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.
[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.
Meg, co-worker: “C’mon, just tell me if you’re gay. Are you or aren’t you?!”
Me: “Don’t you think that if I were gay I’d have a better job and be much better looking?”
Meg, co-worker: [long pause] “…That’s true, gay men do have a lot of money…”
This is just one more example of why I don’t like communicating with people in any way that doesn’t involve daggers coming out of my eyes. And I walked right into it, as I usually do. That’s another one of those convos that bounce around in my head long after they’re done (at least a month for that one). Anyway, I don’t mind people I work with knowing about that, but I do make an effort to not have gay sex on my desk during work hours. And it’s easy, considering how often it happens in the first place.
I think I’ve mentioned Work-twink here before, but I’m too lazy to… Work-twink is 20, a complete closet-case, and has a “girlfriend.” I don’t even know what he does there at our workplace. He waves at me a lot. And because I’m a nice guy, I wave back even though I’m trying to look away or do any number of things that involve the swift and necessary extraction of my person. But, really, I am a nice guy. I’m like… a Niceness Cappuccino with Extra Super Foam, but liberally sprinkled with Queen Bitch’s Nutmeg. Seriously.
So anyway, Work-twink has this thing for me which makes me uncomfortable because 1. he’s so fucking awkward, 2. being 20, short, and completely assless and rail-thin to the tune of a Sally Struthers infomercial makes him not my type, 3. he walks with a limp and nobody knows why, which draws all kinds of skeptical intrigue, and finally 4. which was just added to the list will be revealed in the following paragraphs.
Four is a physical kind of thing so -GROSS- that I don’t know if I can write about it, much less think about it. But I will… for you. Last Friday, a day which I do not enjoy to stay late at work, I was driving by the front of the building as he walked out and I offered to drive him to the back of the parking lot because it’s a long walk, and, you know, Niceness Cappuccino.
Long walk, short drive. I could handle it. Because I’m NICE.
We pulled up behind his vehicle and I was thinking “yay, he’s going to get out now.” But he didn’t. He kept futzing around with things and asking questions. Questions like “so, do you have a girlfriend?” “How old are you?” “Don’t you want to get married and have kids?” I should be flattered since it’s rare that males take any positive interest in me whatsoever. But I’m bored.
It drags on, and other co-workers are driving by, seeing the scene and waving goodbye and laughing. Meanwhile, I’m trying to astrally project myself into a sunny meadow. Failing miserably, I finally looked at him to say “HAIL no I don’t want to get married or produce offspring” when I noticed something…strange. Something wasn’t right.
In fact, something was very, very wrong. So wrong that I died and was immediately reincarnated as whoever won the gold medal for Extreme Vomiting (I didn’t just get the medal, I had to die first… you see?) . He was sending a text message. Oh God, I can’t even find the words here. Fungus. Nail fungus. On all his fingers. Worst I’ve ever seen. In fact I’ve only seen people ever have it on their feet, not that I’m looking for it or ever will. He doesn’t have fingernails, he has tree bark - probably from a California Redwood or maybe one of those 1,000 year old Oaks. Some very large, very old tree’s bark… that’s what he had there. And this is hilarious to my co-workers because, naturally, I was the last to know.
And by that point, he had been in my car for twenty minutes. Aside from being severely grossed out and wanting to go home, I was now convinced that both me and my car, Maximo, were contaminated. I can’t bear to do a Google search to find out how it spreads, though my inner voice tells me “hard, fast and repeatedly.” I do feel badly for him, though, and (sparingly) wonder what kinds of conditions led to that for him.
At least when it’s on your feet, I guess you can wear socks and nobody will know, and by default, no one will care. As for now, I have found my germophobia, and it starts with fungi and ends at the door of my vehicle.
I know there are worse things, but this is so typical. Finally a guy likes me, but he’s practically a teenager and obviously a demon.
I don’t think it’s fair to say that I live in the past, but there are a few guys from my past that I think about a lot more than they probably think about me. That is, a lot more than I’d like to. And if I had my way, I’d erase them entirely… the loves of my life… in a very Spotless Mind kind of way. Tonight I ran across an online profile for one of them. Apparently he moved across the country in an effort to find people who might believe he’s 19 years old, at least according to his profile. He’s really 28. He told me he had lyme disease which could make him a little crazy. I always thought he was really toeing the line between sweetest-guy-EVER and complete and utter sociopath. I guess I’ll never know, but at least I know he’s alive and seemingly well. So well his twenties get a do-over.
I want to go to Sacramento and pass out fliers with his picture on them like they do in Texas when a convicted sex offender moves into the neighborhood. “BEWARE, THIS MAN IS 28! ALSO HE IS AN AQUARIUS, IF THAT MAKES A DIFFERENCE TO YOU!”
Fucking complex relationships. When I date “normal” guys, I get so bored. I would naturally have to have the complex guy with emotional issues and possibly a chronic disease. Maybe it’s because I’m the sub-hormonal one, you know, with the hypothyroidism and the enlarged spleen; I need excitement.
Not that I’ve dated anyone in a long, long time. Ahem.
Wow. The creator of this quiz is getting a gift basket. Nail on the head, and all that. I love the show even though I’ve only seen a handful of episodes. Maybe after I’m finished re-watching all of Buffy and Angel, I’ll conquer this one.
Who is Your Ideal TV Boyfriend?
Don’t forget HOT. Via Michael.
I love my iPod, affectionately named Marco, but I hate that there is a new version of either iTunes software or the iPod firmware every time I go to plug the thing in. And right now I’m hating that the second letter of their stuff is capitalized, it’s making me angry. ANGST.
I’m considering getting a new computer, and for the longest time I wanted an Apple. But now I’m not so sure. Why set myself up for disappointment when with Ol’ Reliable, I already know to expect it?
I finished the third season of Buffy last night without having the fourth season ready. ANGST. I’ve been downloading them off the internets in .avi format and putting them on dvds because my dvd player recognizes it. Eleven episodes per disc, two discs per season. It’s genius, really. And then last night I had apparently filled up my hard drive - a feat I was sure I could never accomplish. DEL. I’m still not sure how this happened. It’s not porn, I promise.
I know I really should keep my hands off co-workers, but I spend so much time with them. There’s always one I’m pretending to be married to in my head. Most of them turn out to be real assholes. The latest one just happened to be cute and nice and sweet and spoke English as merely a broken, second language.
I’m not seeing a downside here.
My friends know him as The Peruvian. I caught him reading The Secret, and that’s when I knew he was gay. His birthday was yesterday (29), and he was looking for a date for Valentine’s Day. I came this close <-> to asking him out. But the fact that he hasn’t shown up to work this week at all kind of ruined my tentative, hypothetical plans. I’m assuming he’s been terminated. It’s just what happens.
On happier notes, the weekend after next is going to be all fun times. I have a hockey game, a concert, and the North Texas Irish Festival to attend… all of which are merely excuses to be drunk in public (spleen permitting, natch). It says “hi” and waves adoringly to you. My spleen.
This girl I used to work with brought her baby up for everyone to see today. I told her that it didn’t look nearly as retarded as I thoug—oh I mean he’s lovely, really. We laughed.
Sometimes when I’m angry and I have no cleaning supplies (my vice), I’m forced to have mental conversations with the objects of my affliction. With ample time, I’ll daydream and envision scenarios and arguments - especially arguments - because in the heat of the moment, I have a tendency to freeze up and go blank and even stutter. So I practice arguments before they happen so I’ll know exactly what I’m going to say. And then the situation fades away and there is zero confrontation. And so then I lay into myself because I’m a masochist and sometimes suffer from low self-esteem.
Yeah. Last Thursday was my company’s Xmas party. I only went because I had nothing better to do. See there’s this new guy at work that I really think is hot - we’ll call him Andy because that’s his name. And it’s not just his hotness, I feel like he and I have this strange inexplicable connection. I see him making the same gestures I do, things like that, and the eye contact is constant and timed perfectly. And I’m pretty sure he’s a royal homosexual. It’s just a feeling I have.
I was hoping he would show up to the Xmas party, and by some coincidence we would end up sitting side by side and then we would fall madly in love and I would go home with him and we would make out and lay on his bed and talk until the wee hours of the morning until one of us would say “omg, it’s 5am” and then we would laugh and fall asleep in each other’s arms.
I should be euthanized.
I thought all was starting to go according to plan. I sat alone at a table, while a co-worker and his family sat opposite me. I knew Andy was there because I had been watching him in as uncreepy a way as possible. When all of a sudden… he’s walking towards me… he gets closer… he’s almost here… OH GOD, he grabs the seat beside me and sits down. But he didn’t look directly at me or say anything, and as he sat, he twisted to turn slightly away from me.
Strange.
It’s not like we haven’t met several times before, although our lengthiest non-work related conversation took place in the restroom, but it wasn’t weird or bad.
After a few minutes, I became acutely aware that his left shoulder was cold and that he was serving it to me on an icy silver platter. WTF? I was slightly heartbroken, but still naively optimistic, I figured I should say something.
Me: “So, how’s it going, Andy?”
Andy: turning slowly, looking surprised. “Wha… how… how am I doing?”
Me: surprised that this was confusing, but smiling. “Yeah.”
Andy: turning away from me and looking the other direction. “I’m okay. I’m just… not good… in things like this…”
Me: “Me either.”
We both laugh ever so slightly.
Fin.
And that was that. I got up and moved shortly after and ate dinner with a group of people I’m more familiar with and then sat with another department for the rest of the night. I also got the impression that he was, in fact, good, “in thinks like like [that].”
Unless he meant sitting beside me, of course. The bastard.
So that night, I swore off him for good. I make every effort not to see him, which isn’t hard considering it barely happened in the first place. But now that I’ve decided that he is not hot, not gay and not for me, he’s everywhere I look. All day today. Everywhere.
I just want to be normal.
A couple of weeks ago, I met my boss’ hot gay nephew. I’m thinking “this is not good.” Obviously he was not introduced to me as “[my] hot gay nephew,” because that would be gross and also weird. But he made my color-coded gay alert level rise to a throbbing red. And I found him on Myspace where all was verified. That’s where I found out that he’s only 17. Yeah, even worse. Legal, sure, but I’m not interested. I do loathe my boss, though, so I’ll never say never.
Then later today while I was shopping at Kohl’s, which I hate, I met this guy named Cale. I figured that with a name so distinctive, I could easily stalk him on Myspace. And a narrow search provided 3 results, one of which was him. Turns out his three favorite things are girls, beer and Jesus. The trifecta.
I see the future, and it involves me and about two dozen cats.
So nearly a month ago, I had another visit with my gastroenterologist. She doubled my medication and sent me somewhere to get a full abdominal ultrasound, mostly to check for gallstones but also as a precaution.
The ultrasound was weird.
That chick kept jabbing the tool down between my ribs and occasionally she’d hit a spot that would just tickle insanely and I would try so hard not to tense up or laugh but I couldn’t help it.
A week later, the results came back: my gallbladder is fine. But my spleen is enlarged, probably pregnant with vicious alien larva. Which compromises my immune system and leaves me at a much greater risk of infections and bleeding. Which explains why I’m sick a lot.
Currently, I am entering my fourth week of what I had presumed was bronchitis but I am now sure is pneumonia. Will be taking another trip to the doctor tomorrow.
Earlier this year, I was trying to build some kind of friendship (or something) with a guy known in my previous blog as Starbucks Boy. SB liked to spend a lot of time in the bars. I limit my activity in bars because drinking is very bad for me, but we did go there occasionally. It was really the only thing he ever wanted to do, so eventually I had to turn him down a lot due to my myriad of symptoms.
SB moved to the west coast only weeks ago.
Today we were chatting and I explained to him the new problem of me being pregnant with aliens in my spleen and told him how everything else made so much sense. Jokingly, I said, “all that time you thought I was lying!”
And his response?
“I did. I kinda still do.”
I told him not to get hit by a bus or anything because that would really “suck.”
Meanwhile, despite my pneumatic hack, I managed to nab a date with this guy who works at my bank. It seemed okay: The conversation wasn’t dull, and we shared some laughs. Whatever. After dinner I suggested we go to a bar and have some drinks, but he couldn’t because his driver’s license was confiscated the weekend prior when he received his DUI.
Fanfuckingtastic. So my gaydar works now but I still can’t pick up a normal guy.
We ended up heading over to the movie theater and seeing (his choice) Hairspray, because he “LOVE[s] John Travolta!”
Breathe. Hold it in. Don’t do it. Don’t barf.
He loved it. I hated it. Did I tell you he already asked me to meet his parents? Well, he did. As I dropped him off, I gave him a hug. I suppose it was a little too long and too tight because the next day he called me and told me I should’ve kissed him.
I could’ve, but I didn’t want to. Which I thought was made painfully obvious by the fact that I didn’t.
The next two weeknights, he proceeded to ask me to do things. I might’ve, but wasn’t feeling particularly great due to my illness.
By Thursday, he was giving me shit like “I’m never going to see you again, am I.”
Notice the period and not the question mark at the end of his comment. It wasn’t a question, it was an accusation.
“So we just go out one time and you dump me.”
Friday, I saw him in the bank and told him to call me. I don’t hate him, I think we could be friends. I’m atypically a nice guy, so I made an effort.
He invited me to fucking Oklahoma for the weekend.
Aside from the painful thought of a weekend in Oklahoma, um, I don’t go on out-of-state weekend trips with a guy I barely have lukewarm feelings for at best and have been on one date with.
And now he’s back and I’m getting the cold shoulder.
I bet he thinks I’m lying about the aliens in my spleen, too.
