Omigawd
WANT!
Interesting Times
One of the local news stations reported on this tonight: A 93 year old woman was found dead in her home in Dallas, on the sofa, covered in a tarp. Her body was in an advanced state of decomposition and had been there from 6 months to a year. The broadcast reported more info than the link provides; apparently her utilities were still on, and her lawn was still regularly manicured.
Neighbors say they’ve seen the woman’s grandson and his friends frequent the house during the last year, and the victim’s mailman told the station that his suspicions were raised when he began delivering a lot of packages and strange mail for a 93 year old woman including magazines about electronics and video games.
It’s obvious what was going on, but I can’t stop imagining how this went down. “Dude, your dead grandma stinks. Let’s go to Starbucks.”
Oh my God. I am going to have a field day with this.
For a little perspective, I also read that a man in Austria held his daughter captive in a windowless cell with a soundproofed door and fathered 7 children with her, and one of them died at birth and he threw it in an incinerator.
Huzzah!
At Night We’re Painting Your Trash Gold
I’ve been on vacation since last Wednesday. It was fantastic. But, sadly, I was still kind of stressed over the aforementioned dose of quality that The Ex was waving over me. I’ll elaborate, but only a little: he got this great job he was all braggy about, and then the company promoted him within days to another position and he was adamant that they choose me as his replacement. He spent a couple of weeks trying to “sell” me to them, and they were interested. It would be conducive to the acquisition of quality for me because it has my interest, pays well and would afford me the time and money to get hot and go back to school.
I had a phone interview scheduled today with some out-of-staters. So I had all vacation to prepare. And by prepare, I mean stress out because I’m not really qualified on paper, but I’m wholly qualified in reality. I emailed The Ex last night from the hotel to tell him that, while on vacation, my phone took a trip to Fritzville and got stranded on the outskirts, but that I could still receive calls and that I didn’t have his number. (Both screens are non-functional and black.) I figured he should know. He replied this morning.
…Dallas/Fort Worth has been put on the backburner for now . . . possibly until 2009. However, Austin will go live this summer, and they would take a look at you as a candidate for Austin, too. I hate to break truly disappointing news, but it’s not a “no” it’s just a “not right this minute”. Truly a bummer, but again, it’s not “never”, just not right at this moment.
It’s not them, it’s me. It all sounded way too good to be true. I’d rather do Austin and I have expressed to them that I would gladly move there for it. But I know they’re interested in having someone far more familiar with each city to open up the branch. Like, a resident.
Back to my low-quality lifestyle and being, I guess.
And to top it off, I now have to get a new cell phone. Luckily my niece had an old one that I could use until I do that. Unluckily, here is what it looks like.
Oh well. If I’d known I only had bad news to come home to, I would’ve gotten far more fucked up during the vacation. I showed restraint. Although… I did kind of bond with this guy I met there last time. Hawwwwt. But straight and very hispanicky macho. We really got on well, though. He claimed me as his man. He gave me his email address. I’m not exactly sure what I’m going to say, or should say. I’m thinking… “Hey Antonio, thanks for the good time. I have to say the hilight of the whole vacation was Saturday at 3am when I was running around like a horse with you on my back and you were slapping my ass.”
It wouldn’t be a lie. Too bad we were slightly clothed. His girlfriend stole him from me. She was highly bitchy.
Oh, Sweet Jesus…
When it rains, it pours. I miss him, too (the one formerly known as Starbucks boy, not the one I picked up at my bank). He’s in San Francisco now, which is apparently where everyone is going. He has no idea I even care. I had it pretty bad for him off and on for a couple of years. I am starting to believe I am wholly incapable of having any kind of relationship at all with other gay men, romantic or otherwise. I have no gay friends at all (current company excluded). True, they do tend to move away from the area shortly after they meet me, but I’m not egotistical enough to blame myself for that.
Having said that, maybe good things are happening..? Someone is waving a heaping tablespoon of quality over my cup of tea and I’ll find out soon whether or not he’s going to stir it in. Isn’t that a ridiculous analogy? Can you stand it? There’s potential news which, if realized, would rapidly facilitate the becoming of my quality. Or at least the perception of my quality. And the side-splitting irony is that the person holding the spoon is The Ex.
He said, “maybe you suffered through knowing me in my younger awful days for a reason!” I said that was to be determined at a later date.
Like sands through the hourglass…
Touch My Body
Well that last post was stupid. I promise not ever to get remotely serious again. In fact, tonight I wear my sarcastic hat. Again.
I just read this article about how to be a quality gay man. Or at least how to be perceived as one, so that you can find others with whom to pair. There were ten things you simply must do, or be, etc. Apparently I’m three down with seven to go, and those three are arguable. I have a lot of work to do, not the least of which is going back to school to finish of a degree of some sort. Any will do, apparently, because it will reflect that I am educated, motivated, driven and career-oriented. This is non-negotiable.
I also have to manage to find a job or a career that fulfills me because having one that doesn’t will cause me to behave negatively, and “nobody likes a whiner.” If for some reason I am “stuck,” I need to make the decision to “make the best of it” and “not complain.” Until I do this, I am considered low quality. I am a Kia. I am cheaply made by Korean toddlers, and my long warranty is only more indicative of my shoddy quality.
Between that and my regular activities, it is also recommended that I spend a lot of time at the gym (”not 7 days per week”). I don’t need to be “6′2” and 190 with a tapered waist,” but I have to at least “show that I make an effort.” I’m 6′2” so maybe that adds to the aura of my quality or lack thereof, but the tapering will take time. Also non-negotiable.
It is recommended to me that I set a goal to run a marathon and spend a year training for it. Because, between working to support myself and going to school and the job hunt and all that time at the gym, what I need is a marathon to take the edge off. This will also facilitate the aforementioned tapering effect.
I must join clubs, possibly a gay men’s knitting circle.
I also have to volunteer and “give back to the community,” because it has given so much to me, including but not limited to: OCD, depression and the time-honored tradition of body dysmorphia. I owe the gays so much.
My skills of sarcasm were, however, endowed by my creator. A gift from The One True God.
And on Thursday nights when I am taking a break from school and work and the gym and training for the marathon and volunteering to do whatever, I will have to “get out more often” and “go to new locations.” I cannot, however, go to the stereotypical gay places like bars or clubs; the ones in the community. The likelihood of me running into a quality gay male in said locations is slim to none, nevermind that I have yet to achieve quality gay status myself. Or at least the perception of quality gayness.
In other words: Be the gay you wish to see in the world.
There’s really no good reason that I, too, can’t become a quality gay. Or at least be perceived as one. And maybe by the time it happens, I’ll still have one good hip. I make fun only because a lot of it is true, but I still think the author of that article to which I will not link should be bitchslapped hard, fast and repeatedly.
One
[This post contains much angst! Take heed!]
I am not naming my iPod after a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. They were not before my time. Sadly, they were precisely my time. I’m thinking of calling him Abelino. Abelino is the guy who manages a restaurant where I go for lunch…a lot. He is an ungodly, unnatural brand of beautiful. And I like the idea of his rear being clipped to my belt. I really wish I could show you what he looks like - it’s not like I haven’t made a concerted e-stalking effort. But all I can find out is that he’s 27. He must be career-oriented or something.
Anyway, the bug finally bit today and I had to start cleaning. I’m still going to vacuum every square inch of everything later on, but I got rid of half the clothes in my closet and the whole of the rest of the junk in there. I’m getting a high staring at the glorious cleanliness. Most of the clothes were relics of the 2000-2001 era. I can’t believe some of the stuff I used to wear, and would you believe I found pleats in there?! Pleats. In my closet. I’m no fashionista but I don’t promote front-butt, either.
I also happened across an old box taped shut with a label written in Sharpie: “High School Crap.” The box was misshapen and noticed it smelled kind of musty when I realized it must have been damaged from The Great Flood of ‘05 when the toilet ran over all night. I spent weeks salvaging and thought I was in the clear. There was mildew on the bottom. I wasn’t really ready for that trip down memory lane but in the spirit of cleaning, I thought I better see what was worth saving.
The top was mostly notes and things I wanted to keep from the newspaper staff, including many old papers we produced. I left that folder closed because I know how embarrassing some of the stuff I wrote was. Under that, a whole book of pictures of my ex-best-friend Brian, with whom I was moderately in love. He came immediately after high school, so I’m not sure how he managed to get into that box, but nostalgia nonetheless. I’m still very angry with him.
Further down - old UIL certificates, medals and ribbons for singing. More photos… graduation, friends, people I hated… more junk… graduation cap… and then, all of a sudden… the ex. Not an ex. The ex. The one. Photos of him anyway, I didn’t mean I found his toenail clippings or corpse.
Most of the time I forget how much I loved him - maybe because of the numbness I feel in its absence or the time that has since passed. Or both. But occasionally it will come flooding back; not fully or all-consumingly, but in the way that I suppose a mere drop of heroin would affect a reformed addict. And as I persued them, I realized the significance of the photos. I took most of them, and I could feel and remember the things that were going through my head as they were snapped. Like I had imbued each one with an imprint. And each one was more than just a photo to remember the way someone looked: each one was an experience. And there were dozens of them. Of him.
Needless to say, I was not ready for this trip down memory lane. Later this month, it will have been six years since I’ve seen him. We’ve kept minute contact, mostly online. In fact, I chatted with him last week (after two years). It’s not hard because I won’t see him in person. He’s settled down with some gorgeous wealthy guy he met in college. They have a condo and two dogs.
It’s not like I still want to be with him, but I feel despair over the loss of the passion I felt back then. He’s nothing more than a symbol of that now. And that’s sad.
In the closet, I also found pictures of another ex. He was such a nice guy, but I treated him like shit and he knew that I was obviously in love with someone else. He held me while I cried over him. And he slept in my bed when the sheets had some other guy’s stains on them. I did not treat him well. He once told me, “if you ever want to break up with me, just do it, and don’t let things slowly fade.” I couldn’t even do that for him. I can’t even remember his last name. And now I’ve found these pictures of him and I think maybe I’d like to know if he’s doing well. And I don’t deserve to know.
And even though I don’t believe in Karma, I feel like I deserve to be its recipient. I listen to love songs with naive optimism forgetting that I’ve hurt people, too. I only broke up with one guy the “right” way - by telling him that we were breaking up.
I’m sure that tomorrow I’ll get out of bed and won’t feel at all guilty. But for today, I feel guilty.
It Must Be (dust)BUNNIES!
I’m in a severe spring cleaning mode. I haven’t actually done much of it but the impulse is STRONG. First thing I’m doing is trying to get rid of things that are valuable (mostly on eBay). After that’s done, I’ll start piling stuff into the Hefty bags. I really hate clutter and useless paraphernalia… really.
I sold a cell phone I got last year and barely used, and used that as an excuse to go buy more junk. This, IMO, is worth the cost. Especially if you managed to get it for $15.99. I had to resist the urge to buy them all, even though I barely have use for one.
The other frivolous item I bought was an iPod Shuffle. I wanted it in orange, but settled for silver since my options were all pastel Eastery colors. Seriously - whose idea was that? Anyway, I got him (the iPod, whose name is forthcoming) to take to the gym with me. The gym I’ve yet to go to. Personifying him makes me feel less alone, nevermind the fact that I name all my favorite things anyway. My car is Maximo, my iPod Classic is Marco, and in keeping with the theme, the shuffle is stuck between Mateo, Modesto, and… I’m thinking of breaking away from this theme because at some point my only option will be Mandingo - and I’m saving that one for something special.
I just read that Charlton Heston is dead. And sighed, relievedly.
All Spanish or Italian sounding name suggestions will be seriously considered. All whitey sounding names will be cursed and reviled.
