"Now Or Never" - Josh Groban

One of the only Josh Groban songs I actually like. Lyrics below. (It's a fan-made video for Titanic, in case you're wondering.)




I watch the morning dawn upon your skin
A splinter in the light
It caught and frayed the very heart of us
It's been hiding there inside for all this time
How a sure thing winds up just like this
Clockwork silence only knows

And it's no one's fault
There's no black and white
Only you and me
On this endless night
And as the hours run away
With another life
Oh, darling can't you see
It's now or never?
It's now or never

Sweeping eggshells still at 3 AM
We're trying far too hard
The tattered thought balloons above our heads
Sinking in the weight of all we need to say
"Why"s and "what if"s have since long played out
Left us short on happy endings

And it's no one's fault
There's no black and white
Only you and me
On this endless night
And as the hours run away
With another life
Oh, darling can't you see
It's now or never?
It's now or never

You know that there's so much more

And it's no one's fault
There's no black and white
Only you and me
On our final night
And as the hours run away
With another life
Oh, darling can't you see
It's now or never?
It's now or never

This post has been removed due to its violation of the "Bradley has family who reads this and as much as he loves them, he doesn't want them to know everything about his life, especially the more shady areas" clause in the Terms of Use.

We are sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused.

The State of the Angst Address

Well, in the time since this post and the last one, half of the Karmic Pair came and went. I can't help but think it's my fault, and I attribute that to two things:

•I am an incredibly guilty-feeling person. I take the blame for pretty much everything. I feel terrible for saying "no" to anything (which seems to be how I got in the relationship in the first place). I seem to have this inability to let people down.
•I have to make people happy. My own feelings are relatively minor until the most inconvenient moments, at which point they flare up and take over everything in my own weird PMS. Yes, it's about a monthly thing too. (As a subcategory of this, I have to fix everybody. Got a problem? I will run myself ragged trying to make it better before I even look at my own flaws, which there are plenty of.)

The relationship started off great. He was so sweet and caring, and I was just me, so in my mind there was no comparison. And then natural tendencies kicked in. He wanted to go exclusive after just one date; obviously it meant a lot to him, and I went with it. He wanted to move in together; it would get me out of my own house (commonly referred to as the Soul-Sucking Black Hole of Doom, or similar) as soon as I graduate (status of which is currently pending thanks to a failed history class and make-up bowling credit), so of course I agreed.

But he started freaking out. If I wasn't with him I was probably out having hot hot sex with other boys. It didn't help he had a terrible self image to begin with, but being apart killed him. He checked in with my mother, who didn't even like him, to make sure I was where I said I would be. This was too much. I broke things off, partly because it would soothe my conscience for just giving him what he wanted, but mostly because he was going crazy and I didn't necessarily want to follow.

Hooray. Longest relationship ever, a whole twenty days. Nineteen, if you don't count the first half of the breakup, which was messy and spanned Saturday and Sunday.

Sigh. A contributing factor, I think, is that when I know somebody likes me part of me automatically says HAY! YOU SHOULD LIKE THEM BACK BECAUSE THEY LIKE YOU! So right off the bat there's confusing feelings. Do I really like them, or do I just think I do because it's what I should do?

It doesn't help that I give people everything anyway. On top of that I have no limits, no qualms that would stop me from any pattern of behavior. Sometime last December I was reading a book about teenage prostitution and I reached the conclusion I would have no trouble selling my body. Sure, I would LIKE a different job, but I saw no problem with having sex for money; the only thing that bothered me was the fact I wasn't bothered. So how can I say "no" to anybody about anything, if I can't see anything wrong with it and they're asking it of me?

On top of all this, it's looking less and less likely that I'm going to be graduating on time. Life at home is becoming even more soul-sucking, what with the rampant mother and the general feeling of gloom over the house. As much as I love my family I just can't stand any of them right now. Whoopdedoo.

....And there really isn't any good way to wrap this up. This is the end, I promise.

Karmic Pairs

First off I say the word should be "karmatic" not "karmic". "Karmatic" sounds so much cooler, especially when placed before "pairs".

Second off. WHY, UNIVERSE, WHY?!

Do you have this vendetta against me really being happy? Is that what this is all about?

Ugh.

So, whenever I think I've found somebody whom I'd like to get to know better and seriously date (who would like to get to know me better and seriously date), the universe decides to throw in another person I'd like to get to know better and seriously date (who would also like to get to know me better and seriously date).

Seriously, what the FUCK, universe?! Did I do something to make it that for me to want one person to be happy, I have to hurt somebody else to get it? This is the third time it's happened. Is there some cosmic message I'm not getting? I mean, the first time they were both straight but really attractive, so it wouldn't work out anyway, and the second time it didn't work out with either of them despite efforts with both, so is this a way of saying it won't? Cause I sincerely hope it doesn't. I'd really like to get to know one of them a lot better, and the other one I'd like to become better friends with. So please, universe, give me this chance.

Please.

"Bieber Turns Teen Porn Star", or the Listings of Mr. Bradley i

Every Good Porn Star Must Be Able To:
1. Make interesting facial expressions.
2. Make lots of noises.
3. Make coherent sentences using up to three swear words at once.
4. Last.
5. Kiss without the awkward bumping of noses.
6. Remember his/her/their name(s).
7. Stomach the alcohol.
8. Have at least one "authentic" accent.
9. Get undressed in under twenty seconds.
10. Fake any of the above.

Ten Perks of Being a Teen:
1. Explosive zits.
2. The ability to whine about anything and blame it on hormones.
3. The ability to whine about anything and blame it on growing pains.
4. The ability to whine about anything.
5. Eating anything and everything, with room for much more.
6. "Where are you going?" "Out." "Oh." Enough said.
7. Using (hormones/school/friends/age/time of day/day of the week/day of the month/current astrological configurations) as an excuse to avoid our families.
8. Using (hormones/school/friends/age/time of day/day of the week/day of the month/current astrological configurations) as an excuse for why we were stupid and reckless.
9. Staying awake for up to a week with little to no side effects.
10. Consuming massive amounts of caffeine and sugar with little to no side effects.
11. Disregarding the rules. Because we can.

The Six People Who Should Get OFF MY FACEBOOK FLAIR:
1. Justin Bieber
2. Robert Pattinson
3. Taylor Swift
4. Joe Jonas
5. Nick Jonas
6. Kevin Jonas

Thank You, Dear Mother

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

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.

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.

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!

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.

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?

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.

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.