved every minute of it. I had someone to take care of. Someone needed me. Someone who cared if I came home or not. After all, I had placed the sign in front of my condo five months ago and no one had answered until Carlos: “Available: short red-head. Doubles as a doormat. Flourishes with mental stress and manipulation. Will stay by your side as long as you consistently name call, take advantage and dictate. Full money back guarantee if not fully satisfied. Sign on bonus if you have the ability to be verbally abusive and make him apologize for brining it upon himself. Apply today. Supplies limited.” I had written in with rainbow glitter. Shocking it took so long to get a response.

I went to meet Douglas during his lunch hour from the bank he managed. We ate at a Noodles and Company. Douglas has been one of my dearest and most trusted friends for several years. We both have similar family backgrounds based around church and Christianity. We also had spent the majority of our lives battling our sexuality and doing everything possible to be healed and discover our true, God-given heterosexuality. Douglas had even gone so far as to have had an exorcism to free him from the demons that bound him. Either there are no demons or their lease upon his soul is not yet up for renegotiation. He is the type of person who at first glance, most people think of as shallow. He is pretty. He has done modeling. Therefore, brain-dead and soulless, or so you might think. We would discuss philosophy and emotions for hours. We would go out to eat and explore our lives with each other. We would watch “Friends” at my home until we both were asleep on the couch. I would watch in bafflement as Douglas switches from a dignified banker to a ridiculous goofball who makes elephant noises with his mouth to startle people. He has always been a consistent dose of sanity and joy in my life. Once I started living with Carlos, my time with Douglas (and everyone else) came to a near screeching halt. This lunch was almost like seeing a person who you used to know so well, but now felt a melancholy sense of loss around. I was the one who had changed, not him. I could feel him trying to find his old friend in this shell who looked like someone he used to know.
We were nearly done with lunch when my cell phone rang. It was Carlos. I almost answered, but Douglas and I were wrapping up our conversation and then he was going to show me his new branch. It would take five minutes, tops. I had already taken so much of my friendship away; I could not be rude right now. It went to voicemail. We pay for lunch and he begins to show me his new branch. The phone began to ring again. Carlos. I started to get nervous. I knew this was not good. He was going to be so mad. In one of my rare defiant moments, I again did not answer the phone. He knew I was having lunch with Douglas; I had told him. He could wait two more minutes. Still I could not focus on anything Douglas was saying. I just wanted to get to my car so I could call Carlos back before some damage was done. I rush through the last few minutes and nearly sprint to my car. Please don’t let me be too late. Please don’t let me be too late.
“Hello!” My voice sounds cheerful and pleasant. Not a trace of the panic that is happening inside.
“What were you doing?” Harsh, angry.
“I just had lunch with Douglas, remember. It was really nice. We have not got to hang out in so long.”
“Whatever. I’m not stupid. You were not having lunch. You didn’t even answer your phone. You didn’t even have it on you!” Click. Dead air.
Damn it!!!! I knew it. I was too late. Tears are coming. I call him back. “What do you mean I didn’t have my phone? I just didn’t answer it. We were about to wrap up and he was showing me his new branch. I didn’t want to be rude, so I knew I would call you back in just a few minutes.”
“You and your dumb ass friends. They are so fucking white. I can’t stand Douglas, or any of your gay friends. Either way, you are such a pathetic liar. I know you were fucking around. Either with him or with someone else. You’re an ass!” Click.
He would not answer his phone. I call again and again and again. Still no answer. I am completely panicked. He is going to leave me. Why didn’t I just answer the damn phone? This could have all been avoided. I am such an idiot. I drive as fast as I dare to get back to the condo. I pray he is still at home and that he will talk to me.
I run up the stairs to my condo and fling open the door. He is not in the living room. I tear into his bedroom. He is in bed.
“What are you doing? Why the fuck are you even here? Go off to one of your boys. Go fuck one of them.” His face to the wall.
“Carlos! What are you talking about? I am not cheating on you. I was with Douglas. I am sorry I did not answer the phone. I am sorry. I wasn’t trying to ignore you.” I sit on the edge of his bed, tears streaming. I touch his arm to have him face me. He jerks away and sits up.
“Fuck you!” The look of disgust is one I have seen many times from him, and it only hurts worse every time. “Do really think I am this stupid? You are just like my last two boyfriends. They said they loved me and were fucking around on me too. You are just like them. Lying, worthless piece of shit! Fuck off and get the fuck out of here!”
“Babe, please. Just listen to me. I am sorry. I have never cheated on you. I don’t want to. I couldn’t even do that. Please just calm down.”
“FUCK OFF!!!”
“Why are you so mean to me all the time? Why don’t you trust me? Everyone trusts me. Everyone knows I don’t lie. Ever! Why is it that my boyfriend, of all people, is the one who doesn’t really even know who I am and know that he can trust me!?!” Sobbing.
“Just go fucking die and get away from me!”
He never stayed angry for too long. While not done intentionally, he never really liked to see me cry, and if I cried long enough, he would come around and believe that I was not lying and cheating, or at least say that he believed. He considered his jealousy to be a product of his love for me and his passionate Latino blood. I was white and could not feel emotions as truly and deeply as he could. He always loved my red hair and my pale white skin. I also think I he hated my pale white skin. At least, it kept me from being as good of lover and person as he was.

recipe

A wolf is a complex creature. It is like two animals meshed into one. It thrives on social interaction and the hierarchy of its pack. Yet it is also known to be solitary and fiercely independent. It is a loving parent and pack mate—playful, protective. Viciousness is an equal aspect as well. The wolf is one of the more beautiful, graceful and mysterious creatures that has endured throughout human folklore. On the same token, it perhaps the most feared, hated, and misunderstood as well. Contradictory aspects that should not be able to inhabit one entity are commingled in the wolf. Even as a little kid, when teachers asked us what kind of animal we would be, I have always said a wolf. It is the age old question: Which came first? Did I relate to the wolf because I saw myself when I looked at him? Or did I become like the wolf due to my fascination of him? Either way, I become more of a wolf as time goes on and my life takes me journey through journey. As I look back over my twenty-eight years, it is uncanny how wolves have shown up in my life, in both comforting and terrifying ways. Take a wolf at face value and you will be completely unprepared with the animal that will surface. Cut me down to one persona or one nature and you will not know or comprehend the man you have in your life. Wherever my next tattoo ends up, it will have large aspects of wolf symbolism throughout.


I stand at the window that is over our hallway sink. I see my dad outside taking care of our chickens. They flock around him, squawking and flapping haphazardly. The day is a little overcast, as so many Missouri days are, lightening just beyond the horizon. Everything is brown as if the window has endured a dust storm that lasted a week; the window is clean though. The gate to the chicken coop is locked and in spite of the frenzy brought on by the feed, there is no danger of any of them getting away. A huge, stunningly beautiful sliver-white wolf appears in the coop. He shimmers as if radiating moon glow. He lunges at my father. He attacks from behind. He lowers his head. Dad doesn’t move. I am not even sure if he sees him. He darts his head in-between dad’s legs. Still dad continues to feed the chickens. His jaws open and rush up to encase my father’s groin, abdomen and chest between his ferocious fangs. Blood gushes in crimson torrents over my dad, the chickens, and the drab surroundings. My dad will be killed. I know this. There is no possibility for any other outcome. I stand at the window. No sound utters from me. I do not even move. I simply observe, not in delight or terror, just observe. The wolf begins to shake his mighty head and the crimson tide grows. I wake up.


It was my tenth Halloween. I hated all scary costumes. I hated all the blood. I hated going door to door—how embarrassing. I even did not care for the candy. Now if people would pass out cheeseburgers, mashed potatoes, or tacos, then you would not be able to hold me back. Candy was really just a waste of food. However, I loved dressing up (got to dye my hair black one year—found out why my complexion goes well with red hair and not black) and I love carving pumpkins. I am standing at the sink in our hallway that looks out to our backyard. I am carving a pumpkin with one of those kits with the intricate designs that you have to poke little holes along the lines of the drawing and then connect the dots with the little provided jig-saw knife. Currently, however, I am using one of our larger carving knives to cut off the top and dig out the insides. I would always have dad get out the icky, stringy guts. They were gross. Dad was not afraid to touch anything. As I am carving, occasionally looking out the window at our chickens rummaging through the fall leaves on the ground, I feel something malevolent. Out of the corner of my left eye I see a huge dark figure lumbering towards me. I jump and twirl around to see what it is. I scream in absolute horror. Werewolf!!! Its head is huge and hairy. Mouth open wide in a silent scream, its fangs long and bloody. Its massive claws raised in front of its body like a zombie. Reaching for me. I scream and scream. If I run, it will get me. If I try to hide, it will get me. It WILL get me. I attack back. I raise the carving knife and slash it at the werewolf. It jerks back. Tears are running down my face. I slash again and again. Screaming. The werewolf keeps backing up. I hear my named being screamed from miles away. Slashing. My name again. The werewolf reaches up with its claws and rips off its face. My father’s furious face appears. Screaming my name.
Even when I see this mask today, up in the attic, stored with all the other Halloween decorations, I am terrified. I will not touch it or let it be near me. If anything belongs in hell, it is this creation for terror and domination.


Note from today, 10.10.07--I have debated and debated over the moral question of posting this section of the text that I wrote. The dream aspect show a emotion that is so drastically different than what my relationship is now with my father. I cannot even begin to say how much I love him, respect him, and am thankful he is in my life. However, the things we think, see, and feel as children have a complete foundation in a different reality. I was frequently assailed by night terrors—dreams that I would continue to see even after mom and dad woke me up, I would see them just as clearly as I did in sleep—even as mom and dad walked me around the house for hours at a time. In my own self absorption, I am compelled to continue to post parts of the book I have written, as if in the act of posting more closure will continue to ensue. Regardless, childhood is magical, brilliant, and twisted. I am so glad that I am an adult and will never have to go through it again, though I hold on to the countless wonderful times with fervor.

episode of a groundhog

I come down the stairs from my playroom. I have been watching “The Chipmunk Adventure.” I walk to the kitchen to find mom. I want something to eat. She is not there. I go to the bathroom, she is not there either. Being naturally high strung, I already start to feel a nervous tension begin to tickle the back of my mind. My pace speeds up. I look through the living room, the family room, the dinning room, the library. Why are there so many rooms? Why is she hiding? I open the door and peak into the dark basement. I am too afraid to search down there. “Mom?” No answer from the depths. Panic is starting to build. I slam the door shut. I race to the stairs. Do I really want to go upstairs by myself? Deep breath. I begin to run up the stairs. “Mom!” I run to mom and dad’s bedroom. No mom. I run to my bedroom. No mom. I go to the bathroom with the toilet that makes loud scary sounds when it is flushed. No mom. I open the door to the attic. In a whimper: “mom. . .” Why are their so many scary places in our house? I tear off back down the stairs. Full-fledged terror has settled in. “MOM!!!” I fling open the door and stumble outside. I race around the house, my fat eight year old legs moving faster than they ever thought possible. “MOM!!!!! MOM!!!!” Why are there no neighbors? I make it all the way around the house to the back yard. ‘MOMMY!!!” No mom. I am sobbing. The rapture has happened. Jesus has come back and taken all the Christians back to Heaven. Mom and Dad will be gone. Grandma and Grandpa too. Gone! I am alone. “MOOOOOMMMMMMMYYYY!!!!!” I will have to face the tribulation here on Earth by myself. I missed it. I was not good enough. I was not really saved. I was left here. I run, tears blinding me, around the back yard. I search the chicken coop, the fence next to the scary house next door. I am gasping trying to breath. Snot and tears streaming down my face, into my mouth. “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” The screaming has morphed into a chant. How will I get through this? How will I ever get to Heaven now? Mommy left me. Jesus took her and Mommy left me. I make it back to our side porch. “Mommy.” Only quiet, hopeless sobs now as I crumble to the porch. The screen door opens. “Sweetie, what’s the matter?” I look up to into my mother’s beautiful face. She wraps her arms around me and I sob even harder. Safe for awhile longer. I have to make the rapture. I can’t be left behind.
--This scene will play itself over and over again multiple times and in multiple locations. Each time, the terror increasing. Every time, I knew that this would be the time that I actually miss the rapture and I would left to face all the torment and mutilations brought onto the sinners who did not make it to Heaven the first time.

Love: Girls and Pizza

Dating was a foreign concept to me in high school. All my friends went out on dates. They went to the nearest town thirty minutes away to go to the Wal-Mart and the movie theater. They had all kissed someone. None of MY friends had had sex yet, of course. We were the Christians. In seventh grade, the girl I had a “crush” on had French kissed a boy at Youth Camp. It was junior year and we were still teasing her about it. Luckily for me my parents were strict (since I would have had to go on a date with a girl and then after fantasize about the men’s workout magazine I had under my underwear drawer). Did I say strict? I mean authoritarian. I was not allowed to go out. If I wanted to go somewhere it could be here in town. There was no reason to take the risk of driving somewhere 18 miles away. Where can you go on a date when you are sixteen and in a small Missouri town with three stop lights? I remember on my sixteenth birthday people chanting “Sweet sixteen and never been kissed.” They all thought they were kidding. How I despised them.
“Uhm, Ann, would you like to grab some dinner at the Tastee-Freeze and then work on your tractor for when we have tractor day during Spirit Week? Go Bulldogs!”
Not that I would have had a clue how to work on a tractor. I could have combed and braded her hair though. Even if my parents had not been a little over-protective, I still would not have had the nerve to ask someone out. And if I had, maybe my first kiss would have been with a girl instead of with a man six years later! Whew, barely escaped that catastrophe.
I was voted runner up for “Most flirtatious.” I made all the girls feel special. I loved girls. They were beautiful. They were fun. They trusted me and talked to me. I understood them. Boys, well, don’t even get me started. What do I care if the Chiefs won or lost the football game?
I had a crush on Ann since 7th grade. I sang at her wedding my Sophomore year in college. I cried. I got into my rental car after the ceremony and Sammy Kershaw and Terri Clark were singing, “You are the Love of My Life.” I cried some more. She and I had gone to the Christian school, where my dad was principal, together from pre-school through eighth grade. We had then transferred to the public high school together. We were going to be strong and not let the secular world corrupt us. She was, still is, one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen. Gay men love beauty. She is the definition. Her blond hair, lovely eyes, pouty lips, stunning voice (oh, yes, we were in show choir together—jazz hands, anyone?). She was strong too. She was not afraid to tell people what she thought and demand that she be treated the way she deserved. I love strong women.
I wrote a two page love poem to her my freshman year. My English teacher said that Ann would surely pledge her love forever. She didn’t talk to me for six months. I should have known. That teacher had a unicorn tattoo on her ankle (one on her breast, so the rumor went) and had admittedly amputated her rat’s tail. What would she know about love poems and undying devotion? Bet she would have been a great fag hag though. Plus, tattoos are the mark of the devil. Only truly vial sinners would deface the temple of God in such a manner. Tattoos indicate low class, drug use, inner anger, and all together un-American values. I have two now. The first gotten three months before I graduate with a BA in Youth ministry. Tribal across my shoulder blades. Mom didn’t think I should be allowed to run a youth group anymore. My second is a tribal cross all the way around my left bicep. I don’t know if I want my third one down my side or a forearm sleeve. At least I took my earrings out that were perched ever so nicely at the top of my left ear. Years after, my little brother’s acting out behaviors were blamed on my six month experiment with earrings. Behold, the power of metal.



Food. It nourishes your body. It enriches your life. It gives you something wonderful to look forward to several times a day. It helps you feel less lonely. It shows someone else you care about them. If you want to show someone that they are important, get them food. If you want to show someone you truly care about them, get them food. If you want to show someone you love them, get them food.
Around second grade I began to get fat. Really fat. Around this time, my family went to this place called “Santa’s Summer Workshop.” (That should have been the first clue.) Being the extreme animal lover that I am, I had my heart set on riding these little Shetland ponies. They just trotted in a circle, but I thought it looked awesome. I wait in line for, oh, I don’t know, two hundred some hours and finally make it up to the gate. I was the next one. The attendant looks down to me. I get ready to walk into the ring. “I’m sorry little boy, you’re too heavy to ride the ponies.”
“Today on Nightly News at Nine, eight year old red head with glasses squishes Shetland pony. Parents, you may wish to put your youngsters to bed, some of the following scenes may be too graphic for young viewers.”
I don’t remember how the situation ended. They say we tend to block out things that it is best we simply not remember. The battle with my weight has been an ongoing-process. While, in theory, I have it under control today, I still have to pay very close attention or soon I will hear chanting again: “fatty, fatty 2X6, can’t bend down to pick up sticks; fatty, fatty 2X4, can’t get though the kitchen door. . .”

S.E.X., the in's & out's

This may be the most intimate I got in my book. Due to that, some of you may want to skip this one. Hopefully, it makes sense with the relationship aspect removed. Either way, it tells of two of the scariest months of my life and some views of sex, America, and religion that I still hold true. Everything in life revolves around sex. This is true in America, anyway. I have never been anywhere else, so maybe it is different elsewhere. There is not one segment of the population that is not obsessed with sex in one form or another. Gay men want as much sex as they possibly can. Straight men want as much sex as they possibly can. The women I have talked to enjoy sex, but as I have no experience in this realm at all, I am just going to leave that topic well enough alone. There are strippers, porn stores, prostitutes, skin-flick channels, lingerie stores, novelty sex shops. People can not seem to get enough sex. Those are the obvious. There are whole other segments of the population that are equally obsessed with sex—those who ‘refrain’ from it or ‘monitor’ it. What are most of the topics that religiously conservatives focus on and worry about? Welfare? Education? Disaster relief? The best vacation spot? No, you silly goose. I set you up to get the answer right, it’s obvious. SEX!!! It is all about the sex. Well, except when it is time to pick the color patter of the sanctuary’s carpet, but after that? Right back to sex. The world imploded when a breast with a sticky on it was exposed on national television. It scarred an entire generation of America’s youth. It created a sex-starved, women objectifying generation of young men. Many boys were so startled by the breast that they will never be able to look at a woman again--so that’s how gay boys are made! A whole generation of young girls will struggle with their identity trying to get one of their breasts to appear just as perfect as the one they glimpsed so many years ago while pretending to watch a football game. I don’t even know what a breast has to do with sex. And I am thankful for it! God will send fire on America, I mean Sodom and Gomorrah, if gays have the freedom to marry the person they love. Children will be condemned to experience inadequate lives and be forced to be sex slaves if those child-molesting gays are permitted to adopt a child in need of a loving home. My teaching career should not be protected by anti-discrimination laws due to the fact that when I fell in love for the first time with was with Hew instead of Marissa. Sex is all consuming. No matter what side of the fence you are on. Whether you spend all day trying to figure out how to get off or spend all night pondering how you can rescue your country from sexual depravity. All consuming. I have been on both sides of this life force called sex. I was celibate and understood clearly how sex is dirty and evil outside of marriage. I did not even want to kiss until I was engaged. Like all good conservative boys, one day, I did a back flip and landed in Oz. I have experience getting naked with people whose names I did not know (I didn’t have sex with them, but still). I have experienced sex with enough people that I know what I like and what I don’t. Sex was something I could do with anyone I might choose to. I have learned the error of both of these philosophies. Sex is not something to be hidden, smothered, or taboo. Neither is to be treated like a handshake. The older I have become the more my attitude swings to the more romantic middle ground. If I eat out every meal, I don’t really appreciate when I have a five-star dinning experience. Having experienced sex with someone I love, I don’t want to settle for anything else. If I do, it is just sex and I am only reminded of what I truly want and am craving. There is a world of difference between having sex and making love. Once you have tasted making love, sex will never be as appealing as it was before. It will leave you empty and aching for what was lost and hopefully for what is to come. I was eight years old. I was already scared that someone would discover my desire for Prince Philip in “Sleeping Beauty” and my lust after Princess Aurora’s hair. I did not know what “gay” was, but I knew what I was feeling was not what I should. I also had a strong desire to have kids one day. I did not quite understand how the whole process worked. I knew it had something to do with a boy and a girl. Everything else was a mystery. I also knew it had something to do with my Nippy (known to the rest of the world as a [dirty word, close your eyes] penis). I finally figured it out. There was only one thing that came from my penis. For months I did my best to urinate as infrequently as possible. I would hold it in until it hurt and I was sure I would wet my pants. With great guilt, I would to the bathroom and pee. I prayed that the children I flushed down the toilet would forgive me, and I took solace in the fact that I had held it so long. Maybe I had saved some of them and they could be born later. Gives ‘water sports’ a whole new outlook doesn’t it? Shudder. As I knew boys were sexy from the earliest I could remember, I also knew that rubbing Nippy was a very enjoyable past time. I was lying on my back on the floor of our bathroom. Startlingly I felt an entirely new sensation. It caused my vision to go fuzzy for a few seconds and made me cry out a little. It kinda felt good and kinda not. What in the green Earth? I look down. My hand is soaked and sticky. Fear clinches my heart. I am dying. Either I am sick or God is punishing me for my close relationship with Nippy. All I knew is that puss is not a good sign. Puss equals infection. Infection equals one of two things: something falling off (our preacher’s wife’s sister cut her thumb on a tomato can lid, and it got pussy and fell off) or you would die. I cleaned myself off. Maybe if I never did that again the infection would leave. Ok, problem solved, ‘Never do that again.’ Yeah, right, problem solved. I worried incessantly. I was being punished and I was going to die. At least I would not have to worry about missing the rapture; I would be gone long before that. The determination to stay away from puss causing activities was short lived. Some things are worth death. Even a pussy death. It was years before I learned what was really going on and that I was not going to die and that I had been wasting a lot of needless energy trying not to pee. “Well, you don’t have strep throat this time.” My doctor places the test trip in to the hazard bin. “Well, that’s great. I am so sick of having that a billion times a year. I am glad I came in though. It is always best to know. She looks up at me and takes a deep breath. “Most of your lymph nodes are swollen, your throat is inflamed, and you have a temperature.” She stops moving and looks me in the eyes. “Do you have sex with men or women?” My throat constricts, I can feel my heart expand in my chest. “Men. I have a boyfriend.” “Do you use condoms?” “We have not really had that kind of sex much. But, no. He doesn’t like them.” What will I tell my mom? “You are displaying all the signs of the early stages of HIV. I am not trying to scare you, but I don’t want to deceive you either. When was the last time you had that kind of sex with him?” I count back in my brain. I remember the night. I skipped massage school to stay home with him and watch movies. “A month ago.” Tears are already making their way down my face. “Ok, we won’t know anything for sure then for at least two more months. It can take up to three months to have a positive reaction if you have been exposed. Are you having sex with anyone else?” “No, I have been with him for a year and a half. I have never cheated. I got tested before we got together. I was fine.” Her tone is soothing and motherly. “Ok, we don’t need to panic, but it seem like there is a good chance that is what is going on. Does your family know that you are gay?” “Yes.” “Are they ok with it?” “No.” And this is why! “I shouldn’t really tell you this, but my son is gay and he has HIV.” She continues to talk, trying to sooth me and let me know she understands. My consciousness fades in and out of the room. I will not be able to teach. I won’t be able to work with kids. I will have to take medicine all the time. Everyone will know. I will die. My family will know. She draws my blood and labels it. “We will get this test back in a week. Even if it comes back negative, we will still have to test again in two months since it may not show up yet.” I will not tell my family. Not until I am too sick to hide it. They don’t need this worry. This shame. I knew I was going to get this. “Are you going to tell your boyfriend? It would be a good idea for him get tested.” “Yeah, I am going to tell him. If he doesn’t have it, then I know that I don’t have it. He is the only one I have been with in a year in a half.” “If you need anything tonight, call here. We have a counseling line. If you need it, you can even get in contact with me. Her kindness is genuine. I can sense that. I don’t want it. I don’t want to need it. I am destined for great things. Everyone has always said that, and I know it is true. This will ruin it all. I slide off the chair and find myself in the driver’s seat of my car. How did I get here? I turn the engine over and put the car in reverse. I slam it back into park. I break down in the parking lot of the hospital. Life as I know it is over. After I get my emotions back into control, I call Carlos. “Hey, it’s me. Can you meet me at home? I am skipping school tonight. We need talk.” I am not sure how I am going to tell Carols. How do you tell someone they probably have a terminal disease? Well, shit, I just got told. Learn from example. He is already home when I get there. He is on the couch watching TV. When I come in, he turns the TV off and turns towards me. He knows something is wrong. Of course he does, I didn’t really prep him for exciting news. I sit down on the couch next to him. I look in his eyes. I have no idea what he will do. “I went to get my strep throat checked out today. My doctor said I don’t have it. I want you to remember that I have never cheated on you, even though you always think I have, I haven’t.” Deep breath. “She said that I am displaying all the signs of HIV and seems to think that is what is going on. Her son has it, so she is familiar with what it looks like. I got tested before we were together. So, if I have, you have to have it too, because I would have gotten it from you.” I was expecting him to fly off the handle. Accuse me of cheating again, call me a whore. He doesn’t. He just sits there, lifeless. It feels like a funeral in our condo. Silent. Still. Dead. We have both just been given a death sentence. “When will we know?” He finally comes back to life. “She will get the test back in a week, but we won’t be sure either way for two more months. What is your gut feeling on this?” “It’s not good.” We sit on the couch, holding hands. Both of us have silent tears running down our faces. I thought I would be angry at him. I’m not. I’m too scared. He looks at me again, “Well, I guess this means we really will have to stay together. No one else will want us.” I don’t say anything. I can’t. This thought has crossed my mind too, and I had thrown it out already. I would rather be alone than be with anyone because we are both sick. We sit together in a daze for hours. I pretend to eat dinner and watch TV. Neither of us wants to be alone. We sleep in my bed together that night. We held each other. We were a million miles apart. “I am going to the free STD clinic tomorrow. They can test me and we can find out in fifteen minutes. We will still have to wait two more months, but at least we can get the first part over with. Will you come with me?” “Yeah, I will.” It was a long, slow, painful night. The next day, we went to the clinic. We sat in the waiting room surrounded by people who were dirty, obviously high, obviously diseased, and others who resembled us. Some were gay, most were straight. Finally, they called me in and I got tested. I meet Carlos outside on a bench by the clinic. He looks up at me. “Well?” “They said that it came back negative, which is good. We still have to wait two more months. I could have it and it just is not showing up yet.” He nods his head. Neither one of us is really relieved or feels any better. Just because the test came back fine didn’t take away all my symptoms that I was displaying. “Would you please do me a favor?” I reach for his hands. “Would you go in and get tested. They said they would make time for you today. We can get rid of the worry. If you have it, it would already show up and we would know that I have it. If you don’t then there is no way I have it, so we could be done with it.” I feel relief. Why had I not thought of this before? Even if I have it, I will know. I am going crazy not knowing. “No.” He shakes his head. “I can’t do it. I don’t want to. I don’t want to know. This scares me too much.” “What?” I was dumbfounded. “We can get this over with right now. It only takes fifteen minutes. Then we can get on with our lives, either way. Please.” “No.” “Carlos! Please take the test. If not for you, then do it for me. I can not live like this for two more months, not knowing. Please.” “I said no. It is not fair for you to ask. Quit being selfish and only thinking of yourself. You might want to know, but I don’t!” “Either way you are going to know. I will tell you in two months. Let’s just get it over with. Don’t make me go through this for so long!” “You are the most selfish asshole!” He storms off to the car. The next two months were consumed by terror. I begged Carlos several more times to take the test. I did not tell anyone, which is very unusual for me. The first thing I do when drama happens is to call one of my friends. I didn’t want to scare anyone and have to make them wait. I didn’t want them to look at me like I was dying or treat me differently. I knew I had it. From the minute the doctor asked if I slept with men, I knew I had it. This is what happens to gay men. This is what happens when you don’t use a condom. My doctor said I had all the symptoms. I was waiting to hear that I was dying. I began to play with ideas of what I could do for work when I got the news. I would drop out of massage school for starters and then find other employment that did not involve kids. Maybe I could go around and speak about AIDS and sexual disease prevention. Two months passed and it took two years of my life. The test finally came back negative. I did not have HIV. I didn’t believe it for awhile. Then I cried. Carlos and I stayed together for six more months, but I never slept with him again. I know he was afraid, and I know he was hurting. He also knew what misery I was in for two months. He could have spared me every minute of that. He didn’t. He sat back and let me plan my death because he was afraid. I may not deserve someone who loves me like they do in the movies, but I knew I deserved someone who would at least try to alleviate my suffering when it was in their power to do so—required no effort on their part to do so. And if I didn’t deserve someone like that, I would be alone. Looking back, the experience has probably saved my life. If someone will not have sex with me if they have to wear a condom, then I won’t have sex with them, because they obviously don’t give a shit about me. We didn’t talk about condoms or STD’s in my small Missouri town of three thousand Bible-belt souls. I knew that if you have sex outside of marriage, with people of your same sex, or certain farm animals that you would get pregnant or get some kind of sickness that would announce to the world that you were perverted and people should keep their distance. I had heard of condoms and birth-control pills, but I knew if you were living how you should, you wouldn’t need such things. I never really met anyone that was gay. They were like the allusive unicorn. We did have two such people, one and a half, actually, in our town that were allegedly gay. One was Billie-Dean Montgomery. Supposedly, he was always a fairly stand-up guy. Always a little left of center, so they say, but still, a stand up guy. One day, Billie-Dean was in a horrific accident. He suffered minor brain damage. All the bricks never quite went back in place on his chimney. He couldn’t hold down a job anymore, even struggled to hold down a conversation. The interesting side-effect of this new brain orientation was that on certain occasions, Billie-Dean Montgomery would become Sheryl-Ann Moon. ‘She’ would don a dress, a horrific wig, and high heals. The truly fabulous thing about Sheryl-Ann is that her breasts were always lop-sided, and they would take equal turns sharing their positions. At times, her right breast was nearly touching her neck and the left was drooping over her belt. At other times, her right breast would swing slightly low and position itself on Sheryl-Ann’s side while the left felt perky and stayed where most breasts call home on a female body. Too much information alert, look away: the rumor goes that Sheryl-Ann would lightly cut herself once a month to keep ‘her cycle’ regular. No one could argue that she was not a full woman. Our other local trail-blazer was an older gentleman named Clyde. He lived with his elderly sister, Pearl. Pearl was one of the cornerstones of our church. She was there every service and knew everything about everybody, and felt free to share her wealth of knowledge. The truth be known, she was truly a glorious, loving, caring woman. If you were hurting, she would go out of her way to let you know she was willing to do whatever it takes to help you out. Due to her brother, she probably had more insight into me than I did, or anyone else, as I was growing up. Clyde was rarely seen outside of his home. It would have been risky to be seen very much in our town when you are known as the local fag. Southern hospitality and Christian love only flow so far. Stories abound about him occasionally making appearances when someone was sick in the hospital; old Clyde would make a social call to show his support. While he was there, his eyes would inadvertently be drawn to the legs of the men who would happen to be wearing shorts. Seventy years of being whispered about, threatened, condemned, living with your old-maid sister and never even being able to act upon the desires that damned you in the first place. There are fates worse than heart-break. Needless to say, I never experienced any positive gay-role models growing up. It would not be until I joined my second support group that my therapist lead (support to overcome my gayness) when I was twenty-three that I would met a man, who changed my life—in many ways saved it. He was seven years my senior and is, to this day, one of the most stunningly handsome men I have ever seen. It was about six months into our friendship that I discovered that Tyler had been a fairly famous minister. I even found out that some of the Christian CD’s I owned had his name listed in the acknowledgments. He was gorgeous, ruggedly masculine, opinionated, moral, caring, intelligent, and courageous. He was everything I had learned that a gay man was not. He, just as I, was struggling to not be gay. His boyfriend, Jorel, (also disgustingly beautiful) was struggling with the same thing. Let me tell you how fun it is to go out with those two. The three of us walk into a room. Everything disappears—including me. The universe fades away and only Tyler and Jorel remain. At times you can hear the gasps and murmurs of appreciation of the transfixed masses. Jasper and I became friends as well, and it was he who eventually introduced me to Douglas. The four of us would spend a lot of time together. We would go over our life stories, struggles, issues with God and family, and do out best to hold each other accountable to be strong in the face of temptation. We were going through a war together, and we will always have a bond that all people do who look life and death in the face hand in hand. I found people who knew me and loved me, and more than that, completely understood all my fears, hurts, and struggles. I also discovered that not all gay men turn into Sheryl-Ann Moon. Maybe I could be gay and not be a complete and utter disaster. Four attractive adult gay men, swimming through the struggles of late-onset adolescence together. God provides in truly amazing, silly ways. It was during the times with these three men that I began to leave my childhood behind and become a man. “Faggot! Hey, Faggot!” I shoved by them and kept walking down the hall to my locker. Everyday, I don’t know how much longer I can take this. This has gone on for months. When the seven of us came over from the Christian school, we knew it was going to be rough. Having grown up through 8th grade in private school, my whole class had to transfer to the public school for high school. They were not too welcoming to us. My cousin, Fredrick, was one of my classmates that came over with us. He was very tall, slender, blond, and musically talented. He immediately got labeled at a fag. I have no idea if he is or not. Those kinds of things never came up in conversation, unless we were talking about all the sinners and whatnot. Back in those days, I had a temper that matched my red hair. When people would call Fredirick names, I would tell them exactly where they could shove it, how they were the ones that were corrupt, and that they were in the danger of the fires of hell (I was a good little fundamentalist). Well, if you take up for a faggot, then you must be a faggot. So, I became a faggot, and one with a big mouth, which made it even worse. Most of the focus got shifted from Fredrick to me. Cletus, who was about six foot tall and two hundred and twenty pounds our Freshman year, elbowed me in the chest, knocking me against my locker. He put his mouth close to my ear and ever so quietly, “Watch where you are going, faggot. Remember your place.” He kept going on down the hallway, people quickly making a path for him. After school, I was down at my locker with my friend Betsy. It was just the two of us. My locker was on the lower floor. I feel pressure on my back and my face makes intimate contact with my locker. I spin around. Cletus had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. I glance over, only to see Betsy’s feet disappear as she runs up the stairs to the main floor. “Hey, Faggot, why didn’t just stay where you belonged, at the Christian school?” His face is inches from mine. It doesn’t seem the time to tell him how little sense that question makes. He shoves me on the chest this time. My back collides with the locker. My head swiftly follows making a loud bang. He pulls a seven inch hunting knife out of his back pocket. (This is pre-Columbine, in Missouri. Some of my classmates had hunting rifles prominently displayed form the rear windows of their trucks in the school parking lot.) He waves it in front of my face a few seconds and then pulls it back. He slams it into the locker, his eyes never leaving mine. We stand there for a few seconds. Just staring. He puts the knife back, turns around, and walks out the door to the parking lot. Betsy comes running down the stairs. She had gotten Jeff and Mike, who were following her, panic in their eyes. All four of us were in show choir together. I almost wish they would have been thirty seconds earlier. I am sure Cletus would have gotten a great laugh out of the entire situation. While never threatened with a knife again, the harassment continued through my sophomore year. During that year, I took Jesus’ teachings at face value and began to be kind to those who were cruel to me. It worked. I went from being the second least popular and hated boy in school to being one of the top ten most popular and loved boys my junior and senior year. Those years were hard on my parents too. I remember dad crying because he saw how hurt and afraid I was, and he could not stop it.

grandma

My Grandpa died when I was twelve. My grandma (Mom’s mom) died when I was thirteen. My grandpa (Mom’s dad) died when I was seventeen. My Grandma died in November of my nineteenth year, while I was a sophomore in college. Around five years before, during a routine doctor appointment, they noticed something strange in her mouth. It turned out to be a cancerous growth, caused by second hand smoke. They were able to remove it all and felt that they had removed all the cancer. Still, out of the desire to make sure the cancer would not return and eke as much as remotely possible out of her insurance, the doctor decided that it would be best to undergo radiation treatments. The radiation treatments worked. The cancer of her mouth never returned. Modern Miracle! However, within those few years, another growth of cancer was discovered. It was directly behind her right eye. This cancer was not caused by second hand smoke or first or third hand smoke, for that matter. It was determined that this growth was caused by the radiation that was used to kill the original cancer. It only makes sense. Once, so I hear, a woman swallowed a fly. She was kinky old bitch who couldn’t quite get up the nerve to experiment with gerbils, like normal people. The fly tickled her fancy for awhile, but soon she tired of the ecstasy that only insects can provide. The obvious solution? Move on to arachnids. She (stop me if you’ve heard this before) swallowed a spider. The spider did its job and rid her of her horny little fly. The eight legs caressing her from within sent her into spasms of pleasure. As with all things, this pleasure grew common place, so she transferred her desire to feathered foul. Of course she continues in this vein, consuming larger and larger living beings into her ever passion craved body. If only she had stuck to a gerbil. You see, there is always a cost. Always. Nothing is for free. They say the sun and the air is free. Don’t buy the lie. Suntan lotion gets expensive and the doctor bills brought on from the consequences of pollution and second hand smoke can be astronomical. My Grandmother’s cancer was no small news in my old little Missouri town. Everyone had nearly worshiped my Grandfather, who had died those six years before. To now have his beloved widow stricken in a similar vein was a tragedy. Not to worry, though. While we do not pray in tongues or sing praises to God while serpents coil about our bodies, we do believe in Healing—not in the Benny Hen, send me all your money and God will heal you kind of why, but in the Moses parting the red sea kind of way. Ask anything in true believing and it shall be accomplish was our motto. The church (and people across the country, honestly) united in prayer and believing for my Grandma. They prayed, anointed her head with oil, laid their hands upon her, were assured that God was going to show his power through a mighty miracle that would show his abundant love and grace so that many would come to believe in Him. __________________________________________________ It was while I was in my bedroom at college when I heard God. I was praying earnestly for Grandma. I was begging for her to be healed. I was praying for God’s will to be accomplished. I was asking for assurance of what would happen. ‘You don’t have to worry. I am going to heal your Grandmother. Everyone will know that I have worked this miracle. Your faith has been seen and honored. I will take away her cancer.’ It was like He was in the room with me. I heard it as clearly as I have ever heard anything in my life, before or since. I called Ashton, who still lived in Missouri, to tell him the amazing news. He was happy for me. “I want your Grandmother to be healed too. She is your last grandparent and such an amazing woman. I know that it is in God’s power to heal her. However, I don’t want to make you mad or hurt your faith, but. . .” “Ashton? What are you saying? But what?” “But, what if He doesn’t heal her, or what if His way of healing her isn’t the way you picture?” Meaning death. “No. That is not what He meant. He was very clear. He is going to heal Grandma.” “What if she dies?” “Well,” I pause, thinking. What if He doesn’t heal her? That isn’t even an option. God does not lie. “If she dies, then, I won’t believe in God anymore.” “Whoa, that is a big statement. That is what I am worried about though. I don’t want this to hurt your faith.” “It can’t. He will heal her. I know I heard him and I trust that. I know you are just trying to protect me, and I love you for it, but, wait, you’ll see. Everyone will!” I didn’t doubt it. Never. Not once. There was no more question about what he said than if he had stated that I had red hair. Anytime anyone would ask me about my grandmother or say how sorry they were, I would tell them to not be sorry. She was going to be healed. God had told me so. The last time I saw Grandma was on a long weekend from college. Dad and I flew home to Missouri. I don’t remember why Mom and Tristan did not come. (was it for j.i.’s funeral?) Dad dropped me off at Grandma’s house while he went to get some work done at the factory he still owned in our little town. I walked into her house. Grandma was sitting in her living room in one of the overstuffed chairs. She had her eyes closed and had both of her elbows resting on her knees. Clutched in her hands was this tiny, plastic cylinder type tube. In the middle of this tube was a black box with a nine-volt battery attached. I walk over to her. “Hi, Grandma!” She glances up at me and smiles. “What are you doing?” Her smile changes to one of embarrassment and she slowly shakes her head. She looks good. Tired, obviously, but good—not at all how Grandpa had looked. She looked like the same strong woman I had always known. “Oh, it is silly, really. Sherry-Lyn brought this over the other day and made me promise to use it. She hands it to me. I turn the contraption over in my hands. On the battery box is written some Bible verse about healing. I can feel the buzzing current from the battery as I touch either side of the plastic cylindrical handles. “What are you supposed to do with it?” I hand it back, and she resumes her position by grasping both handles and resting her arms in her lap. She laughs lightly. “You are supposed to hold it like I am doing, the battery current is supposed to do something to the cancer, and you focus on the Bible verse and trust in the Lord for healing.” “Grandma! Are you kidding? That is ridiculous!” “I know. But I promised her I would do it thirty minutes to an hour a day. Lots of people have brought such things.” She waves her hand at a pile behind her chair. There are several books, tapes, pamphlets, and other items similar to the one she was holding. “They are just wanting to help and wanting me to know that they have faith that I will be healed.” I am willing to bet these are the same people who came up to us and told us not to be sad when Grandpa died. ‘He is in a better place.’ ‘He is happy now.’ ‘God gave him the ultimate healing, be thankful he is not sick any longer.’ Yeah, well, Fuck you! and stay away from my Grandma! “I wish you wouldn’t waste your time and energy on these things. They don’t do anything! People are just trying to make themselves feel better by convincing themselves they are helping.” “Oh, sweetie, I know. None of these things will help, I know that. I do it just to be polite. God doesn’t need any of these things to heal me.” “Grandma, you are going to be healed. I know it. God told me. And, I don’t mean by dying. He is really going to heal you!” She looks directly into my eyes, seriousness enveloping her features. “I know he will. He has assured me as well. This cancer will not win.” Soon, we are sitting on the couch. I had gone down into the basement and retrieved a huge pile of old photo albums. I have always loved pictures. Grandma takes me through them, picture by picture. Grandpa in his old army clothes. Pictures of them when they were dating. Pictures of their first vacations. Pictures with them and several other couples who used to do thing together. Pictures of my dad as a little kid, and then pictures of his brother later on. Photos of Grandpa on one of his many hunting trips. Pictures of Mom and Dad getting married. Pictures of me as a baby and as a fat little kid. “Grandpa would be so proud of you seeing how you turned out. His world revolved around you.” She patted my legs. We went through pictures of Tristan’s birth, and of our little cousin. Half way through the albums, Grandma flinched and whipped her and towards her face. She let out a little yelp. “Grandma, what is it?” “It is just the growth. The pain comes and goes.” Tears are making their way out from under her hands and running down her neck. “I don’t know how long this one will last. It feels like it is going to shove my eye right out of my head.” Her voice was weak and strained. She was barely able to catch her breath. “Pray, Sweetie, just pray with me.” I place my hand on her leg as she rocked with the waves of pain. We prayed. Minutes pasted. She continued to groan and cry out occasionally. We continued to pray. Gradually, the pain subsided. She was trembling and tired. “I am sorry. I need to lie down.” We go into her bedroom and she lies down on the bed. I sit beside her. She talks a little more about Grandpa and then about Tristan. “You and I should go on a trip to celebrate this summer when you are off college.” “Ok. That is a great idea. Where do you want to go?” “We could go anywhere, but I have always thought it would be fun to take a cruise to Alaska.” “That would fun. Let’s do it. That will be a wonderful way to celebrate your healing. Just the two of us.” We both said it matter of fact. Neither of us was pretending or trying to be brave. We knew she would be healed and that we would go on our trip. “I love you.” She patted my hand. “I love you too, Grandma.” It is the only time I remember telling her that I loved her. She is the only grandparent that I spoke those words to. Neither of us said those words as a good-bye, even though that is exactly what they were. __________________________________________________ Mom, Tristan, and I were all in Tristan’s bedroom. Dad was back in Missouri with Grandma. She had been doing worse. It was the weekend. Mom was reading a book to eight year old Tristan, I was listening. We were awaiting the call that would let us know that Grandma had died. Well, in theory, anyway. I was awaiting the call that would say that the miracle had happened and Grandma was healed. The phone rang. Mom answered it. I held my breath. Her voice was calm, quiet. “She did? How long ago? When is the funeral?” I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. It made no sense. I didn’t really believe it. God had said. What about what I heard? What about how Grandma knew she was going to be healed too? What about our trip? What about the promise?

Eyes

I was honestly going to try to make the first few entries from my book be more light-hearted and whimsical. There are a couple of those, really. However, last night, I had one of those dreams that spans the entire night. Even after you wake up and fall back to sleep, it starts right were you left off. Without much detail, it was a dream that made me face the humanity and impending loss of my parents. Honestly, that thought terrifies me more than any other. I would rather face my own destruction than face this life without their constant presence. Consequently, death has been my companion throughout the day. The two entries that follow are two of the most impactful events of my life. The one in this entry, my greatest shame. The one in the next altered my faith and outlook of life irreversibly.
I wish I could say that every time I made a mistake throughout my life I did not know what I was doing or that it was simply a lapse in judgment. Sometimes, however, it has been due to a lack of my own moral fiber. Even so, there are very few moments in my life that I would actually go back and redo. I am a firm believer that everything that has ever happened to me, and every choice I have ever made have been essential to the recipe that makes up who I am today. While that person is far from perfect and has many flaws and idiosyncrasies, I like him, and I would miss him if he were someone else. It is not every brilliant and saintly moment in my life that makes me who I am, it is also the stupid, deliberately questionable, and less than honorable instances that give me spark and flavor—not to mention a few grains of wisdom. In fact, I can count the moments on fewer fingers than are on my left hand (there are just five, that part of me is normal—would I have kept such juicy details from you for this long?) that I would give anything to go back and change.
My grandfather (my dad’s dad) was the definition of the perfect grandparent. He adored me. He nearly worshiped me. He completely and utterly spoiled me. He completely overlooked my girly tendencies. He even walked in on me when I was nine or ten practicing making out, with my fan! and never said a word, although I am sure he spent countless hours in prayer for me afterwards.. (Don’t get stuck on trying to figure out why someone would practice kissing with a fan, you will get hung up on that mystery for eternity and come no closer to enlightenment. I said I had idiosyncrasies. Why are you judging? Grandpa didn’t!) Anything I wanted, he got for me. There was nothing too good for his cubby, red-headed grandson. He is the reason I love Christmas so much. For over a month before Christmas, Grandpa would start preparing (of course, so did Grandma and my dad and his brother—we are a very Christmas family). Everyone loved my Grandpa. He was a martyr for many people. Truth be told, people took advantage of his kindness and his generosity. There are worse faults to have.
Grandpa came down with cancer around the time I was ten years old, right around the time my little brother was born. He would battle it for two years. Chemotherapy, prayer, Chemotherapy, faith, Chemotherapy, believing in healing, Chemotherapy. His death when I was twelve would begin a period of thirteen years where six vital members of our family would die, and several other extraneous members as well. Death has become as familiar and well known as the face staring back at me in the mirror. If I had Death’s address, I would feel obliged to send him a Christmas card.
Near the end of his battle with the disease, my entire family went out of town to go to dinner. I was excited because Grandma and Grandma had gotten me a set of fuzzy animal watches I had been wanting. Pastel pink, blue, yellow, green fuzzy watches shaped as frogs, lions, flamingos. I know, I know. How did my family stay in denial about my sexuality for so long? We all sat down at long table on the second floor of the restaurant right next to a window looking out over the downtown. Grandpa sat by the window next to grandma and my dad’s younger brother, who was not married at the time. I sat at the head of the table. Mom and Dad sat on the opposite side of my grandparents, with my little brother in a highchair between them. We were nearly done with the meal. We had had appetizers, entrees, and desserts. Grandpa had already sent his credit card back with the server and we were just waiting for the receipt for him to sign. My Grandpa’s weight had greatly decreases over the past year or so. He went from a robust handsome older man (you should see pictures of him from World War II—Hot!) to a frail, weak, skeleton with thin, translucent skin as a covering. It hurt to look at him. I did not really know who this man was. It was not my Grandpa.
All of the sudden, Grandpa let out a strangled sound that was something between a belch and a gasp. His hands grasped the edge of the table as he lurched forward. A thin, watery stream of white vomit poured out of his mouth, down his face and pooled on his shirt and the table. Everyone else in the family stood as one in a near panic and reached out to him to help. Grandpa steadied himself with the table and weakly turned his head to the left towards me and looked into my eyes out of the corners of his. “I am so sorry.” It was a barely audible whisper. In fact, maybe he only mouthed the words to me.
Revulsion filled my face. I was completely disgusted and sickened. Don’t forget embarrassed. It was not intentional, just my honest, real emotion at the time. I looked back into his eyes with my upper lip pulled up into a grimace and my eyebrows knotted in scorn.
Hurt filled his eyes. He looked down at the table, shamed.
I am sure there had to be other events after this, but, if so, they have left my recollection. This is the last memory I have of my Grandpa and I before he finally died. There are moments and aspects in life that are burned into your mind for infinity, ones that will flash before you when you close your eyes. I will see the look in his eyes as clear as in the moment for the rest of my life. There is a world after this one that we go to when we die. The people who are already there can see us and they know our thoughts and feelings. I have spoken aloud how much I miss him and how much I love him so many times. I know that he is assured that the last emotion I showed him is not what is in my heart for him. If this is not how it is, if you have proof that this is not true or not how the world works, keep it to yourself. How can I face myself everyday, if he is not assured of my love for him? If the last sentiment his adored grandson gave to him was one of disgust?

Precursor

My earliest memory is in pre-school. Some time in 1981. I am standing in the corner of my classroom, crying my eyes out. All the other kids are around me. They are not laughing or pointing or being mean—just there. I feel close to panic, such a deep, deep shame overtaking my being. I try to cover up. I fold my hands up into my armpits and squeeze my arms as tightly as I can. Still I can not cover up. Mom had sent me to school with overalls. Overalls!!!! With no shirt!!!!!!! NO SHIRT!!!!!!! I was naked, in front of everyone. Naked! Everyone could see me and I was naked. I don’t remember how that situation ended. Probably with me passing out or ripping my teacher’s blouse off to cover my shame. Looking back, I can see why my mom chose such and outfit. I was an adorable little kid. Adorable. Oppie Tailor had nothing on me. Well, until I get fat, but that’s later. I only have two more memories from that period of my life. One is of my parents and teachers trying to get me to see Santa Clause when he came to school. Screaming bloody terror! I never understood how people felt safe being with creatures who were all dressed up and in masks. Even today, if Santa ever came close to me, I would slaughter the bastard. The other (now write this down, you might have to use it) is about personal hygiene. My teacher bought into the whole cleanliness is next to godliness thing. We needed to report if we had brushed our teeth that morning or not. Well, come on! We were three. How were we supposed to remember what we did an hour ago? So, we would have to cup our hands over our mouths, exhale, and breath deep. If stinky, no sticker. Standing in a corner, my red hair bouncing from the sobs that rack my body as I try to cover my nakedness and smell my un-brushed breath—Santa waiting, just beyond the next corner.

Father's Love

My parents are amazing cooks. My dad was the one that taught my mom to cook. In return, they both taught me. Between them, they can make anything. One of the simpler things dad makes is French fries. They are perfect. Just the right thickness. Just the right crunchiness. Just the right amount of salt. Whenever we sat down at the table for dinner (we ate dinner together every single night of my life) and had French fries, before Dad would eat any of his food, he would take my plate and sit it before himself. He then would arrange my French fries into rows on my plate. With the catsup bottle, like the red plastic ones you find in diners, he would then proceed to decorate each individual French fry with a design, each as unique as a snowflake. Whenever I eat lunch with my kids that I teach and we have French fries and I am moved to demonstrate how much I love them, I decorate their French fries with catsup.

Upcoming Events

So, as I may or may not have mentioned (I honestly don’t remember) when The Big Break-Up (you may have heard of it. . .) happened in July of 2006 (which was why I started this blog), I sat down and wrote a couple hundred page book (put in book form it would have been nearly four hundred pages). I chronicled each factor of my relationship that had just ended. Interwoven were aspects and stories and diatribes of me growing up, past relationships, and my current (postmarked ’06) views of the world. It was a huge labor of love and self-therapy. It greatly helped me grasp some truths about why my relationship ended, and even more so, gave me closure and clarity on some of the things that happened when I was growing up. I am never going to publish the book, there are too many details that should stay between the people involved in that relationship, but there are certain stories that I told from my past that for some reason I still want to share. Most, of course, focus on the sad or angry times in my past (since that was the space I was in when I was writing the book—you may remember some of those from the blog as well), so please don’t think these stories are the only ones I have from childhood, but they do make for better writing. Pain begets art. All the stories are completely true, however, I changed people’s names when I wrote the book, and I will keep those changes for the blog. I will intersperse these stories and thoughts throughout my blog over the next while. Partly because I don’t have time to blog as much any more, and partly because I feel a need to revisit some of the things I wrote back then, they have been on my mind lately. Maybe for a reason. We will see. I will start with a short one. A happy one. One of my favorite memories. And then my first memory. Those of you who know me will laugh. Those of you who don’t, may find it rather sad/disturbing…

Juggle Jingle Jangle

Ridiculous. Absurd. Ludicrous. Astoundingly preposterous. Such is life. Such is love. Such is money. Such is I. Yes, I know, it should be ‘such am i.’ I know that. I was in a flow. Go write your own blog. Tonight is one of the first nights I have had to myself in weeks. I honestly don’t remember the last time this happened. When I am not with Chad, I am off with my family, off on camping trips with the kids, or at work. Tonight, Chad is at a concert. At a concert so late that he will not come over afterwards, as I have been passing out around 9:30 or 10:00. I wish I was exaggerating. One of the few ‘complaints’ I have had about being in a relationship was that I have lost all time to myself. Time to write. Time to watch endless hours of TV on DVD. Time to read one of countless Vampire novels. So, what have I done since I spoke to him on the phone at 5:30? Well, I made it to about 7:30 (after my second episode of Charmed—the final season [never saw it before {very excited}]), before I started watching my phone and wondering why he forgot that I existed. Did he consciously choose to overlook that he has a boyfriend? Or were thoughts of me simply lost in the glitz of all that is without me? I took the dogs on a walk, reminded myself that sane couples can breathe when they have not had contact in less time than it takes to boil the milk and butter for instant potatoes. I decided to write about my feelings of not being thought of every second of every day. You know, try to work through my neurosis by condemning you to sort through the pieces. No sooner had I sat down to begin this very outpouring of self-reflected therapy at 8:17, then Chad texted telling me the concert was getting ready to start and that he loved me. Way to ruin a perfectly good opportunity to muddle over this impossible conundrum! Now I am back to being contented by insecure ego fluffing. Thanks a lot, babe! While we are on the subject of the insane and unstable, let me tell you about one of the issues of moral dilemma that is the life a teacher. I have a wonderfully textbook example of SIED (significantly identifiable emotional disability) in the form of a sixth grade boy in my classroom. He constantly is mean to other children in the class. Ninety-five percent of our interactions are of me getting him into trouble. They say that for every negative interaction you need to have at least two or three positive. Well, unless someone ties this boy up and stuffs a sock in his mouth, I simply do not have that many hours in the day to be able to begin that particular upward ratio. After presenting him with a referral, he chose to continue to increase his abusive behavior to other hapless souls under my care. Thus, I was forced to call his father. His giant of a father arrived within fifteen minutes of my school ending. Even though I interjected as many positive aspects of his son (believe me, I stretched better than elastic) the only part the father heard was the negative. He assured me that this type of behavior would end tonight. While there is no tangible proof (nor will there be) there is no doubt in my mind that his manual for rectifying situations of such nature is vastly different than the one that I subscribe to. With a glance at the clock to determine that I would be staying over an hour past quittin’ time and tears in my eyes, I turned and entered the classroom that connects with mine (the younger SIED classroom) to assist with the eight year old who’s behavior required the presence of a policeman who was now discussing things with his tearful, tired, and overworked mother. Later, after my first workout in more time than I recall (which used to a ninety minute process and has now shrunk to 20 minutes), I came home, shoved in my DVD’s, ate two of my pre-made frozen dinners, and began obsessing over the deserted desert (interestingly similar words, eh?) that was my phone. Dessert anyone?

The Scent of Justice

I actually have a moment to blog this morning. I have the desire to write. I am even in the mood. I have no idea what I want to write. Good thing this endeavor is called ‘Ramblings.’ So, why am I not at school getting ready to educate the future generations of ramblers at 7:39 in the morning? I have to go to court this morning. It’s true. I will soon be convicted of teaching while gay. I hope they let me paint my cell. Maybe hang some taffeta from the bars. Actually, I am going to testify in a murder trial. While the first option probably sounds more believable, the second is the one composed of fact. It is my second time in a ‘citizen’s duty’ role in a court room. The other was ten years ago, when I was nineteen. Back then, you know, in the 1990’s, I was in the jury for a shaken baby case. The kid died. The mother was a lying coward. The boyfriend was convicted. Today, I have been subpoenaed to testify on the part of one of my old kids at the residential treatment center where I was a counselor and teacher. He was sixteen when he killed his friend’s father. He is being tried as an adult. He definitely did it. We always knew he would kill someone. We told everyone in legal system that he was going to kill people. He was certifiably nuts. Sweet, but nuts. Still, as per typical, our system we have in place to help children and those with disabilities took the ostentatious stand that it is cheaper and less stressful to simply eject a child from mental health care and structured support, release them into the wild and wait for them to act upon their natural inclination. Well, shit, who can blame our law makers and decision makers? A jail cell is a lot less expensive than paying a counselor like me my twenty-one thousand dollar a year salary. I doubt they will let him decorate his cell. While I have always been opposed to most who plead insanity to their murder sentences, in this case, it is factual, and the reason I am testifying. True, he is the one that murdered someone. However, if the powers-that-be had listened to us in the manner for which they hired us, we would have one less murderer, one less widow, and one less fatherless daughter. It will be strange to stand in front of a court room and my old counselee and proclaim him mentally crazy and unfit. However, that is precisely what I am going to do, both for the truth of the matter and some small justice that is owed to him.

Hold on for an abrupt and rather inappropriate transition coming up, brought to you by MSN’s health page this morning:

“Among all the odors tested, the combination of pumpkin pie and lavender produced the greatest increase in arousal (a 40 percent increase in penile blood flow).” Well, Duh! Pumpkin has always done it for me. It is my favorite scent. Favorite flavor of everything. Favorite color. It is perfection. However, I have never thought of combining it with the scent of lavender. I always combine it with other spice smells, cinnamon (which MSN told me yesterday that a teaspoon of a day increase some health aspect of some sort—in short, bring on the desserts people!), clove, etc. I am a little excited, and trepidatious. Just when I thought I couldn’t get any more sexually charged. . . uh oh! Hope Chad knows what he is in for. . . Maybe someone should warn him before he comes home tonight. Both in terms of me and all the spicy scents that will assaulting his senses (he likes cleaner sorts of scents—sometimes sweet). How’s that for too much information? While I have always known that pumpkin acts as a sort of Viagra for me, I must confess that it a titch worrisome. Pumpkin is also one of more wholesome edible commodities in our world. Most would say that the Apple has the honor of holding this title. Mom’s apple pies. Apples for teachers. Blah, blah, blah. Ever heard of a wily, sexy, little vixen by the name of Eve? She least she had the balls to be original in her corruption. While, I am sure, Adam was fucking hot, he was a bit of a douche. True, neither of them should have eaten the all mighty ‘apple,’ but at least Eve had the originality to do something inventive. I am not sure what my erotic obsession with this orange lumpy jack-o-lantern represents or says about my psyche, but I am sure it is not good and shows that I have penis envy and have unresolved issues around my long lost My Little Pony Daycare Center dollhouse. I had these adorable little My Little Pony twin babies. Sigh. I hope they are doing ok. . .

my sickness

Love. Joy. Passion. Excitement. Contentment. Serenity. Peacefulness. Hope. A wise man (or woman, or transsexual, transgender, for that matter) would pick any of the afore mentioned emotions to be their favorite state of being. He (or other more appropriate pronoun) would strive with all that was within him to reach that sensation as much as he could. Just to show that my prayers for wisdoms would prove to be ineffective, I apparently have chosen my favorite emotion to be guilt. Raised in pure, unadulterated fundamentalism, that should come as no surprise, I suppose. School has always provided an abundant source of guilt for me. Not really because I do anything bad or get bad grades. There is constantly something due that needs to be completed. It is a never ending cycle. Therefore, when I do something else besides whatever is due next, I feel a sense nagging guilt in the back of my mind that keeps me from fully enjoying whatever fun activity it is that is postponing the inevitable. I was excited to be done with that wonderful ever-present sensation upon the completion of grad school. As I sit to blog (a very short blog) and prepare to cuddle with the dogs and the boyfriend, I am coming to the realization that I have chosen a profession that continues the pattern of unquenchable guilt. Instead of blogging, I should be getting my lesson plans finalized for my students’ first day tomorrow. I should be crossing every t and dotting every i. Instead, I simply pretend that the alphabet is inconsequential to life and assume that my students (with emotional disorders) will not try to murder me when I show up and say, “Hello, I’m Mr. Witt [SHUDDER], and I have no idea what we are to do today, so we are going to sit here in silence until the day is over and I can go home and continue my self flagellation of guilt.”
In addition to guilt, I also get a perverted thrill in intentionally going against authority figures, know-it-alls, and overly-vocal celebrities. In short, I like to waste our natural resources. Its fun. True, global warming is going to cause the world to catch ablaze within the next decade or so. Probably. Maybe even the chicken-flu will reappear and wipe us out before we all get crispy. Let’s pray it be so. There is one area that I enjoy more than any other. I have no problem with Cheryl Crow. I like a couple of her songs. They are pretty. Sometimes. She has taken a stand on toilet paper usage. At least this is what I have read, probably on a bathroom stall somewhere. She is encouraging the public to only use one square of toilet paper per bowel movement session. Maybe this is prudent. Maybe this should be enacted as a law. However, it pisses me off (pun intended) when other people, government, celebrities, religious leaders intrude upon my behavior in my private bathroom customs and culture. Also, there are very few ‘straight’ male things about me. However, this is an area that I am all male in. One square ain’t gonna cut it. Trust me. I get such a lovely pleasure out of using ten or more squares at a time, especially those that are several sheets thick. Oh, yeah, baby. Bring it on. Hopefully, I will not get reprimanded at work for my gleeful squealing (very manly) when I am in the bathroom. Can I help my excitement when I am whirling the toilet paper dispenser so fast that it looks like the world is waving streamers in celebration of my excretion process? I give you permission to curse my name when the fires finally come due to our wasteful natures. I will be so enveloped in the ultra-thick sheets of cottony squares of pleasure that I will neither be able to hear you nor feel the heat.

Starla

(I am listening to Colbie Caillat, another CD you should rush out and purchase, and then make love to—or blog to, as the case may be. Both if you are really limber…) My last blog as a free man. Tomorrow, I am an honorably employed man. A beneficial asset to society. Helping to shape, form, and guide future generations. (Scream, Jerry Falwell, scream.) If I weren’t so nervous and so depressed about losing my freedom, I would almost be a tad bit excited. Almost. For my last entry as a man of philosophical leisure, I am trying on a new hat. I wish it were a hat that would make me appear six feet tall, or at least make me look like I have tan. Instead, it simply makes me look like Dear Abby. Although, if I do it right, I might end up looking more like Dr. Ruth (who is not as physically attractive as Abby, but she sure does have more fun). A couple months ago, I received an email from a friend on MySpace. She asked about my theory of patience. Her exact question was: How much patience and understanding should you have before you are compromising your own needs? Well, I am in the mood to be pompous and act more enlightened that those around me. I have my masters now. It proves that I am smarter. By smarter, I mean, I am able to blow smoke up people’s asses with the best of them. I just charge more. The patience conundrum is intriguing to me, however. It has been a theme of my life in some ways. Sometime, the abundance of; others, the lack thereof. Patience. It is typically the attribute people assume that I possess when they hear that I am a special education teacher focusing on students with emotional/anger disorders. I am glad people make this assumption instead of stumbling upon the truth of the matter, that I am just fucked up and I like the drama and have a touch of a hero complex that this career helps satiate. As I don’t really know what direction her quandary was pointing, I will do as my blog name entitles me to do. I will ramble. When I think of patience, the first thing I think of is God. He and I have had a very tumultuous relationship revolving around the theme of patience. When I was growing up, two of the things I prayed for most were wisdom and patience. Be careful what you pray for. Growing up (and remaining) a spoiled brat, I consider myself one of the more patient people I know, to nearly everyone—unless I am driving or waiting to be fed. This is counter to my actual personality make-up. It is a virtue that has been purchased with many tears on my part. For twenty-five years I prayed constantly, fervently, and whole-heartedly for God to release me from my attraction to other males. God did not see fit to answer that request. (Oh, my superiority in this arena also vanishes in the presence of those who say I simply did not pray enough, have enough faith, or did not really try.) I am thrilled that God did not answer that prayer. However, it was painful (understate much?) and lonely. I also think of supplications for healing for family members (Grandma). I leaned whole-heartily on specific scripture, prayer sessions, and proclamations of healing made by the spiritual giants of our community. Again, that prayer must have been sent with my list to Santa via Rudolf, and never made its way to the drop box nestled nicely within the Pearly Gates. During this time, my dearest friend asked me what would happen if the healing did not transpire and I had heard God’s promise wrong. Well, that thought was inconceivable. God would not lie. Therefore, it was easy to say that I would quit believing in Him. I trusted so much that it was an empty threat. Well, I still believe in Him, but I have never been able to see Him in the same way nor trust blindly since that day. However, I am much more patient and able to simply let the cards fall where they may instead of forcing my hand. The next thing that Patience brings to my mind is family and friends. I could go on for pages that would fill up a trilogy of novels on examples of this, but I will spare you that epic. I will cut to what I currently feel and believe. So many people are trying desperately to achieve the relationship with a parent that they have always longed for. Well, if they haven’t changed yet, chances are, they won’t (although, it does happen—for instance, I truly love my dad and have a wonderful relationship with him, something I never really thought possible). So many people expect certain things from their friends and are angry, hurt, and are willing to cut ties when things don’t go as planned. I have had plenty of time serving as a doormat to those ‘friends’ who I wanted to be close to. I have realized there is no reason to compromise who I am, what I believe, and what is right or wrong for me within a friendship or a relationship with a family member. However, I have also learned this in my quest for patience and real, genuine relationships: If you love someone, get to know who they really are—their strengths and weakness. Know their personality and learn what you can and can not expect from them. Then, decided if you can accept them for whom and what they are. If so, embrace them. If not, move on and quit bitching and trying to change them, you can’t anyway. Some parents may never be able to say ‘I love you,’ well, that sucks, but what other ways can you see that they are expressing that feeling without saying it? Some friends may always be late, never remember your birthday, and having annoying habits, but they are still able to ‘feed’ you in other ways. Know what to expect from them and don’t get your hopes up that they are going to morph into someone else. You won’t get disappointed, and may even be pleasantly surprised at times when they begin to change on there own (rare, but it does happen). The most obvious area patience shows up, I think, is in a relationship. I was involved in a two year relationship were few of my needs were met and were slaughtered in order to keep his needs met. It was hand’s down the most miserable and trapped feeling in my life. Better to be single and lonely than attached and miserable. The area of healthy relationships is new to me, but I think many of the things I have already stated are applicable. It is why it is so necessary to know these things about a person before making a commitment. Can you live with their weakness and flaws? Can they live with yours? There is obviously more reason here to address your needs and let the other person know what you are feeling and needing, be clear about it, without being blaming and aggressive. If these needs are not met, however, I don’t think the ‘move on’ strategy is appropriate. In both hetero- and homo- sexual marriages, I believe that the commitment (with a few exceptions) is a life-long agreement. Part of relationships is compromising your own needs as times. However, at times, it is about them compromising their needs for you as well. It is when it is one-sided that it becomes and issue. If that becomes the case, you continue to state your needs, continue to be loving and patience, but also stand up for the areas you need. I live by the motto, ‘pick your battles.’ Many battles do not need to be fought, and then, when it is time to fight, you will have the energy and passion to do it right. Well, I have no idea if I touched upon her intention of her inquiry. However, it was a glorious opportunity for dive into my ostentatious know-it-all, cavalier diatribe. An opportunity I rarely choose to pass up.

Iceburg Dreams

Written: 08.09.07;12:04AM
There is no reflection from the moon cascading over the waves outside my window. The sea is jet black. The sky is dark. Nearly. There is a thin strip of bloody burgundy at the horizon. I feel my insides swish with the swaying of the boat, with the rustling of the waves, making their way over the voice of Sara Bareilles singing over my iPod (get her CD, fantastic). I am on the final course of our Alaskan cruise (a graduation present for my little brother’s escape from high school).
It is the first time I have blogged in what seems like forever. Long enough that I have forgotten how to write, long enough for people to have stopped caring, long enough for my life to have changed yet again.
The most drastic life change? Yesterday, I finished a four day run-through of the final Harry Potter book. I will no longer be able to look forward to another voyeuristic voyage into the world of Hogwarts and Potterdom. Of course, I will, as with all of the other six books, continue to re-read and re-listen (on CD) to them at fairly frequent intervals. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and all of them have become steadfast friends, and I will not abandon our relationship simply because the fight with Voldermort has ceased. Deathly Hallows was a fitting final treasure.
In addition to friends killing vicious wizards, I have come out of what has been an insane month. I have finished grad school. I can’t believe how many pages I can actually type out in only a month’s time. It is done though. Nothing else to do for graduate level GPA and framed paper. Excited? Proud? Awed and Inspired? Nah. Just glad it is over. Glad that hoop has been jumped. Sad that I will have to go back to work. I start my teaching job in four days.
In some ways I am more nervous than I was when I finished my undergrad degree. I have had the luxury of living on loans the past year and now I am completely maxed out, and don’t really think I can create an adequate budget on my now ‘elevated’ salary. Oh, well, I can always sell blood. No, wait. Gay. Can’t do that. Sell my hair, it’s pretty. Too short. Sperm. I wonder if that is paid for per teaspoon or gallon….. have to check into that……
The scariest aspect of leaving academia? I have to go for it now. I will need a couple months to really get settled at my new school and position. Then, I have to go for it. I have to write the novel. I have to make it good. I then have to try to figure out what the next step of that process is. I know I can teach. I know I can work with people. I know I can take a pompous class and pass it with an A based on little more than my finger’s ability to strum out five-cent words and charm. I know I can do everyday life and survive fairly successfully. However, can I try to reach my dreams and fantasies now? Outside of choosing to embrace the real me, the Brandon I was born, the gay man, I have lived my life on the safe side, never truly taking a risk. This novelist and children’s book author/illustrator is terrifying. There are no safety nets. There are no guarantees of acceptance. I could suck, and suck royally. (Keep your lame, middle school humor to yourself.) I want to find out, though.
On another note, Chad and I have gone through our first trial as a couple. We have come out on the other side even closer than before. A few weeks ago, Chad had to have an emergency appendectomy and was in the hospital for a few days. Recovery took a couple weeks, in which I decided to have a little out-patient procedure of my own. We both learned much about each other. Chad is not a friend of needles, and Brandon has a hard time accepting help from others. Wow. This relationship stuff is scary as fuck. It is also completely amazing. Not counting my chickens (at least trying not to), but it is crazy when it just fits right. It is almost easy. Almost. I love it. I love him. I love us.
I have been blogging for nearly a year now. I have realized I blog best when I am hurting and pissed. I guess if poorer blogging is the cost of a happier personal life, bring on the duller blogs. I hope to continue the process though, as it acts as cheap therapy, a sounding board, and a muse. I will have to see how this next phase of life shapes up. Honest-to-goodness career, honest-to-goodness relationship, honest-to-goodness bills, honest-to-goodness grown-up. Wow. Bring on the mini-van.