For those of you who read my last post, I'm sorry. (It was a joke, for those of you who didn't scroll down.) As someone who actually did spend time on suicide watch during first semester and has a family history of depression, I should have known better.
Suicide jokes = not funny. Who knew?
For the few of you who didn't scroll all the way down to the end of the post and sent emails, thank you for your encouragement. Even though you're too dumb to read an entire post, I'm glad you're on my sidebar. (I don't believe in using emoticons, but if I did, there would be one here.)
Expect regular posts to return sometime this afternoon.
Also. For the two of you who noticed that I acted more calm than you expected upon hearing that my ex may or may not read this blog.
One of the joys of not audioblogging is that I could be full of an odd combination of anxiety and joy at the prospect of regaining contact with the ex, but as long as the delete key still functions I am able to project the air of 'over him' and maturity that I think will entice him to get in touch with me.
August 10, 2004
August 9, 2004
THAT JOKE ISN'T FUNNY ANYMORE
This weekend, at my birthday party, shit hit the fan. My birthday have always sucked, but this year's takes the proverbial cake. I learned that a handful of people I know in real life read this blog. This is a blow to me, as now my three close friends are no longer speaking to me. Apparently, I've damaged their trust with keeping this blog. I don't know how they found it, but they did, and it looks like I'm out my three best friends.
I know that I occasionally exaggerate, but I never thought I was doing anyone harm. I didn't even think that I blogged about them all too much; it just festered until months later, when they decided to group up and attack me. (It's my party and I'll cry if I want to now hits a bit too close to home.) I always thought I gave people the benefit of the doubt, and was never too catty towards my friends, but I guess I was wrong. I 'misunderestimated' the power that my words can have, and now I've to live with it.
So I'm closing shop, at least until I beg my way back into my friends' hearts.
I don't know what I'll do if I lose these guys. I don't mention it much, but I'm not exactly the most stable person when depressed. There's a reason why I was put on suicide watch first semester. I hope I can get win them back. If I can't, well, it won't be first time I've tried to shuffle off this mortal coil. I think I've enough practice that next time should be a winner.
I hope to be back, but if not, it was fun while it lasted. I'll see you on the other side, guys.
Good-bye.
PSYCH!!
Consider yourselves punk'd. One of the benefits of allowing myself the weekends off is that even though my birthday did kind of suck (though not to the extent of birthdays previous), come time to write Monday's post, the disappointment had worn off and I didn't really care anymore.
Or, as I posited to my friend Anna: "So what if my birthday sucked and I didn't get anything I wanted. I'm a gay boy with a credit card--wait--why the fuck aren't we at the mall?"
So, after a lovely shopping spree (digital camera, lots of new underwear, possibly my own domain... mmmm), things are looking up. Except, of course, for the things that are not. These things will probably be explained in short posts throughout the week, as most can be summed up in nice little paragraph quips.
NB--The Smiths allusion in the title does not refer to my Ashton Kutcher-like hijinx, but instead to the fact that the ex (or someone pretending to be the ex) left a comment, thereby making contact for the first time in eight months. If it's a joke, it's not a funny one. I hope it's an imposter as I have no idea how to remove everything from the archives that may or may not be completely and utterly embarrassing for me to have him read without removing whole months at a time.
If it is him, however, he should know better than to go months without talking to me, especially if he's been reading this blog from the beginning--the punk.
I know that I occasionally exaggerate, but I never thought I was doing anyone harm. I didn't even think that I blogged about them all too much; it just festered until months later, when they decided to group up and attack me. (It's my party and I'll cry if I want to now hits a bit too close to home.) I always thought I gave people the benefit of the doubt, and was never too catty towards my friends, but I guess I was wrong. I 'misunderestimated' the power that my words can have, and now I've to live with it.
So I'm closing shop, at least until I beg my way back into my friends' hearts.
I don't know what I'll do if I lose these guys. I don't mention it much, but I'm not exactly the most stable person when depressed. There's a reason why I was put on suicide watch first semester. I hope I can get win them back. If I can't, well, it won't be first time I've tried to shuffle off this mortal coil. I think I've enough practice that next time should be a winner.
I hope to be back, but if not, it was fun while it lasted. I'll see you on the other side, guys.
Good-bye.
PSYCH!!
Consider yourselves punk'd. One of the benefits of allowing myself the weekends off is that even though my birthday did kind of suck (though not to the extent of birthdays previous), come time to write Monday's post, the disappointment had worn off and I didn't really care anymore.
Or, as I posited to my friend Anna: "So what if my birthday sucked and I didn't get anything I wanted. I'm a gay boy with a credit card--wait--why the fuck aren't we at the mall?"
So, after a lovely shopping spree (digital camera, lots of new underwear, possibly my own domain... mmmm), things are looking up. Except, of course, for the things that are not. These things will probably be explained in short posts throughout the week, as most can be summed up in nice little paragraph quips.
NB--The Smiths allusion in the title does not refer to my Ashton Kutcher-like hijinx, but instead to the fact that the ex (or someone pretending to be the ex) left a comment, thereby making contact for the first time in eight months. If it's a joke, it's not a funny one. I hope it's an imposter as I have no idea how to remove everything from the archives that may or may not be completely and utterly embarrassing for me to have him read without removing whole months at a time.
If it is him, however, he should know better than to go months without talking to me, especially if he's been reading this blog from the beginning--the punk.
August 6, 2004
Happy Birthday to Me?
Three years ago, on this day, I got food poisoning from my birthday lunch, and spent most of the day on my knees in front of a toilet.
Two years ago, on this day, I lost control of my car, rolled over four lanes of oncoming highway traffic, landed face-down in a ditch, and had to cut myself out of my seatbelt with a shard of the windshield glass. I spent most of the afternoon in the hospital.
Last year, on this day, I came out to my parents.
Using all of the logic I could muster, and following my birthday tradition, I have come up with the following scenarios for today.
A) Cheney stages a coup by killing all 'activist judges' and orders all gays, lesbians, blacks, jews, and hispanics to reservations in the midwest, where he gives us all AIDS-infected blankets.
B) I run into the ex-boyfriend making out with a gorgeous multimillionaire, and, during small talk, he divulges that he is on his way to Hollywood to have sex with Jake Gyllenhaal without me.
C) While walking down the street, I fall down an open manhole, and am sacrificed by the sewer mutants after they castrate and scalp me. They chop me into little bits and circulate chunks of my skin as currency.
D) Fred Phelps orders a hit out on me, and I spend the night tied to a fence while eight- and nine-year-olds throw rocks at my head.
E) The ghost of Napoleon visits me in the middle of the night, chops off my penis, and replaces it with a cheese wheel, while Pat McCurdy sings a song about it to a crowd of drunk frat boys (who later beat me up).
Of course, the tradition could be bucked, and my friends could set me up on a date with a wonderful, charming, intelligent, hung, talented, muscular Adonis and we could have passionate, mind-blowing, marriage-destroying, body-contorting, jaw-dropping, Jesus-praising, eyes-popping, tongue-wagging, dog-panting, stars-seeing, activist judge-praising, positive-superlative sex all weekend long.
Tune in Monday to find out what happens.
(If I get a digital camera, I promise to take pictures of any and all the nasty I get.)
If you are one of my friends and have not made any plans for me to get laid this weekend, I suppose I could settle for a bazillion log hits today. In the end, it's all about the log hits anyway.
Two years ago, on this day, I lost control of my car, rolled over four lanes of oncoming highway traffic, landed face-down in a ditch, and had to cut myself out of my seatbelt with a shard of the windshield glass. I spent most of the afternoon in the hospital.
Last year, on this day, I came out to my parents.
Using all of the logic I could muster, and following my birthday tradition, I have come up with the following scenarios for today.
A) Cheney stages a coup by killing all 'activist judges' and orders all gays, lesbians, blacks, jews, and hispanics to reservations in the midwest, where he gives us all AIDS-infected blankets.
B) I run into the ex-boyfriend making out with a gorgeous multimillionaire, and, during small talk, he divulges that he is on his way to Hollywood to have sex with Jake Gyllenhaal without me.
C) While walking down the street, I fall down an open manhole, and am sacrificed by the sewer mutants after they castrate and scalp me. They chop me into little bits and circulate chunks of my skin as currency.
D) Fred Phelps orders a hit out on me, and I spend the night tied to a fence while eight- and nine-year-olds throw rocks at my head.
E) The ghost of Napoleon visits me in the middle of the night, chops off my penis, and replaces it with a cheese wheel, while Pat McCurdy sings a song about it to a crowd of drunk frat boys (who later beat me up).
Of course, the tradition could be bucked, and my friends could set me up on a date with a wonderful, charming, intelligent, hung, talented, muscular Adonis and we could have passionate, mind-blowing, marriage-destroying, body-contorting, jaw-dropping, Jesus-praising, eyes-popping, tongue-wagging, dog-panting, stars-seeing, activist judge-praising, positive-superlative sex all weekend long.
Tune in Monday to find out what happens.
(If I get a digital camera, I promise to take pictures of any and all the nasty I get.)
If you are one of my friends and have not made any plans for me to get laid this weekend, I suppose I could settle for a bazillion log hits today. In the end, it's all about the log hits anyway.
August 5, 2004
Fair Weather Blogger
For those of you on my sidebar who are going through a tough time.
I am a sheltered pansy and nothing terrible has happened to me in my life. If I knew the words to say, I would say them. As it is, I rarely comment or send introductory emails to people on my blog list, so it's not like I have a solid relationship with any of you, and sending an email along the lines of "Hey, remember me? I heard that your dad died. I'm sorry; that must suck" doesn't really seem comfortable.
I promise I am sending positive karma your way, even if I don't know how to put it into words. At least until tomorrow, when it is my birthday, when I not only expect karma but material goods.
EDIT: That is the worst possible way to end this post. No wonder I haven't gotten laid in months.
I am a sheltered pansy and nothing terrible has happened to me in my life. If I knew the words to say, I would say them. As it is, I rarely comment or send introductory emails to people on my blog list, so it's not like I have a solid relationship with any of you, and sending an email along the lines of "Hey, remember me? I heard that your dad died. I'm sorry; that must suck" doesn't really seem comfortable.
I promise I am sending positive karma your way, even if I don't know how to put it into words. At least until tomorrow, when it is my birthday, when I not only expect karma but material goods.
EDIT: That is the worst possible way to end this post. No wonder I haven't gotten laid in months.
August 4, 2004
About this whole "college" thing...
Yes, I'd like to order a big ball of angst, please, with extra apprehension. Can I, uh, super-size it? Yeah, then I'd like a large side of...um, cold feet and a medium glass of timidity. Then, for dessert, I'd like a giant bowl of heebie-jeebies. Oh, and I have this frequent-customer card thing, so this whole order should be free. Thanks.
August 3, 2004
Ode for Rimbaud
as if i were that guy in study hall
legs spread wide like elvis costello
smelling of cheap success and bawdy brawls
who spends his days forgetting how to shave
nothing more than a piss-off
in a school full of piss-offs
i can feel his radio already deny my station
like he's made a conscious decision
not to listen to the words
coming out of my throat
(but, from the stories i've heard
his antenna, when piqued, can grow!)
animals of yore would mate while running
but he would hold my hand and walk down the street?
while no one's ever serious at seventeen
it must be a grimace to sit ahead of me
the rules say silence, and so we sit stationary
at desks queued for propriety
i would hate to be his mr. superfluous
i could not bear to eat his jelly
if he refused to spread my toast
the guy grew up thinking
that the world revolves around him
but if he thinks his shtick's succeeding
i'm going supernova on him
legs spread wide like elvis costello
smelling of cheap success and bawdy brawls
who spends his days forgetting how to shave
nothing more than a piss-off
in a school full of piss-offs
i can feel his radio already deny my station
like he's made a conscious decision
not to listen to the words
coming out of my throat
(but, from the stories i've heard
his antenna, when piqued, can grow!)
animals of yore would mate while running
but he would hold my hand and walk down the street?
while no one's ever serious at seventeen
it must be a grimace to sit ahead of me
the rules say silence, and so we sit stationary
at desks queued for propriety
i would hate to be his mr. superfluous
i could not bear to eat his jelly
if he refused to spread my toast
the guy grew up thinking
that the world revolves around him
but if he thinks his shtick's succeeding
i'm going supernova on him
August 2, 2004
Metatextualism is hot.
I like blogs that are well written. Almost everyone in the sidebar is gay, or at least bi with a yaoi fascination. There must be something introspective and demonstrative there. I just don't know what.
I read blogs because if I was in that person's shoes, I think they are who I'd be. I read blogs to remind me that sex isn't all that it's cracked up to be. I like prolific blogs. I like blogs that wear their hearts on their sleeves. I read blogs of people older than I am in hopes that I can live that life. I read blogs to lose myself in their lives. I read blogs to catch up on friends' lives. I read blogs because I develop crushes on most of my blogroll. I read blogs to appease my social conscious. I read blogs in hopes that they'll talk about me. I read blogs to steal emotions and lines to use in poems. I read blogs to break the monotomy of my day. I read blogs because I don't have any friends in real life. I read blogs to remind myself that life is worth living and I therefore don't have to kill myself because it will get better.
I read blogs.
I write in blogs because I've read that most writers keep journals and I'm passive/agressive about attention. I write in blogs because it's one of the habits of highly successful people. I write in blogs to garner attention to myself. I write in two separate blogs so the people I don't know can know more about me than my friends. I write in blogs to fish for compliments. I write in blogs to force people to read my poetry. I write in blogs to rub my stats in my friends' faces. I write in blogs to inspire other people. I write in blogs to force my opinions on others, and to force myself to hold opinions. I write in blogs so friends can keep track of me. I write in blogs because my best friend did in 8th grade, and we were always competing as to who wrote the better post. I write in blogs for the stats. I write in blogs to ensure that I always keep writing. I write in blogs to remind myself that something interesting happens to me at least once a day, and therefore I shouldn't kill myself.
I write blogs.
I read blogs because if I was in that person's shoes, I think they are who I'd be. I read blogs to remind me that sex isn't all that it's cracked up to be. I like prolific blogs. I like blogs that wear their hearts on their sleeves. I read blogs of people older than I am in hopes that I can live that life. I read blogs to lose myself in their lives. I read blogs to catch up on friends' lives. I read blogs because I develop crushes on most of my blogroll. I read blogs to appease my social conscious. I read blogs in hopes that they'll talk about me. I read blogs to steal emotions and lines to use in poems. I read blogs to break the monotomy of my day. I read blogs because I don't have any friends in real life. I read blogs to remind myself that life is worth living and I therefore don't have to kill myself because it will get better.
I read blogs.
I write in blogs because I've read that most writers keep journals and I'm passive/agressive about attention. I write in blogs because it's one of the habits of highly successful people. I write in blogs to garner attention to myself. I write in two separate blogs so the people I don't know can know more about me than my friends. I write in blogs to fish for compliments. I write in blogs to force people to read my poetry. I write in blogs to rub my stats in my friends' faces. I write in blogs to inspire other people. I write in blogs to force my opinions on others, and to force myself to hold opinions. I write in blogs so friends can keep track of me. I write in blogs because my best friend did in 8th grade, and we were always competing as to who wrote the better post. I write in blogs for the stats. I write in blogs to ensure that I always keep writing. I write in blogs to remind myself that something interesting happens to me at least once a day, and therefore I shouldn't kill myself.
I write blogs.
Adventures in Babysitting.
This weekend, I had the privilege of babysitting for some friends from church. The mom is a director at a local theatre company, and I've been in a few of her plays. She's a recovering hippie, ex-dead head, and was in a Improv company in Chicago during her youth. I forget the names, but she worked with a few of the early Saturday Night Live-rs before they made their break. Her kids are gorgeous, and have been in a handful of children's plays and commericals.
Molly is eight, Noah is five, and August is eleven months old. I didn't get much of a chance to babysit for them while I was away at college, which made them sad as I am their favorite babysitter. I've a strong background in theatre, especially children's shows, which means I have the best games for dress-up and make-believe. I'm awesome with kids, too, as I have no indie cred to live up to and can therefore be a huge dork.
This story is actually from the last time I babysat them, and I think I may have said something about it on a previous blog, but it's worth the repeat.
While August was taking a nap, Molly, Noah, and I were playing in the other room. After a rousing game of Pirates (where Molly was a kidnapped princess who eventually became a Pirate Queen after displaying her kickass fighting skills against the mean Pirate Noah), we took a slight breather, and started deciding what else we should play.
Ninjas trying to steal some treasure? School in an earthquake? Deep Sea Divers trying to hide from a shark? Astronauts fighting evil aliens? Movie Stars stranded on an island?
Nope. Molly wanted to play house.
"August can be the baby, I can be the little sister, and you and Noah can be my parents."
"OK. Which one of us is your mom and which is the dad?" (Gender roles rarely made a difference in our games--take it from me, the best darn Goldilocks you'll ever see.)
"Bob" (With more than a hint of impatience) "Some families have two mommies or two daddies and it's perfectly normal. They're still a family."
The little brats totally had heaping bowls of ice cream for lunch that day.
Molly is eight, Noah is five, and August is eleven months old. I didn't get much of a chance to babysit for them while I was away at college, which made them sad as I am their favorite babysitter. I've a strong background in theatre, especially children's shows, which means I have the best games for dress-up and make-believe. I'm awesome with kids, too, as I have no indie cred to live up to and can therefore be a huge dork.
This story is actually from the last time I babysat them, and I think I may have said something about it on a previous blog, but it's worth the repeat.
While August was taking a nap, Molly, Noah, and I were playing in the other room. After a rousing game of Pirates (where Molly was a kidnapped princess who eventually became a Pirate Queen after displaying her kickass fighting skills against the mean Pirate Noah), we took a slight breather, and started deciding what else we should play.
Ninjas trying to steal some treasure? School in an earthquake? Deep Sea Divers trying to hide from a shark? Astronauts fighting evil aliens? Movie Stars stranded on an island?
Nope. Molly wanted to play house.
"August can be the baby, I can be the little sister, and you and Noah can be my parents."
"OK. Which one of us is your mom and which is the dad?" (Gender roles rarely made a difference in our games--take it from me, the best darn Goldilocks you'll ever see.)
"Bob" (With more than a hint of impatience) "Some families have two mommies or two daddies and it's perfectly normal. They're still a family."
The little brats totally had heaping bowls of ice cream for lunch that day.
August 1, 2004
i positive emotion you
Bingo (from boy and his toy), otherwise known as the coolest thing to hit the blogiverse since Margaret Cho, wrote me a haiku just now.
While I'm not a big fan of surrealist poetry, I'm pleased never the less. Giddy, even. Well, maybe not giddy, but positive emotion.
I positive emotion you Bingo. Superlatively.
You too should write a poem for me. I promise to positive emotion you, too. You'll probably read this on Monday, so it's not like you'll be doing any real work. Get your asses off of Tribe and put your quills to paper. Consider it an early birthday gift. (PS-Friday, people.) There's no quicker way into my heart (and pants!) than a poem professing your desire for me. We English majors are quirky like that.
Otherwise, I'll be forced to post some of my own poetry, and nobody wants that, now do we?
bookishly loud lean
laconic castaways swirl
lewdly blushing queen
While I'm not a big fan of surrealist poetry, I'm pleased never the less. Giddy, even. Well, maybe not giddy, but positive emotion.
I positive emotion you Bingo. Superlatively.
You too should write a poem for me. I promise to positive emotion you, too. You'll probably read this on Monday, so it's not like you'll be doing any real work. Get your asses off of Tribe and put your quills to paper. Consider it an early birthday gift. (PS-Friday, people.) There's no quicker way into my heart (and pants!) than a poem professing your desire for me. We English majors are quirky like that.
Otherwise, I'll be forced to post some of my own poetry, and nobody wants that, now do we?
July 31, 2004
Extraordinary Machine.
This is a need, people. Not a want. A necessity.
MP3 of Beautiful Machine! Love! Drool! Fangirl Glee!
Extraordinary Machine
I certainly haven't been shopping for any new shoes
and I certainly haven't been spreading myself around
I still only travel by foot and by foot it's a slow climb
but I`m good at being uncomfortable so I can't stop changing all the time
I noticed that my opponent is always on the go
and won't go slow so as not to focus and I notice
he'll hitch a ride with any guide as long as they go fast from whence he came
but he's no good at being uncomfortable so he can't stop staying exactly the same
If there was a better way to go then it would find me
I can't help it the road just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me or treat me mean
I make the most of it I'm an extraordinary machine
I seem to you to seek a new disaster every day
You deem me doomed to clean my view and be at peace and lay
I mean to prove I mean to move in my own way
and say I've been getting along for long before you came into the play
I am the baby of the family
it happens so everybody cares
and wear the sheeps clothes while they chaperone
curious you're looking down your nose at me while you appease
curteous to try and help but let me set your mind at ease
If there was a better way to go then it would find me
I can't help it the road just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me or treat me mean
I make the most of it I`m an extraordinary machine
Do I so worry you?
Do I need to hurry to say it's very kind
but it's to no avail
I don't want the veil of flowers to
no everything will be just fine
If there was a better way to go then it would find me
I can't help it the road just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me or treat me mean
I make the most of it I'm an extraordinary machine
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