iGod

Don't freak out, I'm not being blasphemous, it's a play on words. Keep reading and you'll understand. Lately I've taken to wearing tiny little keys on a silver chain around my neck. I found them when I was cleaning last month. I think once upon a time they were for the locks on my families luggage. Somehow they ended up in one of several junk drawers I have. So I looped them on my chain, at the same time removing my cross. This was probably a month ago. Then earlier this week, when I was talking with my landlord he asked me what the keys were for. We joked about it for a minute, and then I said I grew tired of wearing my cross. He told me that I should never grow tired of wearing a cross. And then I said I wasn't tired of God, but wearing a cross is more fashion then faith these days. In some social circles having a cross around your neck has become an act of rebellion. I don't think he understood what I meant, because things got awkward real quick. So then I switched subjects and told him I was moving out. That got a response. But I was being honest about the cross thing. I was sick of people making assumptions and comments and jokes about my wearing one. Classically, you're supposed to wear one if you are polite, proper, church going, non vulgar Christian who wants the world to know that you would hug Jesus if you saw him on the street. But I'm none of those things. Except Christian. I would own up to being Christian. But I have the mouth of a sailor, the manners of an Italian and haven't been to church since whatever the last church holiday was. So once people realize I'm not a Sunday Christian, and/or gay, they begin to think that I'm being disrespectful or that I'm mocking someone or something by wearing a cross around my neck. Most people assume that a swearing, passionate, homo( like myself ) wouldn't have a relationship with God. Or have faith in anything besides Madonna or Gucci. Or Vodka. Now I'll admit that I have been moved to every emotion known to mankind through the music of Madonna, but I don't bow down to her or plan on building an alter to her. I don't care too much for what Gucci does, or high fashion in general. And I tend to pray a lot when vodka is involved, but I don't think the prayer counts when you are hunched over a toilet vomiting. The truth is, I have faith. And I talk to God. I have so so so so much faith. And I probably talk to God more then you do. You see, when you are me, you have to have faith. You have to talk, argue, yell, and listen to God. Otherwise, well, otherwise I would have just been another suicide statistic. Or another victim of bullying who punched his own number. Or another homo who quit God due to a bullshit sermon delivered by a radical, asshole, pastor. But I am nothing if not durable. And I think that's due to God. I feel like my mother also showed me how to endure and be silently awesome too, but God probably gets most credit. It's because I'm durable that I never quit early, or gave up, or walked away. Lord knows I wanted to, several hundred thousand times, but I hung in there. I kept talking to him and yelling at him and even swearing at him, but at least we were speaking. And since I kept communication open, he kept opening doors. He kept talking to me. And he is a crafty man, he knew I wasn't going to be reached in a church on Sunday mornings, so he found new ways to talk to me. Like my iPod. I sort of thought as my running time as my faith time already. The sidewalks were my church. But not in that bullshit way where people stand on street corners handing out water bottles with scripture taped to it. I mean that when I go running I am by myself, so I can talk to God. And we can sort through things and try to find solutions to all the big fucking problems in my world. And the little fucking problems too. Sometimes he just sort of puts ideas or phrases in my head while I'm running, which is cool, but my favorite is when he picks the next song on my iPod and the lyrics tell me exactly what to do, or encourage me to keep on living. Sometimes songs play and I don't remember purchasing them on iTunes, or downloading them at all. But they're on there, and they begin pumping through my earbuds right when God wants them to. So, do I sound like a crazy person because I think God talks to me through my iPod? Well, I don't fucking care what you think. So keep it to yourself. I don't care if you think I shouldn't wear a cross. I don't care if you think I should watch what I say. I don't care if you don't like my bruised knuckles. I don't care if you don't like my personality. I don't care if you think I shouldn't talk about God. I don't care if you think I'm going to hell because I have the tendency of falling in love with guys. Why are you judging my anyways? You aren't part of the Holy Trinity. You don't get to judge me, only God can judge me. So piss off. Because at the end of the day you are just as dirty, rotten, bloodied, guilty, loathsome and terrible as I am. So I'm going to do what I'm going to do. And you can do what you want to do. And we can live in the same world. And sometimes I'll wear a cross. And if you come across me when I'm wearing it, don't make a stupid comment. Because that would make my cross. And then I'll have to curb stomp you. Capice?

"just like a prayer, your voice can take me there" -Madonna

A Single Man, Countless Pains IV

Lately, there has been a lot of talk about THE FUTURE. Bum, bum, bummmmmmm. Where I might end up in THE FUTURE. How far away I'm going to be in THE FUTURE. How I'm going to pay for THE FUTURE. How soon before THE FUTURE becomes THE FUTURE. All this talk about it makes the present seem real crappy. Because when I think about what might come I have the luxury of thinking up the best possible outcomes. THE FUTURE looks perfect and amazing because it's all fictional. I can't decide if the present has gotten shittier, or if THE FUTURE has just gotten more exciting. I want to skip the next four months so I can see where I end up. Plus I'm getting sick of all this hot weather. It's muggy and sweaty and nasty. And I'm a little hung over. So I kinda want to sit in a air conditioned building for a nice long while. I'm going to see who wants to see SALT. THE FUTURE can take a break, I want to enjoy the afternoon. And this is another little something from my past, to continue with my July confessional. I think the past is the most honest time. THE FUTURE can be whatever you want it to be, the present can be very distorted, but you can't change the past; it just hangs there like a picture on a wall.


I don’t have….
Big pieces of chocolate cake

Peace of mind
Dependency on food
No effort days

McDonalds
Burger King
Taco Bell
Pizza after eight at night
No worries
Skinny enough waist
Smiley face cookies

An old voicemail message
A memory of the last kiss
Someone to speak to
Enough distractions
A good enough voice
Hair that behaves itself
Lips that don’t chap
Skin that doesn’t crack
Enough memories to run defense
The truth
Big enough sun glasses
Something that smells like you
Time to read
Self esteem
Lots of food
Happiness from mirrors
Movie star looks

A happy mouth
Food with oil
Food with grease
Food with frosting
Food with layers
Food with high fructose corn syrup
Food that is guilty
Enough time to run
A way of killing calories
……..you……..
……….I don’t have………..

…………………………you………………………...



"If it's going to be a world with no time for sentiment, Grant, it's not a world that I want to live in." -George Falconer

A Single Man, Countless Pains III

You know what I never understood? Rock stars who have great bodies. That was like a complete mystery to me. Members of Avenged Seven Fold, All American Rejects, Breaking Benjamin, Against Me!, and all the others. How do they stay so fit and jacked? Rock stars and work out routines do not go hand in hand, at least not in my head. Rock stars have terrible sleeping habits, even worse dietary habits, and probably the worst drinking habits in the world. And that's not even figuring in the illegal substances. But somehow they end up with Abercrombie and Fitch bodies that are covered with tattoos, scars and bite marks. But still, the muscle definition and sex appeal is totally there. I feel like they don't work as hard as us non-rocker mortals, but still get sex god bodies. Not fair. Even if you like the music, you still get slightly pissed off knowing they get fame, money and a flat stomach, all with what seems like no effort at all. Except my boyfriend Tyson Ritter, he deserves everything and anything he wants. But I bring this up, because it ties into my dating history. I have messed up points of view on the type of body I want my boyfriend, date, significant other, boy I'm sleeping with to have. I flip flop back and forth between wanting a guy who has a body like a model from Elite Model Management and someone who has the body of Paul Rudd. Both are desirable and sexy, but they are mutually exclusive of each other. The first is risky, untrustworthy, unreliable and dangerous. My mantra over the years has slowly become "never trust sexy", and for good reason. A guy deemed "sexy" usually knows it, and has the personality of a slug getting salted. Not to mention they almost always never have to work for their good looks, or only have to work one tenth of how hard the rest of us work. So that's why my dating mantra is what it is. But when you go with a Paul Rudd body type, they also have problems. Insecurities over their own body, strange drinking and eating habits, and they tend to question why I am with them. Due to the fact that I work out and take being fit seriously. So there is no winning. Kind of. What I need is a boy who works just as hard as I do. That way it all balances out. And it could be either an Abercrombie model or a Paul Rudd wannabe, I can get both. Not to brag, but I can get whatever I want really. The problem is, I usually want the wrong thing. But nowadays I have a clearer image of what I want. So I hope it appears soon. But I have decided not to commit to anything, unless it's AMAZING, in the next five months because I want to get the hell out of this city. As soon as I am certified, I'm getting the fuck out of Dodge. Maybe even as soon as December first. Who knows. I'm winging it. What I do know, is my past proves to me time and time again, almost no one I've encountered works as hard I do/did to make it work. I work hard to play my part. To be what the situation calls for, what it needs. I do what I can to be helpful and appreciated. To make sure everything goes easily, without flaw or problem. To make everyone calm and happy and content. I want to move on to my future so that I can remedy this sort of thing. It can be a strain. And sometimes all that working makes me want a break, a vacation, a dessert. So, part three of my July confessional.

You did handstands on my floor
Got impressed before we got through the door
Never knew what you would mean to me
Now you’re gone, done and I clearly see….

You were just Blueberry Pie
Something nice that caught my eye
Delicious, delightful the word “yum” suffices
You were another one of my vices
Always good to end the night with dessert
Never trust your heart because I’m just a flirt
You were just Blueberry-

Who could say no to arms like that
No one passes up a stomach so flat
Why say no when you could scream yes
You weren’t the worst but you weren’t my best…

You were simply Blueberry Pie
A tasty little natural high

"It takes time in the morning for me to become George, time to adjust to what is expected of George and how he is to behave. By the time I have dressed and put the final layer of polish on the now slightly stiff but quite perfect George I know fully what part I'm suppose to play." -George Falconer

A Single Man, Countless Pains II

It's so interesting to be without a job. A constant battle to enjoy my free time, and yet I feel like a degenerate because of having so much. I like being able to work out for three hours and not have other obligations or no energy in the first place because my job drained it all out of me. All I do is work out, run and fill out applications and email my resume to places. It makes for a very peaceful, and well toned, life style. A very cheap, and well toned, life style. I'm almost back to my high school body, but this time it's because I'm being smart about it. How did any of us survive high school? I have no idea. Actually I take that back. Lots of people loved high school. Tons of people would go back to it. I'm the minority when it comes to high school experience. I would probably go to war as opposed to being time traveled back to high school. I like to keep moving forward. I'm the only twentysomething I know who doesn't mind turning thirty one day. Once again, in the minority. Even when I don't own up to one, there's another reason I end up being placed in the minority pile. I don't mind it so much. It's comfortable here. It gives you lots of time to plan and guess about your future. There is no point in looking in the rear view mirror, unless your parallel parking. So I try not to. But, true to my word, I said I would post my past for the rest of this month. So here's another snippet of my untold past.



Dear Cxxxxxxxxxx,

I love you. It is just that simple, and it is just that complicated. I am scared, almost to the point of insanity, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Being scared means I have something to lose; you, and I don’t want to lose you, ever. I had an idea of what I wanted, what I was looking for, and you surpassed it. I was not sure if I would be allowed to be happy again, but you make me joyful. I am writing this now because it might be too soon to say it out of my head, even though we have said it without saying it. I am fine with waiting to say it, I can know for the both of us if I have to, for now. I do have worries, but nothing serious. I have never wanted to know about someone more then I want to know about you. To me, you’re the one.

-me

"For the first time in my life I can't see my future. Everyday goes by in a haze, but today I have decided will be different." -George Falconer

A Single Man, Countless Pains

I woke up this morning to the sound of one of the dogs vomiting outside my bedroom door. I couldn’t really get that upset because she is about as old as water. And her owners just switched the brand of dog food she eats, so I’m sure her stomach is refusing it and not her. So far, despite the uncleanly beginning, I’ve gone through my day in a fairly sane manner, so far. I sent out resumes. I filled in applications. Cooked a fantastic lunch. Went to my old job, for the last time, to pick up my last paycheck. But somewhere in there I made this silly mistake of watching a movie. I was going to watch something dumb with lots of explosions and car chases, but then made the fatal mistake of watching “A Single Man” instead. If you haven’t heard or seen the movie yet you really should. It’s great. It’s more then great. It’s wonderful. And haunting. And moving. And alluring. And heartbreaking. It lingers on you. I’m sure, hours from now, after I’ve gone for my run and came home and showered off and begin to read a book the movie will still be on me. Still be with me. It’s been a long time since something has stayed with me like this. So strongly, so powerfully, so unforgiving about it’s intensity. It reminded me of other things that have stayed on me for so long. Other things that I never got to tell people. Other things that I had to sneak away and hide and tuck out of sight. I decided, four minutes ago, that I too needed to vomit. Like the sound I woke up to, my brain wants to do the same. I want to throw up all that is inside me, all that doesn’t agree with me. A lot of which is saved on this very computer. Things I wrote several weeks ago, months ago, even years ago. So, for the rest of this month, I’m going to post all that I hide most dearly. All that I wanted to tell years ago, but didn’t get to. Everything I choked on, but couldn’t speak out. I’ve been gagging on things I’ve wanted to tell you for years, and now I’m finally going to throw them up. In hopes that not only my stomach, but my mind, will feel better. I never wrote the date on anything, and I don’t think I will post things in a chronological manner, so everything should be taken on its own. Even though it’s almost all connected and interweaved. So, to whoever reads this, you should really rent the movie. And, if you’d like, you can also read all about my past, the past of a single man.


This is so stupid. I know it. The world knows it. Every therapist would agree. This is so stupid. It’s not even funny or entertaining anymore. The rush of excitement and the feel of adventure and romance are completely vanishing. No one cares about this in the right way. Why should they? He lies and messes with everyone. He is twisted, dark, convoluted, tainted, full of an inky rotten blackness; but that is just what is on the outside. It is pathetic, how much time I spend thinking and worrying about him, it is pathetic. Both consciously and unconsciously, it is pathetic. Not even taking into account everything that has happened and been done in the past, the amount of time would still be considered pathetic. Like right now for example, I should be redoing a religion paper. An amazing, gracious opportunity given to me my by religion prof. and I’m writing this instead. Pathetic. Now this means I will probably be awake until some awful hour of the morning typing it and then suffering tomorrow because the lack of energy. Pathetic. I might have pathetic tendencies or behavior, but I myself am not pathetic. Apparently I am outrageously strong and powerful. Not that I am trying to sound conceited or immodest, because that is the farthest thing I want. I don’t even want to believe that I am strong and semi-unbreakable; but if I ever told anyone the whole entire truth of what happened, and if I told it with the emotion that it merits, then that person would realize that I am made out of stone. Or ice. Or that I am some kind of robot or something. Or that I am some kind of super strong hero without powers or a flashy costume. The point of this is to try and give a glimpse into how badly I care for him and how tortured my brain is because of it. A part of me knows that I should leave him alone, not because he is tricky and devious, but because he has caused such strain on my life. Not just me, but a lot of other people who are in my life; and that is unfair. No one important to him has ever been hurt by me or even heard of me. So I acknowledge that I am justified in wanting to erase him out of my life, which I am completely in the right if I chose to do that. But I don’t want to do that. Only God knows why I don’t want to. I believe that I’m still around him and still involved in his life and social circle because I am living truth of what he can do. Plus I am strong enough to handle everything that he throws at me; I’ll keep getting back up. Not like the dog returning to his master to get kicked again, but like the warrior who keeps getting back up to continue the battle. He can’t break me, he’s not strong enough, and I am too strong. One day he will break, and I don’t want him to be alone on that day. From what I can gather, very few people want to be there for him or to try and make him see how distorted he is. The island man has no objections of him giving out pictures of his anatomy to strange older men. The weather pattern is a slut and probably just as much of a head case. The buzz is probably in no position to dish out advice and maybe not even want to shed light onto the situation. Those are the three who he claims to be closest with, hardly a counsel worth trusting. I am not saying that I am the end all of advice and righteous speech, but I know I am a better option. This last round I was a little off, I wasn’t playing with my head entirely in the game; but now I am focused. Me and him are not a good idea unless we are friends. I am too distracted by him when he doesn’t even want to see my face, I could only imagine how my brain would explode if he were actually on my side. Far too much danger in that idea to think about it now, and far too fictional to spend any time on. My time is split between wanting to explain to someone how much he has done to me and how badly I want to not care about him, how I want to just give it up. That is just half of me though, probably less then half, just louder then the other side. The other side wants to sit down and deal with this like an adult, to state the facts and come at it with a mature attitude. He will never do that. He doesn’t like dealing with things that are real or contain too much truth. He needs distractions and drama and conflict to keep him from remembering all that has happened, all the ugliness that has been done to him. I realize that he would want to do that, I understand why he would want to shut it out; but that will only last you so long, and it is not a healthy way of thinking about things. He doesn’t take me seriously and he doesn’t think that I can be trusted or understand him; he is so wrong. I was too. I should have handled myself better in a lot of situations; I should have not been so sarcastic. I should have not gotten frustrated with his insults and smug attitude. I should have been less emotional and come at it with more logic and rationality. But there is no guide book to the safari that I am on, no map to help me navigate the streets I’m walking. Plus, I am young! I think we all get so caught up in what is going on that we never remember to realize just how small amount of time we have been handling this. We were too young when it started and we are still too young to have any idea what to do, but we try and put effort into it. We learn as we go, the rules develop simultaneously with the game. The field in not level and definitely not well lit up, shadows and bumps are everywhere. He hurt me, in a really big kind of way. The kind of way that makes you not realize that you haven’t left your bed in four days or that you left the house in pajamas and without shoes. The stupid big way that makes your eyes glaze over and not see the people or cars in front of you. That was a long time ago. Apparently I hurt him, which is news to me. Also, I meant something to him; brand new news that is also shocking and unbelievable. I never would have guessed that. The jury is still out on whom broke his heart and sent him into the stages, but that is also old. What matters now is that, at the end of everyday I still care about him and his well being. Does anyone around him really care if he offs himself or if he continues down his horrible, self-destructing path of bad decisions and mental blockings?
-he is considering shooting electricity through his body in order to “solve his problem”: do I need to say anything more?
-he takes pictures of his anatomy and then gives them out to people as if it was a business card: lack of self-respect, confidence, morality, dignity
-he is going to Mexico, plans of visiting nude beaches: just an all around bad idea because no good will come of it
-is an alcoholic: he even admitted to it [cont’d in next dash]
-his parents, father for sure, have/had drinking problems: has he come to terms with that, no one knows
-is turning 21, can now legally get shit faced: drunk in bars, leads to drunk in cars, leads to death or being behind bars. Not to mention his judgment on who he goes home with will be impaired and that is extremely dangerous. He’s going to get killed or hurt or catch something unimaginable.
-his memory doesn’t work properly: whether by choice of him or by choice of his brain, it needs to be talked about and worked on
-he has a deadly obsession/unhealthy sexual relationship with “jawline man”: this is bad on all sorts of levels, distraction, drama, maliciousness. It’s got it all
-is willing to do way too much with complete strangers and doesn’t see the danger in that: I think this one also speaks for itself
-he lies, deceives, gossips, starts rumors, creates messes, begins drama, is two faced: it’s all a defense mechanism.


"Looking in the mirror staring back at me isn't so much a face as the expression of a predicament." -George Falconer

Dive In

So, I haven't put up anything in a while. I try to do at least one a week, but a lot has happened. I wrote about four columns in my head, but never had a chance to put them down. I kept the whole concept of "diving in" and leaping without looking, not being afraid to just jump in, to not test the water but just dive in and experience it. I had this concept in my head a lot these past several days. Diving into financial uncertainty by quitting my job. Diving into dumpsters to get tons of free food. Diving into the lake and swimming out until I was exhausted. Diving into a road trip to my parents place. Diving into a future where I'm not so obsessed with money. Diving into uncertainty. And now, after these last few hours, I have no water to dive into anymore. The water to the house I rent has been turned off. Apparently a pipe has cracked, and from what I have gathered, it won't be an easy fix. And this happens during the time of summer where you wake up covered in a film of sweat, and that's before you even move or attempt to leave the bed. The phrase "bad timing" does not begin to capture the moment. It's one thing to be sweating constantly, it's completely different to know there is no cold shower waiting for you. Not even a chance to stick your head under the faucet. All signs point to diving into balmy unpleasantness. I'd much prefer diving into cool wonderfulness. I had such vitality after I quit my job, such energy and hope. I thought I would feel more free, less chained. Less restricted. Not so captured. But it's not really happening. I still worry about paying bills, staying out of debt and keeping it all held together. Between the extended weekend and my parents house, the heatwave, the broken pipe I haven't got any solid leads on a new job yet. It hasn't hit "danger zone" area just yet, but everyday is a day without money coming in. Since I don't have to leave the house really, I was intent on getting back into my work out groove. It had been thrown off due to the holiday and post quitting food binges. And now that I can't shower afterward, not to mention it being balls hot all friggin day long, I have no way to work out. I can't get in full fledged work out mode, and then not be able to shower. That is a sweaty mess no one needs to lay eyes on. So all my gusto for diving into a new direction of my life has kind of been defeated. That tide has gone out. Now the waves of anxiousness and uncertainty are hitting me again, threatening to pull me under. Once again, I'm just trying to keep my head above the water. On a side note, the other day when I was in the lake, it was the most free I'd felt in ages. Being out there in such a huge, encompassing body of water, treading water as the waves lapped over me. Staring out and not seeing an end, feeling vulnerable and powerful all at once. Taking in the force around me, but being weary of it at the same time. It was wonderful....

You see, the funny thing about diving, is it's a lot like falling. But diving is supposed to be more graceful, more intentional, have more meaning and poetic significance. But it can still just be painful flop. A giant splat. The only difference between a splat and a splash is two letters. That is a very small amount of room to error.


"...diving is itself a hazardous sport. To do it without any training is tantamount to playing Russian roulette with a loaded revolver..." -Robert F. Burgess

Used And Dirtied

There is a used book store next to the place I work at. I have gone in there only two times prior to this past Saturday night. It's kind of a shitty little place, to be frank. It's not like one of those little places that are lined wall to wall ceiling to floor with old paperbacks and tomes, this one is more like a empty store lot that happens to have tables with books on them. I'm only ever at the mall I work at to work, I don't browse around. I don't have the money to browse. And I have slowly become to hate the process known as shopping. Especially because now a days it's considered a sport or a spectacle, thanks to reality television. Another reason to ban that friggin crap from the airwaves. The first time I went in there it was just to see what it was, just to know what was next door. The second time I was killing a long lunch break, and ended up buying three books. One was a cookbook, another was a novel, and the last was a fantastic photo book that is best described as "yummy". I ended up in there again trying to get through a lunch break, and happened to notice the guy working. He was good looking. Clean cut, maybe a little too much for my liking, but still he wore it well. Good teeth, smart skin. And the kind of eye color that is a dangerous weakness to me. It's like kryptonite to me. From the first guy I kissed, to the most recent, I've always paid attention to eye color. And this book store boy had that color. He was a catch from beginning to end, all his chapters looked good. He read well. Alright, no more metaphors. So on my lunch break I didn't do anything but stare and research. Then I went back to work. And made up my mind that on my last fifteen I would go and talk to him. Which is a huge thing because I never approach first. I'm not being conceited, and I'm not the boy that everyone rushes to talk to, I'm just really terrible at knowing when someone is interested. OR even gay. So me telling myself that my fifteen minute was going to consist of speaking with the clean cut book boy, was an out of the ordinary big thing. So I walked back in, spotted him in the art history section, and made my way to cooking section parallel to where he was standing. It took him about ten seconds to walk over and say hello. I then made a comment about working there getting boring due to the lack of customers. He replied with saying he had a stack of books to read at the cash counter. I asked what he was reading. The whole time he was making direct eye contact and smiling and running his hands up and down his arms. I thought I was having a bright and shiny moment. But then he goes and tells me about the book he's reading, something having to do with learning about being a better boyfriend and something else. After I realized I was making a complete dick of myself I sort of blacked out and had the strong urge to slit my wrists with the paperback cook book I was holding in my hands. I think I cut him off and said I had to get back before my break was over. Cut to me in the bathroom swearing and cursing into the sink. Completely wishing I could be washed down the drain along with the other dirt and dust mites. That was the turd on top of the mud pie for me. This week has kicked my dirt covered ass. I've been interviewing at other jobs to try and get a second income going, and I'm remembering how gross an experience that is. Having to whore yourself and explain to utter strangers why you are awesome and wonderful and talented. Making everything sound so much better then it really is, trying to appear shiny and new when, in truth, you're used and dirtied up. I even had an interview at my current job for a promotion, and that too felt like I was prostituting myself out. Saying what I needed to just to make that dollar. Making sure all my mud spots were covered up. It just made me feel dirty, and not in a music video kind of way. I'm talking about feeling covered in grease and dirt and grime and guck. I don't think guck is a real word. But you get the picture I'm painting. And I'm not even going to get into the concept of me being a scruffy, beat up looking set of ribs who has fatal tendencies of falling for and/or always wanting the clean cut ones. That mix just never works out the right way. Because it goes one of two ways. Either they want to cut it short before they get too dirtied up, or I feel bad about getting them muddy and call it off. Guys don't like messy relationships. They don't care if they leave their shit scattered around the house, or their room or their car or the kitchen, but they try to keep themselves stain free. And my Dove (for Men!) body wash can only take care of so many problems. Both ways end up with me lucking out. I keep feeling like I belong on the shelf or the table top with the other used goods ,covered in dust, and not with the clean cut boy who works in the store. Is there a used boyfriends store? I wouldn't mind laying on a table and taking a little nap. That seems a lot more realistic then having someone great and wonderful come into my life again and clean me up, and not mind that I'm used and dirty, and hold me close without being worried about stains. I don't see that happening.

“A person might be an expert in any field of knowledge or a master of many material skills and accomplishments. But without inner cleanliness his brain is a desert waste.” -Sri Sathya Baba

Casted Hero

When I was younger I did a lot of crazy shit. Most of which was fueled by comic books and hormones. My eagerness to see the world, coupled with the fact that I had a loose grasp on reality, lead me to do some brazen and impulsive things. It is safe to say I spent my free time in very unique ways. I often found myself left at the house alone. And since I was never socially overbooked, or that eager to do what the majority of the people my age were doing, I made my own fun. Which was usually inspired my comic books or super hero mentality. For example, stringing stuffed brown paper bags across the garage ceiling and then acting out fight scenes with cutting knifes from the kitchen drawers, a la that scene from Daredevil where Elektra pretty much does the same thing. I got really good at handling blades, and hiding the mistakes incurred during practice. It’s been awhile, but I still have those skills. Somewhere inside me. Another example is rooftops. I was kinda doing parkour before it became a big thing. If I was the only one home, and it was dark outside, I would find ways to scale the house and enter through windows. Walking along the roof ledge, jumping from one landing to another, jumping to the front yard or backyard. My favorite time for doing this was when there was a full moon, because then the rooftop was lit up and there were shadows everywhere, and it was like being in a Batman comic book. I would slink across the rooftop a la Gotham’s finest. Inspired my both the Bat and the Cat. Still don’t really know how I never broke an ankle or a knee. Or an entire leg. Like I said, I was young. Once I snuck to my dad’s jobsite. And played on all the half built buildings. It was like a super hero training ground. Another time, I went Cat and toilet papered a classmates house. He was having a party, and I wasn’t invited. So, I had the house to myself, and was hopped up on comic books, so I had a little fun. I dressed in black, constructed a mask for myself, slipped on some black gloves and pulled on my boots. I threaded a black belt through the toilet paper rolls so they were around my waist a la utility belt. That way I could run and not have to worry about carrying them. So I ran over to his house, did my mission, and then sprinted home. When I got back, I walked past a full length mirror and paused. I looked fantastic. Head to toe dressed in black, from cat eared cowl to ass kicking boots. The only color was the silver shine from the belt buckle. I would have made Bob Kane proud. So yeh, like I said, I had unique past times. Going running wasn’t just an exercise to me, it was an exercise in crime fighting. Out running the police and/or running to catch up to the criminal. Using the punching bag wasn’t just a work out, it was working out the information I needed from the captured villain. Comic books were like training manuals to me, not just literature or leisure reading. I studied them harder then I studied my math books. I’m still a little jaded about not having been recruited by some agency, team, covenant or vigilante by now. Never got a call from Professor Xavier. Never received an email from Nick Fury. Was never approached by Bruce Wayne. And, worst of all, reality has set in. Now my comic books just sit in a drawer collecting dust. No more adventures, no more missions, no more DC or Marvel inspired fun. Just bills. The closest thing these days is all the comic book movies that are being churned out like candy from a Pez dispenser. One right after the other. Since I was a fan and a loyal follower long before it was the cool thing to do, I always have fun thinking about who should play what part. What character. What persona. What entity. Because comic book characters aren’t just fiction to some of us, for some people they are like distant relatives. The ones you only see at reunions and weddings, but don’t know well enough to just start a conversation with. I have a cousin on my ma’s side like this. Jason. He sort of just exuded cool and comic book heroicness. Anyways. So I have some casting suggestions, some are recasts. But if I ruled the movie world, this is how I’d want it to be:




Mary Louise Parker for Catwoman




Demi Moore for Wonder Woman




Julianne Moore for Poison Ivy




Matthew Bomer for Nightwing




Ellen Pompeo for Batgirl





Jim Caviezel for Batman

Yeh, they're older actors. Yeh, they aren't young, hip, twenty somethings. But Gotham City is not represented by young, immature, babies. Crime fighters, heroes, villains are all older. Mary Louise Parker would be great as Selina Kyle and due justice to the role. Demi Moore looks like a modern day Wonder Woman and is the only real choice in my opinion. Ellen Pompeo would be a good for the supporting role of Batgirl. Julianne Moore looks like she was made for Poison Ivy. Matthew Bomer has the sly look to be Nightwing, but is still serious and dark. And I never liked Christian Bale as Batman. He doesn't make a good Bruce Wayne, he doesn't look the part and his growling voice for Batman is just ridiculous. Jim would make a better fit. Bruce Wayne is old, and beaten up by the city. But still dead sexy and dishy. Jim looks like that; weathered but still handsome. So yeh. That's what I think. And I will go to my grave with the truth about how long it took me to put this post together.

Animal Summer

I've heard the expression "the dog days of summer" before, but I am really beginning to understand them now. It's a couple of weeks into summer weather, and a few weeks into my broke living habits, and I am starting to understand just what it's like to be a dog hung up on a hot summer day. Kept up in doors, not able to go any farther then the backyard. Lying around the house, panting and wanting to play. Sweating it out, with my tongue hanging out. Tethered to the house, not wanting to get in trouble, but just wanting to get into some fun. Only able to bark out instead of getting to go out. The dogs days of summer are what it's like when my brain reverts to thinking like a puppy, just wanting to play and enjoy life. Then, at other times, I'm reminded that everybody wants to be a cat. Because the cat's the only cat, that knows where its at. And it's fairly accurate. Lounging around the house, not bothered with anything trivial, or really anything at all. People watching through the window. Then warming myself in a sun bath. Grooming. Watching. Taking it all in without getting worked up or envious of action. Just keeping to myself and working on being purfect, while being up to my whiskers in money free activities. Adopting a feline state of mind helps me out when I'm beginning to feel caged in. Acting like a kitten keeps me from raging like a tiger. But on certain days, I don't feel very domestic, and I feel like the streets and sidewalks are holding me hostage. This is when I wish I could flush myself down the drain and end up in the ocean. Completely free to swim and make bubbles. I'd be as happy as a dolphin and as carefree as a clown fish. Only having to worry about getting caught up by a bird. It would be just as freeing to fly away, as it would be to swim away. Often times I have to resort to the cleverness of a bird, especially the ones that are caged. They always find ways to keep themselves occupied, with their wit and songs. Singing to themselves while they are perched, content as the world passes them by. I'm surprised they don't molt more often, because sometimes perching and singing is all that keeps me from pulling my own feathers out. So for the time being I'm alright with stalking and prowling around the house, keeping myself entertained and distracted. Whether by ball of string or the next best thing. But sooner or later my creativity will run out, so let's hope by then I've got more money coming in. The rest of this summer is going to be an interesting one. A tiger can only count his stripes so many times, before he has to find someone else to count them for him.

“From the oyster to the eagle, from the swine to the tiger, all animals are to be found in men and each of them exists in some man, sometimes several at the time. Animals are nothing but the portrayal of our virtues and vices made manifest to our eyes, the visible reflections of our souls. God displays them to us to give us food for thought." -V. Hugo

Money (Men) $igns

I hesitated using the dollar sign because of what Ke$ha has done to it. She doesn't even sing songs about making money. Or working. Or being productive at life at all. So why does she get to steal the dollar sign? I should incorporate it into my name. I'm working and hustling all the friggin time. I'm barely holding it down, maybe the trick is to put the money into your name; if you build it, they will come. I don't have an "s" in either my first or last name. But I could do something like, €rant. That kinda looks like my name still. Sort of. Whatever, I'm not here to start spelling my name a different a way. The point is, I'm hung up on dollar signs these days. And the fact that the amount of money that I'm being asked to put out, keeps getting larger as the amount of money I'm putting in remains the same. I know to some this is a dilemma that they have been dealing with for years and decades, but it's a new found worry wort to me. Thank goodness all my acne is fictional and worry induced, because if worry wort's showed up like red dots I would be looking like a chicken pox epidemic. I have been getting almost forty hours a week at the job I have, but I am trying to secure some other kind of income too. That way I'll have more spare change. I've already sat myself down and had a long business meeting, with myself, to explain to myself that there will be no money this summer. Or rather, that all my money is not really at home with me. I'm more like a waiting room for it. It gets to sit and read year old magazines before being called to move on to bigger and nicer things. Bigger things like Ke$ha's cracked out, tangled mess of a hair do. I've tightened my budget so much I've even cut out men. Not that I had a packed social calendar, but I'm not even allowing the thought of fitting a man into my schedule, or my wallet, these days. I have literally begun to see men as dollar signs. Just a bunch of $$$'s walking around my mall or running in my neighborhood. And I keep telling myself, I can't cash that. I don't have the bank account, or the heart, to cash a check like that. Men aren't free and money doesn't grow on trees. Hard times in the economy mean hard times in my love life. Which means some hard things will have to be dealt with in new methods. Which is alright because it's free to work out in my basement. So if I'm stranded at home on FlatBroke Island, at least I'll get toned and jacked. Plus choosing my food carefully, and frugally, will also help with getting into even better shape. So I might be locking up my wallet, but I could be cashing in on a great new exercise program. And if preventing debt means cutting costs and men, then it'll teach me to appreciate what I have hit the lottery in. I'm wealthy in friendships and family, and rich in wit and creativity. I'm no number cruncher, but Wall Street isn't the only thing that dictates whether or not my stock rises. I'm going to try hard to make frugal look fantastic, and penniless into marvelous. Wi$h me luck!

“So you think that money is the root of all evil. Have you ever asked what is the root of all money?” -Ayn Rand

Mortal Kombat, Life Is

There's this sick new video on YouTube. It's about eight minutes long, and it's being called a short film version of what the new Mortal Kombat movie could be. It's the greatest thing I've seen in a long time. This is almost as good as Chris Evans being cast as Captain America. That's only better because Chris Evans is sex in human form. And the costume ideas are endless. Anyways. Back to Mortal Kombat. It's amazing to watch this short movie over and over again. It's so cool. And it looks like a great re-imagining of the movie franchise. Jeri Ryan as Sonja Blade is a great casting call. I'm sorta getting sick of seeing a bunch of big titted twenty something no ones get all the comic book roles. The characters is in the comic books are older, some of them would be considered "ancient" by Hollywood standards. It's smart that Jeri offered to shoot the short film. Her Twitter said it was as a favor to a friend, well I hope she sticks with it. I don't know the actor who is Jax, but he is also older. So I'm in favor of it. It just looks like a great more-realistic-less-fanciful update of the series. I loved the second movie, that came out about twelve years ago. It was a favorite of mine to watch when I was having, or at, a sleep over. It was so fun to watch it and then run around a backyard or a basement pretending to fight evil and kill bad guys. Naturally, I was inclined to emulate Sonja Blade rather then SubZero or Johnny Cage. But, not a super big surprise there. At least I wasn't wanting to be Kitana. Yikes. The guys always used brawn instead of brain, and Sonja knew how to throw a kick and do gymnastics. Plus she had some great one liners. I know how to throw a kick, do gymnastics, and give great one liners. But whatever, it was all child's play. But life is still sort of like that in a way. I'm not participating in a round tournament containing the most lethal and gruesome fighters the world has to offer, (not yet at least) but I am fighting for my life. Instead of make believe bad guys it's Student Loan Collectors. And I'm not kicking the butt of an invisible demon, I'm trying not to get my butt kicked by my bills. Which are very not invisible, but rather scattered around my room. So if Hollywood promises to do their best to not fuck up another comic book adaptation that I'm strongly looking forward too (i.e. Elektra, Fantastic Four and Catwoman), then I will promise to do my best to keep on top of my bills and loans. Because I'm sick of the bills saying "Get Over Here!", and I keep telling myself "Finish Him!".

ps- make Johnny Cage hot.


Jax: Trust me, Sonya!
Sonya Blade: I only trust one person, Jax, and you're talking to her.

On A Dirt Road

I've had this recurring notion, about myself and my behavior, that is unsettling and makes me furrow my brow. I'll be going about my business, whether at work or at the house or where ever, and then this tiny little question pops into my head: Do we become the people we date? It's not many words, but it contains many levels and a lot of weight. It's a heavy question. Probably about three clicks. The answer can go several ways. If you date someone who's nice and pleasant and charming, then those qualities rub off on to you. Even after you dump them, or they dump you, what they passed onto you is still there. Like behavioral herpes. Or personality chlamydia. After you get over hating them for breaking up with you, you still act like them in certain situations. Or say words that they use to say. Or even alter your clothes or shopping habits, maybe even the kinds of foods you eat; long after they are gone, the habits are still there. And it's not just little things, like cuffing up the sleeves on your t shirts, it could be big things. It could be things about politics or love or death or life or mindset or motive. Big things like DNR papers, the right to smoke up, the importance of tattoos, or the reasons for falling in love. People you date can change a lot more about you then how often you wear a hoodie, if you allow them they can change everything. And take everything. I was never a big candle person, I thought they were silly and useless, but then after dating a few candle lovers I find myself with seven half burnt candles. Now this is a minor example, candles are frivolous and usually not that expensive, but still, when did I become a candle person? When did I become a cat person? When did I become a smoker? When did I become so uptight? When did I become thirty years old? When did I become so hard and cold? When did I become an angry person? When did I become the kind of person who cheats? When did I become the kind of person who has an affair? When did this happen? When I was little, when I was younger, I never thought I would behave the way I do. The way I did. The way I have. The men I've dated. The men I've loved. The men who hurt me. They have all added and taken from me. The people you date, or love, they can mold and shape you. It's not clean cut, it's not black and white, it is not simple. You may leave their bed, but the tears their pillow hide come with you. You can have them stop the car, but their anger races after you. You can get up of their couch, but the cushion stays indented. You can avoid their favorite bar, but the building stays standing. You might not pet their cat anymore, but the fur stays on your clothes. You can put out the cigarette, but the flame burns on. You can kiss them goodbye, but their taste lingers. You can walk away, but you don't get to leave.

Sure, I've taken some jokes. Stolen some stories. Gained some comedic timing. Garnered some wisdom and patience. Permanently borrowed a pair of jeans. Found an affection for candles. Learned how to steal a dvd, how to french exhale, and how to drink wine. But there is so much that I never wanted to learn, never wanted to take with me. There is a lot I never wanted to know. I never wanted to do. And now that I fear I am becoming the men I use to date, all the ones who hurt and broke me, does that mean I'm just going to hurt and break my future romances? Does behaving like them mean I'll reach the same outcomes? How dangerous is following in their footsteps? We don't get to chose the dirt we step on, but we do get to decide how we walk. And right now, I'm standing on a dirt road wearing my hoodie and holding a candle, all alone. Damn the men I've loved and the ones I dated. How dare they make themselves appealing to me. How dare they teach me to walk, then walk away. Fuck this dirt road.



“I've been making a list of the things they don't teach you at school. They don't teach you how to love somebody. They don't teach you how to be famous. They don't teach you how to be rich or how to be poor. They don't teach you how to walk away from someone you don't love any longer. They don't teach you how to know what's going on in someone else's mind. They don't teach you what to say to someone who's dying. They don't teach you anything worth knowing.” -Neil Gaiman

I Don't Wanna Be Friends

I wish I didn't have the kind of past that made me the kind of boy that understands Bad Romance at maximum capacity. From the first time I heard it, until right now, it's been playing in my head. It was playing in my head before I first heard it, I just didn't have the words or know what it was. To me, it's more then a song, it's everything I never got to say. And everything I still don't. I can't decide if my not saying everything is keeping me from being institutionalized or recognized. Gaga said it, she said everything, and no one looks her over. But at the same time, there are those who would probably lock her up. So, self imposed prison or state enforced prison? We'll see where life's romance takes me.

{ I was going to post the lyrics, but you should just listen to it instead.}

Open Window

I've had the "new post" window open on my computer for about six hours. Maybe even longer. I woke up this morning, after having slept for twelve hours, determined to write a new post while accomplishing everything else on my to-do list. I didn't have to go into work today so I was ready to be productive and get stuff done. But I find myself dragging my feet today. It's been a minute since I've written because my time has been double booked, almost triple booked, so sitting down to write hasn't been high on my list of importance. The main thing taking up my strength and energy is moving into my new room. Same house, different room. Actually the original room I moved into. But then the guy who had it first came back, so I went to what was originally a study. But now original guy is gone, so I get it back. But this time I knew I'd be living in it for a while so I wanted it to look better. A lot better. So I scrubbed and painted the walls. Wiped and finished the wood ledge that outlines it. Swept the floor and corners. It took over a week because I was doing it all when getting home from work, so I wasn't moving my fastest. Finally yesterday, having touched up the last of my touch ups, I moved everything in. Organized all my shit, sorted my new closet, and sat at my new desk for the first time. I was going to write last night, but I couldn't even keep my eyes open. Along with my new room, I decided to finally give myself a new hair cut. It was beginning to look strange considering the blonde was outgrown and my roots were showing. It was also that terrible "in-between-lengths" look, where bed head just looks like unkempt. So that, combined with the finally arrived summer heat, prompted me to Chuck Liddell my hair. It's not a complete buzz over, it still has enough up there for the sake of character and balance. My ears look proportional still. So when I woke up this morning I was in my new room, with new cut and enjoying having my new windows open. The other room didn't have windows that could open, so I've been without for a very long time. Waking up in my new room, which is decorated in a fashion that would make even the most metropolitan of men jealous, was a great thing. It's a grown up room. With wood floors and color schemes. I done good. If I may say so myself. Having open windows is the best part. Having warm summer breezes glide in is a badass feeling that makes the heat and constant sweat worthwhile. And the constant sweat is a huge points loser. So the open window is worth mega points. It's a shame humans can't be like windows when it comes to being open. Because a room can still be stuffy if it's full of closed people but open windows. Things have gotten better at the house, but there are still a lot of closed topics and stale conversations that should be opened or freshen, respectively. And I've had opportunities too, to either open up things that I once thought closed or to let them remain the same. I'm still undecided as to how to go about it all. You know what you're going to get with a closed window. But with an open window there are variables, a lot of them. You could end up in a Rear Window kind of situation. And only Jimmy Stewart can make double leg casts sexy. The rest of us would just look bad. I'm not involved with any Hitchcock type of danger, for the time being, but I still can't seem to make up my mind. But I my stomach and computer have made it up for the time being. My stomach is making noises to remind me it's been empty all day, and my computer is making noises to remind me it's been on all day. Both of which are unhappy due to the said actions. So I should fill one up, and turn the other off.

Lisa: [Listening to the composer play his piano] Where does a man get inspiration to write a song like that? It's utterly beautiful. Wish I could be creative.
Jeff: Oh sweetie, you are. You have a great talent for creating difficult situations.

On Repeat/Preheat To Disaster

It hasn't even hit seventy degrees yet, and already this summer is getting overheated. The climate might be lagging, but the climate in my house is somewhere between sizzling and boiling over. I was worried about getting sunburned from staying outside for too long, now I'm worried about getting heat rash from staying inside for too long. Remember a couple weeks ago when I wrote letters to everyone, and two of those letters had to do with a housemate of mine and the girl who he is entangled with; well they started up again. And it's not a good thing. Because she's not a good thing. She might be three fourths evil and one fourth nasty, in my opinion. But now him and her are back together and she is back at the house, on the daily. And no one likes her, no one wants her around, and no one wants to speak to her. It's tricky for one of my other housemates because he's brother to the one repeating his mistakes, so he's caught in the middle of it all. Where does your allegiance fall when you have to decide between your brother and his tramp, and your girlfriend/one day wife? That's not a position I'm envious of at all. I'm slightly detached from it all, because it's plain and simple for me. She's a tramp! With a capital C. I've known about her all the way back in the day when I was still at my first college. Then she popped up on my radar again years later, and then she wrecked the heart of one of my boys. Sorry bitch, but unless you pay off my student loans, we will never "be cool" with one another. You hurt someone I love, you might as well move to penguin land, because Imma freeze you out of my life anyways. The thing that really pisses me off, is that the stupid bitch parades around the house like nothing ever happened. She should be so, so, SO embarrassed to even show her face around this house. She's a two faced slut, and we all know it. She should be quieter then a church mouse when she walks through the door. Instead she's saying "hello" and asking us "how we've been" and acting like life is sunshine and daisies. Wrong move bitch! Life is thunderstorms and poison ivy. Especially when it comes to you. Now I know what you're thinking: why aren't you mad at the housemate for repeating his mistakes? Well we are, or at least I am, but since I love him like a sibling, I can't freeze him out. I just feel a great, enormous amount of pain when I see him falling back to her. He's caught up in this, either by balls or brains, so all we can do is love on him and hope that he figures it out sooner rather then later. But as of right now, the battles lines aren't declared just yet, but the maps are being drawn up. This summer is going to be a hot one, a dangerous one, one full of burns, and I'm not even talking about the weather. Do they make SPF for friendships? Because my house is going to need some of that. Getting sunburn is going to be least of my concerns these next couple of months. I just can't shake the feeling that things are going to get heated, and quickly. And it's going to turn ugly. Oh dear. I'm getting all worked up. I need to preheat the oven and do some stress baking. My kitchen is going to look like a bakers counter if things keep the way they are. Haha. I guess we are creatures of repetition. Live, Stress, Bake, Repeat.

50% Off Heartache

I've had a lot of sorta big things that I've been trying to take care of this past week, and only one percent had gotten taken care of. My "to-do" list is on the rise, but my concentration is on the decline. The percentage of my brain that has been spent thinking about this whole New York situation is high, and it makes me very unproductive. But now that it's been a while since I've seen him, productivity is on the rise. I was down in Chicago these past two days, and it was necessary. Had a fun night out and then spent the following days with my parents. It was an early Mother's Day celebration. It was a lovely time. I enjoyed myself. And now I'm back up here and in the middle of doing some housework, and liking the fact that I'm getting stuff done. I'm planning all the appointments and errand running that needs to get done this coming week, I'm clipping coupons and shopping for the best deal. Making sure my dollar works for me, because I work for it. Found a great deal on getting new glasses and an eye exam. Clipped a coupon for getting my car worked on. Hunted down the best deals for groceries. I was never a coupon kind of guy before, but now I'm a compulsive clipper, of coupons. I wish I could get one for the coming heartache that I'm going to purchase when I inevitably tell New York that I can't see him anymore, in a friendly or romantic way. No ways, no ways can lead to New York. I can't be the "other man" for him, I won't be his bogo deal. You can't buy one and get me for free. I may clip coupons these days, but I won't cut out my morals or standards. Plus there is a brand new guy who is delicate and quiet and careful. When I'm around him I feel like a bull in a china shop, and I don't want to break him, because relationships are the one thing where "you break it, you buy it" doesn't apply. I don't want him to know about all my emotionally bad, romantically expensive purchases of the past. I want him to know me as a bargain hunter, someone who thinks before he purchases. Someone who isn't an impulse buyer. I don't have the purse strings or the heart strings to have relational shopping sprees. I want to start making investment purchases. Like what I'm doing for my bedroom; I'm redecorating it, but I'm filling it up with things that will last for a very long time. Things that I can take with me to my next place, and maybe even into my own house one day. One day far, far, far, far, far away. Like, post student loans far away. Very far away. Whatever. I'll be clipping coupons for many decades to come. That's for sure. Just like me walking away from New York is a for sure, or at least it should be a for sure. He's an impulse purchase I keep making over and over again, like shopping at Armani. The stuff there is really nice and super sexy, but it only lasts one season. This new guy, and what my trend should be for the future, is more like a wardrobe staple. Something that can last, something that you can wear for seasons and years to come. Something timeless. Maybe even something you got for half price on the clearance rack from Macy's. A smart purchase. That's what my life should be full of these days, smart purchases. Good deals and great bargains.

"Shopping for labels, shopping for love." -Fergie

Les Liaisons Dangereuses

I have become "the other man". There, I said it. But it's not so black and white as you might imagine. New York is exclusive, if that's what you can even call it, with a guy who lives in Texas. Who he has only seen in person about, at the most, five times in the past five years. New York stands by his claim that they are very close due to the letters and emails and video chats that they exchange, which is probably true; but when did a pen pal become the foundation for a personal relationship? You can't kiss an envelope. It just leads to paper cuts. And lets not even bring up where else you could get paper cuts if you decided to be exclusive with the post. Is licking the stamp considered foreplay to them? I don't understand it! Better yet, New York doesn't understand it! I've talked with him about it, both sober and non sober, and he has no real explanation for it. (you might be thinking why I would chose to bring up this topic with him, but that's what friends do; they talk about their relationships. plus, I need to know who my competition is) So New York says that they connect and agree on a lot of issues, which is great if you want to start a club or a political campaign. But how is that satisfying the emotional, physical and relational needs of a romantic entanglement? Plus New York is not moving down there anytime soon, he is weeks away from finishing is medical internship and had already been offered a position at the hospital, so he's not going anywhere. And this Texas Stamp Licker is in no position to come up here anytime soon. So it's not like they are even going to be able to be in the same room anytime soon. Which once again brings up the question of: how long before I state my case? Because I am fading fast. I can't lay in his bed and cuddle with his cats while he showers and puts his scrubs on and puts on the coffee and gets ready to go to work, all the while thinking to myself (yet again): this is lovely, this is how it should be. It's dangerous for me to think like that. It's painful. Extremely painful. I've gone running almost every night this week because I know if I try to go to sleep, sleep won't come. I'll be laying in bed staring at my ceiling, with this puzzled look stretched across my face, wondering how this all got so fucked up. How he got back into my life. How I allowed myself to fall back into him. To fall back into ****. I won't admit that yet. No way. No friggin way. I owned up to being "the other man", but I'm not admitting to falling back into **** with him. WAY too dangerous. I spend every second in my head trying to convince myself that he's not the same wonderful, delightful, intelligent goofy New York Cuddler that I fell in **** with years ago. But, he is. Actually he's even hotter then before. And even more put together. It's terrible. It doesn't help my situation at all. It's so dangerous. Allow me to be petty for a moment. This Texas Stamp Licker bitch, isn't even cute. He takes medication which causes him to break out in acne. Which doesn't mean no one should ever love him, I suffered with acne for years, I was on every drug the FDA approved and the one they didn't, I use to have to get blood drawn because I was part of a test group, I know his pain; so I'm not picking on him because his complexion is shit. I'm just saying that New York deserves comparable pairing. The Texas Stamp Licker deserves to find someone who will love him and enjoy him for who he is, but it doesn't need to be New York. And why should New York tie himself to a pimpled little boy who is miles away, when I'm the cute runner who lives seconds away and is hopelessly devoted to him. I'm not going to resort to Merteuil tactics, because in the movie that didn't work out so well, but I am going to remind New York, every chance I get, that I'm local, devoted, and wonderful. Plus, like I said, his hands are in the cookie jar right next to mine. Don't think I'm some kind of cookie monster in this scenario, New York likes to make cookies too; he's usually the one starting the recipe first. And we make such great cookies together. Really, no really!, we should be together. WE should be the exclusive part of this dangerous love triangle. I'm going to get fucked over, I just know it. I want to believe there is some chance that I might end up a winner, but that part of my brain/soul just doesn't exist anymore. That part of me has been killed off. I'm going to be left with no New York, and just a package of Oreo cookies. Which I will eat a lone.

"It's beyond my control." -Vicomte Sebastien de Valmont

One Way Ticket

These days it seems like each time I walk in my front door a housemate is either stepping out, moving out, or leaving on a jet plane. While I on the other hand feel like I'm deserted on a barren island that strangely resembles my city block. But with everyone around me vacationing, or leaving entirely, I have had some extra social time to find my love passport and start getting some new stamps in it. But dating, just like traveling, can be exhausting and more tiresome then originally recognized. Both are always romanticized into being great and luxurious, like a 1950's American Airlines advert where all the men wear tailored suits and all the women look like Grace Kelley. Damn, was that a lie. The reality is, dating is a lot more dangerous then flying. I'd take grouchy security guards with their beeping wands over talking to a stranger at the bar any day. Every time we decide to go out on a date, or agree to get a drink with someone, or ask someone out for dinner we are buying a one way, non-refundable, ticket to a destination we aren't aware of. Dating, or seeing someone, is like an impromptu flight purchase without the free peanuts. Or the hot towels. The idea is so risky and crazy and absurd; wanting to get closer to a complete stranger. It's comparable to blasting ourselves into the friendly skies and hoping we won't fall out of them. We fly all over the place, with our love passports in hand, hoping that the destination we reach is love. Or romance. Or good sex. But dating doesn't come with a parachute underneath your seat, or an inflatable life preserver. Dating is either smooth sailing, or plummeting to the ground at an alarming rate while desperately trying to slip the oxygen mask over your mouth. A life of lonely, solo train rides is sometimes appealing. But there is too much about flying that we just can't give up. The excitement you get when making a ticket purchase, the fun of deciding what to pack and what to leave behind, that butterfly feeling in your stomach when you lift off. When it's a good flight, you feel amazing. You're thousands of feet above reality with your head in the clouds, and nothing bad can touch you. You're secure in the arms of your lover, enjoying the in-flight entertainment, only worried about how to recline your chair. Sometimes you touch down in an exotic and lovely destination, other times you simply disembark and go your seperate ways. And then sometimes you crash land in the middle of the ocean and fight to keep your head above water. The fact of the matter is, you're more likely to get killed in a car accident on the ground then die in the air....or something like that. I've been flying all over the place lately. Vacationing in New York. Having business lunches in Iowa. And I've recently started making day trips to California, and Michigan. Despite my frequent flyer romance miles, I can't help but still feel that I left my heart in New York. Or rather, with my New York Sweetheart. I was so jet lagged this past weekend my brain still doesn't know what time it is, and my heart hasn't found it's normal rhythm yet either. I guess, for the time being, New York is more like a travel companion; because our destination keeps changing and becoming something new and something else. I can barely keep up, or afford the tickets. And since I can't rely on New York, I've been booking other flights left and right, trying to put emotional miles between me and the big apple of my heart. But, just like that fucking song says: I wanna be a part of it, New York. New York! I think I view New York as first class seat material, but in his book I'm just business class. Obviously, because of his "special someone" who he says is his copilot. But my passport has had "NY" stamped all over it recently, and I wasn't even booking the flights. Sometime soon I need to analyze my flight patterns, but for the time being I'm too jet lagged to think. Plus, New York is so hot in the summer. If you catch my drift. So, we continue to clutch our carry on bags to our chests hoping that the next ticket purchase will be our last. Not because we go down in a fiery ball of melted fuselage, but because we finally reach a destination that is worth throwing out our love passport for. Until then, enjoy the free peanuts.

"Hold me like you'll never let me go, cause I'm leaving on a jet plane." -J. Denver

New York Boys

(horn intro)

Who wants a boy who acts like New York?
They're always so busy,
It's kind of a pity.
Just like wine, make you tipsy

New York boys are so dangerous
Little monsters you just can't trust.
Slight of hand and quick of tongue
One kiss, two kiss and then they're done

Who wants a boy who acts like New York?
They're always so loud,
So full and so proud.
Just like cabs, knock you down.

New York boys are so notorious
Headlines have always warned us.
Forget your wallet and guard your heart,
You'll fall for them before it starts.

Who wants a boy who acts like New York?
They've all got vagabond shoes.
Pretty words that give you the blues.
Bedroom eyes to match their tattoos.

(horn solo)

Start spreading the news, I'm leaving today.
Who wants a boy who acts like New York, New York
Can't handle these boys, So I can not stay.
I can't be a part of it no more, no more.

Who wants a boy who acts like New York?
They’ve got no real rhymes,
And they lack all reasons.
Like fashion, it all changes by seasons.

(horn outro)


“Men are all alike--except the one you've met who's different.” -Mae West

DOMS

DOMS- delayed onset muscle soreness. Or, in my case, delayed onset mental stress. The last 48 hours have been all kinds of painful. Got a call saying my dad is in the ER. Went back to working normal shifts because third shift days are over. Got a letter of rejection, pretty much a "dear john letter", from Macys. Oh! Wait! It gets better. Was told by New York that he has a special someone, and that his intentions with me (YET AGAIN!) are strictly platonic, for the time being. Well thank cheesecake it's only for the time being...whatashmuck!...since I only have one remaining martini glass I decided not to throw it across the room like the fated glasses that went before it. Since I'm done with smoking the anger away, I refused to buy a pack. And since I don't have a special someone to have an angry make out session with. I went running. At two in the morning. For a very, very, very long time. So today I'm feeling some hardcore DOMS, but since I'm still feeling some hardcorse DOMS, I'm lacing up my gymshoes and charging the iPod for round two. Funny how DOMS leads to DOMS. OH! And it's really funny how relationships lead to bad romances. Which, in turn, lead to good remixes which give way to great playlists. DOMS ain't got nuthin on me!

“Run like hell and get the agony over with.” -Clarnece DeMar

Dear Fill In The Blank

It's been a minute since I've updated this, that's because I was super sick and super busy. But when you're laying in bed/couch for the majority of the day you get creative and write fictional letters to people you may or may not know. Or, at least, that's what I do.

Dear Luke Cunningham Wilson,
What the f**k happened? Sweetie, you were once one of the hottest leading men in Hollywood. You were cute and quirky and had great arms and soulful eyes. Now you have more then one chin and television commercials about telephone lines. It breaks my heart big guy. Literally, big guy, you need to hire a personal trainer (me!) and get back into decent shape. Old School shape, you were so hot in that movie. Remember that you were once chosen to date and mesmerize an Angel. An Angel who belonged to Charlie, obviously you were once holding it down. We miss you. It makes us very sad that you are in phone commercials. You had a prime shot at being Wilson Brother number one when Owen went all suicidal, and you blew it. You were nowhere to be found to reclaim the throne as hottest Wilson Brother around. Chances are you were wearing a different crown, possibly the ones handed out at Burger King. I'm not saying, I'm just saying. Please come back to us, less husky and more hunky. IMDB tells me that you are about to be in a show on HBO, that's a good start. Plus I hear that their studios have excellent work out facilities. I'm not saying, I'm just saying.

PS- I'd totally still date you, no worries.


Dear Perez Hilton,
STOP! Just stop. Everything. Stop everything you are involved in. Everything your name is on. Just stop existing. You suck. You're fat. You're ugly. And you are very, very, very mean. You picked a fight with the Black Eyed Peas. THE Black Eyed Peas. Apparently you're supposed to be up to date on mainstream trends, well sweetheart, they are a BIG FRIGGIN DEAL. And you were stupid enough to start shit with them?! Dumbass. Plus they hood, they'll cut you. Cuz yous a bitch. And when they did try to talk to you, you cried like an overfed baby on your Vlog for like forty minutes. Just stop. Will.i.am, call me if you want me to finish the job you started, I'd be more then happy to shut that faux hawked, over weight, under talented, loud mouthed chicken head up!


Dear Housemates,
I'm no longer working third shift, hazah! I'm more then ready to start seeing you all again and having fun and making more good memories. Sorry if I was a complete ass these past couple of months. But you guys are some loud, obnoxious idiots. But I love you all. So let's start partying....as soon as your summer begins.

PS- we need a new couch, the duct tape is melting.


Dear Weather,
I find it quite charming that you have decided to be sunny and pleasant now that I am done with third shift and almost back to one hundred percent healthy. That's so sweet of you. Thank you so much. Loves you.


Dear Macy's,
Pick me. Chose me. Love me. Hire me. That is all.


Dear Lady Gaga,
Love you!


Dear New York Sweetheart,
Don't blow this. I like you a lot and we get along great. Don't be stupid, and I'll try my best to do the same.


Dear Bitch-Who-Keeps-Messin-With-My-Housemates-Head-Even-Though-He's-Partly-To-Blame,
Bitch you better hope that we ain't ever in the same room, cuz Ima let you know how nasty and trashy and slutty you is in all kinds of verbal ways. Sure the poor dude keeps calling you but you know what you doin, and he's just lovesick. Sure I can't touch ya, but I got girls who'll tear you up like a RotoRooter, bitch. Come round here again and see what happens! Wooden spoons will fly. Shit!


Dear Housemate-Who-Is-Partly-To-Blame,
How many times must we hit ourselves in the head with the hammer before we realize it hurts? Seriously man, it's kind of breaking our hearts, Luke Wilson style, to see you do this...again! WE love you and will take care of you, stop turning to those silly bitches. They bad news. They monsters. Take some time and figure you out. I'm here for you if you need anything. You should already know that but I'll say it again anyways. Hugs.

Dear Older-Dude-Who-Is-Now-Part-Of-My-Friends-Circle-Of-Friends,
You mess up one more time, one more time, and Ima be on you like Tina Fey on joke: perfectly timed, perfectly delivered, and kind of out of nowhere. I already told you to watch your step, you are now friends with one of the girls I care most about in the world, so you mess up anything, I don't care if it's a blade of grass in their front yard, Ima kill you. Kill you dead. I will break your yoga performing, big bird legged body into pieces.


Dear Tina Fey,
You are hilarious, keep up the good work. I will try to see "Date Night" as soon as I have money and/or a date to go with.

PS-although if you skip out on returning to SNL when Betty White hosts....that's a bitch move Fey.


Dear Betty White,
PLEASE NEVER DIE! The world needs you too much for you to go to heaven anytime within the next several decades. I'm totally overjoyed by the fact that you are going to be doing a special Mother's Day SNL program. You are charming and delightful and sassy. I have seen every episode of Golden Girls and think you are perfect. You are what everyone wants for a Grandma. Continue to make the world laugh and please, please, please continue to keep on living. Like I said before, I'd be more then happy to kill and harvest the organs from young, undeserving, untalented starlets. Seriously, say the word and me and will.i.am will get the job done. I love you, and St. Olaf.


Dear Megan Fox,
You are rumored to be the next Catwoman...if this ends up being true be prepared to die. It's nothing personal, it's just that you are a shit actress and have absolutely no business coming anywhere near a role or movie franchise of that caliber. Can you even spell "caliber"? Can you pronounce it? You and your fun jugs better stay the hell away from that movie and Christian Bale. And Brian Austin Green! Obviously you put roofies in his bedtime milk, otherwise we would have dropped your skanky ass a minute ago. Stick to what you do so well: Maxim centerfolds and wet t-shirt contests.

PS- if Betty does want organs, I'm coming for you first. and it will be personal then.


Dear Michelle Pfeiffer,
They say that they want a Catwoman in her twilight years. An older leading lady in a major super hero franchise?!! When does this happen?! When?! NEVER!! That's when!! Get on the ball Pfeiffer, the big ball of yarn. Make this happen. No one does Selina Kyle like you, and no one ever will.


Dear Nivea For Men Company,
If you ever, EVER, stop making products that I use I will sue you for defamation of character so fast your head will spin around like the Exorcist. You're just a plane ride away...remember that.


Dear Sex And The City 2,
If you suck, I will be totally pissed off. Liking, watching, quoting and obsessing over the show, your predecessor and you is one of the gayest things about me. So don't blow this! Other wise you will be beaten by the heel of Manolo Blahniks all over the world.


Dear Summer,
Please do not suck. I only ask for at least one trip to a theme park with grade A roller coasters, countless bbq's, several all nighters, and all the memories my tiny brain can handle.

PS-please don't bankrupt me, I'll do my part you do yours. Capisca!


Dear Parents,
Congratulations on still being married! Today is your anniversary. That is a huge achievement and you both should be very proud. May you have a thousand more. Love yous!

PS- thank you for the flu care package you mailed to me, and the Oreos!


Dear Rachel McAdams,
The competition to see who will fill the leading lady shoes soon to be vacated by Madame Supreme Julia Roberts is on! And it seems to be between you and Annie/Ann/Any Hathaway person. Please don't let her win. I like you much more. I'm willing to overlook the fact that you are Canadian, because that other chic is slowly trying to become the next Judy Garland. You're not that great anyway, Hathaway! Plus you were in Mean Girls AND Sherlock Holmes AND The Family Stone so you are golden in my book. Plus you were in The Notebook, which I am refusing to watch until I find the right person, but everyone says it's amazing. So, yeh, don't let that Anny Garlandaway floozy take the lead. You go you beautiful Canuk!


Dear No Doubt,
I don't want to rush the genius, but feel free (no really, anytime now) to drop another single and/or set a date for the next album. I can only hold my breath for so long.


Dear Jennifer Garner,
Remember when you were on ALIAS? Yeh, good times. I love what you've been doing lately, but feel free to go back to your ass kicking ways. I miss that about you. And you have great hair. And a great smile. Keep Ben in line.

PS- i'm totally open to the idea of there being a Daredevil sequel. get on it.


Dear Best Friend,
Damn I F**king miss you! Sorry we didn't get to hang out over Easter. And now that I was sick I'm not sure when/if I'll get down to visit you. But I think about you everyday and miss you in a way not measurable by mankind. When we do hang out next, it will be EPIC! In a way that is also not measurable by mankind. I love you!


Dear Future Children,
The world is a wonderful and frightening place. But it's going to be so much fun having you around.


Dear Me,
Try not to get the flu again anytime soon. That sucked. And try to make the most of the situations you are in. And lighten up on the whole "new decade, new list of rules to follow" thing. You can wear color, it's ok. Probably a good thing. Stick with the money rule, the no meat rule, the third date rule and the working out rule. Those need to stay. But restrictions make it harder to smile and find the fun. And with the situations you get into, you need to have an easily accessible smile. Heart hug.


and finally

Dear Jude Law, Chris Evans, Tyson Ritter, Hugh Dancy, and Chris Pine,
I'm breaking up, with all of you! I know it's hard, and out of the blue. But I just can't be with you like this anymore. I need to focus on those around. It's not you, it's me. You can all dry your eyes with twenty dollar bills, you'll live.


Love,

me