Archive for July, 2008
that’s what people do in tragedies. they come over and sit
(Quote above from Lars and the Real Girl, one of the best movies I’ve seen in such a long time. The writing and acting were both just absolutely amazing, and both at levels to which I someday aspire to reach).
Living alone this summer has taught me a lot of things about being a real live grown up. But more than any of the lessons I’ve learned about managing money and conserving energy, I’ve learned the real lesson of living on your own: When you have major emotional breakdowns, there is no one there to pick up the pieces.
So in the absence of mentally stable individuals to talk you down off the proverbial ledge, I had to find other ways of calming down my very neurotic psyche down. And in true sociopath fashion, I have begun the process of meticulously cleaning my apartment.
On the upside of this, not only is it crazy, but it’s also practical! I’m moving out of this stucco hell in a few weeks, and what better way to soothe the wayward neurons firing off in my brain then scrubbing down every single wall surface in this apartment! For several hours! With Bleach.
So now I’m not only stressed out about money, London and my teeth, but I smell like bleach and lysol. Whoopie!
But the walls are shining, and I just finished the wiping down the fridge! Yes. Yes I did.
If I don’t get out of here soon, I’m lay down several layers of tarp and splattering my brains all over the apartment.
the turtle: nature’s D student.
My feet have been cold all day long, and I just don’t know what to do about it.
Today was the first day I’ve spent all summer recovering from the aftermath of a night of boozing, drugging, and failed attempts to hook-up. All three require at least twelve hours of lounging time in order to either forget, or accept whatever happened the night before.
As I get older I get better and better at not making a fool of myself at functions such as the one last night; an arguably mild soiree made up of former Millikin students, Decatur townies, and the people I usually see in the basements of parties I attend during the school year. I was not one to turn down a party invite though, seeing as how the summers in Decatur tend to be more on the god-awful side of boring. So I slapped on my tightest jeans, and my dirtiest, non-descript t-shirt and headed over to the locale of that night’s festivities.
It was easy to sift through the odd mix of people that inhabited the party to find the ones that I actually wanted to talk to. Somewhere in the foggy mix of marijuana and cigarette smoke that clouded most of the party radius I found a few old friends and some odd acquaintances that I had always found pleasant in the past. Among the latter group was your typical, “atypical” geeky gay guy. Full of intellect and a somewhat patronizing demeanor, he was seemingly the only homosexual that was at the party. He was also the only homosexual that I had seen in Decatur since Chris left back in June. So needless to say, once I imbibed a few drinks, my hormones went wild and as subtly as I found possible at that moment I began the process of “working it.” Atypical gay and I have had several classes together in my four semesters at Millikin, and every other quarter or so I’ll find myself attracted to his slouchy demeanor and mix of mid-nineties-esque grunge clothes. He’s a really smart guy, and that’s something that’s hard to find in the gay community.
I’m not smooth. I’m not really that aggressive either. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and sometimes you just have to go for it. And that’s just what I did. Now Atypical gay isn’t exactly David Beckham, and I figure I have at least a fair chance of getting at least a good makeout session out of this. Perhaps it was the booze, or maybe it was the countless hours I’ve put in at the gym this summer, but I was feeling pretty good and decided that I had to look as good to him, as he (eventually) looked to me.
But as the night wore on, and my quest to garner some kind of physical contact became more important I actually began to talk to Atypical. The problem arises here when I begin to realize that he may be more than just some guy whose tongue I want down my throat. He really was that atypical gay guy that doesn’t necessarily fit into any of my loopy ideas on gay men.
Anyone who has been in even a slightly similar situation as I was in last night can relate to where I was. I had the power. I was the one who thought he could swing this situation in any one direction. But in the course of a few conversations and more than a little mary jane, the ball suddenly shifted over to his court. It happened so fast, I barely noticed it happened.
And then I was stuck. Genuinely intrigued by this guy, and no longer feeling quite as confident as I started out that evening, the plan was gone, and now I wasn’t exactly sure how to handle myself.
Fuck.
It was here that I turned to the one thing I knew could help me through such a rough situation. Beer. Lots, and lots of beer. Even while writing that last sentence, I feel a small twinge of incredulity at the direction I decided to steer the party bus. This was definitely not the best course of action, and only served to make me look like a bigger fool than I probably looked before when I thought I was in control. Looking a fool does not generally impress the Atypical gay. In fact, if last night is any indication, it generally repulses them.
So by the end of the night I found myself alone in my apartment, wondering why I can’t even get a guy with bad teeth to take me home. Someone should write a song about that.
After spending the majority of my day in bed, recovering from what I perceived to be yet another grossly embarrassing and sexually detrimental night, I realized that maybe that night had not been such a bad night after all. If anything else, I may have discovered something surprising about what really attracts me to a person. And maybe, just maybe, my own creative sensibilities fuel my own self-defecating attitude towards my drunken antics last night. I probably didn’t embarrass myself last night as openly as I now recall, and only on the odd chance that Atypical gay reads this blog will he realize that I was in fact flirting as fervently as I thought I was.
At this point, rejection only makes my life that much more colorful. This is, as many of you may have guessed, something that I have to repeatedly tell myself in order to maintain a healthy attitude about… Basically everything.
On a lighter note, gay friend of the week goes to Glen, on the new VH1 celebreality show Brooke Knows Best. While I find Brooke Hogan to be a vacuous waste of space, her show on the other hand is a fun little romp that should be enjoyed while doing multiple other things. The supporting cast of characters are the only thing about this show that makes it watchable. In the episode that I got through tonight, Glen gives Brooke the customary gay best friend pep talk as she cries in the bathroom.
“Why are you letting a boy ruin your fun?”
Any gay can probably attest to giving a similar speech at least once in their lifetime to a girl friend.
Props to you Glen. Props to you.
road to domesticated.
Here’s the thing. There’s nothing witty about this post, just a lot of me, talking about me, in an unwitty fashion. The unwitty fashion is really the only thing that differs from my normal posts.
So I really want to get another piercing before I leave across the pond, and I have several options. I’m already planning on getting another tattoo while I’m over there, but I think the piercing is something I’m going to get when I get home in August. Let’s discuss, shall we?
industrial
This one is probably in the frontrunning. While this look is good for some, I’m a bit nervous that it may make my already skinny head look even more awkward than it already appears. I’ve also heard that it’s one of the most painful piercing that you can get. Not that I’m afraid of pain.
eyebrow
eventually, it’ll be a gift from everyone.
I’m in the midst of a creative crisis.
I never want to write anything. Ever again.
bison, the other, other, other white meat.
I recite affirmations to myself every morning, and it still hasn’t done much to quell the onslaught of negative feelings I have about my body. My psyche just will not let me accept myself for the beautiful man that I am. I’ve always been fairly happy being a skinny asian boy, but now that I’m developing into a skinny asian man, something has clicked inside my head, and now i’ve found myself drinking heinous protein shakes and pondering my pecs every time I find myself shirtless around the apartment.
There are too many mirrors in this world.
Not to mention the constant flashing of the world’s idea of the perfect male form on my television screen whenever I flip on the boob tube. If US is so obese, why aren’t they showing more obese men on TV? Kevin James doesn’t count.
I’m not sure when I developed such a complex. I suppose in gay-years I’m hitting adolescence where suddenly I cease to be the logical young scholar that I came into college as, and become on par with your average thirteen year old girl who is still wearing that sports bra she grabbed off the Pennys bargain rack. I still contend that by college I should have pecs.
It seems petty to be so worried about my body when there is so much else going on. Disease, war and the coming presidential election- It distresses me that I’m so concerned whether or not my abs are rock hard, instead of the rising price of gas. Perhaps it will just be another passing obsession. Like when I was really in to europop.
I blame the amount of gay porn that I’ve been watching in the hours of boredom that I find myself intrenched in on a daily basis here in Decatur.
As a sidenote, the movie Teeth has only reaffirmed my aversion to the vagina. While I realize that most women do not possess a set of fangs on their clit, this movie serves as a cautionary tale for all those who have ever considered going near one.
It makes me want to go ew, ew, ew… Gross.
clam sauce with a side of wack
Well, I’m absolutely positive at this point that I am 100% homosexual. There wasn’t a whole lot of debate going on before this past weekend, but in somewhat of a drunken stupor Friday night I realized that I could never again be with a woman in a sexual context.
Hair. It’s all about the hair.
Not the kind that grows above the eyes, or the stuff between your legs. Think a little bit lower.
As I was conspicuously rubbing up against a bisexual that I recently met, I realized that there is nothing more pleasant than hairy legs. This isn’t like some kind of weird fetish that I find sexually arousing, but there is just something undeniably masculine about hairy legs that reinforces my attraction to the manliest of men.
There are a lot of other things I like about being gay, like my good taste in fashion and the skills in interior design, but being able to spoon with sasquatch is quite possibly the best fringe benefit I can think of right now.
you ever think about death?
This weekend was chock (chalk?) full of blog worthy anecdotes, I’m sure. However the words just ain’t flowin’ as easily as they usually do tonight.
It’s hard to encapsulate the feelings that can wash over you after realizing how just a simple touch can sometimes spark something inside of yourself that you forgotten about, especially in the long absence of such a touch.
No. Not an erection.
y’know. shrug shrug shrug.
I love being twenty. I love being in my twenties. There are many reasons to love (arguably) the “prime” of your life, but for me the best part about being twenty (henceforth I’ll just say “my twenties” as not to alienate the other twenty-somethings who are, y’know, twenty-two or twenty-five, because this all probably applies to them as well. Probably not the twenty-seven’s and up though), is the excuses.
Stealing a bit from a recent conversation I had with my parents about an upcoming trip I’m taking to visit friends in Wisconsin, they asked me where I was staying. While I had given it some thought, I decided that this detail wasn’t really that important, because I’d be spending most of the night awake and drunk. I realize this may sound reckless, and my parents thought so too, which is why they pressed me on the subject. Having no other answer, I simply replied “I don’t know. I’m twenty.” And with a quick shrug I solemnly changed the subject to Tony Snow.
Apparently this excuse was good enough to pacify them, because either they were so distracted by the death of the former press secretary, or the fact that I’m twenty was reason enough to do something irregular and fairly rash.
After giving it some thought, I realized that I’ve probably used this excuse for other reasons as well. Joel, why you can’t get impossibly inebriated for nine days in a row! I’m twenty. Ok.
It’s important to follow this declaration with a careless shrug. Otherwise the impact and the magnitude of what you’re saying may not impact the person you’re speaking to. Maybe they’re wondering why you haven’t eaten anything but Hardees and McDonalds for the past five days, or question the safety of bar hopping just hours after an invasive surgical procedure. Simply roll your eyes and shrug your shoulders and explain to them in some kind of blase tone, “i’m twenty.” All further disputes will be quelled.
Perhaps it’s because your twenties is the time when you have the bravado of a teenager with all the legal rights of an adult, or maybe it’s because everyone knows that your twenties is that time in your life when you do stupid, unhealthy, psychologically scarring shit and anyone who’s lived beyond them knows that it’s the only time you can get away with it all.
Maybe we’ll never know. All I know is that as long as I pay my rent, get my car payments in on time and don’t flunk out of college or get fired- I’ll live off of ovaltine and ramen, facebook until my eyes bleed, and drink way too much malt liquor for as long as I possibly can. Because dammit it all, I’m twenty.
Sha na na. Spell check recognizes none of those lyrics. Are they real words? Discuss.
I just deleted a post talking about how racist I am.
I deleted it probably because it revealed a little bit too much of how racist I really am. Call me a coward, but sometimes too much honesty may get a blogger lynched.
However I think something we all need to realize is that we all really are just a little bit racist.
From the mouths of puppets indeed.
squeak squeak squeak
I’m finding it difficult to sleep tonight. You see, there is something especially distracting about the rhythmic humping of my upstairs neighbor and his girlfriend, the frantic squeaking of their mattress, and the not-so-muffled grunts of what I suspect is the beefy lacrosse player that is one of four equally uncouth gentlemen that live above me. (this I find particularly distressing only when I’m trying to fall asleep).
While normally I might be able to ignore their carnal escapades, if not finding them at least somewhat noteworthy, tonight I find it nearly impossible to overlook. Not only is it noisy in the most unflattering and unentertaining way, it also sounds unenjoyable and painful. The kind of sex where two pelvis bones are banged together in what can only end in a trip to the emergency room, a child, or at least some light bruising. I can’t imagine that this is the type of sex that anyone is having fun engaging in. This is only emphasized now by the loud, groaning finish; the unmistakable sound of hurried, almost panicked text messaging; and the male partner’s declaration of “I promise it won’t always be that way” not once, not twice, but three times. Rather loudly from various rooms in the apartment. Apparently he felt the need to shout this from the kitchen, the living room before finally having the decency to speak it in a somewhat normal (but still quite audible) tone of voice back in the living room. Either that or his sexual partner is partially deaf. How I managed to hear all three declarations and she didn’t is beyond me.
This comes on the heels of my recent realization that this summer has been the longest period of time that I’ve lived on my own since my conception and birth. While I’ve lived beyond the walls of familial confinement for some time now, since entering college I’ve always found myself with a roommate at least half of the time. However this summer the lease is solely in the my name, along with all the uninspiring duties that a bachelor living on his own is faced with on a daily basis. What a hum-drum life I’ve lived these past six weeks. But despite the insipid nature of soy living, I find it incredibly comforting to find that it’s not all that bad, and that a life of solitude is something I am fully equipped to handle- when that kind of life is forced upon me. Personally I like to think that I’ll always have a roommate to come home to in some form or another. I enjoy playing the Thelma to someone else’s Louise, or probably more accurately, the Will to some unfortunate hag’s Grace. But I can just as easily see myself in a run down, rent controlled apartment, microwaving ramen for dinner all by my lonesome.
I just hope when that day comes, the walls will be a tad bit thicker.
