1. Jude Law, circa 1996
2. Roger Smith, circa 1961
3. Robert Downey Jr, circa sobriety
4. Marlon Brando, circa 1951
5. Jake Gyllenhaal. Now and forever.
December 31, 2006
The Five Men I Wish Would Show Up and Give Me a New Year's Kiss
In random order, with the assumption that a working time machine can be found before midnight.
1. Jude Law, circa 1996
2. Roger Smith, circa 1961
3. Robert Downey Jr, circa sobriety
4. Marlon Brando, circa 1951
5. Jake Gyllenhaal. Now and forever.
1. Jude Law, circa 1996
2. Roger Smith, circa 1961
3. Robert Downey Jr, circa sobriety
4. Marlon Brando, circa 1951
5. Jake Gyllenhaal. Now and forever.
December 25, 2006
So, how was your Christmas?
I’ve never been one for holidays, be it Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, the Fourth of July, or whatever other days marked for a few days off from school with most businesses closed, probably with an extended weekend involved. I’d like to think that now that I’ve graduated and won’t be heading to grad school for at least another year I’ll be saved from the banal comments from classmates, I have more than a slight suspicion that once I do find a job, I’ll be forced to endure more of the same, only I’ll have to worry about impressing my superiors and placating my coworkers to show I am a ‘team player.’
It’s almost always the same response, starting the day after the holiday. That’s ok though, because it’s always the same question. I’ve fine-tuned my response, milking it to give as much information in a few seconds and eliminating anyone’s desire for a follow-up question. My eyes glass over, my right eyebrow cocks downward as that eye begins to squint, my nostrils flare, my lower jaw extended. Disgruntled sigh, “It was…” I let the S trail off, giving way into another disgruntled sigh which, under different circumstances, could be interpreted as a grunt. A few seconds of silence, which I would describe as deafening if A) that weren’t a cliché, and B) I thought that phrase made sense. I will say that the silence is palpable, and fraught with the verbs that are normally associated with the word fraught. “Fine.” The F is explosive much in the way the F in ‘fuck’ or ‘faggot’ is, given more weight when you know the syllables following it are filled with tension and meaning.
I never really know what else to say. I’ve never been good at small talk, and there are a lot of things I feel more comfortable writing and blogging about as opposed to saying them to casual strangers and friends of my parents, to former classmates and ex-coworkers, people I vaguely know from church and co-stars from the community theatre plays I whored myself out to during junior and senior high school. I’ve never been one to wear all black, but I have always been the ‘artistic’ one, so I can usually get away with it.
As easy as it is to come up with small anecdotes to write and blog about, I’ve never been good at weaving them into casual conversation.
Do I tell the story about the tree? My parents were too lazy to get the tree before I returned home, and so my sister and I were forced to search on the 23rd for the last tree available in the tri-county area. The next day, between services of midnight mass, the tree mysteriously falls down, with no one in the room to blame, and the light bulbs break, along with 3/4s of the ornaments. We decided it would be easier to take the tree out to the curb now, instead of having a few days with an undecorated, unlit tree taking up space in the living room. We had a tree for a little over 27 hours.
Do I tell stories of what I got, and what I didn’t get? I got lots of clothing, some jeans and sweatshirts and dress shirts, all of which need to be returned due to sizes and/or butt-ugliness. I got an electronic sudoku puzzle thing, some nagging books about finding a job and resume building, and earmuffs. No DVDs, no CDs, and no iPod, goddamnit. At least my sisters gave me a few tshirts from threadless and Santa gave me an IOU for a new pair of glasses, because the ones I have are on their last legs.
Do I tell the story about church? How we went to the early, 4 o’clock service, which was family-oriented, in order to gawk at the small children dressed in their Sunday finest and trying their hardest to be behaved, only to find that the music selections were weak, painfully weak? As cute as the little kids were, there just wasn’t enough music for our family to really believe it was Christmas. (We’re music snobs, especially my sister and me, who spent most of our elementary and secondary school careers in every single Christmas pageant, show, and choral concert known to the English language.) We returned for midnight mass, only to realize that without the little children present, we would have to actually listen to the sermon, and that the new minister is incredibly boring. Also, most of my family is unaccustomed to staying up that late, and therefore overcompensated by drinking too many caffeinated beverages, which left my younger sisters especially jittery and anxious.
Do I talk about how my plans to spend New Years in Minneapolis fell through? Do I talk about the awkward time at my grandparents, who gave long winded speeches about living through the Depression and trying to find whatever jobs they could get, and how I shouldn’t be so greedy and just take a job at McDonalds for a while? Do I say that I found out my Dad doesn’t believe in global warming? Do I say that I stepped on a scale for the first time in 5 months and I now weigh 182 lbs, more than I have ever weighed? Do I talk about how my Dad forgot to replace the screens for the windows in my room, and how I unknowingly slept for the first few nights with the windows open, freezing?
It all just gets too complicated. Well, complicated and whiny. Sure, my way is antisocial and rude, but as an aspiring professional writer and artfag I can get away with the moodiness and misanthropy. Kinda.
Although later this week when I leave home and return to my apartment, and invariably bump into the few friends who will be staying in town as I search for a job, I think I am going to say that my Christmas was right eye squinting, nostrils flared, lower jaw extended, “Adequate.” The ‘ah’ will be more like an ‘ugh,’ and the ‘qua’ will be as explosive as ‘queer,’ to be sure. I just want to mix it up a bit. And possibly allude to Lindsey Lohan, except I don’t think I’m quite that gay.
It’s almost always the same response, starting the day after the holiday. That’s ok though, because it’s always the same question. I’ve fine-tuned my response, milking it to give as much information in a few seconds and eliminating anyone’s desire for a follow-up question. My eyes glass over, my right eyebrow cocks downward as that eye begins to squint, my nostrils flare, my lower jaw extended. Disgruntled sigh, “It was…” I let the S trail off, giving way into another disgruntled sigh which, under different circumstances, could be interpreted as a grunt. A few seconds of silence, which I would describe as deafening if A) that weren’t a cliché, and B) I thought that phrase made sense. I will say that the silence is palpable, and fraught with the verbs that are normally associated with the word fraught. “Fine.” The F is explosive much in the way the F in ‘fuck’ or ‘faggot’ is, given more weight when you know the syllables following it are filled with tension and meaning.
I never really know what else to say. I’ve never been good at small talk, and there are a lot of things I feel more comfortable writing and blogging about as opposed to saying them to casual strangers and friends of my parents, to former classmates and ex-coworkers, people I vaguely know from church and co-stars from the community theatre plays I whored myself out to during junior and senior high school. I’ve never been one to wear all black, but I have always been the ‘artistic’ one, so I can usually get away with it.
As easy as it is to come up with small anecdotes to write and blog about, I’ve never been good at weaving them into casual conversation.
Do I tell the story about the tree? My parents were too lazy to get the tree before I returned home, and so my sister and I were forced to search on the 23rd for the last tree available in the tri-county area. The next day, between services of midnight mass, the tree mysteriously falls down, with no one in the room to blame, and the light bulbs break, along with 3/4s of the ornaments. We decided it would be easier to take the tree out to the curb now, instead of having a few days with an undecorated, unlit tree taking up space in the living room. We had a tree for a little over 27 hours.
Do I tell stories of what I got, and what I didn’t get? I got lots of clothing, some jeans and sweatshirts and dress shirts, all of which need to be returned due to sizes and/or butt-ugliness. I got an electronic sudoku puzzle thing, some nagging books about finding a job and resume building, and earmuffs. No DVDs, no CDs, and no iPod, goddamnit. At least my sisters gave me a few tshirts from threadless and Santa gave me an IOU for a new pair of glasses, because the ones I have are on their last legs.
Do I tell the story about church? How we went to the early, 4 o’clock service, which was family-oriented, in order to gawk at the small children dressed in their Sunday finest and trying their hardest to be behaved, only to find that the music selections were weak, painfully weak? As cute as the little kids were, there just wasn’t enough music for our family to really believe it was Christmas. (We’re music snobs, especially my sister and me, who spent most of our elementary and secondary school careers in every single Christmas pageant, show, and choral concert known to the English language.) We returned for midnight mass, only to realize that without the little children present, we would have to actually listen to the sermon, and that the new minister is incredibly boring. Also, most of my family is unaccustomed to staying up that late, and therefore overcompensated by drinking too many caffeinated beverages, which left my younger sisters especially jittery and anxious.
Do I talk about how my plans to spend New Years in Minneapolis fell through? Do I talk about the awkward time at my grandparents, who gave long winded speeches about living through the Depression and trying to find whatever jobs they could get, and how I shouldn’t be so greedy and just take a job at McDonalds for a while? Do I say that I found out my Dad doesn’t believe in global warming? Do I say that I stepped on a scale for the first time in 5 months and I now weigh 182 lbs, more than I have ever weighed? Do I talk about how my Dad forgot to replace the screens for the windows in my room, and how I unknowingly slept for the first few nights with the windows open, freezing?
It all just gets too complicated. Well, complicated and whiny. Sure, my way is antisocial and rude, but as an aspiring professional writer and artfag I can get away with the moodiness and misanthropy. Kinda.
Although later this week when I leave home and return to my apartment, and invariably bump into the few friends who will be staying in town as I search for a job, I think I am going to say that my Christmas was right eye squinting, nostrils flared, lower jaw extended, “Adequate.” The ‘ah’ will be more like an ‘ugh,’ and the ‘qua’ will be as explosive as ‘queer,’ to be sure. I just want to mix it up a bit. And possibly allude to Lindsey Lohan, except I don’t think I’m quite that gay.
December 20, 2006
For Phil
This post is inspired by/in response to Micifus, who recently came out to his parents.
It was the night before my 19th birthday, the first week in August. I was head over heels over my first boyfriend, and after about six weeks, I was just starting to get clingy as a reaction to my anxieties over college. I had pretty successfully severed most ties with my high school friends though various things I said, and thankfully he was around to fill my time (and my various orifices).
He had an event already planned for the night of my birthday, hosting a MoveOn event at a bar downtown. I understood, but kind of guilted him into letting me spend the night so we could ‘celebrate’ that morning.
It’s always awkward the summer between high school and college, where students of unsure of how much freedom they really have, and parents don’t know what to discipline and what to turn a blind eye towards.
I went out to my car to head over to his place around 7 for a late dinner and an extended night of ‘merriment,’ only to find that my car wouldn’t start. My car was older than I was, and had been on its last legs ever since I hit puberty. I asked my mom if I could use her car, and she let me. She then asked if I could use her car, and she let me. She asked what time I would be back, and I said “Tomorrow afternoon. It’ll be a late night of carousing,” causing her to chuckle slightly. My dad said to have fun, and reminded me we had lunch plans with grandparents.
I left, and did things with the boyfriend, and let him do things to me, and finally fell asleep around 2. His blinds weren’t that effective at blocking out the light, and I was up by 7 AM with an overwhelming sense of dread. I couldn’t explain it, but I just knew something was wrong. I made some excuse about leaving early and drove home.
My mom was waiting on the porch, arms crossed, teeth grit.
“Where were you? I missed my morning workout, and I got called into work this morning to sub for someone and I couldn’t accept the hours because I didn’t know where you were.”
I had yet to walk up the stairs. “I told you I wouldn’t be back until later.”
”I thought you were joking. You really screwed up this time. Not only were we worried, but we lost out on money that we could really use right about now, especially with your going to college in three weeks.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that—“
“You’re grounded. You can go inside and call your grandparents and tell them that lunch is off, and make sure to explain to them why your birthday is cancelled. After that, you can help your dad bring your computer to the car. We’re returning your gift because obviously you aren’t responsible enough for your own computer.” I should probably mention that she was just entering menopause. We were inside now, just inside the side door. I still had yet to take off my shoes. My dad walked downstairs and stood in the doorway to the living room, listening in.
“What?! That’s not fair.”
“It’s not fair that I woke up this morning and had to turn down hours at my job and miss my workout because you’re too irresponsible to come home at a normal time. Just what were you doing all night anyway?”
“We went out, and then I slept over at Peter’s.”
“Who’s Peter?”
“My… boyfriend. Peter.” What the hell, they were already planning on grounding me until I left for college and returning my computer. What else could they really do to me?
Her jaw dropped, arms fell from crossed to her sides.
She asked all the normal questions, about being safe and making sure it wasn’t a phase, and who else knew, and blah blah blah. My dad didn’t add anything to the conversation, but he never left the hallway either.
I never did end up calling my grandparents to cancel lunch, and so we went. She ended up talking a lot at lunch, probably to keep her mind on other things other than my sexuality, and hoping to make sure that nothing was divulged to my grandma. I wasn’t going to tell her anyway (I still haven’t).
We got home after lunch, and I went and told my sisters, who were in their room watching tv. One sister already knew—one of my friend’s younger brother is friends with her, and somehow she already found out, and my youngest sister was surprised, but said it made sense. Which I now realize is much more fraught with meaning than I thought at the time.
After lunch, my mom spent the afternoon online on pflag.org, and my dad spent it cleaning out the attic. Around dinnertime she emerged from the office, gave me a hug, and became much more supportive, and even now she’s supportive, probably too much so, asking about my relationships and clarifications of terms she heard on “Will and Grace” or “Queer Eye” or the half-episode of “Queer as Folk” she watched.
My dad doesn’t really talk about it, and even now talks about it in the abstract, like how’s he’s glad I transferred schools after freshman year to a larger, more liberal university.
Oh, and they forgot about grounding me, and I got to keep my computer, and I was able to sleep over at Peter’s for the rest of the summer, and we got to do many, many things to each other.
It was the night before my 19th birthday, the first week in August. I was head over heels over my first boyfriend, and after about six weeks, I was just starting to get clingy as a reaction to my anxieties over college. I had pretty successfully severed most ties with my high school friends though various things I said, and thankfully he was around to fill my time (and my various orifices).
He had an event already planned for the night of my birthday, hosting a MoveOn event at a bar downtown. I understood, but kind of guilted him into letting me spend the night so we could ‘celebrate’ that morning.
It’s always awkward the summer between high school and college, where students of unsure of how much freedom they really have, and parents don’t know what to discipline and what to turn a blind eye towards.
I went out to my car to head over to his place around 7 for a late dinner and an extended night of ‘merriment,’ only to find that my car wouldn’t start. My car was older than I was, and had been on its last legs ever since I hit puberty. I asked my mom if I could use her car, and she let me. She then asked if I could use her car, and she let me. She asked what time I would be back, and I said “Tomorrow afternoon. It’ll be a late night of carousing,” causing her to chuckle slightly. My dad said to have fun, and reminded me we had lunch plans with grandparents.
I left, and did things with the boyfriend, and let him do things to me, and finally fell asleep around 2. His blinds weren’t that effective at blocking out the light, and I was up by 7 AM with an overwhelming sense of dread. I couldn’t explain it, but I just knew something was wrong. I made some excuse about leaving early and drove home.
My mom was waiting on the porch, arms crossed, teeth grit.
“Where were you? I missed my morning workout, and I got called into work this morning to sub for someone and I couldn’t accept the hours because I didn’t know where you were.”
I had yet to walk up the stairs. “I told you I wouldn’t be back until later.”
”I thought you were joking. You really screwed up this time. Not only were we worried, but we lost out on money that we could really use right about now, especially with your going to college in three weeks.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that—“
“You’re grounded. You can go inside and call your grandparents and tell them that lunch is off, and make sure to explain to them why your birthday is cancelled. After that, you can help your dad bring your computer to the car. We’re returning your gift because obviously you aren’t responsible enough for your own computer.” I should probably mention that she was just entering menopause. We were inside now, just inside the side door. I still had yet to take off my shoes. My dad walked downstairs and stood in the doorway to the living room, listening in.
“What?! That’s not fair.”
“It’s not fair that I woke up this morning and had to turn down hours at my job and miss my workout because you’re too irresponsible to come home at a normal time. Just what were you doing all night anyway?”
“We went out, and then I slept over at Peter’s.”
“Who’s Peter?”
“My… boyfriend. Peter.” What the hell, they were already planning on grounding me until I left for college and returning my computer. What else could they really do to me?
Her jaw dropped, arms fell from crossed to her sides.
She asked all the normal questions, about being safe and making sure it wasn’t a phase, and who else knew, and blah blah blah. My dad didn’t add anything to the conversation, but he never left the hallway either.
I never did end up calling my grandparents to cancel lunch, and so we went. She ended up talking a lot at lunch, probably to keep her mind on other things other than my sexuality, and hoping to make sure that nothing was divulged to my grandma. I wasn’t going to tell her anyway (I still haven’t).
We got home after lunch, and I went and told my sisters, who were in their room watching tv. One sister already knew—one of my friend’s younger brother is friends with her, and somehow she already found out, and my youngest sister was surprised, but said it made sense. Which I now realize is much more fraught with meaning than I thought at the time.
After lunch, my mom spent the afternoon online on pflag.org, and my dad spent it cleaning out the attic. Around dinnertime she emerged from the office, gave me a hug, and became much more supportive, and even now she’s supportive, probably too much so, asking about my relationships and clarifications of terms she heard on “Will and Grace” or “Queer Eye” or the half-episode of “Queer as Folk” she watched.
My dad doesn’t really talk about it, and even now talks about it in the abstract, like how’s he’s glad I transferred schools after freshman year to a larger, more liberal university.
Oh, and they forgot about grounding me, and I got to keep my computer, and I was able to sleep over at Peter’s for the rest of the summer, and we got to do many, many things to each other.
December 18, 2006
Party for the Fight to Write
As I've mentioned in previous posts, my birthday parties always have ended poorly. However, I didn't realize that the curse applied to all parties held in my name and not just the ones in August.
Now, I'm not very good at writing about parties. It's too hard to get down a general mood, and there are usually too many people to write about for a decent explanation, to say nothing of trying to think of pseudonyms for everyone. Plus, this isn't going to turn into one of those blogs where every Monday's post turns into a laundry list of drugs taken, drinks inbibed, and people slept with. Instead it's going to turn into one of those blogs where I complain about how much my weekend sucked.
At any rate, my graduation party sucked for the following four reasons.
1. My party was originally going to be held at a friends house, but her roommates quickly coopted the party. While the theme of "male degradation" sounds fun in the beginning, when it manifests itself as one of their overweight boyfriends in a corset and hot pants and pages ripped out of bad fashion magazines its not so great. Especially when their friends outnumber my friends, and my friends don't like their friends, and one of the roommates asks us to leave because we were bringing them down (in reality, we're just a lot classier and have outgrown keg stands). While it was incredibly insulting and rude to ask the guest of honor to leave, the party did suck and we didn't mind.
2. After that party, we stopped off at another friend's house, who were having people over and playing beer pong. Despite all of the hints we dropped, none of them caught on that I was graduating within 15 hours. I played second fiddle to an arguement about who was the most annoying while watching Pulp Fiction, who talked too much and misquoted the most lines.
3. While walking to the bars, my best friend wanted to stop by at her boyfriend's house and pick up some coals for her hookah for afterwards. He had told her he was at his frat for the night, doing some preparations for Channukah so we were just going to sneak in and out. We went in, using her key, and found him in bed with another girl. Yes it was awkward, and yes there was drama.
4. After all of this, I went home and felt sorry for myself because the night had been a disappointment. I posted something on craigslist, and got a reply. His pics were very nice, and he wanted to meet outside of the student union because its safer than meeting at his apartment in case either of us are serial killers. Except he never showed up, and I ended up sitting outside until 3 waiting for ass that never came.
About twelve hours later, I walked across the stage and picked up a folder with a note in it saying that the piece of paper will be coming in the mail in about 12 weeks.
Now, I'm not very good at writing about parties. It's too hard to get down a general mood, and there are usually too many people to write about for a decent explanation, to say nothing of trying to think of pseudonyms for everyone. Plus, this isn't going to turn into one of those blogs where every Monday's post turns into a laundry list of drugs taken, drinks inbibed, and people slept with. Instead it's going to turn into one of those blogs where I complain about how much my weekend sucked.
At any rate, my graduation party sucked for the following four reasons.
1. My party was originally going to be held at a friends house, but her roommates quickly coopted the party. While the theme of "male degradation" sounds fun in the beginning, when it manifests itself as one of their overweight boyfriends in a corset and hot pants and pages ripped out of bad fashion magazines its not so great. Especially when their friends outnumber my friends, and my friends don't like their friends, and one of the roommates asks us to leave because we were bringing them down (in reality, we're just a lot classier and have outgrown keg stands). While it was incredibly insulting and rude to ask the guest of honor to leave, the party did suck and we didn't mind.
2. After that party, we stopped off at another friend's house, who were having people over and playing beer pong. Despite all of the hints we dropped, none of them caught on that I was graduating within 15 hours. I played second fiddle to an arguement about who was the most annoying while watching Pulp Fiction, who talked too much and misquoted the most lines.
3. While walking to the bars, my best friend wanted to stop by at her boyfriend's house and pick up some coals for her hookah for afterwards. He had told her he was at his frat for the night, doing some preparations for Channukah so we were just going to sneak in and out. We went in, using her key, and found him in bed with another girl. Yes it was awkward, and yes there was drama.
4. After all of this, I went home and felt sorry for myself because the night had been a disappointment. I posted something on craigslist, and got a reply. His pics were very nice, and he wanted to meet outside of the student union because its safer than meeting at his apartment in case either of us are serial killers. Except he never showed up, and I ended up sitting outside until 3 waiting for ass that never came.
About twelve hours later, I walked across the stage and picked up a folder with a note in it saying that the piece of paper will be coming in the mail in about 12 weeks.
December 15, 2006
No More Teachers, No More Books
So it's official. No more classes. I walk across the stage in an ugly blue gown on Sunday, take a final on Monday, another one on Wednesday, and that's it. I'll cross the line between poor college student and just plain poor.
Anyone work for an HR department and hiring young college students, preferably in the midwest/great lakes area? I would totally put out.
Anyone work for an HR department and hiring young college students, preferably in the midwest/great lakes area? I would totally put out.
December 13, 2006
Passive Suicide
That's not a very good term for what I'm feeling, but I can't think of anything else. It's a bit too dramatic and 'warning sign' for my taste. I'm sure there's a good psychology term for it, but I can't find it. No, this isn't going to be like something out of a bad angsty diaryland journal, or mopey like a Morrissey lyric. I mean, it's not healthy, but it's not so bad.
It's not suicidal urges or a deathwish. It's more passive than that. There's no death involved, even. I've had these feeling before, usually when I'm going through a transition (e.g. first few days of high school, first semester of college, etc) and nothing ever comes of it. I mean, to paraphrase O'Hara, sure, sometimes I think about it, but if I had actually had the balls to go through with it, I probably wouldn't have to think about it. (It's a loose translation of the O'Hara line.)
It's just that, a lot of problems would be solved if I were to get hit by a car.
Nothing fatal, don't get me wrong. Just a few broken bones, maybe a few days in the hospital, use of crutches for a few weeks. My problems would disappear. I wouldn't have to worry about finals, I wouldn't have to walk in graduation, and I'd have a good excuse for not having a job immediately after I graduate. I could take the next three weeks off and not do anything but watch tv and get some work done on my novel. It would be glorious.
Lately, I've had a variation on this theme, one where I come off more as a hero. There's been a sharp rise in sexual assaults downtown this school year, including what is probably the scariest thing I've ever heard (a woman was being raped behind a building by three men, and two guys were walking by and heard what was going on, and then decided to join in. I mean, can you imagine the pain and heartbreak not only of being raped, but after crying out for help, you see a bunch of guys come out of nowhere, asking what's going on, thinking that they would help only to have them join in?). Wow, that's a tangent.
Anyways, the thought goes like this. Late at night, I have walked a friend home from a bar (because I've taken to doing that with all of my female friends this semester for obvious reasons). I hear some screams in an alleyway, I ask what's going on in my most butch angry voice possible, and get shot in the stomach as the rapist runs off. Not only would that have the same results as the car accident (no finals, not walking for graduation, good excuse for not having a job) but I would be a hero, and the girl would be saved from her rape. Wouldn't that be awesome?
Now, you don't have to worry. I live so close to campus that there are days that I don't have to cross the street if I don't want to, and my fear of needles pretty much means that I wouldn't be actively planning any trips to the hospital.
It's not suicide. It's just a cry for attention. Then again, most suicides are cries for attention. It's more of a possible excuse for putting the next three weeks on hold and not having to deal with life until later. And when I think about it in those terms, its not so bad.
It's not suicidal urges or a deathwish. It's more passive than that. There's no death involved, even. I've had these feeling before, usually when I'm going through a transition (e.g. first few days of high school, first semester of college, etc) and nothing ever comes of it. I mean, to paraphrase O'Hara, sure, sometimes I think about it, but if I had actually had the balls to go through with it, I probably wouldn't have to think about it. (It's a loose translation of the O'Hara line.)
It's just that, a lot of problems would be solved if I were to get hit by a car.
Nothing fatal, don't get me wrong. Just a few broken bones, maybe a few days in the hospital, use of crutches for a few weeks. My problems would disappear. I wouldn't have to worry about finals, I wouldn't have to walk in graduation, and I'd have a good excuse for not having a job immediately after I graduate. I could take the next three weeks off and not do anything but watch tv and get some work done on my novel. It would be glorious.
Lately, I've had a variation on this theme, one where I come off more as a hero. There's been a sharp rise in sexual assaults downtown this school year, including what is probably the scariest thing I've ever heard (a woman was being raped behind a building by three men, and two guys were walking by and heard what was going on, and then decided to join in. I mean, can you imagine the pain and heartbreak not only of being raped, but after crying out for help, you see a bunch of guys come out of nowhere, asking what's going on, thinking that they would help only to have them join in?). Wow, that's a tangent.
Anyways, the thought goes like this. Late at night, I have walked a friend home from a bar (because I've taken to doing that with all of my female friends this semester for obvious reasons). I hear some screams in an alleyway, I ask what's going on in my most butch angry voice possible, and get shot in the stomach as the rapist runs off. Not only would that have the same results as the car accident (no finals, not walking for graduation, good excuse for not having a job) but I would be a hero, and the girl would be saved from her rape. Wouldn't that be awesome?
Now, you don't have to worry. I live so close to campus that there are days that I don't have to cross the street if I don't want to, and my fear of needles pretty much means that I wouldn't be actively planning any trips to the hospital.
It's not suicide. It's just a cry for attention. Then again, most suicides are cries for attention. It's more of a possible excuse for putting the next three weeks on hold and not having to deal with life until later. And when I think about it in those terms, its not so bad.
December 11, 2006
Weekend Fun
It’d been a while since I’d last gotten some. Four months is a long time for someone at his sexual peak, and as a gay male that’s practically unheard of. I made a resolution to get some this weekend. I even wrote it down in my assignment notebook, inbetween picking up my cap and gown (the ceremony is this Sunday) and studying for my American History final.
It was a long, drawn out process. I first decided to get some on Thursday, but first I had to trim, shave, and all-in-all make my naked self as presentable as possible.
Unfortunately, due to some ingrown hairs and a poor choice in underwear, Friday was a nightmare at work. I spent most of the day with a hand in my pocket, trying to adjust myself from sticking where I wasn’t used to sticking, and rearranging my underwear which kept moving and creeping more than it usually did. It was not very attractive, and while I tried to be as discreet as possible, I know I got caught on occasion.
About an hour before quitting time, I decided to fake a headache and head out early because, well, it was a Friday afternoon and I wanted to get laid. I made sure to adjust myself before I walked into his office, but I’m guessing he caught me. As I pretended to have a headache, the skin to my sac was sticking to the side of my leg and it was very irritating, and so shifted my legs to alleviate the problem. He noticed, and couple that with my rearranging myself all the time, he glanced briefly at my crotch, and got an awkward grin on his face. He said he understood the problem, and that it happens to lots of people, they were easy to get rid of, and I was free to go.
I’m pretty sure he thinks I have crabs.
I came back from work and my room was stuffy and smelly. I couldn’t figure out the source, but did some cleaning so I wouldn’t feel so apprehensive about hosting if need be. I washed dishes, took out the garbage, I even got out the Tilex and did some work on the toilet and bathroom sink, should he have to relieve himself afterwards, or if the encounter ended with a post-coital shared shower.
The whole time I was cleaning I was logged into a few sites that are known for their ability to get easy ass. I put a post on craigslist after taking out the garbage, and kept my laptop near the kitchen counter so I could notice if anyone said ‘hi’ or anything like that.
They didn’t.
Eventually, it got to be later, and with no one biting, I decided to head out to a friend’s place. We made Christmas cookies and drank Irish Coffee and Eggnog, and then went to another friends for a beer pong tournament and general merriment. There were no chances for me to get ass that night.
I got back to my place at 2:30 and the pickings online were slim, and so I logged out and went to bed.
Saturday morning I woke up and logged in to the various sites, hoping to take care of the morning wood. No luck. I stumbled upon George of the Jungle on tv, which brought back lots of memories of early masturbation. Brendan Fraiser + loincloth = my first masturbatory marathon. It used to be my favorite movie, and I would check out the VHS from the library as often as I thought I could get away with it before people would start to catch on. In retrospect, I’m pretty sure they did. It’s not that good of a movie, but I did spent Saturday morning watching it, and it definitely encouraged me to get in the mood.
I went to the library that afternoon for an hour to work on some homework, occasionally checking my responses to the craigslist ad. There were a few emails, but they were all either twice my age or sent unflattering close-up pictures of their genitalia and pot bellies.
I went back home after studying and stopped waiting for an interested party to contact me, and sent out a few exploratory emails and IMs, with almost no luck. Guys either didn’t respond, or just replied with a simple no, or said they weren’t looking when their biolines implied otherwise.
The one other guy online who was looking and responded gave off bad vibes. He said he was only interested in being a dom top, and when I expressed reservations about that, he replied along the lines of “If you can’t handle it, it’s your problem and not mine” and that he would “Put me in my place and teach me how to be a sub worth his time.” Needless to say, that didn’t happen, even though he was by far the most attractive person online at the time.
I went and got dinner with friends, slyly talking them out of Mexican (for obvious reasons), and came back to more responses to the craigslist ad from guys too old, too fat, or both, most with banalities like “Age is just a number” and that I should stop being so shallow about wanting to have sex with guys close to my age, that older guys are the only ones who would be able to show me a good time, and other lame attempts on their part to get some college ass.
Later that night was a party, held in the basement of my best friend’s rebound guy. I didn’t really want to go, but she needed someone to hang out with while he was off doing host things, like tapping the kegs, selling cups, saying Hi to everyone, and the like. It was very much a scene out of a bad B movie set at a college, and while I did get hit on by four scantily clad girls in Santa hats over the course of the night, I got zero responses by the guys, who, as a whole, weren’t exactly grade-A meat.
The cops came, and my best friend and I snuck out and got sub sandwiches. My Italian club didn’t sit very well, and I went home right afterwards and curled in the fetal position, clutching my stomach. It wasn’t that I had too much to drink that night, but rather that they probably left the mayo out too long or something.
I had to wake up early on Sunday to babysit my grandma. Long story short, because I don’t really like talking about family here: my grandma has a severe case of dementia and Alzheimer’s, and about a month ago my step-grandfather decided he couldn’t handle it, sent an email saying that he would be visiting his grandchildren in Ohio for the week, and that we should find a new place for grandma to live by the time he got back, and that any further questions should be directed to his divorce lawyer. (NB—this isn’t the ultraconservative grandparents, but the other one.) She’s being shuffled between my uncles while they wait for a space to open up at a reputable nursing home, which is estimated at the beginning of next year. She was staying with the aunt and uncle who live out in the suburbs, and my aunt had surgery on Friday and my uncle worked that morning, and so I was drafted, and basically babysat my grandma from 7:30am until 2:30.
I checked my email when I got back: no responses. I took a long, justified nap, and logged back on. I don’t want to say that I was getting desperate, but I had really planned on getting laid this weekend, and it was already late Sunday afternoon with no one in sight. I chatted with one guy, who realized too late that he lived about three hours away and logged into the wrong chat room. I kept trying, trying to find someone, anyone but no one was interested in having sex with me. By now, almost everyone was ignoring my pvts and emails.
Finally, a cute guy I’d had my eye on for a while but hadn’t worked up the nerve to message logged in. I jumped at the chance.
At just as he replied to my hello, my wireless cut out.
And stayed cut out for over 4 hours, and despite my tricks and playing with the settings
As embarrassing as it is, I started to cry. Well, not cry, but tears formed and I buried my head in my pillow and yelled and punched the bed. It’d been a long few days, with the printing company screwing up my thesis (there’s now a slight chance I won’t be able to graduate), and the fact that I graduate in a week and don’t have any job prospects, to realizing that I’m not ready to graduate, and babysitting my grandma for 7 hours, and that no one wants to date me, or even have a quickie with me. I was tired and cranky and horny and unloved and technologically unfit.
At midnight, I gave up trying to get my internet to work again, and decided to take matters into my own hand. I got out my vibrator and readied myself, and realized at the last moment that my vibrator had broken.
This was not a good weekend.
It was a long, drawn out process. I first decided to get some on Thursday, but first I had to trim, shave, and all-in-all make my naked self as presentable as possible.
Unfortunately, due to some ingrown hairs and a poor choice in underwear, Friday was a nightmare at work. I spent most of the day with a hand in my pocket, trying to adjust myself from sticking where I wasn’t used to sticking, and rearranging my underwear which kept moving and creeping more than it usually did. It was not very attractive, and while I tried to be as discreet as possible, I know I got caught on occasion.
About an hour before quitting time, I decided to fake a headache and head out early because, well, it was a Friday afternoon and I wanted to get laid. I made sure to adjust myself before I walked into his office, but I’m guessing he caught me. As I pretended to have a headache, the skin to my sac was sticking to the side of my leg and it was very irritating, and so shifted my legs to alleviate the problem. He noticed, and couple that with my rearranging myself all the time, he glanced briefly at my crotch, and got an awkward grin on his face. He said he understood the problem, and that it happens to lots of people, they were easy to get rid of, and I was free to go.
I’m pretty sure he thinks I have crabs.
I came back from work and my room was stuffy and smelly. I couldn’t figure out the source, but did some cleaning so I wouldn’t feel so apprehensive about hosting if need be. I washed dishes, took out the garbage, I even got out the Tilex and did some work on the toilet and bathroom sink, should he have to relieve himself afterwards, or if the encounter ended with a post-coital shared shower.
The whole time I was cleaning I was logged into a few sites that are known for their ability to get easy ass. I put a post on craigslist after taking out the garbage, and kept my laptop near the kitchen counter so I could notice if anyone said ‘hi’ or anything like that.
They didn’t.
Eventually, it got to be later, and with no one biting, I decided to head out to a friend’s place. We made Christmas cookies and drank Irish Coffee and Eggnog, and then went to another friends for a beer pong tournament and general merriment. There were no chances for me to get ass that night.
I got back to my place at 2:30 and the pickings online were slim, and so I logged out and went to bed.
Saturday morning I woke up and logged in to the various sites, hoping to take care of the morning wood. No luck. I stumbled upon George of the Jungle on tv, which brought back lots of memories of early masturbation. Brendan Fraiser + loincloth = my first masturbatory marathon. It used to be my favorite movie, and I would check out the VHS from the library as often as I thought I could get away with it before people would start to catch on. In retrospect, I’m pretty sure they did. It’s not that good of a movie, but I did spent Saturday morning watching it, and it definitely encouraged me to get in the mood.
I went to the library that afternoon for an hour to work on some homework, occasionally checking my responses to the craigslist ad. There were a few emails, but they were all either twice my age or sent unflattering close-up pictures of their genitalia and pot bellies.
I went back home after studying and stopped waiting for an interested party to contact me, and sent out a few exploratory emails and IMs, with almost no luck. Guys either didn’t respond, or just replied with a simple no, or said they weren’t looking when their biolines implied otherwise.
The one other guy online who was looking and responded gave off bad vibes. He said he was only interested in being a dom top, and when I expressed reservations about that, he replied along the lines of “If you can’t handle it, it’s your problem and not mine” and that he would “Put me in my place and teach me how to be a sub worth his time.” Needless to say, that didn’t happen, even though he was by far the most attractive person online at the time.
I went and got dinner with friends, slyly talking them out of Mexican (for obvious reasons), and came back to more responses to the craigslist ad from guys too old, too fat, or both, most with banalities like “Age is just a number” and that I should stop being so shallow about wanting to have sex with guys close to my age, that older guys are the only ones who would be able to show me a good time, and other lame attempts on their part to get some college ass.
Later that night was a party, held in the basement of my best friend’s rebound guy. I didn’t really want to go, but she needed someone to hang out with while he was off doing host things, like tapping the kegs, selling cups, saying Hi to everyone, and the like. It was very much a scene out of a bad B movie set at a college, and while I did get hit on by four scantily clad girls in Santa hats over the course of the night, I got zero responses by the guys, who, as a whole, weren’t exactly grade-A meat.
The cops came, and my best friend and I snuck out and got sub sandwiches. My Italian club didn’t sit very well, and I went home right afterwards and curled in the fetal position, clutching my stomach. It wasn’t that I had too much to drink that night, but rather that they probably left the mayo out too long or something.
I had to wake up early on Sunday to babysit my grandma. Long story short, because I don’t really like talking about family here: my grandma has a severe case of dementia and Alzheimer’s, and about a month ago my step-grandfather decided he couldn’t handle it, sent an email saying that he would be visiting his grandchildren in Ohio for the week, and that we should find a new place for grandma to live by the time he got back, and that any further questions should be directed to his divorce lawyer. (NB—this isn’t the ultraconservative grandparents, but the other one.) She’s being shuffled between my uncles while they wait for a space to open up at a reputable nursing home, which is estimated at the beginning of next year. She was staying with the aunt and uncle who live out in the suburbs, and my aunt had surgery on Friday and my uncle worked that morning, and so I was drafted, and basically babysat my grandma from 7:30am until 2:30.
I checked my email when I got back: no responses. I took a long, justified nap, and logged back on. I don’t want to say that I was getting desperate, but I had really planned on getting laid this weekend, and it was already late Sunday afternoon with no one in sight. I chatted with one guy, who realized too late that he lived about three hours away and logged into the wrong chat room. I kept trying, trying to find someone, anyone but no one was interested in having sex with me. By now, almost everyone was ignoring my pvts and emails.
Finally, a cute guy I’d had my eye on for a while but hadn’t worked up the nerve to message logged in. I jumped at the chance.
At just as he replied to my hello, my wireless cut out.
And stayed cut out for over 4 hours, and despite my tricks and playing with the settings
As embarrassing as it is, I started to cry. Well, not cry, but tears formed and I buried my head in my pillow and yelled and punched the bed. It’d been a long few days, with the printing company screwing up my thesis (there’s now a slight chance I won’t be able to graduate), and the fact that I graduate in a week and don’t have any job prospects, to realizing that I’m not ready to graduate, and babysitting my grandma for 7 hours, and that no one wants to date me, or even have a quickie with me. I was tired and cranky and horny and unloved and technologically unfit.
At midnight, I gave up trying to get my internet to work again, and decided to take matters into my own hand. I got out my vibrator and readied myself, and realized at the last moment that my vibrator had broken.
This was not a good weekend.
December 8, 2006
It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas
When I was a kid, I was a little bit of a musical theatre whore, and therefore the closer it gets to Christmas, the more generally annoyed and bitter I become. After years of singing in church choirs, school choirs, holiday pageants, Christmas-themed plays, and carolling-for-extra-credit, now I'm one of those grumps who hates all Christmas music. Fortunately, I don't listen to the radio, or shop at malls, or put myself in positions to have to listen to Christmas music.
Mostly.
I don't have control over the heat in my apartment. Well, that's an exaggeration, but I can't turn the heat off, at least, it's either high or low. And with my big picture windows that face the East, it can get mighty hot in there. (Plus my presence there helps the heat factor.)
Last night, the heat got to be too much for me, and I finally cracked the window. Down on the streets, a homeless man was singing Christmas carols. Of a sort.
Mostly.
I don't have control over the heat in my apartment. Well, that's an exaggeration, but I can't turn the heat off, at least, it's either high or low. And with my big picture windows that face the East, it can get mighty hot in there. (Plus my presence there helps the heat factor.)
Last night, the heat got to be too much for me, and I finally cracked the window. Down on the streets, a homeless man was singing Christmas carols. Of a sort.
Christmas bells ring
Jingle Jingle Hey
Ho Ho Ho
Here comes the Christmas bells
Rudolph too
Hark the Christmas Angels
Jingly Jangly bells
Christmas bells ho ho
Christmas, Christmas time
Can I get a quarter?
Pa rumpumpum drummer boy
Can I get Christmas cheer hey ho ho
Christmas bells, Christmas bells
December 4, 2006
I want to bottlefuck you with my socks on.
I'm not entirely sure what that means.
It's written in pen on the wall of the study corral at the library. I'm procrastinating on a paper on symbolism in Madame Bovary, but my eyes keep straying away from the laptop screen and towards the phrase. It's not the only thing written on the desk; other vandals have left their marks on the standard subjects of sports (Bucks Rule!), exhibitionism (Want to see Strawberry Shortcake's coochie? Call XXX-XXX-XXXX), romantic gestures (Nick hearts Jessica), and political slogans (Bush sucks).
I want to bottlefuck you with my socks on. I tried googling 'bottlefuck' but it just sent me into an endless loop of porn sites with random hyphenated obscenities and compound words that make no sense. I'm assuming that bottlefuck implies getting fucked by a bottle, much like a dildo. Whatever floats your boat, I guess.
I saw a video once where that happened--a guy took off the cap to a bottle of beer, stuck the end inside of a guy hanging in a sling, twisted and pumped it in for a few seconds. He then removed the bottle and drank, wrapping his lips ostentatiously around the mouth, seeming to slobber all over. He then put his thumb over the mouth of the bottle, shook it, and aimed the foam at the other man's taint and ass, going in to lick up the alcohol, sort of a bonus to the rimming.
I'm not sure if he was wearing socks in the video, though. I don't think it was shown, and even if it was shown, I had better things to have my eyes focused on at the time. I would guess he was wearing boots, as it would fit it with the rest of the mise-en-scene.
Personally, I don't like wearing socks during sex. Even if it's just a hookup (which hasn't happened since like, September) if I've scheduled myself some naked fun, it's going to be that: naked fun. Most feet aren't that attractive; I know mine aren't, but taking the few seconds to take off your socks shows shows that you're a better lover, that you're willing to take the extra time to make the experience more enjoyable. It's just good manners, too.
I suppose if there's a rushed freneticism to the sex, it's ok to leave them on. But if you're going to leave your socks on, you might as well leave your shoes on too, and just drop your pants and waddle over to the bed. Sex technically only needs a few square inches of flesh exposed to occur, and even then, most of those inches should be covered with a condom.
At first, I thought it read 'battlefuck,' which sounds more fun. Well, maybe not more fun, but it brought to mind American Gladiators, the physical competition show where four contestants (two male, two female) were pitted in the programs muscular, highly trained, and colorfully nicknamed "gladiators". (Something was definitely stirred in me while watching this show as a child on Saturday mornings.) Their nicknames were always had sexual undertones, like Spyke, Steel, and Hammer, and competitions always had vaguely erotic names, like the Joust, Powerball Assault, Hang Tough, and Swingshot, so Battlefuck isn't that far of a stretch. If I wasn't at the library, I bet I could google some porn parody of the show.
I want to bottlefuck you with my socks on. I wonder how that would work as a pickup line. I've definitely heard weirder come-ons online, but that phrase wouldn't sound so out of place on a gay.com chat window or the subject of a manhunt email.
In case you haven't noticed, I'm really not in the mood to write this paper on Madame Bovary.
It's written in pen on the wall of the study corral at the library. I'm procrastinating on a paper on symbolism in Madame Bovary, but my eyes keep straying away from the laptop screen and towards the phrase. It's not the only thing written on the desk; other vandals have left their marks on the standard subjects of sports (Bucks Rule!), exhibitionism (Want to see Strawberry Shortcake's coochie? Call XXX-XXX-XXXX), romantic gestures (Nick hearts Jessica), and political slogans (Bush sucks).
I want to bottlefuck you with my socks on. I tried googling 'bottlefuck' but it just sent me into an endless loop of porn sites with random hyphenated obscenities and compound words that make no sense. I'm assuming that bottlefuck implies getting fucked by a bottle, much like a dildo. Whatever floats your boat, I guess.
I saw a video once where that happened--a guy took off the cap to a bottle of beer, stuck the end inside of a guy hanging in a sling, twisted and pumped it in for a few seconds. He then removed the bottle and drank, wrapping his lips ostentatiously around the mouth, seeming to slobber all over. He then put his thumb over the mouth of the bottle, shook it, and aimed the foam at the other man's taint and ass, going in to lick up the alcohol, sort of a bonus to the rimming.
I'm not sure if he was wearing socks in the video, though. I don't think it was shown, and even if it was shown, I had better things to have my eyes focused on at the time. I would guess he was wearing boots, as it would fit it with the rest of the mise-en-scene.
Personally, I don't like wearing socks during sex. Even if it's just a hookup (which hasn't happened since like, September) if I've scheduled myself some naked fun, it's going to be that: naked fun. Most feet aren't that attractive; I know mine aren't, but taking the few seconds to take off your socks shows shows that you're a better lover, that you're willing to take the extra time to make the experience more enjoyable. It's just good manners, too.
I suppose if there's a rushed freneticism to the sex, it's ok to leave them on. But if you're going to leave your socks on, you might as well leave your shoes on too, and just drop your pants and waddle over to the bed. Sex technically only needs a few square inches of flesh exposed to occur, and even then, most of those inches should be covered with a condom.
At first, I thought it read 'battlefuck,' which sounds more fun. Well, maybe not more fun, but it brought to mind American Gladiators, the physical competition show where four contestants (two male, two female) were pitted in the programs muscular, highly trained, and colorfully nicknamed "gladiators". (Something was definitely stirred in me while watching this show as a child on Saturday mornings.) Their nicknames were always had sexual undertones, like Spyke, Steel, and Hammer, and competitions always had vaguely erotic names, like the Joust, Powerball Assault, Hang Tough, and Swingshot, so Battlefuck isn't that far of a stretch. If I wasn't at the library, I bet I could google some porn parody of the show.
I want to bottlefuck you with my socks on. I wonder how that would work as a pickup line. I've definitely heard weirder come-ons online, but that phrase wouldn't sound so out of place on a gay.com chat window or the subject of a manhunt email.
In case you haven't noticed, I'm really not in the mood to write this paper on Madame Bovary.
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