I was a bad kid in high school. Oh, well, I’m not talking about school because I was rank 4 when I graduated.
On my 56k modem I downloaded a lot of.. cough.. materials. And since it took so long to load pictures back in the day, it was worth my while to just keep it in a “hidden folder.” I just needed to make sure that the folder settings were appropriate. Eventually, I had about 100 of my favorites in a folder in my documents on the family computer.
One day I came home from school and my mom and dad wanted to have a talk with me. My greatest nightmare came true: they found the folder (like magazines under my bed). I was scared out of my mind… the conversation was a blurr, but they concluded that the naked guys in the folder were guys that I wanted to be like because I was so awkward in middle school. I was teased a lot and these images were icons of what I wish I wanted to be.
Great logic Mom and Dad. Or…. maybe, your son was gay.
My dad never brought it up again, but my mom and I have little discussions here and there. She tells me that she hopes & prays to the blessed Lord Jesus Hallelujah that I will “straighten out,” but of course she loves me regardless. The saddest part is that she wanted grand kids. And though being gay doesn’t make that impossible, it just makes it more of a challenge. I feel comforted that I can talk openly to my mom. She even gave me advice on boys… or love in general rather.
Lately, my gay friend has been sleeping over. My mom asked me if he didn’t sleep over too often because Dad was asking her about him and she doesn’t know what to say. I don’t know what else needs to be said because I carelessly leave my Queer As Folk DVDs on my desk, I take mysterious trips to the city and every time my friends come by a giant rainbow that does not fit the doorway squeezes in behind them.
I know my dad knows. But maybe it makes him happy to have hope and coming out and confirming that I am queer will crush all the dreams he had for me: getting married, having kids, passing on the lineage, being a perfect puzzle piece of society. So I stay silent so that he can pretend that I just haven’t found the right girl…
I stay silent so that he doesn’t have to cry because I’m not the perfect son that I wish I was…
I am crushing on the Falafel Guy with special feature Compliments make me Feel Good
Title self-explanatory. I’ve decided that the man that makes my falafel has the most beautiful smile in the world (you know those glorious smiles that sort of surround your face in a halo of light? The kind that just sort of happens and doesn’t ask anything in return? I could go on and on, but he has one of those) and I’d totally have his children. Also, the falafel are orgasmic, so I have a GOOD excuse to stare.
My friend Chelsea and I were sitting at a bus stop today because there were no other chairs available and we got into two of the most interesting situations ever. First we ended up discussing acronyms very loudly in front of other people and she said she didn’t know what AT&T was and some other person nearby gave us a history lesson on the trans-Atlantic phone line. Then someone cat-called at us as we walked by (‘Hey there ____’ it was some word for woman and it was somewhat flattering but it wasn’t ‘ladies’) and I replied with a ‘Hee~ey’ and I got a grin and a nod from them, though they also looked vaguely embarrassed. It was basically the best feeling ever, being considered appealing in some sense and I decided at the time that compliments should be tossed out whenever possible to make people feel insane and elated. However, compliments thrown by me usually are inextricably bound up with potential creep-out factor paired with the consequent bludgeoning. If I were slightly more androgynous it might work but at the moment I’d worry about things Spiraling Out Of Control. We also saw a hobo pick through the trash can next to us and thought it was unpleasant.
This is for those singles whose feelings of loneliness and inferiority were inadequately drowned out by Cupidity and the verbalization of teen-style angst by my witty co-blogger.
If you feel like VDay this year was especially brutal, yes, it really was. See VDay usually does not bother me. I lump it with those other consumerist/Christian holidays that do not concern me. Historically, I’ve actually used it as an excuse to excise unwanted lovers from my life. Nothing screams romance like a VDay breakup. You must take my word for it. I am a poet.
So this year I pretty much knew I was in for it when I showed up for my 9:30 a.m. poetry class and prof Shoptaw handed us a hot-off-the-press poem to break our hearts for the occasion. About a divorce. (“Divorce,” Eliza Griswold, if you want to know.) Poem after poem. We could not escape the timeless, the inexhaustible subjects: heartbreak, loss, pain.
Then BART. All these assholes holding hands, balloons, flowers, chocolates. We GET it. You have not a shred of creativity in you, poor bastards. Besides, it should not be socially acceptable to expose your feelings in public. Especially when they are store-bought. I say, put them back in your shirts, sirs! They are quite aesthetically displeasing.
2008: the year the capitalists won. So I do feel lonely and inferior and assaulted by the gaudiness of whatever is passing for PDA nowadays. My heart is broken and cannot be filled with your stupid red and pink plastic shit! I can’t eat your stupid heart-shaped chocolates because there’s milk in them and I don’t hate cows! Heyzeus. At least I’ve still got this old geetar. And Imma sing them blues till the sun sets behind old Frisco again.
I got six steel strings baby and you ain’t Gon’ break ‘em like my heart strings I said I got six strings woman and I ain’t Gon’ break ‘em over you!
I heard you broke outta jail just the other day But hell I’ll keep sangin’ and twangin’ down the subway Tracks and when I reach the bay I ain’t No I ain’t gon’ think on you.
Not on you woman! (guitar solo)
Oooh yeah I got a geetar honey and a bucket o’ gin Go back to your man I don’t care to win. Don’t want your nails, red or pink or white Diggin’ and a-scratchin’ into my thighs.