Look Your Best, Feel Your Worst

There are all kinds of ethos and phrases when it comes to fashion and how you are supposed to dress and what helps and what hurts. Less is more. Leave something to the imagination. Put everything on, then take one thing off. It's better to be over dressed then under. My view on all of this is: Who cares what you are doing, just make sure you look good doing it. This is especially true when I am not feeling one hundred percent, or when I know the day is going to be unpleasant. Somehow, looking very refined and well put together helps me get through the day. I make myself believe that I could not possibly encounter something I can not handle while wearing argyle. No way am I going to lose my temper while the pinstripe on my button down matches the color of the sweater on top of it. That would be preposterous. Simply ridiculous. The scary thing is, this almost always works for me. And I tend to accomplish more then if I were acting like it was any other day. For me, the clothes set the tone for the day. I was out of my house today for a complete twelve hours. Going from job one, to class and then errands and then home. It was nice to arrive back at the house when everyone else was eating dinner. There are few things better in my life these days then being cramped into the kitchen nook with my housemates eating food and telling stories. I don't think these guys know just how sane they keep me. Or maybe they do. I did realize today that although the clothes might make the attitude, they certainly cannot keep my mind from dressing up in disastrous designs. While at work, I tried to figure out while I am always falling for men older then me and completely different then me. My top five include: a doctor, a lawyer, a biologist, a philosopher and a mathematician. I'm a Nick Hornby wannabe who looks to Patrick Marber and Carrie Bradshaw for inspiration; why do I go for the opposite of who I am? Do opposites attract, or detract? Based on my past they lead to nowhere. But none of the endings had to do with not having common interest or conversation topics. What it comes down to is the difference in thinking. Writers, artists, and actors tend to think romantically and whimsically. Like, believing a Banana Republic v-neck can somehow fix your day. While scientists, business men and those in the medical field tend to be fact based and leave no room for variables or possibilities. They would never prescribe Ralph Lauren as a cure, chances are they wouldn't even know who Ralph Lauren is. The latest installment of me versus the left brain thinkers occurred earlier this evening, when the lawyer took me to court. Relationship court that is, and then he brought down the gavel and said that it would be futile to date me. Me and all my youth and naivety. I always try to hide the fact that I am dark and twisty from guys I take interest in, but maybe if they saw that they would catch on to the fact that I am not really the age stamped on my license. Obviously, tomorrow will again be a day of looking my best because I am kind of feeling like crumpled tinfoil. A crinkled mess of something that could look shiny and bright, if someone just took the time to smooth it out. And this is only what I thought about at work, and what occurred once I got back to my house. I didn't even begin to describe what I was thinking about during classes. I made new lyrics to a couple of my favorite songs so that they were more personal to me. I do that a lot. I tried to think of three secure, steady careers I could see myself in once I graduate. And I began thinking about how I want to celebrate my birthday. People keep saying I should act my age, but if I did that, they wouldn't want to be around me. I wouldn't want to be around me. People say I should date my age, but I don't have time to babysit. I need some maturity, some security and some compatibility. If I am doomed to have repeating incidences with the left brain thinkers until I become "of age", well, let me say this. Banana Republic is going to know me by first name.

Too Many Flashing Lights

The Packers won. Kanye proved once again how much of an idiot he really is. Pink joined the circus. And Lady Gaga proved that her lyrics really do flow through her veins. I say that all the time: these words are my blood. Usually in reference to whatever novel I'm working on, or some play I'm part way through writing or recently I've gotten into song writing. Yes, some things about me are very stereotypical. Like me writing and wanting to be an author and/or playwright. I draw inspiration from everything around me. But a lot of it comes from what has happened and what has been done to me. Sometimes I'll turn something that I lived through into a play and then the play itself becomes some kind of closure for me. Words alone haven't been cutting it lately so that's why I've gotten into writing songs. The process of writing is very helpful, but imagining how I would perform them is what really helps the heart. Most of the time I see myself in some kind of Velma Kelly kind of situation. Not only singing, but emotionally releasing the words onto the audience. I don't just sing a song, I usually end up acting it out. It doesn't always sound good, but you can hear the panic, desperation, hurt and frustration in my voice. I think that is what makes it a good performance. The kind of day that I went through in the last twenty four hours leaves me so broken, hollow, drained, empty and furious I'm so overly inspired I don't know what to do. I want to sit and write a new play, but I can't stay seated long enough. I want to work on a few chapters for the novels I have been writing, but I wouldn't be able to seperate the character from myself. I want to go running, but I have no iPod and I would totally play chicken with cars given the mood I'm in. I want to have wild crazy sex, but even though there's a cloud of stupor around me I can still see that would be a bad idea. I want to talk to someone, but all my friends are on other continents or busy. The closest thing I did to talking was try to get a hold of one of my housemates girlfriends. Now I want to smoke a cigarette and listen to the Lady Gaga Paparazzi performance over and over again until I fall asleep. I have been listening to it since I got back from classes. I'm sure someone in the house is annoyed, but no one has said anything yet. I am completely obsessed with right now because her passion and hurt mirror what I am feeling on the inside. Even the bullet to the stomach emulates what I am feeling. I do feel like I was shot in the stomach. I feel like the life and energy is flowing out of me with each beat of my heart. And, honestly, I don't even feel the need to find a suture. This kind of wound has been done to me repeatedly over the past several years. You might think I'm being dramatic and simply distraught over some guy. But this is not just mere boy problems. I guess the problem is due to the fact that I like boys. This has caused such great shifts and chasms amongst my immediate family that I can not even begin to describe them on here. Hence, the me writing a book thing. What I can say about what happened today, is that I am now no longer just at the core of problems in my immediate family, but the destruction that is my "choice" has now effected my extended family. Pinning brother versus sister, and pulling even more on the unraveling family blanket that I was once protected under. All I can do is shake my head and try not to scream out loud and violently dance myself into an exhaustion. I've matured enough to no longer want to punch walls and break windshields, most of the time. Nowadays I just want to scream a song, dance myself into a sweaty exhaustion and then sleep the world away. Which, again, is why I am dangerously in love with last nights Gaga performance. The whole thing kind of mimics how my day went. It starts out looking glamorous, albeit slightly unique, and then just turns into an aggressive, fast paced, bloody ending. Complete with tears and bellows. Even the lyrics have new meaning today. I keep chasing after my parents to love me for exactly what I am. But we both keep wrecking one another and now it's even more complicated because there are even more people on stage. It seems like every conversation and sentence turns into a some big explosion, a flash of light that blinds me, stuns me, annoys me and makes me want to retreat to a dark corner. With so many flashing lights going on recently, and for the past few years, I am too lit up to even make my mind up. It's hard, pretty much impossible, when you constantly have flashbombs going off inside your brain and behind your eyelids to function at normal speed. I just need some peace and quiet in a darkroom, maybe then I could try to develop a few photos. But I don't want to be in the darkroom alone. I am criminally tired of being single, but simultaneously unsure if any guy out there could even handle the flashstorm that is my life. I mean, how many guys out there deal with their problems by sweating them out to dance music? Even if there is such a guy, he probably won't want to put the effort forth. Or he'll think I'm too young to be taken seriously. Or he'll just hit it and quit it. Yeh, you know who you are. So that leaves me to rely on me alone to wipe up my wounds, disinfect my bullet holes and sew up my own cuts. I am all for self dependency, but I am also a firm believer in companionship. And, the word all gays fear, relationships. I can keep shielding my own face from the flashing lights, but that leaves me little energy to be useful for anything else. My grades suffer, my personality darkens and my smile fades. And, I must confess, it all makes me Marlboro friendly. Don't give me that look; you try holding the epicenter of family destruction on your shoulders and see if you don't take to bad habits. I think I should get free tickets for not turning into a coke head. You think that my now I should be use to the bright lights, but they still sting my retinas and make my flinch. As much as I would like to succumb to the weight of the lights and just refuse to get up, I tell myself I have to hold out for the day when the lights are for my new family portrait.

New Style, But It's Still Grand

I was ready to scrap this thing completely and just focus on my writings, and not my bloggings, but I do miss this thing. It's very therapeutic, and I don't always know who to say what to, because I still feel that sometimes by me telling my friends what's bothering me I add to what's bothering them. So this way, I can say whatever I want to and have complete strangers read it. Or no one at all. I considered doing audio updates but that seemed way too common. These days you can't swing your dick without hitting some vlog, twitter or audiocast done by some queer who is obviously more witty then your other gay best friend. So I figured I would stick with what I know best, words. Lots of words. And if you were hearing this, it would be spoken quickly and animatedly. But not to the point to where you'd think I vacationed at Fire Island. Although, admittedly, I am listening to "party in the usa" while typing this. Damn you Miley! If you're going to make catchy music, you could at least try to not be annoying. Seriously though, I dare you to listen to it and not find it addicting. It can't be done. What balances out the listening of Miss Cyrus is the fact that I'm doing so in ratty jeans, a baseball cap and the same gray t-shirt I've had on and slept in since Thursday. I smell good though. I promise. I always make sure to smell good. I am a cologne whore. And I recently found out that you can get knock off colognes at the dollar store...yahtzee!!! Who's excited? This guy. I spent a good hour in the dollar store today, getting everything I needed and then some. I found the most delicious smelling candles! One smells like brewed tea with honey it in. And another one is orange and black currant. My room smells like a French bakery, it's fantastic. Sunday is the only day I get to do errands. The week is filled and overfilling with five classes, two jobs and the worlds most amazing friends and housemates. And of course a few movies and a couple chapters in whatever books I'm reading. I'm excited for the new Nick Hornby and the new Kazuo Ishiguro. Those are two of my favorite writers. I want to get a couple more chapters done in A Spot of Bother before my evening really gets started. I am torn between watching the Bears vs Packers game, or the VMA's. I think I'll record the VMA's and watch the game. But how catchy are those VMA commercials?! The sad thing is ninety percent of the kids who watch them probably have no idea they are based on West Side Story. What once was old is new again. On the topic of "old"...what is it with anyone over the age of twenty four thinking they already have one foot in the grave?! I've been hearing this kind of talk far too much lately? We live to be, like, 120 years old these days; being 25 is nothing. I think I'm really burnt by all of this because I had a date with a 26 year old the other day, and he made it clear that he was just soooo much older then I am. Which is complete lies because he's fresh out of law school, so debt wise and place-in-life-wise we are very similar. It doesn't help that we is supercute and just as witty as I am. I've had this kind of thing happen in the past too. Everything is going well until I own up to the fact that I'm only twenty. No one knows until I tell them, and even then they aren't convinced until they see my license. So can we all just agree that how old you are in life isn't always how old you are on a calendar. Ok, I need to go pick out a tattoo design. This is the new style of The Grand Life, keep up if you want to.

-Let It Settle

Want to know something I love? I love having milk and cookies while standing up in the kitchen, leaning over the sink or the counter top. Want to know something I really don’t like? I really don’t like it when the cookie crumbs settle at the bottom of the cup of milk. It just ruins it for me. Enjoying some delicious coconut crèmes or maybe some almond sandies, and then finishing the milk only to be greeted by a mouthful of soggy cookie mush. It’s like what backwash would taste like if you were splitting a bottle with the Cookie Monster. It’s such an unpleasant way to end the milk and cookies experience, and there is no way of avoiding it. If anyone ever figures out how to dunk a cookie without bits of it getting into the milk, please let me know. And it’s not like you can just dump the milk out, how could you ever waste such an amazing drink? Plus you can’t have a cookie without some milk; it just goes against the natural order of things. The mouse didn’t ask for cranberry juice, or a mimosa, after he was given a cookie. No, he asked for some good old fashioned moo juice. Now if there was a way to dunk a cookie in milk and have the crumbs get caught by some sort of straining device, now that would be lovely; but something tells me that much effort might diminish from the simplicity and excellence of milk and cookie time. So, maybe, sometimes you just have to put up with settling. But when you aren’t standing over the kitchen sink, it’s hard to tell what you should and shouldn’t settle for.

Having spent more then my fair share of time in the kitchen lately, whether it be for cooking, eating or cleaning up after everyone, I finally got back to running again. It has been one of those things I kept saying I was going to get back into. Like finishing the great American classics. Or trying to sit through Citizen Kane. Or remembering how to conjugate a verb in Spanish. But I felt like I was cheating myself if I didn’t actually make time to go running. I’ll admit I first had to quit smoking, which made me a complete annoyance to be around, but once that was out of my system I was free to run. It didn’t take long for my old competitiveness to kick in. Not towards the several other neighborhood runners who I usually pass, but towards myself; I am my own worse track coach. Or track Nazi as it were. I can’t seem to let myself settle for anything other then balls to the wall long distance running. I wanted to get back into it all slowly, start with an easy afternoon jog, but then my brain remembered that it solemnly swore to never jog but only to run. Needless to say, forty minutes later I was soaked in sweat so much that it looked like a photo shoot for Details magazine. When I made it back to the front door I realized how much I missed running, and how stupid I was to settle for a cigarette instead of a good long run. Having decided to never settle again when it comes to finding ways to stay at a size 30 waist, I began to think of when you can’t help but to settle.

Sometimes when it comes to relationships you can’t help but settle. I’ve learned that bi-monthly phone calls and sporadic textversations is as good as its going to get with some people in my life. I’ve come to accept that some people from my past will always be just a memory, despite my trying to include them in my present. And sometimes you have to settle to keep some people who are in your past at arms length, because it’s for the best. The best may not always be what you want it to be, but sometimes you have to settle for it. This is an odd thing to think about; settling for the best. Dating and relationships is a complete bitch when it comes to thinking about settling. I don’t mean settling down, I’m years from that kind of thing, I mean who may and may not be right for you. It’s easy to think that the prettiest, sexiest, most charming is the only thing acceptable for you, but it might not be the best thing for you. This is where you have to learn to settle for the best and the best thing for you. This, as you may have guessed, is not easy and very time consuming. Thank God there are milk and cookies to help you while you think about it.

-Just Say What

I often need to rely on coffee to get me through my morning and make me last until the afternoon. Usually once the afternoon has started my body simply refuses to acknowledge that such a thing has a “nap” even exists. So as long as I hit noon at a relatively caffeinated speed, I can last. I’m not ashamed to admit it, I am completely codependent on that delicious mocha colored energy giving goodness. There are those who would say that not being able to get by on just sleep and orange juice is some sign of weakness, but that just makes me want to punch them in their starbucks. This brings up another issue; that starting every morning with an adequate dose of sweetened adrenaline can energize you, but exhaust your wallet. But the way I see it, paying for coffee will always be cheaper then court costs and fines for the collateral damages a decaffeinated angry person could accrue. The downfall that I do acknowledge makes my palms sweaty, literally. Coffee sweats, the pain in your side to the coffee bean in your cup. They are something avoidable, but I rarely have the capacity to tell myself to put down the mug and switch to water. It sort of comes down to the fact that sometimes you just don’t know when to say when. That’s the ancient phrase that we are supposed to use in a situation like this, “just say when”. But I am beginning to think it can be improved upon. Not every situation calls for the word “when”, sometimes you need more then a time. Sometimes you need an affirmation or a confirmation or a destination. Just say good job, just say yes, just tell me where you want me to be. Please don’t just say when.

Lately, the only thing my friends and I can say is just dance. I’ve hit the dance floor more then the combined number of times Chris Brown and Bobby Brown have hit their women. Note to all: never date them if their last name is Brown, observe the trend people. During these into-the-groove-expeditions I’ve seen many a time when all someone needed to do was to just say ____. A lot of the times it has to do with a person’s ability to just say no, to the next round of shooters and cosmos. Other times problems could have been avoided, if they had said they are just unavailable. And, occasionally, there are those who need to admit they are just desperate, or just pathetic. Sometimes admission is the first step to recovery, and other times it’s just a confession on a dance floor. Socially, I have many a reason to amend the “just say when” rule. Personally, I have reasons that make me want to punch the “just say when” rule right in its starbucks.

I am fairly secure in who I am as a person, despite the bad hair days and bat in the cave moments, so that enables me to just say truth. But, surprise surprise, not everyone shares this real world super power. Lately my days and nights and wee hours of the morning seem to be spotted with “just say” moments. Unfortunately no one seems to want to fill in the blank or have the capacity to admit to a limit or an interest. Now I understand completely not having the right words to say, but not admitting to something is a different matter. No admittance really does keep you out of the better parts of life. Whether it’s saying you ate the last doughnut or the fact that you find someone attractive, if you don’t say it you end up stuck in it. And that is not going to get you anywhere.

Relying on something does not make you weak; it simply means you know what you need to just say things correctly. Progressing through life it so much more then moving forward; it can also be helped along by just saying truthful things. Not speaking your mind will keep you standing still like the line at starbucks at six am; it will also only leave you just saying sorry to yourself. It can all be over, just like that; so it makes so much sense to just say ____.

-Simple, Stupid and Sam Sparro

There are many ways to feel stupid, even when you think you are four steps away from genius. A series of events can occur and suddenly you find yourself asking why the door you’re pulling on says push. Stupidity doesn’t always have to do with education and grades; sometimes it’s about the lack of education or the white lies we tell ourselves. Stupid is as stupid does, and sometimes stupid doesn’t think about the amount of calories in a vodka martini or the consequences of consecutive fast food runs or the payments on credit limits. Stupid can take on many forms; mental, verbal and physical. Like thinking you can pull of a mustache the same way Sam Sparro can, or imaging that fashion likes everyone equally. And I’m talking to you Lady Gaga, we can’t all be Carrie Bradshaw. Sometimes stupid is as simple as not knowing what to say, even when you have more then enough words floating around in your head. The real definition of stupid, the epitome of the sensation, is being caught in a moment where the wisdom in your brain can’t quite reach your mouth. Your cerebrum knows the precise wording to better state your knowledge of the situation, but all your tongue does is “bfffffffffff”.

I guess my face has always been a “trusting” one. Which has been both a good and a bad thing. It helps because people never suspect you of lying, you can get discounts at Panera for being cute, and you can smile your way to student discounts when you don’t have your ID with you. The downsides of having this kind of complexion are, never being taken seriously, always being expected to smile and having everybody want to confess to you and tell you their secrets. You would not believe the loads of dirty laundry I could do. The white picket fences in my head are spilling over with everybody’s deep, dark tellings. I don’t mind being able to have the opportunity to be confided in, but I feel dumber then a can of Mayonnaise, being held by George Bush, while he tries to name all the state capitals, when someone tells me something and I have no clue how to respond to it. It’s nice when people want to tell you what is happening with them, it does make you feel privileged and connected, but sometimes the confessional crown they lay on your head is a bit too heavy. There is no real way to get prepared for all the things that happen in life, and there is no real way to prepare yourself for when someone tells you life happened to them.

I suppose sometimes silence is golden, and all it really takes to be helpful is to listen and let a person vent, but a lot of the times there are things that should and need to be said. Unfortunately a lot of the times the words do not come out correctly or miss their intended target. And don’t even get my started on this textversation nonsense. You think it’s hard enough to make yourself understood in person, try doing it through letters on a phone screen. It’s ridiculous. They say that if silence can’t be golden, then you should keep it simple stupid. Which brings up the concept of what to do when you can’t rely on your words; do you give a kiss, offer a hug, or provide a shoulder to cry on? Even when you try to keep things as easy and uncomplicated as possible, they still seem to end up mixed and complicated in twenty one thousand ways. Even when all you want to say is something little. Like, I wannabe next you. Or, I can do it better. Or, I love you. Or, you have sesame chicken stuck in your teeth. No matter how badly you want to say something, and in an educated manner nonetheless, sometimes you just can’t make it happen. I do know this, sometimes all it takes is a little less effort; sometimes all you have to do is push instead of pull.

-Right In The Bullseye

Sometimes you have those days where you don’t really want to move. The kind of day where the bed and the couch have some kind of magnetic force, and you ass is just one giant refrigerator magnet. Your brain keeps telling you that there is “the list”, that big scary transformer of a list that needs to get taken care of. You know the list is important, you know the list will not take care of itself, you know the list has control over you, but you also know that if you try to get off the couch the sky will turn orange and the air will turn into bug spray. So the better idea seems to be to just stay on the couch. It’s not like you aren’t aware of the list, because chances are the only thing you are thinking about the whole time the couch is holding you hostage is the list. You think of what you would have done first off of the list, how you would have gone about doing it, and the preferred outcomes. You consider what would have been the most efficient travel routes, you ponder what stores are closest to each other, and you meditate on how you would have phrased your questions and offered your opinions. The fact that you didn’t do anything almost seems irrelevant because you thought it all out, you practically did it all. You were so close to taking a significant chunk out of that terrible “list” that you almost feel in the mood to celebrate; but then you remember that close only counts in horseshoes and preemptive bombings. No matter how much good will or heart felt mentality you put into something, it’s never going to be good enough unless you hit the bullseye.

Sometimes I play darts. On days where the couch has taken be captive, it is often gracious enough to allow me a bathroom break and some free time. During my free time I play darts. I am actually pretty good at it, but not in the ways that actually matter. A good dart player is not concerned with hitting the large numbers or accumulating as many points as possible every time they throw, no, a good dart player is worried about accuracy and skill. I can put all three darts on the board every time I throw, but I have no direction when I throw. My darts hit any number they damn well please, and I end up happy because I hit the board. But hitting the board is not even the real point of the game, winning is the real point of the game; and sometimes to win you have to miss or scratch out. Sometimes when you are playing it is way too easy to only see the bullseye, but usually the bullseye isn’t even what you need to score.

Attraction is such a dart board of a thing. All the qualities that a person could find attractive or be attracted to are just laid out there, and then we stand and throw our darts at it in hopes to hit something good. A sliver of mesmerizing eye color, a piece of broad shoulders, a triangle of aspirations, we throw our darts while thinking the highest score will benefit us the most. I suppose hitting the bullseye would be getting the best, most opportune result to attraction, but sometimes that isn’t what you really need to score. Sometimes you need to build up with smaller numbers, sometimes you need to focus on precision and accuracy before you can start throwing for the bullseye. Sure fifty points is a nice large amount, but it can also be too much and make you lose or bust. Then where are you after you bust? Right back where you were before, but now you are even more disappointed. Sometimes life hits you in the bullseye because life isn’t polite. Sometimes the couch grabs you by the bullseye and doesn’t let you go. Sometimes you throw for the bullseye but hit something close to it, something better then the bullseye itself. When that happens, that’s when you get to look life in the bullseye and say “I win”.