leader of the whos

For the first time in my life, I watched a ‘Presidential’ speech. True, it was the concession speech, but still. Maybe saying I watched my first political speech would be more apt. For some reason, I, as have many people, have been more invested in this Presidential campaign, than I ever had before. Four years ago, I hated both candidates so much that I didn’t vote. I am now in a similar position. I hate both the candidates. But, I am going to vote, even if it is not for one of them. From the very beginning I had my sights set on Giuliani. Nearly every stance he took was something I agreed with or was even excited about. Of course, he lasted all of two seconds in the race. And even though I have never been able to stand Hilary, for some reason, I was kind of rooting for her, and would probably voted for her, even though I disagree fundamentally on a lot of her issues.
It seems that it would be so easy to either be Left or Right, instead of floating somewhere in the middle. It seems that to vote for someone who doesn’t really stand up for gay equality, but at least thinks it should be legal for a gay person to be admitted to the hospital where their ‘spouse’ is sick or dying , I also have to vote for someone who would make it a free for all for abortion, not think twice about our National borders, and attempt to turn our society into a socialist government. I like the Capitalist way of life, even when I have not be able to work it towards my own advantage. On the other hand, I can vote for someone who believes more along the same lines as myself in regards to the financial and security needs of our country, but who also sees me as someone who should not have the right to have kids (through adoption) or the right to marry the man I love. In the past, I have always put the needs of the rest of my country above myself, not willing to vote on someone simply because they hate gays and lesbians less than the other guy. Even so, I have yet to see our borders secured, Osama captured, or a return to a more foundational economic system (yes, I am a flat tax guy, I think. . .). So, maybe this time, I say, ‘Screw it, vote for the guy who at least claims to see me as someone mostly human.’
I am anxious to see the debates between Obama and McCain, not that I can force myself to vote for either. I am fairly certain I can’t. If I could trust what Obama said last night, I wouldn’t think twice. I wanted to believe him so badly; his speech had elements that I had never heard from a political leader before. However, from what I know about his record and other stances he has taken in his life, I found much of what he said contradictory to his actions.
I love my country and want to see it stay strong, become stronger, retain its values while growing and progressing. I wish that there was a man or woman that could be believed, could be trusted, could be strong, even if not perfect. No longer will I vote for someone who does not see me as their equal (not that Obama does either), but how can I vote for someone who opposes my beliefs in so many other ways?
Maybe it is enough that I think it matters to even ask the questions. Ever since I could vote, even when I have, I have always just shrugged my shoulders and said, ‘What’s it matter? It’s not like anyone does what they say or anything actually ever changes or gets better.’ Maybe it can. . .

Simple Hero

Since I don’t feel like the five or six magazines that I subscribe to are enough, I, at times, see a magazine cover at the checkout stand of the grocery store that I have add to my attempt of single handedly destroying the rainforest with pictures of celebrities. Such was the case when I saw this week’s issue of People magazine. On the COVER was Ellen and her new wife Portia. On the inside was a four double page spread (that’s eight pages for those of you attempting to multiply2x4—I know it’s not easy, the other day I wrote 8x3=18 on the board during my math class---Thank God for that Master’s Degree—Blech).
I was struck by several things. One, how beautiful both of them are and how gorgeous their wedding was. Two, how perfect the ceremony seemed, it made me like Ellen even more. It was a simple and elegant at home wedding with nineteen or so family and friends in attendance, no huge stars, just those who were truly close to the brides.
The main thing I was struck with is that I wasn’t seeing this article in one of my political or bubble gum gay mags that I subscribe too. It was in People! Granted, it wasn’t Newsweek, Time, or Evangelicals Anonymous, but still! I take it as a huge sign of a brighter future to come.
Last week at the gym, the Ellen show was on the TV in the locker room. There were about seven or eight of us in there. An older man (foreign, I couldn’t place his accent, Swedish, or some such) stood up on his bench, I’m not sure why, and started asking everyone which one was the wife and which one was the husband, repeatedly. Finally, he finished by looking at one man in particular and saying, “I tell you, some people are just sick.” I think I was the only one who was gay in the locker room, so I was surprised when no one spoke up in agreement or added to the situation. Everyone looked at him in a mix of bewilderment and repulsion. Of course, such a response was necessary from the fact of him standing on the bench to address the room. Too bad he was fully dressed, that would have added some irony to the story. . .
I am sure cynics would say that the People feature isn’t much of a success. They would say that Ellen is benign, that people don’t really see her as a real lesbian; she is just Ellen an enigma of sorts. I say that is what makes her so perfect! That’s what the average gay man and lesbian are. They are just people. The beautiful thing about Ellen, unlike Rosie who got bitter and harsh in her voice and appearance after coming out, continues to get brighter, softer, and happier. She is one of few true heroes that the gay culture has. It will be interesting to see what happens to the marriage initiative this November in California. Maybe people won’t care, but People magazine let Ellen and Portia show the world what exactly would be outlaw from fear, prejudice, and hatred.
Thank you, People, for giving adequate coverage of a real, genuine, and loving couple.
Thank you, Ellen and Portia, for your shinning example of gay marriage to our culture and your brave contributions to life. Best wishes on your marriage and your life together!

DNC

There are several observations that I have found, while not earth shattering, of interest during the first three days of the Democratic National Convention being in Denver. The most pleasant is the sight of all the police. On one hand, it is rather off-putting to see clusters of eight or more cops on every street corner, holding three foot long clubs. It should inspire a feeling of safety, but it has more of an effect of heightening the sensation that the world is about to explode. The part that has been enjoyable is seeing the truth in the cliché of the hot cop. Granted, the ratio is not as great as the stereotype would have us believe, but with such high numbers police presence, I can attest that the taskforce does indeed have a wide selection of officers who live up to every handcuffing and billy-club fantasy. It is also true that if you put an average Joe who would never draw too much attention on his own in police garb, his hotness level elevates a minimum of ten points.
The thing I have found most humors is how the city has responded to having the convention in town. Every surface was scrubbed clean, even the alleys. Fountains that I have never noticed before and ones that I thought were just statues are now spewing water. Buildings have a fresh coat of paint. Christmas lights (white ones) are covering every tree on the 16 Street Mall. The homeless have been either shipped off, sent the zoo or the movies (I’m not making this up), and/or given brand new clothes, a hair cut, and a bath. I never realized before how much I use a person’s appearance to asses their status in life. I didn’t even realize that I asses other people’s status. However, more than once, I have been befuddled by a well dressed and pleasingly groomed man or woman digging through the trash, begging on a street corner, or seemingly peeing in one of the suddenly repaired fountains. It always take me a second after wondering why they are engaging in such behaviors before I remember that the homeless have undergone a makeover in the attempt of making them more acceptable. While I love all these changes, its wonderful to have your city looking good, flowers overflowing everywhere, the sounds of water splashing everywhere you turn, I find it the height of hypocrisy. Aren’t the republicans the ones who are supposed to be heartless about the homeless, about wasting water, and needing everything to be high class? Yet here we are trying to make the homeless less homeless simply by dressing them and cleaning them and doing our best to make them invisible, blend in, or disappear all together. Here we are, in a drought, with water overflowing from all our fountains. All to ‘deceive’ the democratic elite.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never loved being downtown more than right now. I wish the DNC was here every week. I’m just sayin’. . .

Survival

I have found it to be true that trauma victims are bound together in an unbreakable bond for life.  There is no bond greater--not mother and child, not husband and wife, not fat boy and cheeseburger. 

Chad and I received two free tickets from a couple of our friends (they went with us) to see Taylor Swift and Rascal Flatts at Cheyenne Frontier Days last Sunday.  We were excited to see Taylor.  We have three songs as a couple, one of which is her ‘Tim McGraw’ song.  Strangely enough, we were disappointed in her.  We have decided we are no longer going to see female recording artist that are under twenty-five.  We saw Colbie Calliat a few months ago, and she was equally disappointing.  I get enough of young girls in my career; I don’t need to go see them trying to figure out who they are on stage.  Rascal Flatts, to my great shock, gave an amazing performance.  Unbelievable.  They are truly amazing musicians and performers.  I would see them again in a heartbeat. 

I have been increasingly growing more and more sick of the general population.  I am quickly becoming a snob.  People are plain annoying.  Whenever we win the lottery, Chad and I are buying an island and only allowing other people to move there or visit by invitation only.  Teenage girl singers will not be on the list (I will still worship your CD’s but I don’t want to meet you).  When we arrive, we staked out our spot.  We were in the standing only area in front of the stage.  Not long after, a short, late-twenties, couple came and stood in front of us.  They proceeded to smoke—a hobby that if chosen to do in public, I feel is an innovation to be set on fire.  In addition, the man looked like he had not bathed in several days and had frequently decided to wallow in dirt.  To make matters better, he pulls out his cell phone, the same make and model I have.  True to his roots, however, his phone was two toned, having taken parts from different devices.  He ensued by showing his girlfriend/wife a vast quantity of vulgar, very detailed photos of a new model that his friend sent him.  I preferred the smoking.   

            Before long, Taylor, who really is an very good singer and songwriter, came out on stage and incessantly twirled her hair in circles around her body, and continued to give what she intended to be her serious, model face, but looked more like she had just shit and was confused about where she was, who the people were in front of her, and why she was on stage.  The one thing she was sure of, and held to firmly, from all that she was saying, was that she was Taylor Swift (in case we forgot) and she has countless songs on the top ten list.  Wonderful. 

            After a couple songs into her set, a gaggle of girls (about six or eight) settled in right behind us.  We have smoking, dirty, spread vagina picture man in front and a horde of teenage girls behind us.  I begin to feel trapped.  These lovely future of the female species were bitching loudly about how mean the other people they had been standing by had been.  Seemingly, they had been yelling at the girls to the point where the girls finally left.  I knew we were in trouble.

            Each girl was at an individualized level of drunkenness.  I am becoming less and less tolerant of drunken behavior in general.  This sensitivity was heightened due to their underage qualifications.  A couple of the girls couldn’t stand very well, and were constantly falling into everyone around me.  Me included.  At the risk of sounding like the hermit I am becoming, I don’t like to be touched by people I don’t know and who have not specifically received my approval for doing so.  I missed a couple of Taylor’s songs, and I am sure many more of her ‘serious’ faces while I allowed myself to get lost in my rapidly seething anger.  Before too much time had passed, the girl who had achieved the highest level of drunken debauchery crawled onto the back of her runner up.  They were swaying more than a palm tree in a hurricane.  After the second or third collision, I turn to the girls and told them to knock it off.  To my credit, I did not curse at them.  However, I did mention detox.  They looked at me with a mixture of fear, shock, and anger.  How dare I ruin their fun?

My relief was momentary.  They proceeded to become more obnoxious.  I forgot the adage ‘more flies with honey,’ and began to yell at them, still no cursing.  I turned around and found a security guard type person and pointed to the girls informing him of their underage status and their attempts of becoming the Tanya Hardings of tomorrow.  The two forerunners of the drunk game took off into the crowd.  Good riddance.  I had hopes they would stumble into the arena where they keep the rodeo bulls.  That’s one show I would have paid to see, I would have lifted the cattle up to the highest of an Indian (the country, not the Native Americans) god had they been successful. 

The rest of the vile girls stayed behind, and they were pissed.  They proceeded to scream at the top of their lungs.  Not the kind of scream most young girls bellow at the sight of Elvis, Brittney, or the Jonas Brothers (gag), but the type of screams that you feel in your bones and makes your stomach quiver.  I do not exaggerate in the slightest when I tell you that my ears hurt for hours after. 

It was clear that they were being very intentional in their actions at this point, trying to get us to move away from them.  What they don’t know is, I’m the nice guy.  I’m the patient guy.  I’m the guy who really doesn’t care what decision is made and doesn’t get upset of he doesn’t always get his way.  What they also don’t know about the nice guy, is that you don’t wanna piss him off.  I let my stubbornness take control and I set my feet shoulder width apart, squared my shoulders, puffed my chest out, and blocked their view.  Both John Wayne and little roosters everywhere were proud.  I have never really had violent thoughts toward people, but during this time, I was clearly envisioning reaching around and grabbing fist-fulls of their hair at their scalp, yanking them down, and smashing their faces into the ground.  I would like to say that it was my focus on loving people like Jesus would, or trying to be a better man that kept me from literally obliterating these wastes of humanity, but I would lying.  It was the thought of the police that would come after.  I was sure they would agree with my actions and would thank me while they put the handcuffs on me, but they would have to follow through with the law (however skewed it might be). 

Towards the end of Taylor’s set, the girls increased their onslaught.  In addition to the screaming (their throats had to be bleeding the next day, a thought that gives me great pleasure), they began to reach out toward Taylor (she was a good fifty feet away) and run their hands into the sides of Chad’s and my faces.  As if we had one mind, we both whirl around and lay into the girls.  We were both mere inches away (which was harder for Chad as he’s taller) and screaming in their faces.  They stopped.  They were pissed, but they stopped.  They whined and whimpered and even got a little teary, but they stopped.  Not long after, they moved on.  The people around us gave us both their respect and their thanks.

By the end of the night, the dirty little man in front of me (one of the several who seemed to think we had saved the concert) continued to wrap his arm around my neck, and was constantly looking back to smile, pat my chest, or offer me one of his nearly twenty beers that he consumed.  He had NO idea we were gay, which testifies to vast quantity of beer he ingested.  The funny thing was, I loved this dirty little guy.  We had been through war together and had come out on the other side victorious.  He could blow smoke in my face for the next two hours and have shown me picture after picture of vaginas in various stages of bloom, and while I would have barfed incessantly, I would still have adored him.  I loved every person around us.  The funny thing was that I wasn’t the only one experiencing this emotion.  Everyone around us seemingly felt that we had all united to survive the Fourth Reich and could now truly celebrate together.  There was another group of younger girls next to us.  Very nice girls who yelled and screamed in an appropriate manner.  This one cute one, kept accidentally touching her elbow against mine, the normal way it happens in large crowds.  Every time, she would look at me quickly and apologize, and I would do my best to smile sweetly and let her know it was alright and that it couldn’t be helped in a situation like this.  I’m not sure if she understood the difference between herself and the girls that had been there previous.  She wasn’t aware that she would grow up to be a lovely, strong woman, while her counterparts would grown up only to wither and sour by the time they reached thirty.  She did, however, think that she needed to be afraid of me.  She needn’t have feared.  We had survived the Titanic together.  I would sooner have thrown myself off the iceberg than have watched her go down into the deep.  

ink bug

After more than a year of dreading getting my tattoo finished, I bit the bullet yesterday and got it done.  Last time, the man I saw was a butcher.  I have several tattoos and always made fun of those who said they hurt.  They do hurt, but not that bad, anyone who has any backbone at all can handle it.  Normally.  Last the tattoo I began last year was the most pain I have ever been in.  It took weeks and weeks to heal.  My skin looked like ground meat in parts of the tattoo.  Thankfully, it healed well.  Most of the time, I don’t use names in this blog, but I will for the sake of advertising.  Yesterday, I went to Peter Tat 2 based on the recommendation of a friend.  I went to a young girl named Rachael.  She’s only been doing it a couple years.  She was absolutely adorable.  So pretty, so sweet, and it hurt less than any tattoo I have ever received.  I looked at her book of tattoos, and she is phenomenal.  When I finish my sleeve in a year or two, I will go back to her to get it done.  So, if you’re looking for a good tattoo artist, look no further.

I needed to mow the lawn this morning.  We are having a friend’s 40^th birthday party here Saturday.  I woke up and put on the smelly and thick A&D ointment on my new tattoo, put on a sleeveless shirt, took Chad to work, and then came back and mowed the lawn.  Ever since I have moved into his house, I have had a wonderful little family of ants that I have not been able to eradicate from the back yard.  I have poisoned them, stomped on them, flooded them, you name it.  Today, they were out by the thousands (literally) on my sidewalk in the backyard.  I put the lawnmower over their home and let the whirling blades do their work.  I don’t think it killed any of them, they just got a fun rollercoaster ride for free.  I continued to mow the lawn and momentarily noticed my new tattoo was stinging more than it was previous.  I ignored it for awhile.  I might be a fag, but I ain’t a wimp.  Finally, after more stinging, I looked down.  At first I didn’t see anything, then I notices several little black lumps.  My fucking ant pets had managed to land on my arm and were hopeless stuck in the A&D ointment.  Instead of politely asking to get off the ride, there were letting their frustrations out in another way.  Now for all of you who fancy yourself more of an animal right’s advocate than I am and feel like I got my comeuppance, well. . . just watch your back.  

the moment

I just finished the book about a minute and a half ago.  I am not sure if it was the fear of the word count or what, but the past couple weeks, it has flown from my fingers and rushed towards the end.   A lot sooner than I thought it would be.  25,105 words and 203 pages, which I think is somewhere between 450-500 book pages.  I am not sure if it is rushed in a good way, the way things build and build and then crash like a roller coaster or if it is rushed like a novel that has lost its way.  I am going to take the rest of the week off and hopefully start the editing next week.  I thought I would be less scared at the next process.  Not so much.  Now’s the hard part, all building to the moment when I either get published or not. . .

Keep me in your prayers.  J

Take It Away From Me.

Ok, not this matters to anyone else, I am just using this as a sounding board to put my anxiety and fear out into the universe and hopefully far away from me. . .

I had lunch with TB two days ago, which was wonderful.  We were talking about writing, and I was asking him about how to find publishers, etc.  I told him I had about 160 some pages right now, typed, and that I figure I have about sixty or more to go.  He asked what my word count was.  I had no idea, I also had no idea that is mattered. 

Apparently, it does.  I have searched all over the Internet for word counts.   Novels are supposed to be between 25,000-150,000 to be taken seriously by publishers (unless you are an established writer, then you can do whatever the hell you like).  Right now, I am a little over 106,000 words (which is roughly the size of the third book of Harry Potter (Azkaban), so nearly 400 pages!!!  (I thought I had a little over 200.)  This would be perfect if I was almost done.  However I still have nearly a third left, if not more. 

The thought of editing out so much is heartbreaking, and the fact that I am seemingly rambling on incessantly is making me look at my book (I think I can officially call it a book now, if it is that long—good or not) and wonder what’s wrong with it and if it doesn’t have a clear plot. . . 

I wish I hadn’t thought about it, it is almost crippling.  Really.  I am not going to, but it is honestly the closest I have ever been to just giving up.  I could just be watching TV for my summer break or drawing or something that isn’t quite so tiring.  It is wonderful, and I love it, but it really is work.  I don’t want to do all this for nothing or have to trash so much of what I have put into it. 

So, there you go universe, take my fear and stress and eat it for lunch.  Let me get back to writing and exploring my people’s lives. 

(This was 308 words.  Maybe I can get this published instead!) 

Writings and Assholes

I have exactly two-thirds of summer left.  I was going to say that summer is now official one-third over, but Chad keeps getting onto me for counting down the days of summer that are gone.  So, here’s to being positive and saying the exact same thing.  Love ya, babe! 

This summer has been so productive thus far, which is one of the reasons I have not blogged at all.  I started the summer with around seventy some pages written in my book.  Today I hit page one hundred and fifty-two.  I figured it up yesterday and that equals about two hundred and forty some pages in book form (since books are normally not the size of typing paper).  Writing this book remains one of the scariest things I have ever done.  There are days were it takes everything I have to sit down and begin, it is just too frightening, and there are other days (albeit fewer) where I sit and it just flows from my fingers.  My favorite experience is when I sit down to write a specific scene and on my way to that section, something happens I didn’t see coming, a new character, a new event, something.  Yesterday one of my favorite supporting characters died.  I honestly had no idea she was going to.  I had plans for her in the future.  I was sitting in the doctor’s office waiting for Chad to get out of his check-up (all’s good), and I am starting to cry as I am writing.  I hope other people get as involved as I am with a few of my characters.  It’s funny.  I have discovered I have a thing for old women.  My favorite character, by far, is one of my supporting characters, an old woman.  She is completly over the top, probably too much, but I love her.  So fun to write her scenes.  In one way, the more I write the scarier it is.  I could spend all these hours, all these days and weeks, and sometimes tears, and then every publisher or reader could say that is nothing more that blabbering drivel.  I am not sure if I will get it finished by the end of summer, but that is still the goal.  The real goal, however is to have it completely finished, edited, perfect, by Christmas, so that I can spend the Spring trying to get it publish.  I wish I had even an inkling on where to start that process.

            On a completely unrelated note, I have to make one of my ever in depth social observations.  I have often given the gay community quite a bit of slack for being shallow and cruel to those who don’t fit our cutouts of perfection.  I have decided that the straight community is equally as bad, if not worse, to those who are different—especially the men.  Chad and I were downtown last weekend after seeing The Hulk (surprisingly really, really good).  While we were there, we were walking down Writer’s Square and then through Lairmer to get to the gelato shop my brother works at.  A foreign couple (maybe British, I couldn’t quite make out their accent) was in front of us the entire way.  The man was dressed up in a suit jacket and a kilt.  The woman was clothed in a slinky leopard print dress.  They obviously had money.  They were middle aged.  Now, not to put all the blame on the straighties, I thought some judgmental thoughts too.  For him, I thought, ‘wow, takes balls to wear that kilt down here, but I don’t really think he has balls that I want to see.’  For her, I thought, ‘A little old for that dress, sweetie, and really, that back fat doesn’t look so great hanging over your top.’  To be fair she had a great body, and I have tons more back (and other) fat than she will ever have.  It just wasn’t something you typically see.  In Writer’s Square a man, who was having dinner on a patio at a fancy restaurant, screams across the breezeway, “Should have left your bed sheets at home, sweetie.”  Me, being the paranoid faggot I am, thought he was yelling something towards Chad and me for being gay, because we wear a big neon sign above our heads say that we like cock.  Chad had to repeat what the man said so that I would calm down.  Yes, I am getting that old, and yes we are that couple at the movies.  Thank God, he can hear, movies would be very confusing for me.  A few minutes later, as we were crossing the street onto Larimer, another man yells at the woman, “Should’ve gone with the Zebra print.”  Now, I don’t know if she was really that classy or if she just couldn’t hear, but she played it perfectly, she kept her face with a smile on it and never paused, either time.  I was so upset.  On so many levels.  On the most basic, how can we treat each other in such a way?  On another, how has our society de-evolved to a place where common respect for women is not the norm?  Finally, what is wrong with straight people’s fashion taste when they would choose to ridicule a woman in a leopard print when there was a kilt wearing man right beside her (not that there’s anything wrong with that, who I am to judge—I just bought a new Ariel doll today, she's adorable, thank you very much!). 

Celebration

A new decade had begun, and with a bang!  I knew Chad and KE were planning something, but they wouldn’t tell me what the plan was.  I got home from the last day of teaching for the season, which was present enough, and Chad kissed me, told me to go say hi to the dogs and then told me to pack, that I had about 15-20 minutes.  He still wouldn’t tell me where we were going.  We drove to KE’s house and loaded up his new beautiful car.  He gave me his birthday present—a gorgeous copper mermaid weathervane for my yard (perfection).  Soon, GB showed up and we took off.  They still wouldn’t tell me where we were going.  A little over an hour later, KE hand’s me the invitation that went out to everyone.  Turns out, they rented a house in Breckenridge and ten of us were going to stay Friday and Saturday night.  The house was a mansion, gorgeous!  Chad and MD went together and got me a gift card to help me finish the tattoo, so that will get done this summer.  Over a year later, lol.  I could fill up pages telling about how wonderful this weekend was, but I am dying to get the photo album of the weekend together (writing the book will have to wait until tomorrow).  It was hands down the best birthday of my life.  It was one of those pivotal moments in your life that will standout as a highpoint of all memories.  Such and outpouring of love, it was humbling and amazing.  I have THE BEST boyfriend and friends ever!  What a wonderful way to start this next period of my life.

XXX

I remember clearly on my 15th birthday thinking, ‘Wow, I am halfway to thirty.’ What different experience thinking, ‘Wow, I am halfway to sixty!’ The second half of those fifteen years went so much faster than the first, of course they were so much more eventful—a lot less years spent pooping in a diaper. How fast must the next thirty go. How much more eventful.
I have never dreaded my thirties. I think they will be amazing. Most of my twenties were spent finishing school, in therapy learning not to be gay, coming to terms and then rejoicing in said gayness, learning to think on my own, love with reason, and accept the facts of this life—the joyous and the harsh. I imagine thirty’s to be filled with real living, no longer attempting to answer every question, but seizing every moment. Hopefully seeing some dreams/goals come to fruition.
I am starting my next decade in a state of serenity that evaded me when I began the previous decade. I adore my family, every aspect of them. I have a man I intend to spend my life with. I have two puppies, a house, some degrees, a ‘career,’ a career dream, self-awareness and assurance, a non-conflicted (at least comparatively) relationship with God, lots of tattoos, and tons of debt. Ok, I’d like to erase the debt part by my next decade, but still…
Of course, I am tempted to try to be deep and enlightened. I am tempted to list all my worries. I am tempted to ramble about all the things I would like to be better at over this next decade.
This, instead, is what I will say. I have never been more grateful for life I have been given, namely due to the people I have been given in my life, including, myself. It is true the more you have, the more you have to loose. However, the more opportunity one has for loss and hurt, the more love is actually present. I never dreamed life would be as wonderful as it really is, or as hard at times. I give thanks to God for the life He continues to bestow and the gifts He continues to allow me to enjoy.
As Tim McGraw says, “Damn, I’m hot!” Actually, I have never heard him say that, but if I were him, I for sure as hell would. Then I would have Faith sing to me and get me a cheeseburger. So, as he really says, here’s to ‘my next thirty years!’ Lord willing… :)

poem

Ivy and Brick

Its obsession, the spring of its existence
Its passion, the nourishment that prompts insistent growth
Its adulation, the quest to flourish higher and higher
Its love, the purpose to embrace every inch

Wrapping ever tighter, never close enough
Wrapping ever more copiously, lush foliage tenderly caressing
Wrapping ever devoted, seeking a path inside
Wrapping ever more secure, only safe when entwined

Cold and hard, ever unswerving and immobile
Solid to the core, unaware of adoration enfolding
Unmoved, neither enraptured nor concerned
Crumbling, the only response

Rush to the firing squad

“I’m dreaming of riots in Denver,” sang less than melodiously to the tune of “Dreaming of a White Christmas.” Who re-mastered this Christmas classic? Osama? Hitler? Jerry Falwell? No. Of course not. All of them can carry a tune. It was crooned by Rush Limbaugh.
For over a week, he has talked about how he wants riots and violence in Denver’s streets during the Democratic Convention this year. It is one more angle in his Project Chaos, a movement to help overthrow the Democrat party. In his way of thinking, it would show what type of people make up the Democrat party and help insure the election of a Republican candidate. (Especially interesting since he can’t stand McCain—If there was ever a higher complement to McCain I have yet to hear it.)
I remember as a kid when people in the Bible Belt looked at Rush as some type of hero. I went a long with that train of thought. Without knowing anything of politics or the world, I recall looking at his books in bookstores and hoping that I could be a great man like him one day. The thought makes me want to vomit. I have long been used to seeing him as a self-indulgent, self-loving, public masturbating (which typically is a good thing) of his ego, self obsessed quack and have been able to shrug off his latest rant or rave. This latest tirade hit me a little more seriously. By the time I was done listening to my talk radio (which was sort of condemning his comment and yet veraciously taking up for Rush) I was screaming and cursing in my car. The amount of people who called in who were supporting the comment (people in Denver!) and making excuse after excuse of why Rush’s comments were justified complete sickened me.
In a day and age where we have mass shootings and killings more often than Elton John includes pink and green polkadots in his ensemble, it is unfathomable for a human (he is not a Man) who is to so many a hero to the ‘American way of life’ to encourage riots or talk about how he is dreaming of seeing violence in another American city. It is also bewildering to me how Howard Stern and Imus lost their shows (even if for a moment) and Rush is still allowed to walk into a studio.
I am much more Republican than I am Democrat in most areas. I can’t imagine how those on the far Left feel about his comments. Even more so, I can’t believe no one is truly nailing this asshole to the wall.
What kind of society are we?

The Deity and the Degenerate

My classroom para-educator took a few moments from instructing our little angels a couple days ago to offer me a sight that left me disturbed and ill-at-ease. She pulled up some news site on the internet and showed me the picture of a little girl in India born with two faces. Everything else seemingly normal, except for two faces. From what I can tell, two different completely functional faces. The parents say they feed whichever mouth is the handiest, and while the first face is drinking, the other sucks a thumb. Naturally, the locals are worshiping her as a goddess. Who knows, maybe in time, she will grow up to be twice as beautiful as Aphrodite.
When I got home, I wanted Chad to be disturbed as well. I have a very sharing personality. Lucky him. As he is more inquisitive than I, he continued to read the article and view other pictures. Apparently, somewhere down the block in India, our two faced little goddess (that is not derogatory, just because she has two faces doesn’t mean that she will be a back stabber—we will probably have to form a more politically correct saying for the original meaning of two-faced) has a little neighborhood friend to play with that may be sympathetic to her plight. This other little girl was born with one face, but with four arms and four legs. She could have been looking at Olympic greatness in the both the track & field events as well as in gymnastics. Alas, her dreams were cut short as her parents allowed a doctor to put her under the knife and remove her extra-special appendages. Now, she is boring like the rest of us. The question that comes to my mind, and will probably come to hers as well, making it ultimately impossible for her to be friends will our famed little goddess is, how come two faces makes you a deity, and two sets of limbs makes you a freak? Doesn’t quite seem fair. There are going to be some jealousy and inferiority complex therapy session in store for that little girl.
I couldn’t help but think about the Simpson’s episode with the frogs that are poisoned and growing extra limbs and eyes. It seems nearly every time I hear about such malformations on innocent children, they are on children who decided to be born in India. Maybe this is not specific to India and I am just poorly informed, or maybe India just has better media/tabloid coverage. Or maybe, just maybe, people should move from India or expand the gene pool. Of course, if I was in the process of repopulating the ancient gods of Greece and Rome, I might stay too.
Our American version of producing adequate royalty and deity children is not quite as grounded in genetics and happenstances of birth. We, in the true American way, have to work for what we have. It’s how we keep our pride; our firm grasp on what is important and genuine. Sometimes we face persecution for our dedication to bettering our children and the forthcoming generations. Such is the case of a local couple. They did not rely on their child being born special. No, they decided to work on it. Unfortunately, they did not agree on which path would be the most appropriate for their four year old little boy. In all reports, he only had one face, one nose, one penis, and ten toes. Sad, right? Well, thank Zeus for dedicated parents. His mother wanted to raise him as a Crypt (or a blood, I don’t recall which color went better with her complexion). His father wanted him to be raised firmly in the beliefs and standards of a lesser known, but no less respected, gang. Truly a father and mother willing to put aside their relationship for the good of their toddler’s future. They were both taken into custody when their disagreement of how to best care for their son became a physical and not so quiet altercation.
Can we really blame them? The Man is always doing his part to keep down those of us who are hard working and determined. It’s so much easier in the Indies.

lions and house elves

In staying with my typical routine, I have been listening to books on tape/CD every morning as I drive to work (often with a Caribou Coffee in my hands)—in the afternoons on the way home, I call my folks and then listen to conservative political talk radio. Innocent child in the morning, fat traditionalist angry preacher in the afternoon. Works well.
A while ago, I purchased the entire set of The Chronicles of Narnia on CD, each book read by a different celebrity—most of whom I have never heard of. Although one of them was read by the guy who played Prince Humperdink on “The Princess Bride”—that one was hard to take serious, but it was fun. Reading that series of books was an event that had remained a nearly sacred segment from my childhood. I remember being severely depressed when I had finished them because there weren’t any more.
Going back through them has been a mixture of pleasure, bittersweetness, and bizarre. Things are so completely different from an adult perspective. Parts that I remember being terrified of as a child seem almost silly and obvious now. Other parts that were boring before are now beautiful and somewhat awe-inspiring. I am now on the fourth one, The Silver Chair, which I loved as a kid. Although, the third one, Voyage of the Dawn Treader, is still my favorite. And, yes, I listen to them in the old fashioned order, not this new mixed up chronology. I don’t care if Lewis approved of the new way. He was wrong.
At any rate, in The Silver Chair, the main female lead is named Jill. That is the name of my best friend’s wife. As such, for the entire book, I have pictured her as a small child going through these adventures. Her character is nothing like the personality of the Jill in the book (which is good, as the little girl can be rather annoying at times), but it has made the experience more enjoyable.
In this morning’s passage (in pure dated style), there was a whole section of Puddleglum deciding that he and the children needed to act gay in order to escape the home of the giants (before they were the main course at the feast—even though he and the children hadn’t yet figured that out, somehow). Of course, gay meaning happy and lighthearted. However, after a whole paragraph talking about how to be gay, including frolicking about and pasting a hideous grin on one’s face, the whole section became rather ironic and hysterical. I received much more enjoyment out of that passage than I am sure I did a child, even though I knew I liked boys at the time I read it, I had no idea what gay was. Which was probably a good thing, as I would have been devastated to read about being gay and the series would have been ruined forever.
One of the reasons I had been so excited to return to these seven books (interesting that there were seven) was that I wanted to compare them to the seven Harry Potter, better than Sonic cheeseburger, books. There have been so many fundamentalists (not all by any stretch, just the stupid ones) who have been so adamantly against Harry Potter yet in favor of the Narnia books, that I had to see for myself. With a few exceptions where C. S. Lewis is nearly sickeningly preaching, the similarities are blaring in a vast assortment of ways. Not really in plot or story lines, but most defiantly in setting, magics, themes, and supporting characters. Their blindness and hypocrisy in their view of these two series is blindingly ridiculous. And, from a literary standpoint, I must say that I feel Rowling’s writing is vastly superior.
As far as the religious implications of Narnia, I will say this, Lewis nailed the ungraspability of God in his characterization of the lion. Half the time, I am so frustrated with the vagueness and mixed messages of untainted warmth and love and opposing silence and distance. Very much echoing many of my experiences with God. He also was able to nail some of my frustrations with the Bible through the lion. So often, Aslan sends the children on missions with vague clues when he could have handled things himself in a matter of moments, or at least been explicit so that he wouldn’t be so perturbed when the children act like the humans they are.
I am anxious to finish the other three books and see how my feelings continue to grow or shift, as, if memory holds true, the last ones have more religious overtones. Either way, these books really have remained, for the most part, timeless and ones that every child (or adult) should read.
Until the next installment of Literature Review from the Fag’s Point of View, I wish you happy reading, and, as always, happy eating.

they say the gays are cultured and refined

Fair Warning: If you are eating, have a weak constitution, or are nursing small children, do not read the following Ramblings submission.

As I am sure I have said before, it takes a lot to really embarrass me. It doesn’t take much (if anything) to make me feel self-conscious or not-good-enough, but it does take a fairly special happening to make me want to turn away in shame or crawl into a dark hole until everyone else has gone far, far away. Most of the time, I don’t really care what people think. However, if the thing that they might possibly think is, ‘Oh, dear God! He is the most disgusting thing I have seen in forever!” then that is a different story altogether.
I have been sick for about a couple months. I get a cold and it lasts for a few weeks, then I think I am ok. Sure enough, a bit later, here comes another cold with a different assortment of symptoms. My principal assures me this is just run of the mill for a first year teacher. I would think since I have been counseling/teaching kids for the past eight years I would be able to bypass that particular gift of joy from the children. Apparently not. This latest blissful infestation has been a ton of coughing, occasional chills, exhaustion, an appetite that is never satiated (I have never experienced anything like this hunger before—really helping ‘my-so-called-diet’), and lots and lots and lots and lots of snot. So much snot that it not only requires me to blow my nose in a near constant fashion, but also is relentlessly draining down my throat. As my stomach prefers cheeseburgers, tortillas, and cookie dough to snot, I am often on the verge of throwing up. This is especially true in the mornings. I am constantly gagging and nearly tossing my cookies—thus far I have just been regurgitating 80’s neon yellow and green slime, complete with chunky egg yolkish lumps (told ya not to read this). With all the nausea, you would think it was morning sickness. Luckily, I am on The Pill, so there shouldn’t be a problem. If there is, someone’s gonna receive a nasty letter.
All of this said to let you understand my state of existence as of late.
Well, this morning, as per normal, I drop Chad off at his work in Downtown Denver at one of the high-rise law firm building. After he gets out, I stop in a crosswalk at the stoplight before I can turn and head back to the highway to go to school. While at this mentioned red light, one more glorificus wave of slimy nausea rolls over me. I crack open my door, make a loud plethora of cacophonous old man sounds and retch as I force the pulsing goo from my belly, through my throat, out my door, and onto the street. Relieved that I can once again breathe and that I have, for the time being managed to not officially throw up (one of my top least favorite pastimes) I glance up as I return my door to its shut and rightful position. During this task, I take in two women (maybe lawyers, I don’t know) in business suits, less than two feet in front of me, walking to my door. In revulsion, they split. One going in front of the car, the other going behind. There were many others around, however, they thankful blurred in my vision, so my acknowledged humiliation was limited. I quickly made my turn and squelched the instinct to look in the rearview mirror.

who ever said that I claimed to be in my right mind?

Got to school early today, about an hour before my kids would arrive. This morning, besides getting my math lesson prepared, I had getting some IEP reports written at the top of my agenda. As you know, I like to write, so I don’t really hate doing reports. I had my iPod prepped to the playlist I was going to use (Writer’s Muse) and turned my computer on. As always, the first thing I do is check email and voice mail.
No new urgent emails.
One new voice message:
My son brought home a huge chunk of glass and said you gave it to him. I have a hard time believing this, as I can’t see how a teacher in his right mind would give his students a hunk of glass that could be a weapon that could be used to throw through my head or the heads of my other kids. Call me back on my cell phone as soon as you get this.
(all this said in a rather loud, aggressive, sarcastic, and superior tone, a tone I respond so well too…….)
In short, it is over an hour before I am calm enough to be able to talk to my students, and the reports were not thought of again the rest of the day. Thank goodness I get to school early.
So, why did this teacher give his students a hunk of glass? Well, here’s the deal. As you may have read, Chad and I went to San Diego over Spring Break. While we were there, we took a little excursion to Sea World. The kids had asked me to bring them something back, as they knew I was going to California (we all shared our Spring Break plans). I intentionally waited until we went to Sea World to purchase a keepsake to bring back to my kids, because one of my kids (the one that has been the biggest challenge this year, and the one that was mentioned in the message I got) is obsessed with fish and things in the ocean (an obsession I can understand—where do mermaids live?). I purchase twelve of those 4x2x2 inch glass blocks that have the 3D images lasered into it. I got half killer whales and half a polar bear mother and cub. They were about six dollars a piece. I thought about getting them a pencil or some candy. But, I wanted get them something cool that wasn’t too expensive and that they could keep a long time. Maybe something they could look back and say, ‘Wow, that was neat. I bet that teacher really cared about me.’
How silly of me.
When I worked at the residential treatment center, on more than one occasion, I had parents call or come in and verbally assault me because I took away TV privileges from their child for the weekend. They would ask if I realized what all their child had been through. They would remind me that their child had been raped, physically and verbally and emotionally abused. They would ask me how heartless I was to treat their poor child in such an atrocious manner.
The thing that was never spoken.
The thing that we both knew?
They were the one that had raped or molested their child or sold their child as a prostitute so they could buy drugs. They were the one who had beaten, starved, or left their child in the desert. They were the one who forced their child to walk on glass barefoot. They were the ones who would scream at their child that they were worthless, evil, should have been aborted, and should never been born.

of things of then and now

I had two days of my spring break set aside to write on my novel. I was supposed to start two hours ago, snug in my little coffee shop on this crisp, cold, dreary day. Instead I am at my house waiting for a service man who promised to be by this morning. People suck. Yes, of course, I know that I could be writing here. But I am a creature of habit and a creature made of pure stubbornness. My plan has not had a chance to come to fruition, so I can’t do any part of it. I will wait until he shows or I simply give up and leave. Of course, that doesn’t mean that I can’t blog. Often that helps get me in the right space to write anyway. It also gave me time to do research on strokes for one of the characters in my book, now that was happy reading.
I was just reading the latest entry in my friend’s blog (http://lambentmind.blogspot.com/ [check it out]). His writing is very different than mine, but I often can relate to what he is speaking about. Plus it is just nice to know about his life. This particular entry was about the surreal strangeness of talking to his parents on Easter while they were going through their traditions of which he used to be a part of, and now is not. That strikes me often. How so very different life is that what I thought it would be, how different I am. I have very pleasant memories of church, religion, and all the traditional ‘rituals’ that surrounded me when I was growing up (all except those that constantly had me in terror of hell and forever told me I was wretched and vile, but, you know, nothins’ perfect). I believed in them all. Fervently. I don’t now, at least not in the same way. With the exception of when I hear TB’s teachings, I can’t even handle being in a church service. It all sounds so trite and overdone. I swear I haven’t heard anything new or truly thought provoking in years in a typical church service. Maybe one of the dangers of going to Christian school for so much of my life and attending church three times a week for twenty years.
Mom was discussing things with me over the phone the other day. We were talking about her love for me (which never ceases to amaze me how much my family really loves me) and about her fear due to the whole gay-vs-Bible thing. I told her, yet again, that I truly am not afraid of hell anymore, and that I don’t believe it is simply because I have suffocated my conscience, and that I still believe in God and love Him. Although I don’t believe He is the same god as He was presented to be from the pulpit and through some parts of the Bible. She confided that with that one exception that she could not picture anyone getting into Heaven if I couldn’t (I am paraphrasing), that she doesn’t know anyone kinder, more loving, etc., etc. She thinks I am better than I am. I only hope to one day really live up to her image of me.
I do miss absolute truth. Knowing things black and white and not having any questions. There was comfort in that, at least a form of it at any rate. Now I read that Bible and so many parts don’t add up. Things I never questioned, now are blaringly either contradictory or repulsive. The little boy who had all the answers who lived with the heat of the fires of hell on his back has grown into a man who has very few (if any) answers who rests comfortably in the belief that he will wallow in paradise.
Geesh!

United

Here we are at the San Diego airport. Waiting. Waiting to get on our plane that will take us back to the mountains, to the puppies, and to snow. Goodbye beach, goodbye seals, goodbye homemade tortillas.
It is amazing how an experience that filled you with such fond memories, relived comforts, and enjoyable firsts can be momentarily forgotten by the suffocating weight of other people’s humanity. Or lack thereof. It starts with your suitcase being five pounds too heavy. Then somehow that five pounds equating to fifty dollars of extra fees. In a frantic, you open your suitcase and grab out the five suggested items and stuff them in your boyfriend’s satchel. In a rush, you fling your suitcase back onto the weigher machine where it says that has magically gained weight. With an unappreciated chuckle, the ‘attendant’ pauses momentarily as the weigher adjusts and shows that the suitcase is now only half a pound over the limit. In an act of divine graciousness, she smiles and says that she will let that pass. Isn’t she a sweetest? After that, you head onto to the security lines to unpack everything in your computer bag, removed your belt, shoes, and everything you wouldn’t want stolen and send it through a cancer inducing machine. As you walk through a similar human sized cancer contraption, you glance over at your boyfriend as he passes through a comparable checkpoint. The friendly Uniworkers are taking out the brown paper wrapped parcels that you removed from your oh sooo heavy suitcase and placed in his carry-on bag. You turn away in disgust as you realize that your San Diego-made jam you bought for you Dunkyn-n-Dolan-sitting parents is going to be tossed in the trash. You continue on your way through the cloning line and reclaim your lost items. Finally you take a seat in the awaiting plane area an hour and a half early only to be informed shortly that your flight is going to be delayed two more hours. Really? And they didn’t even have the courtesy to have the cute military boys strip search you…
I am sure that I when we return home that we will be able to recall that vacation was in all actuality extremely wonderful. Chad loved San Diego nearly as much as I do. Plus he bought a little ukulele type toy guitar. So, happiness. I am sure it will bring us closer together when it is brought out on quiet, peaceful nights back home.
Well, I was going to offer more thoughts/fears/insights about the possible/probably move to San Diego someday, but Chad purchased some SD playing cards. So time to play while we wait upon our long lost plane.

of feathers and sand

I woke up on a cloud this morning. I wanted to sink into it, letting the softness overtake my body, the whiteness cover my eyes, its lure lull me into unconsciousness—never again to wake. Chad and I just purchased a memory foam mattress and a featherbed pillow top covering. The memory foam is still airing out downstairs, but judging from the first night sleeping in feathers, this may be the last anyone will every hear from me. I will be lost in the world of dreams and oblivion. A true sign of age. I used to hate going to bed. It was such a waste of time. Now, I can’t think of anything more wonderful. Well, maybe a cheeseburger.
After school tomorrow, Spring Break begins. Chad and I are rushing to the airport and zooming to San Diego. He has never been. I am anxious for him to experience it, since that is where he will spend the rest of his days. On the beach, reading a book, eating endless homemade tortillas (a food I like even more than cheeseburgers). I hope he likes it as much as I do, as I have plans for us to live there one day. I have no idea how that will ever come to pass, short of ending up on the best sellers list or winning the lotto (preferably both, but if I had to choose, it would be the first one). Of course, my family would have to move with me. How can you be enmeshed when you are a thousand miles apart? Can’t wait!!!
Can’t you just see it? I would lock myself up in a little shack on the beach (and by little shack, I mean a darling little stone cottage with bay windows, winding chimney, and a fairy tale perfect backyard), writing a novel as the wind plays with my never graying hair and caresses my ever-bulging muscles while Dunkyn and Dolan sleep at my feet, and Chad waits in the other room waiting with tortillas and burgers, ready to make love. Sigh. Gonna happen.
It surprises me how much this thought really does thrill me (even the realistic version). I swore a few years ago that I would never move from Colorado. I love the mountains and all my friends are here. All that is still true. However, sleep is not the only new realization that comes with old age. When I was a kid, dad would always tell me that family were the only ones that I would be guaranteed would be with me my whole life (as long as life allowed anyway). I always scoffed and felt him to be unfriendly. I now understand what he meant, and am gradually reaching the place where I can accept it without sadness.
A few years ago I would have said that my number of everlasting friends were countless. I still love all of my friends. However, I am coming to find very few are everlasting (what really is after all?). I can count on less than two hands the friends that I now know will be with me forever, and even some of those will not always be ones I see weekly, or even yearly. Surprisingly, I am ok with this realization. I think it is probably true for everyone. I am sure I have talked about this before, but it is striking more and more true all the time. People change so much and life requires change; it is only natural. It doesn’t lessen the love between friends and the treasure of what we share. It may only be seasonal, that doesn’t change its beauty. The ones that last a lifetime may be even less flowery and beautiful, but they will be the strong ones, ones that endure. So, what are you left with? Well, if you are truly lucky and blessed: yourself, your spouse, your family, your dogs, your books, and God. Pretty good deal, if you ask me.

Thinking should be banned

And yet, here I sit. Hours later. Many tears later. When I should be sleeping. Acknowledging that I truly am the ‘girl.’ With all the love that I feel and with how unbelievably happy I am with life and with how I believe I have found the man I want to give my life to, with all of that, I am terrified. Truly terrified. I have more to loose than I have ever had before. Partly, I think I have just recently realized that I truly have given my entire heart to someone. I think there has always been some part of me that I have held on reserve from Chad. Not holding it for someone else, not saving it for something better. Just keeping, protecting it. Making sure that no matter what happens, good or bad, that I would have just enough of myself that had been set aside that I would be able to let it out of the jar if anything bad would happen. So I wouldn’t crumble into nothing, into despair, into someone lost. I don’t think I was doing it on purpose. And now, I am not even sure when it happened, but surely not that long ago. I would have noticed. Somehow that jar must have opened up or broken. There is not one bit of me left that has not been given over to him. Not that I am not still me. I am. I haven’t lost myself. Still Brandon. I have been down that road before and that is not where I am. In some ways, this is a lot more dangerous. This time, if things crash, it really will be the real Brandon that burns. And with this realization that I have given him all my heart and laid in him the hope of a life built together, a future not as individuals or boyfriends, but of two lives waning into one, comes the fear.
Before, for the most part, I could just enjoy everything. Now, I am so aware of how I could fuck it up. I could drive him crazy. I could tell him I love him too much. That really is possible. It could become boring and trite. Now that I am scared, I can become too clingy and ‘mothering’, trying to make things perfect so he is happy, while, in reality, simply smothering him.
And what if, like in cases I have seen with people I care about dearly, in two or three years, he decides, ‘you know, I’m done. I am not really ready to be in this for the long haul. There are other people I want to be with. There are things much more tantalizing than a white picket fence and yard work.’ What then? Even marriage doesn’t guarantee anything. Not really. People are still people. There are no guarantees.
And, I think, because of that fear, I am looking for things that I wasn’t before. In every kiss, I am searching for a promise, in every touch, a declaration. I want him to read my mind, know what I am thinking, be able to sense my fear that I try to hide and constantly reassure me that I am safe. That he knows he has my heart and that he will protect it. That he wants to protect it. Hell, I want him to wake up from his sleep of exhaustion he is in right now and instinctively know that I am having an emotional crisis.
Dear God, I am nearly thirty and four years older than him, and I want him to protect my heart like a child.
Good thing I already knew I am the littlest bit crazy, huh?
I can’t imagine that these feelings are unique to me. Surely even people who have been married for years experience them too. Maybe even he feels them. Although I am pretty sure that I am hogging them enough that no one else on our block is able to partake in the feast.
And, how much does a person say? I have a tendency to over-analyze. I know, the world gasped in shock. So I can really beat that dead horse until there’s enough glue to mend any situation. How do I share my feelings and fears without drowning him when the floodgates open? And, how do I verbalize such things without hurting the love we have?
Luckily, for tonight, as I have been sick, I am able to take a dose of Nyquil and pass out. At least I hope so.
Either way, falling into a drug induced coma or lying awake in a state of analytical terror, I will be beside the man love. Hopefully snoring. I love it when he snores.