Dear Mother:
Just a note in gratitude and appreciation of all you've done for me.
Thank you for being so judgmental. It makes my social life that much brighter when I hate bringing people home to meet you. Thank you for that look you get, with one eyebrow cocked just a little and your pursed lips — it brightens my day to know you don't approve of my friends.
Thank you for your tendency to gossip. It warms my heart to hear you talk about me on the phone to your friends, about how I've pierced my ears and you just have to accept it, acting like the door isn't open and I don't have to listen to you in the next room.
Thank you for your wonderful aura of happiness and friendliness. I brought a friend home — at the time he was a boyfriend, but no longer — and the first thing he said was "Your mom — what's up with her?" Thank you for that. Thank you for giving me the feeling that I'm being a burden in my own house (for this place has never really been a home to me).
Thank you for your seemingly effortless way of not feeling anything but self-pity. I can never get enough of the way nothing seems to matter to you but yourself and your plans. How I gave up trying to talk to you years ago because it all fell on deaf ears. How boo-hoo, your life sucks.
Thank you for your general, impossible-to-please, my-way-or-the-highway, just-stepped-in-something-gross-and-it-has-your-face, supreme bitch personality. You have successfully scared away a love interest. I hope you're happy now, because I sure am not.
Your son in blood if not in heart,
Bradley
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Good Feeling Gone
So, that happy-fuzzy post-date glow died today. After like, three weeks, which was a lot longer than I expected it to last. I haven't been a solid happy for that long in . . . a long time.
The HFPDG lasted quite well, actually. It lasted through a bus accident that killed a band teacher at school; not somebody I knew personally, but I have a lot of friends in band, so it did make me sad to think of them. (Incidentally, the bus accident was the same night as the date. I found out the next morning.) It lasted through the first pomegranate of the season, now happily digesting in my stomach. (I pretty much live for pomegranate season. There's nothing like the smell of a pomegranate right after you first cut the top off and the juice oozes from a popped aril onto the cutting board.) It lasted through term finals, barely.
In fact, its death is my own fault. NaNoWriMo—National Novel-Writing Month for you newbies—is almost upon us! Objective: write 50,000 words in a month, equating 1667 2/3 words a day or 8 1/3 pages with 1-inch margins, 10-pt. Courier New double-spaced.
Naturally this is something I simply MUST do. So I started brainstorming characters and plot options earlier this week (Monday, to be precise) and decided on my character from the first role-play I participated in. That meant, however, that the whole motley crew from RPv1.0 gets dragged along for the ride. Most of them I can deal with—a former-captain/current-runner-of-the-galaxy with emotional issues, a thief as her egocentric-yet-not-self-confident lover, an apathetic mechanical wench/cyborg genius, and a family-oriented older brother with a death wish. They're all fun and games.
Then I started thinking about our antagonist, Kain. Kain is charismatic, manipulative, imposing, cunning—all the good things a bad guy is supposed to be. John, his creator, portrayed him so brilliantly, so perfectly, that Kain was impossible to hate in that twisted way we reserve for the evil forces with the best intentions at heart.
How could I match that? How can I use Kain in my story while still keeping him Kain? He seems so out of my league, beyond my abilities, that there's no way on Earth I can do him justice. I don't think I have it in me to accomplish such a perfect villain, to give him that same level of fear-striking coolness, that pure evil that John gave him.
After that first moment, of doubt, everything else I had planned kind of crashed down around my ears. I can't do this. I can't take the creations of others and use them for my own purposes. I can't control this plot—it's too complicated, too delicate, too hard, too threadbare, too long, too too. Who am I to think that I can do all this, create this world and put these people through hell? Who am I to play God to these people?
Well, I'm me. And I'm going to do this. The villain may suck, but this is a first draft. Nobody has to see it. I can print it out, mash it up, and make new paper out of it. I could eat it. I could line the litter box with it. This is my story. I'm telling it, come hell or high water.
The HFPDG lasted quite well, actually. It lasted through a bus accident that killed a band teacher at school; not somebody I knew personally, but I have a lot of friends in band, so it did make me sad to think of them. (Incidentally, the bus accident was the same night as the date. I found out the next morning.) It lasted through the first pomegranate of the season, now happily digesting in my stomach. (I pretty much live for pomegranate season. There's nothing like the smell of a pomegranate right after you first cut the top off and the juice oozes from a popped aril onto the cutting board.) It lasted through term finals, barely.
In fact, its death is my own fault. NaNoWriMo—National Novel-Writing Month for you newbies—is almost upon us! Objective: write 50,000 words in a month, equating 1667 2/3 words a day or 8 1/3 pages with 1-inch margins, 10-pt. Courier New double-spaced.
Naturally this is something I simply MUST do. So I started brainstorming characters and plot options earlier this week (Monday, to be precise) and decided on my character from the first role-play I participated in. That meant, however, that the whole motley crew from RPv1.0 gets dragged along for the ride. Most of them I can deal with—a former-captain/current-runner-of-the-galaxy with emotional issues, a thief as her egocentric-yet-not-self-confident lover, an apathetic mechanical wench/cyborg genius, and a family-oriented older brother with a death wish. They're all fun and games.
Then I started thinking about our antagonist, Kain. Kain is charismatic, manipulative, imposing, cunning—all the good things a bad guy is supposed to be. John, his creator, portrayed him so brilliantly, so perfectly, that Kain was impossible to hate in that twisted way we reserve for the evil forces with the best intentions at heart.
How could I match that? How can I use Kain in my story while still keeping him Kain? He seems so out of my league, beyond my abilities, that there's no way on Earth I can do him justice. I don't think I have it in me to accomplish such a perfect villain, to give him that same level of fear-striking coolness, that pure evil that John gave him.
After that first moment, of doubt, everything else I had planned kind of crashed down around my ears. I can't do this. I can't take the creations of others and use them for my own purposes. I can't control this plot—it's too complicated, too delicate, too hard, too threadbare, too long, too too. Who am I to think that I can do all this, create this world and put these people through hell? Who am I to play God to these people?
Well, I'm me. And I'm going to do this. The villain may suck, but this is a first draft. Nobody has to see it. I can print it out, mash it up, and make new paper out of it. I could eat it. I could line the litter box with it. This is my story. I'm telling it, come hell or high water.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
The First Date, in Three Acts
Act One: The Before
Just in case you all haven't noticed, I'm prone to A, violent mood swings; B, being over-dramatic about my life, despite my efforts to keep things in perspective; and C, I can't think of anything but feel this list needs three parts.
ANYway, so my friend Tanner's boyfriend read my last post, which was written during one of my melodramatic low phases, and, being the good gay boy I've never met, immediately set me up on a date. (Thank you from the bottom of my everything, Jay!) So here I am, set up with somebody I've never met by somebody I've never met. First things first: Billy tracked me down on Facebook–because Facebook is the center of all life now—and we started to get to know each other.
The parental units, however, may or may not have been difficult about the whole going-to-a-dance-with-a-guy thing, so I avoided the whole thing by saying Tanner had an extra ticket to the The Used concert at the Saltair tonight. (For a while he had me thinking he had already bought tickets and now was going to Cyprus High's Homecoming instead. It confused me at first—on the one hand he was so excited to go to the dance, and on the other he was so excited to go to the concert. Unless Tanner mastered bilocation without me, something was wrong there.) My mom asked no questions other than "When will you be home?"
Friday evening merited a rather unexpected question from Jay. "I'm just curious, but are you planning on, you know, getting it on?" Well. Um, no. I don't plan to have sex with people. If it happens, it happens. "Cause I kind of think you should." (Jay was still under the impression I was hopelessly depressed or something, which is caring and sweet and all, especially coming from somebody I've only talked to online. But still. As amused by the question as I was, it still was just a little awkward.)
As I discovered the night before (aka yesterday, aka Friday), I had outgrown my old pair of black jeans, something Billy and I agreed on wearing so we at least semi-matched for the semiformal dance. Of course, the lack of acceptable jeans merited only one thing: a shopping spree to the mall with one of my two best girlfriends, Rikki. Jeans (and an unplanned excursion into Bath and Body Works) and smoothie in hand, we left the mall feeling rather ecstatic about tonight—me for my first ever real date, her for the Snow Patrol concert with her steady boyfriend.
It's amazing how time flies when you're having fun and/or nervous. All of a sudden it was 3:30, and I had half an hour to shower and otherwise get ready. Tanner cut me short from switching out earrings, plucking my eye (well, uni) brow(s), and doing my nails with the sparkly stuff I got at Target like seven months ago. In any case, we were off, whether I felt ready or not. At least I managed to put on some of the new Midnight Pomegranate perfume from B&BW.
Act 2: The During
After picking people up and getting random caffeine—coffee for Billy and me, Cherry Coke for Jay and Tanner—we were off to Golden Corral with four more people. We all ate some, talked some, laughed a bunch—Jay's friend Shaylie was quiet frank with the waiter about how cooked our rolls were—and headed over to the dance.
Jay and Tanner pretty much spent the whole time at the dance trying to ditch me and Billy, something I really have no problem with because it was so obvious they wanted to be alone together. So Billy and I spent the whole time dancing together. At first it was very clean, at least two Book-of-Mormons between us at all times. By the time "Love Game" by Lady Gaga came on, though, we had a love game of our own going on. For those of you who have seen me at our school dances with Kelley, picture that to begin with. Now slide us closer. Make it last for an indeterminable number of songs, cause I lost track after four. And last but not least, throw in a lot more traveling hands, something that Kelley and I pretty much never did. That is me dancing with Billy. That is me having the night of my life.
Probably the, like, semihighlight of the night at this point was having a small chat with some of the school's administration. "Look, I have no problem with you guys dancing with each other. But several people have reported seeing you make out with each other. Is that true?" Um, no! I mean, as much as I wanted that to happen, nothing along those lines had happened. (Well, unless you count the relatively explicit motions we began doing on that song "You spin my head right round, right round / When you go down, when you go down, down". That was sure to merit a lot of gasping.) "Cause the same rules apply to you guys—no PDAs here." We laughed and walked away. That was very blatant discrimination, as there were about twenty straight couples making out as he spoke to us, but there was no point in arguing and I didn't want to anyway. At this point I was pretty much lost in Billy. He was fun. He was funny. He was giving me the time of my life and probably didn't even know it. It was so mindblowing and all-at-once that I mostly just went with it because what else could I do?
Act 3: The Afterwards
After we left the dance we went to McDonald's, some for food and stuff. Billy and I got more coffee, something I'm sure is contributing to my buzz right now. Anyway, then we went back to Jay's house for some pictures by his mom, and then Tanner and I left. It was so hard to say goodbye to Billy—I'd just met him, but he was so fun and wonderful to talk to and just, just, just so much. Somehow Tanner and I made it into the truck without any hitchhikers, and then we were off.
The ride home was mostly silence. Not that silence when it's just nobody can think of anything to say. We were both just so lost in our own thoughts. The radio was just a background noise, so all that was really there was us not talking. Tanner and Jay had apparently discussed whether or not we were going to have sex or not—other than me quizzing him on that, there was no real conversation. He dropped me off and we both squeed at each other, before I fumbled around with my house key and he drove off. (His mother made him be home by midnight—otherwise I'm sure we would have stayed until one or two.)
So, really. Is this how everyone else feels all the time? It's that Boys Like Girls song. I'm so love drunk right now I can like, hardly think straight or anything. I'm definitely something drunk. It's just this gigantic warm thing inside my chest that honestly feels like it's going to explode at any given minute, and my ribs are stretched to the breaking point trying to contain it, and I'm just going to spontaneously do something—I can't even think what I'd do if I spontaneously like, overflowed with this feeling. Obviously I'd probably be on the floor or something, but it's just this big unknown as to what all would be happening. Love-drunkenness explodes, and then there's static. Tune in next week to find out.
So oh, my god, this is just—it's beyond words. I can't even describe it. Even my everything-else-I've-written-on-this-thing can't do any justice to my current state of being. Impossible in like, everything. I don't know why I've bothered trying up to this point. Really. People should just have to deal with my utter incoherency as they ask how it went, cause I'm sure all the response they'd get is this vacant stare and a lot of loud, happy noises.
Well, whatever this is, and however it works, I'm not going to be sleeping much tonight.
Just in case you all haven't noticed, I'm prone to A, violent mood swings; B, being over-dramatic about my life, despite my efforts to keep things in perspective; and C, I can't think of anything but feel this list needs three parts.
ANYway, so my friend Tanner's boyfriend read my last post, which was written during one of my melodramatic low phases, and, being the good gay boy I've never met, immediately set me up on a date. (Thank you from the bottom of my everything, Jay!) So here I am, set up with somebody I've never met by somebody I've never met. First things first: Billy tracked me down on Facebook–because Facebook is the center of all life now—and we started to get to know each other.
The parental units, however, may or may not have been difficult about the whole going-to-a-dance-with-a-guy thing, so I avoided the whole thing by saying Tanner had an extra ticket to the The Used concert at the Saltair tonight. (For a while he had me thinking he had already bought tickets and now was going to Cyprus High's Homecoming instead. It confused me at first—on the one hand he was so excited to go to the dance, and on the other he was so excited to go to the concert. Unless Tanner mastered bilocation without me, something was wrong there.) My mom asked no questions other than "When will you be home?"
Friday evening merited a rather unexpected question from Jay. "I'm just curious, but are you planning on, you know, getting it on?" Well. Um, no. I don't plan to have sex with people. If it happens, it happens. "Cause I kind of think you should." (Jay was still under the impression I was hopelessly depressed or something, which is caring and sweet and all, especially coming from somebody I've only talked to online. But still. As amused by the question as I was, it still was just a little awkward.)
As I discovered the night before (aka yesterday, aka Friday), I had outgrown my old pair of black jeans, something Billy and I agreed on wearing so we at least semi-matched for the semiformal dance. Of course, the lack of acceptable jeans merited only one thing: a shopping spree to the mall with one of my two best girlfriends, Rikki. Jeans (and an unplanned excursion into Bath and Body Works) and smoothie in hand, we left the mall feeling rather ecstatic about tonight—me for my first ever real date, her for the Snow Patrol concert with her steady boyfriend.
It's amazing how time flies when you're having fun and/or nervous. All of a sudden it was 3:30, and I had half an hour to shower and otherwise get ready. Tanner cut me short from switching out earrings, plucking my eye (well, uni) brow(s), and doing my nails with the sparkly stuff I got at Target like seven months ago. In any case, we were off, whether I felt ready or not. At least I managed to put on some of the new Midnight Pomegranate perfume from B&BW.
Act 2: The During
After picking people up and getting random caffeine—coffee for Billy and me, Cherry Coke for Jay and Tanner—we were off to Golden Corral with four more people. We all ate some, talked some, laughed a bunch—Jay's friend Shaylie was quiet frank with the waiter about how cooked our rolls were—and headed over to the dance.
Jay and Tanner pretty much spent the whole time at the dance trying to ditch me and Billy, something I really have no problem with because it was so obvious they wanted to be alone together. So Billy and I spent the whole time dancing together. At first it was very clean, at least two Book-of-Mormons between us at all times. By the time "Love Game" by Lady Gaga came on, though, we had a love game of our own going on. For those of you who have seen me at our school dances with Kelley, picture that to begin with. Now slide us closer. Make it last for an indeterminable number of songs, cause I lost track after four. And last but not least, throw in a lot more traveling hands, something that Kelley and I pretty much never did. That is me dancing with Billy. That is me having the night of my life.
Probably the, like, semihighlight of the night at this point was having a small chat with some of the school's administration. "Look, I have no problem with you guys dancing with each other. But several people have reported seeing you make out with each other. Is that true?" Um, no! I mean, as much as I wanted that to happen, nothing along those lines had happened. (Well, unless you count the relatively explicit motions we began doing on that song "You spin my head right round, right round / When you go down, when you go down, down". That was sure to merit a lot of gasping.) "Cause the same rules apply to you guys—no PDAs here." We laughed and walked away. That was very blatant discrimination, as there were about twenty straight couples making out as he spoke to us, but there was no point in arguing and I didn't want to anyway. At this point I was pretty much lost in Billy. He was fun. He was funny. He was giving me the time of my life and probably didn't even know it. It was so mindblowing and all-at-once that I mostly just went with it because what else could I do?
Act 3: The Afterwards
After we left the dance we went to McDonald's, some for food and stuff. Billy and I got more coffee, something I'm sure is contributing to my buzz right now. Anyway, then we went back to Jay's house for some pictures by his mom, and then Tanner and I left. It was so hard to say goodbye to Billy—I'd just met him, but he was so fun and wonderful to talk to and just, just, just so much. Somehow Tanner and I made it into the truck without any hitchhikers, and then we were off.
The ride home was mostly silence. Not that silence when it's just nobody can think of anything to say. We were both just so lost in our own thoughts. The radio was just a background noise, so all that was really there was us not talking. Tanner and Jay had apparently discussed whether or not we were going to have sex or not—other than me quizzing him on that, there was no real conversation. He dropped me off and we both squeed at each other, before I fumbled around with my house key and he drove off. (His mother made him be home by midnight—otherwise I'm sure we would have stayed until one or two.)
So, really. Is this how everyone else feels all the time? It's that Boys Like Girls song. I'm so love drunk right now I can like, hardly think straight or anything. I'm definitely something drunk. It's just this gigantic warm thing inside my chest that honestly feels like it's going to explode at any given minute, and my ribs are stretched to the breaking point trying to contain it, and I'm just going to spontaneously do something—I can't even think what I'd do if I spontaneously like, overflowed with this feeling. Obviously I'd probably be on the floor or something, but it's just this big unknown as to what all would be happening. Love-drunkenness explodes, and then there's static. Tune in next week to find out.
So oh, my god, this is just—it's beyond words. I can't even describe it. Even my everything-else-I've-written-on-this-thing can't do any justice to my current state of being. Impossible in like, everything. I don't know why I've bothered trying up to this point. Really. People should just have to deal with my utter incoherency as they ask how it went, cause I'm sure all the response they'd get is this vacant stare and a lot of loud, happy noises.
Well, whatever this is, and however it works, I'm not going to be sleeping much tonight.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
With a Flourish of Angst
*The following has been rated R for profanity, sexual references and a flourish of angst.*
I am such a masochist. I think I should get that out of the way before we move on. Not a sexual masochist, where I'm turned on by my own pain, but incredibly incredibly emotional masochist. Despite knowing I will kill myself inside later or how much it hurts right now, I love doing things that I know hurt. Like rereading Breaking Dawn.
My friend Angie borrowed a trilogy of books about three gay high school students being angsty and falling in love with each other and shit like that. "The gay Twilight," she called it. The books have been living at her house for nearly two years now, and so of course I had to reread them now that I'd gotten them back. How the hell could I forget that everything turns out great in the end? That everybody gets who they want, and everything gets sorted out, and the only casualties along the way are a bruised ego or two and a turned-down college? That nobody gets a broken heart for more than fifty pages at a time? That everybody ends up with "peace, joy, love, and lots of hot, groovy sex"?
It's a fucking teen movie, for God's sake. I want my life to be a teen movie, with the cookie-cutter characters and see-through plot twists and ending scene where we're making out on somebody's hood at night as the camera pans out to reveal the secluded forest around us, with some sort of soft-piano-solo song playing in the background. (I've even started compiling a soundtrack for my life.)
I want it all so bad. I want the safety and predictability of it. I want the knowledge that I will get who I want in the end, no matter how unlikely it is that they'll end up with me. Fuck it, I just want something in return.
I am getting so damn sick of giving and giving and giving and giving. I'm being sucked dry here, attacked from all sides. I've got the straight girl friends who bitch about their tragic romances or lack thereof. I've got the stupid bastards making my life miserable with the names and slurs and looks that make me want to die. I've got the constant effort it takes to at least look happy most of the time—actually achieving happiness takes so much more. I've got this sense of advocacy to deal with, trying so hard to make a change against something that isn't giving, trying to make a difference to my school and the people in it. Everything is taking, and all I'm doing is giving.
Why the fuck can't I get something back? What's wrong with a little reciprocity here? Why should I be doing all this work and getting none of the benefits? Why am I even bothering at this point? There's no damn reason to keep working to change things, or be the constant shoulder to cry on. I shouldn't have to offer "words of wisdom" to people who need a boost in their life—find your support elsewhere for once.
And everything keeps adding up. Coming out? Still not done with that. Every time I meet new people I have to go through that again. My aunt today sent me a note on Facebook: "have you decided to be gay? just privately wondering. " I've got a family gathering tomorrow for LDS Conference—what am I supposed to say to her? What am I supposed to say to anybody?
I feel like crying and throwing up. I want to hurt myself. (Don't worry, I never do any more. Your concern is appreciated.) I want to get rid of this huge pit in my chest, the one that eats away at everything I am until I feel like there's nothing left of me. I want to read the teen-movie stories again. I want to watch the teen-movies. I want a family that can sit at the table together without having a fight. I want some order to my life. I want to go back to fucking second grade where sex and hormones didn't matter and it was just friends with everything.
I just want too damn much.
I am such a masochist. I think I should get that out of the way before we move on. Not a sexual masochist, where I'm turned on by my own pain, but incredibly incredibly emotional masochist. Despite knowing I will kill myself inside later or how much it hurts right now, I love doing things that I know hurt. Like rereading Breaking Dawn.
My friend Angie borrowed a trilogy of books about three gay high school students being angsty and falling in love with each other and shit like that. "The gay Twilight," she called it. The books have been living at her house for nearly two years now, and so of course I had to reread them now that I'd gotten them back. How the hell could I forget that everything turns out great in the end? That everybody gets who they want, and everything gets sorted out, and the only casualties along the way are a bruised ego or two and a turned-down college? That nobody gets a broken heart for more than fifty pages at a time? That everybody ends up with "peace, joy, love, and lots of hot, groovy sex"?
It's a fucking teen movie, for God's sake. I want my life to be a teen movie, with the cookie-cutter characters and see-through plot twists and ending scene where we're making out on somebody's hood at night as the camera pans out to reveal the secluded forest around us, with some sort of soft-piano-solo song playing in the background. (I've even started compiling a soundtrack for my life.)
I want it all so bad. I want the safety and predictability of it. I want the knowledge that I will get who I want in the end, no matter how unlikely it is that they'll end up with me. Fuck it, I just want something in return.
I am getting so damn sick of giving and giving and giving and giving. I'm being sucked dry here, attacked from all sides. I've got the straight girl friends who bitch about their tragic romances or lack thereof. I've got the stupid bastards making my life miserable with the names and slurs and looks that make me want to die. I've got the constant effort it takes to at least look happy most of the time—actually achieving happiness takes so much more. I've got this sense of advocacy to deal with, trying so hard to make a change against something that isn't giving, trying to make a difference to my school and the people in it. Everything is taking, and all I'm doing is giving.
Why the fuck can't I get something back? What's wrong with a little reciprocity here? Why should I be doing all this work and getting none of the benefits? Why am I even bothering at this point? There's no damn reason to keep working to change things, or be the constant shoulder to cry on. I shouldn't have to offer "words of wisdom" to people who need a boost in their life—find your support elsewhere for once.
And everything keeps adding up. Coming out? Still not done with that. Every time I meet new people I have to go through that again. My aunt today sent me a note on Facebook: "have you decided to be gay? just privately wondering. " I've got a family gathering tomorrow for LDS Conference—what am I supposed to say to her? What am I supposed to say to anybody?
I feel like crying and throwing up. I want to hurt myself. (Don't worry, I never do any more. Your concern is appreciated.) I want to get rid of this huge pit in my chest, the one that eats away at everything I am until I feel like there's nothing left of me. I want to read the teen-movie stories again. I want to watch the teen-movies. I want a family that can sit at the table together without having a fight. I want some order to my life. I want to go back to fucking second grade where sex and hormones didn't matter and it was just friends with everything.
I just want too damn much.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Mr. Bradley, The Stray Magnet
I've done it again: I've got another stray gay from somewhere in the country, bringing my total to five now. Stray gay: the gay kids who are lonely and usually haven't come out yet, therefore are clingy and a little desperate. I've got five of them. Quick statistic moment: five stray gays, five YOUNGER stray gays. Three think I'm dating them, and of those three, two think we're going to devirginize each other. Three think I'll be visiting them at some point in the future, and four want to visit Utah just to meet me. Only one has actually had cybersex with me—not that any of you wanted to know that, but there you have it. Locales range across the country, from California to Missouri to New York. Joy, I'm dating a multicultural posse.
What is up with me? Is there something that gets transported through the internet that screams "LONELY CONFUSED GAY TEENAGERS! PLEASE TALK TO ME!"? Really. I would turn it off in a minute if I could.
This one I didn't even TRY to pick up—and yes, it feels like I'm cruising bars and picking people up. He started chatting with my best friend since third grade, who apparently is slightly bi. (First I've heard of this. My fault, I think. I kind of used him to help figure out who I was, and now it seems there were side effects. He has yet to explain if it's just me or males in general. And why hasn't he told me before? Honestly, if anybody at our school was going to come out to somebody it might as well be me. Apparently I'm a good shoulder to cry on.) Because I'm infinitely more experienced with chatting up random strangers online, my friend transferred SG5 over to me.
Judging from past experience, the SG will latch on to me because I listen and can empathize. Trying to cut off the major we're-dating-from-three-states-apart latching, I tried explaining how I love talking and stuff but there wouldn't ever be a relationship until we met—though at the time I was nowhere near as coherent—and he was disappointed. "I'm beginning to feel you and really like you." Thanks, but we've been talking for maybe twenty minutes at this point. Sure, I can be all mentor-esque because a lot of the same stuff has happened to me, but that doesn't give you permission to start like, hanging on my every word or something. And it certainly doesn't give you permission to say we're dating if we haven't even met.
SG5 seems like a great guy, don't get me wrong. The only "problem" I picked up in our two-hour conversation is his lack of self-confidence. As well as his ignoring what I said for whatever delusional romance we have. "You're turning 18 in a month, so why don't you move to LA?" Yeah, right. I have no car, I have no money, and I certainly have nothing in LA. "I could come visit you in Utah." Great gesture and all, but I'm really not that worth it. "I've got a car and I can drive it, I'll totally come visit you." Um, aren't you listening?
Okay, so maybe I can be excessively flirty and, how shall we put it, open no matter who I'm talking to or what we're talking about. Maybe I sent mixed signals? I don't know. I just don't want another stray. I feel slightly guilty having them so dependent on me, because that's what it feels like. I feel as though these people I've never met are depending on me for love, and all I can do is ask for love in return. I don't want to be sucked dry, but how can you avoid it? And it's impossible for me to say "no" to people. I see no way to say to SG2 that no, we're not together and no, I'm not driving to Missouri to see you because yes, you are barely older than my younger sister so I could be arrested for statutory rape after November 8.
I like all these random people. I can see why they're doing it, or at least why they're becoming so attached to someone so vague. I have the same problem. There's no gay people here. Nobody to relate to here, nobody to possibly fall in love with here. So we turn to the internet, where we can be whoever we want to be, where we can talk across the country in seconds.
The only difference I can see is that I separate online long-distance relationships from actual relationships.
What is up with me? Is there something that gets transported through the internet that screams "LONELY CONFUSED GAY TEENAGERS! PLEASE TALK TO ME!"? Really. I would turn it off in a minute if I could.
This one I didn't even TRY to pick up—and yes, it feels like I'm cruising bars and picking people up. He started chatting with my best friend since third grade, who apparently is slightly bi. (First I've heard of this. My fault, I think. I kind of used him to help figure out who I was, and now it seems there were side effects. He has yet to explain if it's just me or males in general. And why hasn't he told me before? Honestly, if anybody at our school was going to come out to somebody it might as well be me. Apparently I'm a good shoulder to cry on.) Because I'm infinitely more experienced with chatting up random strangers online, my friend transferred SG5 over to me.
Judging from past experience, the SG will latch on to me because I listen and can empathize. Trying to cut off the major we're-dating-from-three-states-apart latching, I tried explaining how I love talking and stuff but there wouldn't ever be a relationship until we met—though at the time I was nowhere near as coherent—and he was disappointed. "I'm beginning to feel you and really like you." Thanks, but we've been talking for maybe twenty minutes at this point. Sure, I can be all mentor-esque because a lot of the same stuff has happened to me, but that doesn't give you permission to start like, hanging on my every word or something. And it certainly doesn't give you permission to say we're dating if we haven't even met.
SG5 seems like a great guy, don't get me wrong. The only "problem" I picked up in our two-hour conversation is his lack of self-confidence. As well as his ignoring what I said for whatever delusional romance we have. "You're turning 18 in a month, so why don't you move to LA?" Yeah, right. I have no car, I have no money, and I certainly have nothing in LA. "I could come visit you in Utah." Great gesture and all, but I'm really not that worth it. "I've got a car and I can drive it, I'll totally come visit you." Um, aren't you listening?
Okay, so maybe I can be excessively flirty and, how shall we put it, open no matter who I'm talking to or what we're talking about. Maybe I sent mixed signals? I don't know. I just don't want another stray. I feel slightly guilty having them so dependent on me, because that's what it feels like. I feel as though these people I've never met are depending on me for love, and all I can do is ask for love in return. I don't want to be sucked dry, but how can you avoid it? And it's impossible for me to say "no" to people. I see no way to say to SG2 that no, we're not together and no, I'm not driving to Missouri to see you because yes, you are barely older than my younger sister so I could be arrested for statutory rape after November 8.
I like all these random people. I can see why they're doing it, or at least why they're becoming so attached to someone so vague. I have the same problem. There's no gay people here. Nobody to relate to here, nobody to possibly fall in love with here. So we turn to the internet, where we can be whoever we want to be, where we can talk across the country in seconds.
The only difference I can see is that I separate online long-distance relationships from actual relationships.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Note That's Not About Me (I Hope)
I've never realized how insanely self-centered we as people are. Okay, amendment: I've never realized how insanely self-centered I as a person am. I've noticed it in pretty much everybody else, but it's taken me years to see it in myself.
Background to this epiphany: I've got a P.E. class first thing in the mornings, which is bad enough by itself—it's full of sophomore boys who have to make dirty jokes about everything, bother the teacher as a hobby, and pick fun at that sickening gay kid who sits in the back and tries not to be involved in any way, shape or form. (Three guesses, folks!)
So. Today we were doing warm-ups and stuff, and the teacher left to get the equipment (a giant inflatable neon pink ball—I know, I want one too). The minute she rounded the corner we all stopped jogging and started chatting, as usual. We always sit down in little clusters and gossip about random stuff. Later, when we were actually getting ready to play the game, I noticed a crumpled piece of paper lying on the ground. Nosy person that I am (something I desperately try not to be, as my mother is one of the nosiest people I know and I make a point of not being like her) I walked over and picked it up. Imagine my surprise when thick pencil streaks stare up at me: "That kid wants to have sex with me."
Ego enters, stage left. I had absolutely no evidence that the note was about me. There was no name, no indication that I was involved. And yet, I immediately glanced around to see who was talking about me behind my back. (SIDE NOTE: By this point I am so used to people talking behind my back that it rarely bothers me—that is, the talking doesn't bother me. I get irked to no end when people discuss my faults or whatever. If somebody has a problem with me, they should be brave enough to talk to my face where I can either justify their doubts or politely tear them down. Okay, rant over.)
Maybe it was the handwriting. I realize I'm stereotyping, but no girl would write so over the place. Even if they have not-so-neat handwriting, it's at least legible and much perkier than guy's handwriting. Or maybe it was the wording. That kid seems like a derogatory term, up there with that couch. That old thing. "That old thing? Oh, that kid spilled something on it. I've been meaning to get rid of that couch."
And all of a sudden I remembered I think everything is about me. That group of girls whispering in the hall are talking about me. The kid who makes eye contact for a split second and starts chatting with his neighbor, he's talking about me too. Everybody's gossiping about me. Everybody.
No. No, they aren't. There's more interesting, not to mention recent topics than me floating around the school. I came out a year and a half ago—that's not exactly a recent event. I wore the GAY shirt six months ago—once again, not a recent event. Besides, what's there to talk about with me as the subject? "Oh my god, that kid is so gay." "Oh, I know! We've got PE together and he's always reading something." Wow. Nothing new there. "Did you see that kid?" "Yeah, he pierced his ears!" Me and everybody's dog seems to be doing that—though they're all clones of each other, with their square diamond studs and their gansta speak. Really, I'm not that interesting of a topic.
Anyway, as a human race we really need to get over ourselves. As much as we like to think so, not everything is about ourselves specifically.
Background to this epiphany: I've got a P.E. class first thing in the mornings, which is bad enough by itself—it's full of sophomore boys who have to make dirty jokes about everything, bother the teacher as a hobby, and pick fun at that sickening gay kid who sits in the back and tries not to be involved in any way, shape or form. (Three guesses, folks!)
So. Today we were doing warm-ups and stuff, and the teacher left to get the equipment (a giant inflatable neon pink ball—I know, I want one too). The minute she rounded the corner we all stopped jogging and started chatting, as usual. We always sit down in little clusters and gossip about random stuff. Later, when we were actually getting ready to play the game, I noticed a crumpled piece of paper lying on the ground. Nosy person that I am (something I desperately try not to be, as my mother is one of the nosiest people I know and I make a point of not being like her) I walked over and picked it up. Imagine my surprise when thick pencil streaks stare up at me: "That kid wants to have sex with me."
Ego enters, stage left. I had absolutely no evidence that the note was about me. There was no name, no indication that I was involved. And yet, I immediately glanced around to see who was talking about me behind my back. (SIDE NOTE: By this point I am so used to people talking behind my back that it rarely bothers me—that is, the talking doesn't bother me. I get irked to no end when people discuss my faults or whatever. If somebody has a problem with me, they should be brave enough to talk to my face where I can either justify their doubts or politely tear them down. Okay, rant over.)
Maybe it was the handwriting. I realize I'm stereotyping, but no girl would write so over the place. Even if they have not-so-neat handwriting, it's at least legible and much perkier than guy's handwriting. Or maybe it was the wording. That kid seems like a derogatory term, up there with that couch. That old thing. "That old thing? Oh, that kid spilled something on it. I've been meaning to get rid of that couch."
And all of a sudden I remembered I think everything is about me. That group of girls whispering in the hall are talking about me. The kid who makes eye contact for a split second and starts chatting with his neighbor, he's talking about me too. Everybody's gossiping about me. Everybody.
No. No, they aren't. There's more interesting, not to mention recent topics than me floating around the school. I came out a year and a half ago—that's not exactly a recent event. I wore the GAY shirt six months ago—once again, not a recent event. Besides, what's there to talk about with me as the subject? "Oh my god, that kid is so gay." "Oh, I know! We've got PE together and he's always reading something." Wow. Nothing new there. "Did you see that kid?" "Yeah, he pierced his ears!" Me and everybody's dog seems to be doing that—though they're all clones of each other, with their square diamond studs and their gansta speak. Really, I'm not that interesting of a topic.
Anyway, as a human race we really need to get over ourselves. As much as we like to think so, not everything is about ourselves specifically.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
How is it that people can be so utterly stupid sometimes?! Ugh. I don't get it! I have done my best to help a friend of mine and I am being ignored. I WANT TO HELP YOU! WHY DON'T YOU GET THAT?! I am willing to do absolutely ANYTHING for you at this point, anything except leave you alone because that's NEVER helpful in situations like this! IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT! What you did was absolutely necessary for the situation! "I didn't have any alternatives—it just got to the point where I had to choose. . . . Sometimes, there isn't any way to compromise." (Thank you, Stephenie Meyer.) I GET that you had to choose! I DON'T CARE that I got the "losing side"! I still want you around, regardless of what you may think about yourself! I AM DOING EVERYTHING HUMANLY POSSIBLE TO HELP YOU!!!! And you're not listening! That right there is hurting me more than any other rejection you may or may not inflict upon me! I can't just sit here and know that my best just wasn't good enough for you. You want to stop hurting people? You're hurting me a million times more than is necessary!
Monday, September 14, 2009
The Regrets of Mr. Bradley
So I'm sitting in third period, making sure that nobody vandalizes the library, and also putting off my homework for fourth period. I'm retaking Creative Writing this year cause it counts as an English credit, whereas last year it counted as an elective credit. At first I thought it would be great and all, and it is, but so far we're just doing the same things we did last year.
Don't get me wrong, it's a fun class with fun people—one or two in particular—but for some reason I thought we'd be doing different stuff. Which is absurd, because the teacher has been teaching that class for years now. Why should he change the whole curriculum because one student has already done it? Honestly. That's probably the most egocentric thing I've ever thought.
Regret #1: I kind of wish I'd taken AP Lit instead.
Ugh, and my back is killing me. It's my own fault entirely—I have the strange and fatal disorder known as biblioitis: it is not physically possible for me to have under five books from the library at one time. I usually go on a binge-purge cycle, checking out seven at once and turning the old seven in, carting them to and from my house on a daily basis. This is wreaking havoc on my back and shoulders, not to mention the time constraints. For not only do I have to check them out, I have to read them all, regardless of if I've read them before. Not all of them are worth reading again —just this morning I was talking with my friend Erica about the new New Moon trailer, and now I just have to reread the Twilight saga again. It doesn't matter that I'm 4/7 of the way through another series and plowing through the first book in a hefty trilogy, or that I've also planned to reread Eragon et al—now I can't live without some angsty vampires as well.
Regret #2: I wish I wasn't so book-sessed.
*sigh* I'm also getting really sick of being lonely. I've already ranted about this to tons of people, but it's constantly on my mind, whether or not I want it to be. It's just getting very, very old watching everybody else fall in love with each other, then coming to me to complain how their relationship sucks and is there anything I can do to help, please that'd be great, then falling out of love with each other, and then complaining to me about how they're lonely and sick of being single. While they go through the cycle over and over like a broken top or a washing machine, I exist in a perpetual state of NoBoyfriend.
"The state of NoBoyfriend is not a state like New Jersey is a state. It's a state like catatonia is a state. Or depression. Or ennui. (Ennui: Another one of my new words. It means "listlessness, boredom." As in, "I would save the world, but I suffer from ennui, which forces me to lie on the couch and eat spearmint jelly candies instead.")
"A person in the state of NoBoyfriend is in stasis. Nothing is happening on the boy front. So little happened last month, and so little is expected to happen next month—or ever that [he] is immobile in terms of romance. [He] is also affliicted with mild depression and ennui due to a lack of affection, excitement, and horizontal action.
"[He] knows, of course, that Gloria Steinman, her favorite feminist from American History and Politics last year, would tell [him] that "a woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.
"But maybe, depending on who [he] is, [he] wants a boyfriend anyway. Maybe the fish wants a bicycle.
"The state of Noboyfriend is hard to leave, once you're well and firmly in. The longer you are there, the more entrenched you are. Doctors and shrinks won't be of any help. There are no pills for the state of Noboyfriend, no psychoanalytic diagnoses, no miracle cures." from The Treasure Map of Boys by E. Lockhart
Well, I'm sick of Noboyfriend. But there's not a whole lot to choose from—nothing, in fact. Which brings me to the actual regret. Sometimes I wish I were straight, if only because it would be so much easier to find what I want in this world. I'm not in the mood to wait until college or beyond to get my first kiss, because that's just absurd. And yes, part of me wants a happy-teen-movie-ending, where everybody gets who they want and goes out for pizza and a bit of "horizontal action."
Regret #3: I wish I wasn't gay. But only sometimes.
Don't get me wrong, it's a fun class with fun people—one or two in particular—but for some reason I thought we'd be doing different stuff. Which is absurd, because the teacher has been teaching that class for years now. Why should he change the whole curriculum because one student has already done it? Honestly. That's probably the most egocentric thing I've ever thought.
Regret #1: I kind of wish I'd taken AP Lit instead.
Regret #2: I wish I wasn't so book-sessed.
"The state of NoBoyfriend is not a state like New Jersey is a state. It's a state like catatonia is a state. Or depression. Or ennui. (Ennui: Another one of my new words. It means "listlessness, boredom." As in, "I would save the world, but I suffer from ennui, which forces me to lie on the couch and eat spearmint jelly candies instead.")
"A person in the state of NoBoyfriend is in stasis. Nothing is happening on the boy front. So little happened last month, and so little is expected to happen next month—or ever that [he] is immobile in terms of romance. [He] is also affliicted with mild depression and ennui due to a lack of affection, excitement, and horizontal action.
"[He] knows, of course, that Gloria Steinman, her favorite feminist from American History and Politics last year, would tell [him] that "a woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.
"But maybe, depending on who [he] is, [he] wants a boyfriend anyway. Maybe the fish wants a bicycle.
"The state of Noboyfriend is hard to leave, once you're well and firmly in. The longer you are there, the more entrenched you are. Doctors and shrinks won't be of any help. There are no pills for the state of Noboyfriend, no psychoanalytic diagnoses, no miracle cures." from The Treasure Map of Boys by E. Lockhart
Well, I'm sick of Noboyfriend. But there's not a whole lot to choose from—nothing, in fact. Which brings me to the actual regret. Sometimes I wish I were straight, if only because it would be so much easier to find what I want in this world. I'm not in the mood to wait until college or beyond to get my first kiss, because that's just absurd. And yes, part of me wants a happy-teen-movie-ending, where everybody gets who they want and goes out for pizza and a bit of "horizontal action."
Regret #3: I wish I wasn't gay. But only sometimes.
Friday, September 11, 2009
A Graduation Speaker
So, I'm sitting in the auditorium listening to some dude talking about how we need to GRADUATE and SHOW SENIOR PRIDE, even though ONE PERSON IN YOUR ROW WON'T BE AT GRADUATION. Wow. The school seems to have to resort to some pretty low measures to motivate us. My friend Kelley and I are making snide comments about everything, including how all the senior class officers look the same from the back. It takes the concept of Robotic Students to a whole new level.
Well, I hate to break it to you, Mr. Loud-Graduation-Dude, but I really don't want want to reminisce on my wonderful, memorable last year of mandatory education. And I really don't feel like showing up at the graduation ceremony. I'll just let them mail my diploma to me and celebrate at IHOP instead. It'd be much more fun and a lot less listening to people talk about how we're the future and we're going to make a difference because we are the next generation.
Personally I don't feel like carrying on the Caveman legacy, especially into the workplace. Cavemen generally are looked down upon in mainstream society. I mean, looks at the Geico commercials. The poor guy has his dumb, not-shaven face all over the buses and billboards.
And then we're moving on to Classyrings, Cap'n'Gowns, and Graduationnouncements. Lots of hype for pretty much nothing. And what is it about rock music with a loud bass line that makes people think we're going to get excited and pay attention to whatever they have playing on the screen? They could at least give us something to be excited about.
Like a dildo. (Thank you, Kelley.) What if they gave us Class of 2010 dildos? That would certainly be memorable, and a lot more useful than a fancy expensive ring. The ring is only really used to punch people and look chunky. Dildos have lots of uses, though I really don't think I need to go into detail here. Maybe later, but certainly not here.
Aw, they have a Grad Bear. That's the only remotely interesting thing I've seen so far. It's small and adorable with that fluffy brown fur and a cute little Cap'n'Gown. See, that's something I could live with. I could look up on my shelf and see the cute Grad Bear with my '10 dildo as their own little display. Good times, good times.
Ohmigod. I could buy a sweatshirt that ADVERTISES how much a senior I am. I could "broadcast it daily"!!! I think I might faint from the excitingness of it all. I can hardly stand how exciting this is! I can't breathe!!!! AAAAHH!!! AAAAAHHHH!!!!!!! AAAAHHH!!!!!
I THINK I'M GETTING LIGHTHEADED FROM ASPHYXIATION!!!!!!!!
God. I think that's what they're expecting of me. A SeniorTankard? With everyone's name on the back? Wow. I don't know HOW I can live without it!!!!!
I totally blame the coffee I had this morning for my mood. I haven't had any coffee since my friend Katie's birthday party. (Well, it wasn't really her party. Afterwards, at about 10 at night, we all went to IHOP and I got the neverending coffee pot. Which is one of the most glorious things in the history of mankind. I mean, as much coffee as you can drink for $2.04? Who wouldn't want it?) So the sudden onslaught of iced mocha (mocha=coffee+chocolate syrup=the greatest thing ever) has been having major effects on my system. During 1st period PE I actually participated, something I only do when the teacher makes me. But no, today, and entirely of my own free will, I valiantly went sprinting across the wet soccer field to save my friends from the clutches of the jail in Capture the Flag. Though my lack of coordination caught up with me, and then I was on the ground doing a full-body slide across the wet grass.
Which was pretty much the most exhilarating thing since finding my mocha on the table before school.
Oh damn. I just remembered that Mrs. Warby (the choir teacher) is going to make me go to the graduation ceremony so I can play for the senior choir. Maybe I'll even have to sing for the senior choir.
Well, there goes my plans.
So, this guy has been talking for almost an hour now. I think we've covered all the main points. Oh, wait. High-Fives-and-Hugs!!!! Wow! At graduation, all of a sudden the social boundaries break down, and we see the Football Team hugging the Chess Club! Wow. It brings a tear to my eye. It's like an eleventh-hour Breakfast Club. Yeah. Sure. I'll believe that when I see it. I can name a lot people off the top of my head who wouldn't hug me if their lives depended on it. They might catch my disease and suddenly have hot-crazy-wild-man-sex in the locker rooms or something.
Sigh. So, yeah. I think we're wrapping things up with the speech. Apparently we all get to sign a banner committing ourselves to graduating on time, something I'm planning on doing anyway, regardless of how many SBOs I get cornering me with felt pens and forcing me to sign my promise.
This was a perfectly good waste of second period.
Well, I hate to break it to you, Mr. Loud-Graduation-Dude, but I really don't want want to reminisce on my wonderful, memorable last year of mandatory education. And I really don't feel like showing up at the graduation ceremony. I'll just let them mail my diploma to me and celebrate at IHOP instead. It'd be much more fun and a lot less listening to people talk about how we're the future and we're going to make a difference because we are the next generation.
Personally I don't feel like carrying on the Caveman legacy, especially into the workplace. Cavemen generally are looked down upon in mainstream society. I mean, looks at the Geico commercials. The poor guy has his dumb, not-shaven face all over the buses and billboards.
And then we're moving on to Classyrings, Cap'n'Gowns, and Graduationnouncements. Lots of hype for pretty much nothing. And what is it about rock music with a loud bass line that makes people think we're going to get excited and pay attention to whatever they have playing on the screen? They could at least give us something to be excited about.
Like a dildo. (Thank you, Kelley.) What if they gave us Class of 2010 dildos? That would certainly be memorable, and a lot more useful than a fancy expensive ring. The ring is only really used to punch people and look chunky. Dildos have lots of uses, though I really don't think I need to go into detail here. Maybe later, but certainly not here.
Aw, they have a Grad Bear. That's the only remotely interesting thing I've seen so far. It's small and adorable with that fluffy brown fur and a cute little Cap'n'Gown. See, that's something I could live with. I could look up on my shelf and see the cute Grad Bear with my '10 dildo as their own little display. Good times, good times.
Ohmigod. I could buy a sweatshirt that ADVERTISES how much a senior I am. I could "broadcast it daily"!!! I think I might faint from the excitingness of it all. I can hardly stand how exciting this is! I can't breathe!!!! AAAAHH!!! AAAAAHHHH!!!!!!! AAAAHHH!!!!!
I THINK I'M GETTING LIGHTHEADED FROM ASPHYXIATION!!!!!!!!
God. I think that's what they're expecting of me. A SeniorTankard? With everyone's name on the back? Wow. I don't know HOW I can live without it!!!!!
I totally blame the coffee I had this morning for my mood. I haven't had any coffee since my friend Katie's birthday party. (Well, it wasn't really her party. Afterwards, at about 10 at night, we all went to IHOP and I got the neverending coffee pot. Which is one of the most glorious things in the history of mankind. I mean, as much coffee as you can drink for $2.04? Who wouldn't want it?) So the sudden onslaught of iced mocha (mocha=coffee+chocolate syrup=the greatest thing ever) has been having major effects on my system. During 1st period PE I actually participated, something I only do when the teacher makes me. But no, today, and entirely of my own free will, I valiantly went sprinting across the wet soccer field to save my friends from the clutches of the jail in Capture the Flag. Though my lack of coordination caught up with me, and then I was on the ground doing a full-body slide across the wet grass.
Which was pretty much the most exhilarating thing since finding my mocha on the table before school.
Oh damn. I just remembered that Mrs. Warby (the choir teacher) is going to make me go to the graduation ceremony so I can play for the senior choir. Maybe I'll even have to sing for the senior choir.
Well, there goes my plans.
So, this guy has been talking for almost an hour now. I think we've covered all the main points. Oh, wait. High-Fives-and-Hugs!!!! Wow! At graduation, all of a sudden the social boundaries break down, and we see the Football Team hugging the Chess Club! Wow. It brings a tear to my eye. It's like an eleventh-hour Breakfast Club. Yeah. Sure. I'll believe that when I see it. I can name a lot people off the top of my head who wouldn't hug me if their lives depended on it. They might catch my disease and suddenly have hot-crazy-wild-man-sex in the locker rooms or something.
Sigh. So, yeah. I think we're wrapping things up with the speech. Apparently we all get to sign a banner committing ourselves to graduating on time, something I'm planning on doing anyway, regardless of how many SBOs I get cornering me with felt pens and forcing me to sign my promise.
This was a perfectly good waste of second period.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
The Stupidity of Humanity, or the Musings of Mr. Bradley ii
People can be very cruel sometimes. They hurt each other and manipulate each other and kill each other, if not always physically. Why, though? Why is it that we are so insecure about ourselves that we have to take it out on those around us?
Small series of anecdotes: I always ride the bus home. I always sit at the front. It's an easy seat to get to, and very few other people will get there anyway. Plus it gives me a great vantage point to ogle the new bus driver Jake. He's only 23, maybe 24, with these gorgeous blue eyes and that kind of to-hell-with-it hairdo. You know, the kind that guys wake up with and then never do anything about it. I've done it a lot, and it can be incredibly awesome or incredibly stupid.
Anyway, so I'm sitting in the front, all by myself, no one else for like, five rows. And this major major douchebag gets on the bus, deep in conversation with his mom. The one line I hear as he passes is, "Because there's always this little shithead who sits at the front."
Well. Thank you for the ego boost.
You see, Parker and I had never gotten along anyway. Ever since I came out to the bus during an argument over Proposition 8 in December 2008, Parker seems to have made it his life goal to taunt me. He's constantly saying how that fag can't be on the bus, how that fag should be locked up. Yeah, same to you. His favorite greetings are "Hey, fairy" and "Morning, fag kid." Invariably I want to respond "Good morning, bastard." Though I never do.
He doesn't even make an effort to talk behind my back. He loudly discusses me when I'm only half a bus away. (Though I'm used to that by now—once there was a group of sophomores in the very back talking about that gay kid at the front. Unaware that I could hear them, they all turned to look at me at once, only to find me waving flamboyantly back at them. Okay, so I don't help my case much sometimes, but more on that later.) One day I just couldn't stand him asking the air around me if I would do him or not, and for the first time I actually talked to Parker. I said something to the effect that I wanted to sink my teeth into him, as a metaphor of course, and why on Earth couldn't they hear the dripping sarcasm in my voice?
Shortly thereafter Parker stopped riding the bus. The next school year comes around, and here he is again, talking about how he hates the bus because of the little shithead at the front of it.
I know I bring a lot of the comments on myself, what with my ever-increasingly bright and colorful wardrobe, recently pierced ears, and an affinity for rings and nail polish (but only when I can get some). Parker always has to comment on whatever I'm wearing/sporting, which has really gotten annoying since he ran out of original putdowns. "Only gay people paint their nails," he says. No shit, Sherlock. I thought you knew that months ago? Or is it just now hitting you that we exist and we're closer than you think?
What I don't get is why Parker, with his acne-free face and beefy body, the kind any man would kill for if he didn't have to work out to maintain it, is so insecure with himself or his sexuality or even his popularity, I don't really know, that he has to put me down to build himself up. I mean, yes he's got the smoldering good looks and the contours of the Grand Canyon, but the sour personality underneath puts me off completely, something I've told him more than once. "You have nothing to worry about," I would say, conspicuously running my eyes up and down his figure before shrugging and turning back to whatever book I was reading at the time.
So why is he still convinced that as a gay man all I want to do is ravish his poor, poor body? Oh wait, I forgot. A gay person couldn't possibly be looking for love in this world. No, gay people are all about sex. It's all I think about! That cloud looks like people having sex. That cake makes me think of sex. Reading a detailed description of the construction of the Eiffel Tower makes me think of sex. It's everything to gay people! They'll stop at nothing to get it, even if they have to ravish every good, upstanding straight person to satisfy their deviant, carnal desires.
Wow. That makes me sound like I actually have an interesting life. I probably go clubbing every night, waking up hungover in the arms of some muscly stranger I've never seen before, our clothes in tatters from our fits of passion and my body aching from the rigorous activity. At least that way I'd be getting consistent exercise.
Not that I don't want sex with men, I mean cause it sounds great and wonderful if slightly terrifying when I think about the vulnerability of it, but I really just want to find love. Don't we all want someone who thinks the world of us, who can argue without making us mad, someone who calls just to hear you talk to them, who we can snuggle with on the couch while watching The Notebook? Someone we can hold hands with and spend time with and generally live our lives with? Why is it that some people can get all that by default, while others are doomed to live lives of wild partying and nightly orgies? It just seems so unfair that all those women get love, and I'm stuck with the lust, because any self-respecting woman would never lust after a man's body. After all, don't we gays do that enough to compensate?
In my friend's history class, they were discussing the origins of America, the pilgrims who sailed here looking for a land where they could worship as they choose. Some idiotic student points out that no, we don't discriminate in America anymore—what a terrible notion! I hate to burst whatever glowing happy bubble you live in, kid, but yes we do.
It's not that I think gay people need to be able to marry, though I do. (My friend and I discussed this once—she says that marriage should be for heterosexual couples and something else should be for homosexual couples. I think that's like denoting a straight man with fashion sense as metrosexual: entirely pointless, because why give something a new term just because it makes you uncomfortable? There's never a law that a man can't be straight and have good taste, but they have to denote him as a whole new category.) It's more about the equal rights, things like visitation laws and inheritance rights and stuff that straight couples get but gay people don't.
Today in the library I helped put up a display of multicolored socks, accompanied by the quote "Choose your friends by their character and your socks by their color. Choosing your socks by their character makes no sense, and choosing your friends by their color is unthinkable." (Anonymous) Because when you really think about it, things like skin color and what you do in bed with other people are so far down the list of things that matter in a person's character that they nearly cease to matter at all.
A few arguments as to why homosexuality is wrong:
1. It goes against God. Well, a lot of things go against God. Another great quote, despite its length: "An engineering professor is treating her husband, a loan officer, to dinner for finally giving in to her pleas to shave off the scraggly beard he grew on vacation. His favorite restaurant is a casual place where they both feel comfortable in slacks and cotton/polyester-blend golf shirts. But, as always, she wears the gold and pearl pendant he gave her the day her divorce decree was final. They're laughing over their menus because they know he always ends up diving into a giant plate of ribs but she won't be talked into anything more fattening than shrimp.
Quiz: How many biblical prohibitions are they violating? Well, wives are supposed to be 'submissive' to their husbands (I Peter 3:1). And all women are forbidden to teach men (I Timothy 2:12), wear gold or pearls (I Timothy 2:9) or dress in clothing that 'pertains to a man' (Deuteronomy 22:5). Shellfish and pork are definitely out (Leviticus 11:7, 10) as are usury (Deuteronomy 23:19), shaving (Leviticus 19:27) and clothes of more than one fabric (Leviticus 19:19). And since the Bible rarely recognizes divorce, they're committing adultery, which carries the rather harsh penalty of death by stoning (Deuteronomy 22:22).
So why are they having such a good time? Probably because they wouldn't think of worrying about rules that seem absurd, anachronistic or - at best - unrealistic. Yet this same modern-day couple could easily be among the millions of Americans who never hesitate to lean on the Bible to justify their own anti-gay attitudes." (Deb Price, And Say Hi To Joyce) The quote really says it all. Why use the Bible in your defense when I can just as easily use it in mine?
2. It goes against Nature. Um. Hello? Animals have gone gay for forever. The gay penguins in New York that adopted a rock for an egg. The dolphins that do what dolphins do. The dogs that hump each other. How can you say we go against Nature when Nature's doing it all the time? Honestly.
3. If we give gay people equal rights, we'll have to give them to everybody! Well, who wants equal rights? They're so overrated there's no point anyway. But what about all those prostitutes and beastial people, wanting to get married to everyone and everything? Those poor goats! Well, what if (and I know this is a radical new policy) we define a marriage as between two legal consenting adults? That right there takes care of the goats, at least. As for the prostitutes, well, they're going to sleep with everyone anyway, so why are they fighting for marriage rights in the first place?
Anyway, people are just really stupid in general. I know I am sometimes, but I do my best not to be. Why can't everyone be like that?
Small series of anecdotes: I always ride the bus home. I always sit at the front. It's an easy seat to get to, and very few other people will get there anyway. Plus it gives me a great vantage point to ogle the new bus driver Jake. He's only 23, maybe 24, with these gorgeous blue eyes and that kind of to-hell-with-it hairdo. You know, the kind that guys wake up with and then never do anything about it. I've done it a lot, and it can be incredibly awesome or incredibly stupid.
Anyway, so I'm sitting in the front, all by myself, no one else for like, five rows. And this major major douchebag gets on the bus, deep in conversation with his mom. The one line I hear as he passes is, "Because there's always this little shithead who sits at the front."
Well. Thank you for the ego boost.
You see, Parker and I had never gotten along anyway. Ever since I came out to the bus during an argument over Proposition 8 in December 2008, Parker seems to have made it his life goal to taunt me. He's constantly saying how that fag can't be on the bus, how that fag should be locked up. Yeah, same to you. His favorite greetings are "Hey, fairy" and "Morning, fag kid." Invariably I want to respond "Good morning, bastard." Though I never do.
He doesn't even make an effort to talk behind my back. He loudly discusses me when I'm only half a bus away. (Though I'm used to that by now—once there was a group of sophomores in the very back talking about that gay kid at the front. Unaware that I could hear them, they all turned to look at me at once, only to find me waving flamboyantly back at them. Okay, so I don't help my case much sometimes, but more on that later.) One day I just couldn't stand him asking the air around me if I would do him or not, and for the first time I actually talked to Parker. I said something to the effect that I wanted to sink my teeth into him, as a metaphor of course, and why on Earth couldn't they hear the dripping sarcasm in my voice?
Shortly thereafter Parker stopped riding the bus. The next school year comes around, and here he is again, talking about how he hates the bus because of the little shithead at the front of it.
I know I bring a lot of the comments on myself, what with my ever-increasingly bright and colorful wardrobe, recently pierced ears, and an affinity for rings and nail polish (but only when I can get some). Parker always has to comment on whatever I'm wearing/sporting, which has really gotten annoying since he ran out of original putdowns. "Only gay people paint their nails," he says. No shit, Sherlock. I thought you knew that months ago? Or is it just now hitting you that we exist and we're closer than you think?
What I don't get is why Parker, with his acne-free face and beefy body, the kind any man would kill for if he didn't have to work out to maintain it, is so insecure with himself or his sexuality or even his popularity, I don't really know, that he has to put me down to build himself up. I mean, yes he's got the smoldering good looks and the contours of the Grand Canyon, but the sour personality underneath puts me off completely, something I've told him more than once. "You have nothing to worry about," I would say, conspicuously running my eyes up and down his figure before shrugging and turning back to whatever book I was reading at the time.
So why is he still convinced that as a gay man all I want to do is ravish his poor, poor body? Oh wait, I forgot. A gay person couldn't possibly be looking for love in this world. No, gay people are all about sex. It's all I think about! That cloud looks like people having sex. That cake makes me think of sex. Reading a detailed description of the construction of the Eiffel Tower makes me think of sex. It's everything to gay people! They'll stop at nothing to get it, even if they have to ravish every good, upstanding straight person to satisfy their deviant, carnal desires.
Wow. That makes me sound like I actually have an interesting life. I probably go clubbing every night, waking up hungover in the arms of some muscly stranger I've never seen before, our clothes in tatters from our fits of passion and my body aching from the rigorous activity. At least that way I'd be getting consistent exercise.
Not that I don't want sex with men, I mean cause it sounds great and wonderful if slightly terrifying when I think about the vulnerability of it, but I really just want to find love. Don't we all want someone who thinks the world of us, who can argue without making us mad, someone who calls just to hear you talk to them, who we can snuggle with on the couch while watching The Notebook? Someone we can hold hands with and spend time with and generally live our lives with? Why is it that some people can get all that by default, while others are doomed to live lives of wild partying and nightly orgies? It just seems so unfair that all those women get love, and I'm stuck with the lust, because any self-respecting woman would never lust after a man's body. After all, don't we gays do that enough to compensate?
In my friend's history class, they were discussing the origins of America, the pilgrims who sailed here looking for a land where they could worship as they choose. Some idiotic student points out that no, we don't discriminate in America anymore—what a terrible notion! I hate to burst whatever glowing happy bubble you live in, kid, but yes we do.
It's not that I think gay people need to be able to marry, though I do. (My friend and I discussed this once—she says that marriage should be for heterosexual couples and something else should be for homosexual couples. I think that's like denoting a straight man with fashion sense as metrosexual: entirely pointless, because why give something a new term just because it makes you uncomfortable? There's never a law that a man can't be straight and have good taste, but they have to denote him as a whole new category.) It's more about the equal rights, things like visitation laws and inheritance rights and stuff that straight couples get but gay people don't.
Today in the library I helped put up a display of multicolored socks, accompanied by the quote "Choose your friends by their character and your socks by their color. Choosing your socks by their character makes no sense, and choosing your friends by their color is unthinkable." (Anonymous) Because when you really think about it, things like skin color and what you do in bed with other people are so far down the list of things that matter in a person's character that they nearly cease to matter at all.
A few arguments as to why homosexuality is wrong:
1. It goes against God. Well, a lot of things go against God. Another great quote, despite its length: "An engineering professor is treating her husband, a loan officer, to dinner for finally giving in to her pleas to shave off the scraggly beard he grew on vacation. His favorite restaurant is a casual place where they both feel comfortable in slacks and cotton/polyester-blend golf shirts. But, as always, she wears the gold and pearl pendant he gave her the day her divorce decree was final. They're laughing over their menus because they know he always ends up diving into a giant plate of ribs but she won't be talked into anything more fattening than shrimp.
Quiz: How many biblical prohibitions are they violating? Well, wives are supposed to be 'submissive' to their husbands (I Peter 3:1). And all women are forbidden to teach men (I Timothy 2:12), wear gold or pearls (I Timothy 2:9) or dress in clothing that 'pertains to a man' (Deuteronomy 22:5). Shellfish and pork are definitely out (Leviticus 11:7, 10) as are usury (Deuteronomy 23:19), shaving (Leviticus 19:27) and clothes of more than one fabric (Leviticus 19:19). And since the Bible rarely recognizes divorce, they're committing adultery, which carries the rather harsh penalty of death by stoning (Deuteronomy 22:22).
So why are they having such a good time? Probably because they wouldn't think of worrying about rules that seem absurd, anachronistic or - at best - unrealistic. Yet this same modern-day couple could easily be among the millions of Americans who never hesitate to lean on the Bible to justify their own anti-gay attitudes." (Deb Price, And Say Hi To Joyce) The quote really says it all. Why use the Bible in your defense when I can just as easily use it in mine?
2. It goes against Nature. Um. Hello? Animals have gone gay for forever. The gay penguins in New York that adopted a rock for an egg. The dolphins that do what dolphins do. The dogs that hump each other. How can you say we go against Nature when Nature's doing it all the time? Honestly.
3. If we give gay people equal rights, we'll have to give them to everybody! Well, who wants equal rights? They're so overrated there's no point anyway. But what about all those prostitutes and beastial people, wanting to get married to everyone and everything? Those poor goats! Well, what if (and I know this is a radical new policy) we define a marriage as between two legal consenting adults? That right there takes care of the goats, at least. As for the prostitutes, well, they're going to sleep with everyone anyway, so why are they fighting for marriage rights in the first place?
Anyway, people are just really stupid in general. I know I am sometimes, but I do my best not to be. Why can't everyone be like that?
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Words to Live By
Safety pins = NEVER a good idea. Especially as earring substitutes, even if they're sanitized.
DIY ear piercing = NOT the smart option. Go to Claire's and spend some money to get it done the right way. The right way = NOT a needle, even if it's sanitized.
Blogging at midnight on a school night = NOT a good idea. Ever.
Dr Pepper, and lots of it, right before bed = NOT a good idea. Ever. It generally leads to blogging at midnight on a school night.
Using chatrooms = Hmm. It's hard to take a clear stance on this one, cause I really like using them. On the one hand you get to meet all sorts of interesting people across the country/world, and that's always a great thing. On the other, you get to meet all sorts of pervy people across the country/world. Plus you might start chatting with some random gay guy from Missouri and before you know it, you've agreed to give each other your virginity when (if) you meet. And you might have all these people chatting you up at once that you can barely remember who's talking about what and you get conversations confused. So all in all, not a GOOD idea. But definitely an idea.
Running naked through the streets = DEFINITELY not a good idea. Especially because I would never do it, which makes this section a complete joke. Hahahaha, funny funny.
Going to sleep now = VERY good idea. Like, now and everything.
DIY ear piercing = NOT the smart option. Go to Claire's and spend some money to get it done the right way. The right way = NOT a needle, even if it's sanitized.
Blogging at midnight on a school night = NOT a good idea. Ever.
Dr Pepper, and lots of it, right before bed = NOT a good idea. Ever. It generally leads to blogging at midnight on a school night.
Using chatrooms = Hmm. It's hard to take a clear stance on this one, cause I really like using them. On the one hand you get to meet all sorts of interesting people across the country/world, and that's always a great thing. On the other, you get to meet all sorts of pervy people across the country/world. Plus you might start chatting with some random gay guy from Missouri and before you know it, you've agreed to give each other your virginity when (if) you meet. And you might have all these people chatting you up at once that you can barely remember who's talking about what and you get conversations confused. So all in all, not a GOOD idea. But definitely an idea.
Running naked through the streets = DEFINITELY not a good idea. Especially because I would never do it, which makes this section a complete joke. Hahahaha, funny funny.
Going to sleep now = VERY good idea. Like, now and everything.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
A Piercing Question: Revisited
The deed is done. I now have one piercing in each ear. A quick follow-up of various reactions:
My mother asked, and I quote, "Where did you get those?" and "Who did that to you?" I responded that we did it during lunch and that it was my friend's sister's fiance. And that is all she's said on it. No "I demand that you take them out!" which wouldn't have mattered anyway cause I turn 18 in two months and then she has no say.
My younger sister thinks it's weird but loves me anyway. My (next) oldest sister worried for my life until I actually talked to her, and now worries that I will get letters from my grandma reminding me of my divine purpose and that I must never lose sight of it. My oldest oldest sister hasn't been informed, so her reaction is unknown. My dad hasn't said anything, but by next Tuesday he will. (Why Tuesday, you ask? It was the first day to pop into my head.)
My friends are ecstatic. Those who go to Lone Peak want to journey to AF tomorrow during lunch to view my new fashion statement. And my AF friends so far are like, in awe of me or something.
On other notes, one of the Young Women's leaders in my ward was practically overflowing with happiness when she saw me at the Mutual activity my younger sister forced me to attend tonight. And everyone else, who usually come across as very straight-edge Mormons, was asking about it and saying how cool it was. So it's been handled relatively well so far.
Joy of joys. Now I don't have to worry about being flayed alive and having my heart roasted on a spit.
My mother asked, and I quote, "Where did you get those?" and "Who did that to you?" I responded that we did it during lunch and that it was my friend's sister's fiance. And that is all she's said on it. No "I demand that you take them out!" which wouldn't have mattered anyway cause I turn 18 in two months and then she has no say.
My younger sister thinks it's weird but loves me anyway. My (next) oldest sister worried for my life until I actually talked to her, and now worries that I will get letters from my grandma reminding me of my divine purpose and that I must never lose sight of it. My oldest oldest sister hasn't been informed, so her reaction is unknown. My dad hasn't said anything, but by next Tuesday he will. (Why Tuesday, you ask? It was the first day to pop into my head.)
My friends are ecstatic. Those who go to Lone Peak want to journey to AF tomorrow during lunch to view my new fashion statement. And my AF friends so far are like, in awe of me or something.
On other notes, one of the Young Women's leaders in my ward was practically overflowing with happiness when she saw me at the Mutual activity my younger sister forced me to attend tonight. And everyone else, who usually come across as very straight-edge Mormons, was asking about it and saying how cool it was. So it's been handled relatively well so far.
Joy of joys. Now I don't have to worry about being flayed alive and having my heart roasted on a spit.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
A Piercing Question, or the Musings of Mr. Bradley i
So for all you people out there actually paying attention to me, here it is, the first real musings of Mister Bradley, where I'm pretty much going to ramble on about whatever crosses my mind when I happen to be writing. So bear with me, hold on for the ride and let the ramblage begin. (Side note: sentence structure kind of deteriorates in these kind of things as I resort to a stream-of-consciousness style of writing and my thoughts don't always make grammatical sense.)
* * * * * *
I've been meaning to pierce my ears for a long time now. I don't even know why, really. I don't think people with piercings are any more or less attractive than those without them. And it's not like everyone in my family is riddled with piercings. (Though my older sister used to have three rings in each ear and a tongue stud when she was being a crazy, rebellious teenager. Then she got over it and went back to normal—but with a really cool but slightly grody scar-thing in her tongue.)
I guess maybe I want to do it as a kind of statement, same as my sister. My mom would freak out and demand that I take them out, which would be an ulterior motive at the very least and the primary reason behind it at the most. Plus it's something that gay people do—oh wait, didn't I tell you I was gay? Oh. It must have slipped my mind because it really isn't that important. People who refuse to associate with me or become friends with me only because I'm gay, I see absolutely no point in associating with them. I don't want to be somebody's bragging rights—"I've got a gay friend, I've never had one of those before, you don't have any gay friends so I'm cooler than you"—and of course I don't want to be somebody's excuse to project their insecurities and fears in life on somebody who never did anything to deserve them. Oh, wait, except be different, and that seems to be a good enough reason to put anybody down, because she has funny hair or he has weird clothing or she likes girls and he likes guys.
ANYWAY, I guess the ear-piercing thing is a statement for a lot of things, cause all I really want to do with it is piss my mom off and try advertising to the nonexistent gay population around here. Only I just found out that there's is in fact at least one more gay kid who goes to my school. Thanks to a mutual contact, I started chatting on MSN with this kid from school who was so confused about how he was feeling and stuff like that, which is generally how everybody's story starts out. (I've compared all my homosexual friends' stories—three lesbians and one gay guy, though the numbers are kind of exploding around me— and found we all follow the same mold, so I'm assuming that it's pretty much the same everywhere.) And so now we're becoming really good friends and he told the guy who kept using him for blowjobs to shove it up his ass, and all of a sudden I know of another gay guy at my school, one whom I get along with. (The other guy I can only handle for about twenty minutes before he grates on my nerves.) And this whole thing was a huge revelation/ego-boosting experience, because just earlier that day I had blown up at my other gay friend about how I was so sick of watching everybody be able to hold hands and make out around me while I just have to watch and listen to them bitch about how their significant other is being so /straight-edge/drama-queen/weird/possessive/any other adjective you can think of, not to mention that I was being jealous and bitter of him because he actually had a boyfriend and he hasn't come out yet, so I figured that I deserved it more because I had to put up with the dumb comments and snide jokes and weird looks and even blatant hatred for who I was, with absolutely nothing to show for it, while he didn't have to do any work and got all the benefits. (Tanner, if you ever actually read this, I'm so sorry for all of that, I really am. Yes, it's all true, but it was extremely insensitive and uncalled for. You've done nothing to deserve that, and I really am happy for you and Jay, I'm also just filled with the Evil Green Monster of Envy and Dumbassery.) So the random appearance of another gay guy at the school helped me immensely with my existential crisis.
Anyway, so today during 4th period my lesbian friend and I were talking over the assignment, "Firsts & Lasts" and sharing various firsts and lasts in our lives. She mentioned the last time she pierced her ears (at three in the morning) and then I mentioned that I'd been meaning to do that for a while now. She offered to do it today after school, because she carries random stuff around like needles and rubbing alcohol and matches. But I had to catch a bus, and besides, neither of us had ice. So tomorrow at Poetry Club, if either of us figures out how to get solid, cold ice all the way to after school, I am probably going to get my ears pierced.
Though I really don't know what to expect from my mom. I mean, in the past she's been really angry about stuff that I've done, like having my hair dyed purple and deciding that no, I didn't want to come home right now, but she's never actually done anything about it. She didn't make me dye my hair back, and she threatened not to let me hang out but I always did anyway. So she'd probably be really mad about it but then just try to ignore it and hope that it will go away. The one time my mom and I ever discussed my being gay was right after I had a yelling fight with my ward's bishop in which I said that no, I'm not a sin against God and that he could take his doctrine and shove it up his proverbial ass. I was crying because my bishop was frustrating and frustrating people make me angry and that makes me cry, so my mom wanted to know what was wrong. So I told her I was gay and then we've never talked about it since. So her reaction is pretty much on the unknown side of things.
All my friends would think it was awesome because they think everything I do is awesome, and so me piercing my ears would be cool by principle. So i think we're good on that front.
The rest of my family would . . . well, that's also very unknown. My sisters would freak and stuff, like they freaked when I got the ice blue pants that hug my calves in all the right places. And also whenever they see the FREE HUGS shirt or the NO FREE SAMPLES or the red pants or the red vest (never worn it yet cause it's not cold enough—thank you anyway, Erika). So, yeah my sisters would freak. And yeah.
So, there's really no way to end this without sounding like it's only half an entry and the other half broke off and is floating around cyberspace—but it's not, and this really is the end.
* * * * * *
I've been meaning to pierce my ears for a long time now. I don't even know why, really. I don't think people with piercings are any more or less attractive than those without them. And it's not like everyone in my family is riddled with piercings. (Though my older sister used to have three rings in each ear and a tongue stud when she was being a crazy, rebellious teenager. Then she got over it and went back to normal—but with a really cool but slightly grody scar-thing in her tongue.)
I guess maybe I want to do it as a kind of statement, same as my sister. My mom would freak out and demand that I take them out, which would be an ulterior motive at the very least and the primary reason behind it at the most. Plus it's something that gay people do—oh wait, didn't I tell you I was gay? Oh. It must have slipped my mind because it really isn't that important. People who refuse to associate with me or become friends with me only because I'm gay, I see absolutely no point in associating with them. I don't want to be somebody's bragging rights—"I've got a gay friend, I've never had one of those before, you don't have any gay friends so I'm cooler than you"—and of course I don't want to be somebody's excuse to project their insecurities and fears in life on somebody who never did anything to deserve them. Oh, wait, except be different, and that seems to be a good enough reason to put anybody down, because she has funny hair or he has weird clothing or she likes girls and he likes guys.
ANYWAY, I guess the ear-piercing thing is a statement for a lot of things, cause all I really want to do with it is piss my mom off and try advertising to the nonexistent gay population around here. Only I just found out that there's is in fact at least one more gay kid who goes to my school. Thanks to a mutual contact, I started chatting on MSN with this kid from school who was so confused about how he was feeling and stuff like that, which is generally how everybody's story starts out. (I've compared all my homosexual friends' stories—three lesbians and one gay guy, though the numbers are kind of exploding around me— and found we all follow the same mold, so I'm assuming that it's pretty much the same everywhere.) And so now we're becoming really good friends and he told the guy who kept using him for blowjobs to shove it up his ass, and all of a sudden I know of another gay guy at my school, one whom I get along with. (The other guy I can only handle for about twenty minutes before he grates on my nerves.) And this whole thing was a huge revelation/ego-boosting experience, because just earlier that day I had blown up at my other gay friend about how I was so sick of watching everybody be able to hold hands and make out around me while I just have to watch and listen to them bitch about how their significant other is being so /straight-edge/drama-queen/weird/possessive/any other adjective you can think of, not to mention that I was being jealous and bitter of him because he actually had a boyfriend and he hasn't come out yet, so I figured that I deserved it more because I had to put up with the dumb comments and snide jokes and weird looks and even blatant hatred for who I was, with absolutely nothing to show for it, while he didn't have to do any work and got all the benefits. (Tanner, if you ever actually read this, I'm so sorry for all of that, I really am. Yes, it's all true, but it was extremely insensitive and uncalled for. You've done nothing to deserve that, and I really am happy for you and Jay, I'm also just filled with the Evil Green Monster of Envy and Dumbassery.) So the random appearance of another gay guy at the school helped me immensely with my existential crisis.
Anyway, so today during 4th period my lesbian friend and I were talking over the assignment, "Firsts & Lasts" and sharing various firsts and lasts in our lives. She mentioned the last time she pierced her ears (at three in the morning) and then I mentioned that I'd been meaning to do that for a while now. She offered to do it today after school, because she carries random stuff around like needles and rubbing alcohol and matches. But I had to catch a bus, and besides, neither of us had ice. So tomorrow at Poetry Club, if either of us figures out how to get solid, cold ice all the way to after school, I am probably going to get my ears pierced.
Though I really don't know what to expect from my mom. I mean, in the past she's been really angry about stuff that I've done, like having my hair dyed purple and deciding that no, I didn't want to come home right now, but she's never actually done anything about it. She didn't make me dye my hair back, and she threatened not to let me hang out but I always did anyway. So she'd probably be really mad about it but then just try to ignore it and hope that it will go away. The one time my mom and I ever discussed my being gay was right after I had a yelling fight with my ward's bishop in which I said that no, I'm not a sin against God and that he could take his doctrine and shove it up his proverbial ass. I was crying because my bishop was frustrating and frustrating people make me angry and that makes me cry, so my mom wanted to know what was wrong. So I told her I was gay and then we've never talked about it since. So her reaction is pretty much on the unknown side of things.
All my friends would think it was awesome because they think everything I do is awesome, and so me piercing my ears would be cool by principle. So i think we're good on that front.
The rest of my family would . . . well, that's also very unknown. My sisters would freak and stuff, like they freaked when I got the ice blue pants that hug my calves in all the right places. And also whenever they see the FREE HUGS shirt or the NO FREE SAMPLES or the red pants or the red vest (never worn it yet cause it's not cold enough—thank you anyway, Erika). So, yeah my sisters would freak. And yeah.
So, there's really no way to end this without sounding like it's only half an entry and the other half broke off and is floating around cyberspace—but it's not, and this really is the end.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Insect Incidences
Today I had an unusual number of encounters with insects—though, of course, spiders aren't actually insects, they're arachnids, so on and so forth. Normally I get through my days without bugs being involved, but today I had three (well, two and a half) encounters with small exoskeletal creatures.
Encounter 1: The Undead Spider. Earlier this morning I was in my room reading, checking Facebook and pretending to clean. My mother was at the store, my dad was watching something on Universal Sports, and my younger sister was going to take a shower. Suddenly, she comes tearing into my room, screaming and wearing nothing but a yellow towel that she's slightly outgrown. "Can you come kill the gross big spider in the bathroom?!" she yells at me, holding the towel in place over her chest.
I said yes, stopping by the kitchen to grab a Mason jar and a sheet of paper. I hate killing any animal or creature of any kind, and so I planned to capture the spider and release it into the field behind our house—the exact same thing I've done with every other spider I've found in the house. I absolutely hated using any sort of spray to kill insects, and so I avoided them whenever possible. And squishing them seemed unnecessary, not to mention less-than-aesthetically pleasing. Who wants spider guts all over their floor or their shoes, I ask you.
Standing in the doorway of the bathroom, I could already see the spider. There, in the corner between the wall and the bathtub, I could see it. It was big, even from a ten-feet distance. Already slightly grossed out, I walked over to it, preparing the jar in one hand and the paper in the other. I blew gently on it, trying to coax it out from the corner onto an open wall where I could capture it more easily.
And all of a sudden, the spider's legs unfolded from beneath its disgusting hairy body, making it the size of a 50-cent piece or more. It turned around, jumped from the wall to the floor and hurried to hide under the bathmat. The sudden movement of the spider startled me, but I carefully reached down, picked up the bathmat, and—
The spider, sensing me or something, scuttled out from its hiding place, heading directly towards me at a pace mindblowingly unimaginable for such a relatively little thing. I screamed, nearly dropping the jar, and ran out of the bathroom and down the hall, my sister close behind.
I grabbed the Ant, Cockroach and Spider Spray (lovingly referred to as scuttly-insect-killer) and headed back downstairs to confront this monstrous thing. It had retreated to behind the trash can, hidden in the shadows. I sprayed at it, and it scuttled under the counter, heading for me again. I followed it with the spray stream as best as I could, but this was one scuttly insect that didn't want to die. It ran out in a zig-zag pattern, its legs pumping like a marathon runner's, and its feelers black, bulbous, glistening and otherwise nauseating.
After a short game of tag with the spider and the spray, my sister screaming and jumping in the background like a neurotic cheerleader, the arachnid finally slowed down enough for me to get a good aim at it. I sprayed for a good twenty seconds at the motionless thing, before pausing to let us take a look at it.
IT WAS STILL CRAWLING A LITTLE, still trying to do something—hide, attack us, maybe climb under the counter and recuperate until tomorrow. I sprayed some more and waited until it curled up like spiders do when they die. My sister took her shower, and the spider was forgotten for a good twenty minutes.
Until she got out of the shower. She called me downstairs, and we both watched the spider twitching feebly in its puddle of scuttly-insect-killer, nearly half an hour after we had left it for dead. It was sad, in a macabre type of way, but the spider had little of my sympathy. If it had scuttled slower, I would have caught it and let it go; but as it was such a fast little bastard I was afraid of chopping its legs off with the jar, making it angrier and envisioning it coming after me in my sleep.
My sister, sick of this twisted game with the undead spider, grabbed the vacuum, sucked up the still-twitching and scuttly-insect-killer-drenched body, and emptied it into the trash outside. And for all we know, it's still twitching out there now. I shudder at the thought.
Encounter 2: The Bees. My twin nieces' birthday party was today. They turned two, and we all celebrated by barbecuing and eating cake in our backyard. As we were setting up decorations, I noticed a cluster of wasps crawling over our fence, doing something with the nest they had inside. At first I thought that was fine and all, but then my sister, the mother of the twins, mentioned something about there being seven or eight kids under five at the party.
Under-five-year-olds and wasp's nests don't mix—I know from experience. I pointed this out to my mom, who told me to spray the nest. (Nests actually—there were three different hives in our fence.) My younger sister wouldn't do it, being scared of stingers. My older sister wouldn't do it. My mother wouldn't do it. My father couldn't do it. So I had to.
The wasps followed the same pattern each time, which was also mirrored by the spider. I sprayed the entrance to the nest, and most of them fell off and died. A few could still fly, and they came after me. Luckily I'm a tall and gangly person, because I ran before they could get to me. Watching from a distance, I saw more wasps weakly leave the nest and fall to the ground, and I felt terrible. But then my four-year-old nephew asked what I was doing and then wanted to play with the dead bees. So I knew I did the right thing, at least for the young ones.
Encounter 3: The Guardian Moth. By now it's the evening. All the partygoers have gone home. I was in my room, leaching the neighbor's wi-fi so I could check a school website. (Morality note: the neighbors said I could use their internet. It's not like I broke in or anything.) And suddenly a moth fluttered out of nowhere, landing on my left index finger.
I stared at it; it turned and faced me, though where it was staring was difficult to tell. "What do you want, little guy?" I asked. "You've got to have better things to do than sit there and watch me." The only reason I could think of as to why it was in my room was that my room was the only one with lights on—moths love lights, don't they? That may be so, but why, then, wasn't it fluttering around the ceiling, occasionally throwing itself against the bare bulb like they do in movies? It was most unnerving, that's what it was.
For the next twenty minutes it went like this. I was talking to the moth that wouldn't leave my finger—I had tried blowing on it, nudging it, typing, but nothing made it move any more than to rotate itself to stare at me some more—and it just looked at me. I commented on what I was doing, how boring the life of a moth must be, and what a nice face it had, for a moth at least.
Why is there a moth staring at me? I asked myself. My (il)logical mind could find only two solutions: the moth was the reincarnated soul of all the other bugs I had killed today, and if I didn't apologize in the next thirty seconds it was going to rip my throat out; or it was some sort of guardian angel come to tell me my life was destined for greater things, that my fears were irrational, and that I would not die a virgin. (Just a few of the metaphysical questions I had been pondering as the moth appeared.)
First I said how deeply remorseful I was for the spider and the countless wasps that had died at my hand today, that I only did it because I could see no other option for us all to live in peace, and that I hated myself a little more for every one that I killed. The moth merely looked at me, his—for by this point I had given him a gender—antennae twitching.
My heartfelt apology caused no visible change in the moth, so maybe that wasn't the way to go. Going with my other conclusion, I thanked the moth for delivering his message of hope and love, saying he could leave now and continue on his angelic way. This also had no effect on him. Getting sick of holding my hand so I didn't squish him, I grabbed a sheet of paper and nudged his legs onto it. I folded the paper and stuck it on my bookshelf, continuing my work now that I had two free hands.
Even now, at least five hours after making the moth move, he's still sitting on the folded sheet of paper, staring at me. No, it's not dead—I just checked. It fluttered around for a second before landing again and turning to face me. Looking close at it, I can see its compound eyes glittering at me, and it's a little unnerving. Why do I have this moth that refuses to leave me alone, that sits and watches me from a distance when I won't let it use me as a perch? Why did I automatically assume that it was the spider reincarnated, when I don't believe in reincarnation, or a guardian angel, when I don't believe in those either?
And, perhaps most importantly of all, why was I talking to it?
Encounter 1: The Undead Spider. Earlier this morning I was in my room reading, checking Facebook and pretending to clean. My mother was at the store, my dad was watching something on Universal Sports, and my younger sister was going to take a shower. Suddenly, she comes tearing into my room, screaming and wearing nothing but a yellow towel that she's slightly outgrown. "Can you come kill the gross big spider in the bathroom?!" she yells at me, holding the towel in place over her chest.
I said yes, stopping by the kitchen to grab a Mason jar and a sheet of paper. I hate killing any animal or creature of any kind, and so I planned to capture the spider and release it into the field behind our house—the exact same thing I've done with every other spider I've found in the house. I absolutely hated using any sort of spray to kill insects, and so I avoided them whenever possible. And squishing them seemed unnecessary, not to mention less-than-aesthetically pleasing. Who wants spider guts all over their floor or their shoes, I ask you.
Standing in the doorway of the bathroom, I could already see the spider. There, in the corner between the wall and the bathtub, I could see it. It was big, even from a ten-feet distance. Already slightly grossed out, I walked over to it, preparing the jar in one hand and the paper in the other. I blew gently on it, trying to coax it out from the corner onto an open wall where I could capture it more easily.
And all of a sudden, the spider's legs unfolded from beneath its disgusting hairy body, making it the size of a 50-cent piece or more. It turned around, jumped from the wall to the floor and hurried to hide under the bathmat. The sudden movement of the spider startled me, but I carefully reached down, picked up the bathmat, and—
The spider, sensing me or something, scuttled out from its hiding place, heading directly towards me at a pace mindblowingly unimaginable for such a relatively little thing. I screamed, nearly dropping the jar, and ran out of the bathroom and down the hall, my sister close behind.
I grabbed the Ant, Cockroach and Spider Spray (lovingly referred to as scuttly-insect-killer) and headed back downstairs to confront this monstrous thing. It had retreated to behind the trash can, hidden in the shadows. I sprayed at it, and it scuttled under the counter, heading for me again. I followed it with the spray stream as best as I could, but this was one scuttly insect that didn't want to die. It ran out in a zig-zag pattern, its legs pumping like a marathon runner's, and its feelers black, bulbous, glistening and otherwise nauseating.
After a short game of tag with the spider and the spray, my sister screaming and jumping in the background like a neurotic cheerleader, the arachnid finally slowed down enough for me to get a good aim at it. I sprayed for a good twenty seconds at the motionless thing, before pausing to let us take a look at it.
IT WAS STILL CRAWLING A LITTLE, still trying to do something—hide, attack us, maybe climb under the counter and recuperate until tomorrow. I sprayed some more and waited until it curled up like spiders do when they die. My sister took her shower, and the spider was forgotten for a good twenty minutes.
Until she got out of the shower. She called me downstairs, and we both watched the spider twitching feebly in its puddle of scuttly-insect-killer, nearly half an hour after we had left it for dead. It was sad, in a macabre type of way, but the spider had little of my sympathy. If it had scuttled slower, I would have caught it and let it go; but as it was such a fast little bastard I was afraid of chopping its legs off with the jar, making it angrier and envisioning it coming after me in my sleep.
My sister, sick of this twisted game with the undead spider, grabbed the vacuum, sucked up the still-twitching and scuttly-insect-killer-drenched body, and emptied it into the trash outside. And for all we know, it's still twitching out there now. I shudder at the thought.
Encounter 2: The Bees. My twin nieces' birthday party was today. They turned two, and we all celebrated by barbecuing and eating cake in our backyard. As we were setting up decorations, I noticed a cluster of wasps crawling over our fence, doing something with the nest they had inside. At first I thought that was fine and all, but then my sister, the mother of the twins, mentioned something about there being seven or eight kids under five at the party.
Under-five-year-olds and wasp's nests don't mix—I know from experience. I pointed this out to my mom, who told me to spray the nest. (Nests actually—there were three different hives in our fence.) My younger sister wouldn't do it, being scared of stingers. My older sister wouldn't do it. My mother wouldn't do it. My father couldn't do it. So I had to.
The wasps followed the same pattern each time, which was also mirrored by the spider. I sprayed the entrance to the nest, and most of them fell off and died. A few could still fly, and they came after me. Luckily I'm a tall and gangly person, because I ran before they could get to me. Watching from a distance, I saw more wasps weakly leave the nest and fall to the ground, and I felt terrible. But then my four-year-old nephew asked what I was doing and then wanted to play with the dead bees. So I knew I did the right thing, at least for the young ones.
Encounter 3: The Guardian Moth. By now it's the evening. All the partygoers have gone home. I was in my room, leaching the neighbor's wi-fi so I could check a school website. (Morality note: the neighbors said I could use their internet. It's not like I broke in or anything.) And suddenly a moth fluttered out of nowhere, landing on my left index finger.
I stared at it; it turned and faced me, though where it was staring was difficult to tell. "What do you want, little guy?" I asked. "You've got to have better things to do than sit there and watch me." The only reason I could think of as to why it was in my room was that my room was the only one with lights on—moths love lights, don't they? That may be so, but why, then, wasn't it fluttering around the ceiling, occasionally throwing itself against the bare bulb like they do in movies? It was most unnerving, that's what it was.
For the next twenty minutes it went like this. I was talking to the moth that wouldn't leave my finger—I had tried blowing on it, nudging it, typing, but nothing made it move any more than to rotate itself to stare at me some more—and it just looked at me. I commented on what I was doing, how boring the life of a moth must be, and what a nice face it had, for a moth at least.
Why is there a moth staring at me? I asked myself. My (il)logical mind could find only two solutions: the moth was the reincarnated soul of all the other bugs I had killed today, and if I didn't apologize in the next thirty seconds it was going to rip my throat out; or it was some sort of guardian angel come to tell me my life was destined for greater things, that my fears were irrational, and that I would not die a virgin. (Just a few of the metaphysical questions I had been pondering as the moth appeared.)
First I said how deeply remorseful I was for the spider and the countless wasps that had died at my hand today, that I only did it because I could see no other option for us all to live in peace, and that I hated myself a little more for every one that I killed. The moth merely looked at me, his—for by this point I had given him a gender—antennae twitching.
My heartfelt apology caused no visible change in the moth, so maybe that wasn't the way to go. Going with my other conclusion, I thanked the moth for delivering his message of hope and love, saying he could leave now and continue on his angelic way. This also had no effect on him. Getting sick of holding my hand so I didn't squish him, I grabbed a sheet of paper and nudged his legs onto it. I folded the paper and stuck it on my bookshelf, continuing my work now that I had two free hands.
Even now, at least five hours after making the moth move, he's still sitting on the folded sheet of paper, staring at me. No, it's not dead—I just checked. It fluttered around for a second before landing again and turning to face me. Looking close at it, I can see its compound eyes glittering at me, and it's a little unnerving. Why do I have this moth that refuses to leave me alone, that sits and watches me from a distance when I won't let it use me as a perch? Why did I automatically assume that it was the spider reincarnated, when I don't believe in reincarnation, or a guardian angel, when I don't believe in those either?
And, perhaps most importantly of all, why was I talking to it?
Friday, August 28, 2009
Le Mort du Pere
Until about a week ago, I had made a solemn, eternal vow I would never, ever, ever in my life write a blog. Admittedly, that promise hadn’t been very long-lasting, just under a year, and I only told myself this because my English 11 teacher said that every single one of us would have a blog at some point or another; being the contradictory person I am, and not liking the teacher in the first place, I raised my hand in class and said I would never, ever, ever write a blog, specifically because he said I would write a blog. (Anti-self-fulfilling prophecy, I dubbed it.) He laughed, moved on with the lesson, and kicked me out of the class at the semester, thanks to a less-than-tactful letter in which I told him of our personality conflicts, his (in my opinion) subpar teaching methods, and my refusal to format the letter to his specifications.
With my amusing and complicated anecdote out of the way, we can get to some of the more important things. Like, why did I suddenly change my mind and cave to my disagreeable teacher’s prediction? Me, Bradley J., the one who sticks with his decisions to the end? (Okay, maybe I’m mincing words here. But I do stick with arguments until the end, at least until I can understand the other’s side, which Mr. L and I have not reached and never will.) I changed my mind for a lot of reasons. I was suddenly struck with the idea that I can get my voice into the world without having to go through the lengthy process of publication; I thought I might have something worth listening to, even if it is the rants of an angsty teenager with nothing better to do than sound ridiculously biased about everything in his life. But mostly I wanted to say something—without sounding sadistic about it:
I want my father to die.
How can that not be sadistic? What sort of cruelty could drive someone to that? Unless, of course, this is merely the sort of thing that nearly every teenager thinks at some point: I have been prevented from staying out another half an hour; I feel misunderstood and controlled; it is so obviously my parents being dominating, rather than concerned for my welfare or schoolwork, that I must blame everything on them and say terrible things I will regret in an hour or so.
No, this is not the case. I want my father to die. To summarize:
After a lifetime of various injuries, including but not limited to being hit by a car, having a forklift land on his head and break his neck, falling and breaking a hip, and developing an abcess of fluid in his brain that needed draining twice, he is currently in a wheelchair with a broken femur; a replacement hip; and memory, balance, and coordination problems. He has not seen our basement in over two years. Going up or down stairs, even if it’s a set of three, can take ten minutes. Helping around the house is impossible: even if he could do most of the stuff, my mother would prevent him from doing so.
My mother. Well, she’s a whole new can of worms. Even before my dad was confined, first by a walker and now by the wheelchair, she sought after people’s attention. More than once I remember her on the phone with the neighbors telling them how tragic her life was, even before I can remember the presence of a cause for this tragedy. Just last week, it seemed like she called every single set of parents on her roll (she teaches preschool out of our basement) and gave them each a half-hour sob story about how she didn’t know if the open house could happen now, because her husband is in the hospital, yes, he broke his femur, yes it’s so sad, and she was expecting it because he’s always so shaky and tries to do things without his walker, don’t know what he’s thinking, but the hospital might discharge him before Friday, and she has no idea what she’s supposed to do.
Admittedly, I can be easily frustrated by my dad, especially after the third time he’s asked me a question. My mother, on the other hand, is even more so. She is also much more vocal about it than I am. Most of the time, it seems like she doesn’t know how to communicate with people unless she’s yelling at them—I didn’t clean the bathroom to her standards; my sister hasn’t fed the cats while she does her laundry; why haven’t I taken the trash out yet, does she have to do everything around here—but my dad seems to be the focus for most of her anger.
In his own way, he deserves it. One of his favorite pastimes is saying or doing things to piss my mother off on purpose, something to be expected when you combine my dad’s personality and lack of real things to do in his infinite stores of free time—how many days in a row can you watch Crocodile Dundee or read Louis L’Amour without getting bored out of your skull? But when she yells at him for trying to do a load of dishes or sweep the kitchen floor, or even just get up and stretch his legs—that’s when she is going too far.
Even as I write this, I can hear something banging loudly upstairs in my dad’s room (my parents haven’t slept in the same bed for as long as I can remember, apart from a brief session when my dad wore a neck brace after the forklift incident) and my mom’s dulcet tones echoing through the ceiling. I don’t know what she’s yelling about, and I really don’t want to know; whatever it is, I’ve heard it before, over and over until I could probably quote what she’s saying.
I want my father to die. It would be a relief for him, I imagine, once he’s free of his mental challenges, once he can remember things clearly and walk on his own and do things without people getting mad at him. (I don’t believe in an afterlife, a heaven or a hell, but I think my dad does, so for him I stick to his canon here.) And my mother could breathe easier, soaking up people’s sympathy and free dinners every night and finally being free of her burden of a husband. After all those years of “being the only financial support for my household,” she could stop blaming things on my dad, hopefully coming to her senses a bit and realizing that she, too, has faults and might make mistakes on occasion—hopefully, but not very likely.
And, okay, I kind of would like to be rid of him as well. He means well and loves me in his own way, but constantly being treated like a four-year-old bothers me, not to mention getting in the crossfire of my parents’ verbal nuclear war. And if he did die, I would feel sad for him, of course, but not in the way most people would feel about their fathers. I remember very little about my father throughout my whole life. In some ways he has been like an uncle who lives with us: I saw him at home sometimes, depending on which shift he had at whatever job he had, and occasionally he would try some male bonding that ended with awkward silences in the car. But there’s never been a whole lot of interaction between my father and anyone in my family. (In fact, the only real pre-Junior-High memory I have of my father is when I asked him where babies came from, a conversation that ended soon after it began—he told me to consult the biology textbook my older sister gave me when she dropped out of college.) And if he were to die—or move to a care center where they can bathe him and my mom can get on with her life—it wouldn't make much of a difference in my life. I can't miss what I never really had. And I never really had a father.
So now, think of me as you will—evil, bloodthirsty son or misunderstood teenager—but know this: I have a lot to say. And I'm not done yet.
With my amusing and complicated anecdote out of the way, we can get to some of the more important things. Like, why did I suddenly change my mind and cave to my disagreeable teacher’s prediction? Me, Bradley J., the one who sticks with his decisions to the end? (Okay, maybe I’m mincing words here. But I do stick with arguments until the end, at least until I can understand the other’s side, which Mr. L and I have not reached and never will.) I changed my mind for a lot of reasons. I was suddenly struck with the idea that I can get my voice into the world without having to go through the lengthy process of publication; I thought I might have something worth listening to, even if it is the rants of an angsty teenager with nothing better to do than sound ridiculously biased about everything in his life. But mostly I wanted to say something—without sounding sadistic about it:
I want my father to die.
How can that not be sadistic? What sort of cruelty could drive someone to that? Unless, of course, this is merely the sort of thing that nearly every teenager thinks at some point: I have been prevented from staying out another half an hour; I feel misunderstood and controlled; it is so obviously my parents being dominating, rather than concerned for my welfare or schoolwork, that I must blame everything on them and say terrible things I will regret in an hour or so.
No, this is not the case. I want my father to die. To summarize:
After a lifetime of various injuries, including but not limited to being hit by a car, having a forklift land on his head and break his neck, falling and breaking a hip, and developing an abcess of fluid in his brain that needed draining twice, he is currently in a wheelchair with a broken femur; a replacement hip; and memory, balance, and coordination problems. He has not seen our basement in over two years. Going up or down stairs, even if it’s a set of three, can take ten minutes. Helping around the house is impossible: even if he could do most of the stuff, my mother would prevent him from doing so.
My mother. Well, she’s a whole new can of worms. Even before my dad was confined, first by a walker and now by the wheelchair, she sought after people’s attention. More than once I remember her on the phone with the neighbors telling them how tragic her life was, even before I can remember the presence of a cause for this tragedy. Just last week, it seemed like she called every single set of parents on her roll (she teaches preschool out of our basement) and gave them each a half-hour sob story about how she didn’t know if the open house could happen now, because her husband is in the hospital, yes, he broke his femur, yes it’s so sad, and she was expecting it because he’s always so shaky and tries to do things without his walker, don’t know what he’s thinking, but the hospital might discharge him before Friday, and she has no idea what she’s supposed to do.
Admittedly, I can be easily frustrated by my dad, especially after the third time he’s asked me a question. My mother, on the other hand, is even more so. She is also much more vocal about it than I am. Most of the time, it seems like she doesn’t know how to communicate with people unless she’s yelling at them—I didn’t clean the bathroom to her standards; my sister hasn’t fed the cats while she does her laundry; why haven’t I taken the trash out yet, does she have to do everything around here—but my dad seems to be the focus for most of her anger.
In his own way, he deserves it. One of his favorite pastimes is saying or doing things to piss my mother off on purpose, something to be expected when you combine my dad’s personality and lack of real things to do in his infinite stores of free time—how many days in a row can you watch Crocodile Dundee or read Louis L’Amour without getting bored out of your skull? But when she yells at him for trying to do a load of dishes or sweep the kitchen floor, or even just get up and stretch his legs—that’s when she is going too far.
Even as I write this, I can hear something banging loudly upstairs in my dad’s room (my parents haven’t slept in the same bed for as long as I can remember, apart from a brief session when my dad wore a neck brace after the forklift incident) and my mom’s dulcet tones echoing through the ceiling. I don’t know what she’s yelling about, and I really don’t want to know; whatever it is, I’ve heard it before, over and over until I could probably quote what she’s saying.
I want my father to die. It would be a relief for him, I imagine, once he’s free of his mental challenges, once he can remember things clearly and walk on his own and do things without people getting mad at him. (I don’t believe in an afterlife, a heaven or a hell, but I think my dad does, so for him I stick to his canon here.) And my mother could breathe easier, soaking up people’s sympathy and free dinners every night and finally being free of her burden of a husband. After all those years of “being the only financial support for my household,” she could stop blaming things on my dad, hopefully coming to her senses a bit and realizing that she, too, has faults and might make mistakes on occasion—hopefully, but not very likely.
And, okay, I kind of would like to be rid of him as well. He means well and loves me in his own way, but constantly being treated like a four-year-old bothers me, not to mention getting in the crossfire of my parents’ verbal nuclear war. And if he did die, I would feel sad for him, of course, but not in the way most people would feel about their fathers. I remember very little about my father throughout my whole life. In some ways he has been like an uncle who lives with us: I saw him at home sometimes, depending on which shift he had at whatever job he had, and occasionally he would try some male bonding that ended with awkward silences in the car. But there’s never been a whole lot of interaction between my father and anyone in my family. (In fact, the only real pre-Junior-High memory I have of my father is when I asked him where babies came from, a conversation that ended soon after it began—he told me to consult the biology textbook my older sister gave me when she dropped out of college.) And if he were to die—or move to a care center where they can bathe him and my mom can get on with her life—it wouldn't make much of a difference in my life. I can't miss what I never really had. And I never really had a father.
So now, think of me as you will—evil, bloodthirsty son or misunderstood teenager—but know this: I have a lot to say. And I'm not done yet.
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