Turning Japanese

Speaking of Turning Japanese, is anyone else completely in love with the Charlie’s Angels soundtrack? Yeah, from way back in 2000. That album was [as a Christmas card I recently received would say] primo shit. It introduced me to Deelite, any album that includes Deelite is [again] primo shit. Anyway, it included this song called, “Turning Japanese” by the Vapors, I believe. Short story long, all morning I’ve been researching my trip to Japan, and it made me think of that song.

Oh, yeah. I’m going to Japan. And I’m going to do it for $4,000. That is the budget I have given myself for my 21st birthday present to myself. Hopefully I can divide it equally between money it takes to get there, and money to spend there. I’m really looking forward to seeing Akihabara, it’s kind of what inspired my trip. For the uninitiated, Akihabara is a sector in Tokyo, that is primarily known for it’s shopping. Thankfully, by shopping, I mean stories upon stories of the latest electronics, gadgets, and gizmos. You know in Japan, they have that super-secret James Bond type shit. Watches that double as lasers, sunglasses that are really thermonuclear binoculars. Okay, maybe not. But I just want to go.

Originally, I was planning on going to New York. But honestly, I hate New York. And I’ve already been there. I wanted to go somewhere wild and foreign. I didn’t want to know the language, and, most importantly, I wanted to be able to get lost. Have you ever just wanted to lose yourself in the grand scheme of things? A lot of the time, I feel like I have a very pointed position in life. At work, people know to come to me to fix their broken computer, or my residents know to come to me when life is down on them. And I’m not saying I don’t enjoy that, quite the opposite. I just want to lose myself. There really isn’t any other way I know how to articulate that thought.

So, tentatively speaking, come June 13th, 2010 I’ll be in Tokyo

"Oh, I Like to Suck Dick, and I Like it Up the Ass, but I’m Not Gay"

I like analogies. If you’re good at them [and so few people are] chances are I’ll like you. the Mistress is pretty good at them, one of the many reasons that I enjoy her ever-increasing company. Sadly, many people really suck at them, I mean … wait, what was the original point of this post?

Oh, yeah! Christmas! The other day I was talking to her about how I really don’t like Christmas anymore. The holiday itself. I enjoy Christmas music, buying and wrapping presents, decorating and baking, but when it comes to the day itself I am inevitably disappointed. I can’t help it. Whether it’s the family yelling at each other like common inmates (though, I earnestly believe inmates may be better behaved than the Mykal Bloom family) or not talking to each other and gossiping acidly behind each others’ backs, holidays aren’t usually a happy time. Which makes me think, how many of those fondly-regarded Christmases of my youth actually sucked monkey balls, and I just didn’t know it? How many brutal family arguments did I miss because I was so engrossed in my Power Rangers action figures? (Rita <33).

So, now that I’m older, I’ve just come to not anticipate Christmas. Of course I buy presents. Jesus knows I’m always prowling for any excuse to recklessly throw cash away. And yes, I blare my Mariah Carey “Merry Christmas” album, and I absolutely lurve to bake Christmas cookies, but Christmas just isn’t . . . exciting anymore. Perhaps it’s just another depressing reality of getting older, but in all honesty, I’d rather have the music and cookies and skip the holiday itself.

And when explaining all of this to the dear mistress, she retorted curtly, “Dude, you like Christmas. That’s like saying, ‘Oh, I like to suck dick, and I like it up the ass, but I’m not gay.’ No, fuck that, you like Christmas”

If only that were the case.

Blind Item

WHICH pathetic blogger walked into the dining hall this afternoon and then promptly walked out (without eating) upon seeing a boy that our blogger may have a gigantic crush on?

*major kudos to you if you get the pic.

Tongue Biting

Regular readers know that I’m currently entrenched in a cold war with the Dragon Lady. (sometimes referred to as my mother) She sent me this particularly nasty email, deploring me for how unappreciative I am and how she no longer feels the need to help me (mainly financially, but in other means of support as well I suppose). I canned my initial reaction – anger – and I’ve been pretty good with not sending her emails along the lines of, “Hey Bitch, Drop Dead.” Despite the fact that deep down I probably do miss her, overall I kinda want to punch her in the face. The past few days she’s taken to calling me as if nothing has changed, and I’m like, “…the fuck?! I don’t want to talk to you. For all I care, we could never talk again, I’d be OK with that. Stop talking to me.” She’s like, “Yeah, work blah blah blah. And your father, blah blah blah.” And she expects me to be sympathetic? Like, bitch, you send me this email that basically says in your eyes my life has amounted to EPIC FAIL, and now you want to be all Lorelai Gilmore about it? Think NOT.

So this morning she called yet again, letting me know that my Godson had been born. (Yay!) And she started going off about how she has strep, and my brother stubbed his toe, and how my father won’t help. Usually I’m on her side when it comes to these things, but considering that I now rely on my father for transportation to and from home, I cant’ really fault the man for saying, “Fuck you.” If anything, I’m jealous I don’t have the balls to do the same. During our conversation, at least nine times, I had the overwhelming urge to snap at her, to tell her I didn’t care, to tell her my father has the right idea, to tell her that I hate her and I want my car back. But I didn’t. I bit my tongue. And I am so proud of myself.

Let’s stop for a moment, because at this point, I’m sure at least one of you is appalled at how I can treat my mother with such abject hatred. But really, I learned it from her. If it’s one thing my mother is the best at, it’s turning so wholly on friends and family. Hell, look at the way she treats her own son. So, no, I don’t feel bad about the things I say or the way I feel. Eye for an eye, and whatnot. Please save your bullshit on how an eye for eye leaves the whole world blind.

kthanks.

Excuses, Excuses

See that? That’s my desk. It’s really clean. Like, so clean. I never clean my desk. Never. Tongiht I did, though because I will do anything (anything) not to have to study for my exam. I need to do well on it. (Ish…? Not really, I could not take it and get a C in the class) So, I’ve cleaned my desk, watched Grey’s on some weird Japanese YouTube, and put a lot of random crap on my walls. But study? Study those three pages of spanish vocab? Nope. Can’t even do it.

14 Days

It’s funny how much your life can change it fourteen days. Two little weeks. Half a month.

Two weeks ago, I couldn’t have been happier. I had a boy that wanted me. I was going home, I love home! Thanksgiving was coming. Food! And with it brought Black Friday. One of my favorite days of the year.

What happened?

In fourteen days, I simultaneously rekindled and ruined my relationship with the Ex. My mom stopped talking to me. I started smoking. I slept with a man that I hate, and hurt the one person who’s ever been really in love with me.

In fourteen days, I ruined everything.

Weeks ago, I called the Ex. Our communication up until that point had been non-existent since our last failed attempt and a relationship. I called him as a result of a small fight I had with the Mistress. I called him out of desperation and slowly our friendship rebuilt itself. It was nice, having him in my life again. It thrills me, how happy he is to see me. It’s like not right for anyone to be that happy to see me. Me! But he always happy to see me. And our friendship again blossomed into something more. But I didn’t want to commit to him. I didn’t want that full-blown, hand-holding, spooning at night, no you have the last piece of pizza deal. I didn’t. I don’t know why. I just wanted him. Not the other stuff. In retrospect, I should have considered myself lucky that he wanted me in that way. (Me!) And so when I went home for break, and when he told me he wanted me “officially” I couldn’t do it. And he got mad. Said just the right things to hurt me the most. A horrible disadvantage of letting people in: They know how to hurt you all the more.

So I ran. I left his North-Side home to the closest man I could find. the Evil One. The man that not even month ago was still painfully stringing me along. Toying with my emotions because he was bored. I knocked on his door, and though he was surprised, he was also happy to see me. (Me!) And we did what grown gay men do best.

No, we didn’t open an antique store or decorate a house, ahole.

Afterwards, I felt so horrible. It was something similar to what I imagine a prostitute must feel. I couldn’t even look at myself. (And I love to look at myself.) What was I doing? Sleeping with a man I hated. I left his house with the promise of having Thanksgiving dinner with him. Friday, when I saw the Ex, I had every intention of commiting and giving myself to him, the way he wanted. But when I saw him, all I could remember were the cruel words he spat at me, and the ease with which he did it. And I couldn’t contain my anger. It was like burning in my throat, and I wanted to hurt him like he hurt me. So I told him, in great detail, how I’d fucked the Evil One. And how much better it was with the Evil One. (Not exactly a lie, but information he didn’t need to know, nonetheless.) And I did hurt him. I saw it in his eyes. Like he had hurt me so many times before, I finally had this chance to hurt him. And even though it had been three years since he’d first cheated on me, even though it had been two years since he hid his heroin addiction from me, even though it had been a year since he cheated on me the second time, each wound still burned hot. I got to do the hurting now. Me.

But as I stood there, looking at him, looking at me like a monster. I felt like shit. It wasn’t gratifying or rewarding. It made me feel worse. Yay, I hurt him. Go me. It didn’t make me feel any better. About anything. So, as sat her there, trying to wrap his head around this I left. And we haven’t talked since.

I had dinner with the Evil One on Thanksgiving. Lunch, really. I hated him for … being him. I hated him for thinking this was fun. We fucked again. We haven’t talked since.

On the drive home, I found a pack of cigarettes in my car, no doubt left by its true owner (the Dragon Lady’s fiancee), and I just started smoking. It was fanfuckingtastic. I concentrated on that small white stick, and puffed all my problems away.

So here I am. A young adult, who’s mother has all but disowned him. A gay man in love with a hetero. A man not able to commit to the one person that has ever been in love with him.

I’m going to stop, before I get all melodramatic and start babbling how I don’t recognize my own face in the mirror.

I’m praying that the next fourteen days bring about as much change as the last.

The Dragon Lady

When I was growing up, my Mom was my world. My dad wasn’t around much. My brother is eight years younger than me. So for a long time, it was just me and her. My strongest memories of her, though, are the bad ones. I don’t know why. You know, every birthday and Christmas, she would take me aside, just before the presents and threaten me: “I don’t care if you get a present you already have or if you don’t like it. You say thank you. We can return it later. So help me God, if you don’t say thank you, I will take back all of your presents.” And then she gave me this look that said “I am not fucking around.”

My mom, the Dragon Lady* as I’ve called her for so many years, isn’t speaking to me presently. I am not 100% sure why. Words were exchanged between her and I. “Ungrateful” was thrown around a lot. I blame Oprah. See, Oprah, in her laughable attempt at seeming human, decide to forgo her usual “Favorite Things” show (in which she rains gifts upon an unsuspecting audience) and instead blabbered on about making scrapbooks, and sharing memories. Blah blah blah. As “compensation” I guess you could say, she offered a free down loadable CD on her website. My mother, ever the Oprah zealot, was quick to down load and wanted to burn the songs to a CD. Not quite knowing how to go about that, she woke me from my (semi-drunken) sleep and asked (very nicely, but loudly) for me to help her. She had Christmas music playing in the back. As I groggily answered her questions about file names and folders, I heard that Mariah’s classic” All I Want for Christmas is You” started to play. I quietly sang along, as images of the Boy popped in and out of my mind. It was quite nice; Imagining spending a holiday with him. Le sigh. But my small daydream was interrupted by my mother’s question, “Do I want to make an audio CD or a data CD?”

I mean, really? I thought that was obvious. S0, I, very rudely I do admit, told her that she wanted to make an audio CD, wasn’t that obvious that she wanted to make an audio CD? God. I was mad at her, mad at her for breaking my fantasy. Silly, I know. But when all you have are those fantasies, you learn to cherish them. I didn’t apologize. I couldnt’ swallow my pride. This was Thanksgiving morning. The tension never let up and spread through my family during dinner. She had divided us, with her talk of ungratefulness and disresepct. Her sisters, quick to agree, had tunred on us, the children. And Thanksgiving was horrible. Not one person was speaking to everyone. If that makes sense. This carried over into Friday. But finally, my Mother and I talked. I apologized. All seemed right with the world. We went to Sam’s. She brought me back to school, bought me groceries.

Then, on Monday morning she sends me this horrible email about how ungrateful I am and how she won’t let me ruin her life anymore. I have my suspicions about why she sent me this email, but I can’t be sure. So, she told me she wasn’t goimg to help me anyore. Financially, emotionally, nothing. She would provide a roof and her (small) part of my tuition. That was it. No other money, no car, no rides home from the train station (therein cutting off my ability to come home as much as I like). I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to yell, I wanted to cry**, I wanted to hurt her, but I wanted to ask her why? I didn’t understand it. The severity of her punishment, the loss I felt. Not for my possesions, not for the money, for my mom. I feel like I lost my mom. And that rejection hurts more than any man. the Boy could tell me a thousand times he hates me (God! I cringe at the thought) and it wouldn’t hurt as much losing my mom this way. I lost her as my friend.

And it’s all my fault.

______________________________________________
*This nickname started in true adoration and teasing. It seems all too true these days, though.
** I don’t cry. At least not in real life. I’ll sob for Meredith Grey, but the Bestie could die and I wouldn’t shed one tear. I’m just weird.

All Falls Down

Ice is like . . . my mortal enemy. It is the Joker to my Batman, the Voldemort to my Harry Potter, the Nancy Kerrigan to my Tonya Harding. We just don’t get along, k? And as much as I adore this part of the year, the colder weather, the lack of sun, the snow! I hate the effing ice. Is it just me? Does everyone else in the entire world have traction that I don’t? Because there is no slab of concrete on this campus that isn’t covered in deadly ice, but people walk on like it was the middle of June. But there I am, taking my infinitesimal steps, trying not to fall.Fuck you, ice. Fuck. You.

Going Home

When I was a freshman, my campus made a big stink about not going home before Thanksgiving. Meaning that you should cut off ties to your home before it was turkey time. Wait, what? That doesn’t make any kind of sense. I hate this notion that people have that when you go to college, suddenly your life in your hometown just disappears. I never accepted that. I reject that idea. My home life is important to me; I talk to my mom regularly. the Ex still lives on the North Side, and most of my friends are still here. Why do I have to stay on campus? So I don’t miss the big pep rally? Squeze in as much hot library action as possible? Bump that. I’m sick of people making me feel all guilty ’cause I like to go home. Sorry your home life sucks, hombre, but you need to put down your bottle of haterade.

Please Don’t Feed the Animals

the Boy. How do I even begin to describe the Boy? My taste in men is very . . . traditional. Yeah, traditional. Let’s run with that. Slender but toned. Healthy, you could say. In high school I wanted the quarterback; talk about unoriginality for sobbing out loud.

But the Boy’s different. It isn’t rooted in the physical. A first for me. That makes me shallow, yes. But let’s be honest, we gays have our stereotypes for a reason.

Anyway the physical isn’t as important. It’s there — Lord knows it is. But it’s not important this time and I don’t know why. It’s driving me crazy. His presence is intoxicating, one conversation with him elates me, brings my whole day up. And I have no idea why. It’s maddening. Devolving into a 12 year old girl every time he walks by.

[Not to knock 12 year old girls -- My cousin is about to turn 13, and she's been in more long-term relationships than I have]

It sucks that I can’t keep my composure around him. It sucks even more not knowing why. So I approach the entire situation with the following philosophy:

Don’t Feed The Animals

When you go to the zoo, they have these signs that are all like, ‘Hey don’t feed the animals.’ And they say that because they have the animals all trained and on a schedule. And you come in, with your zoo books looking-ass, all wanting to throw your gummi bears at the lions, and for all you know, lions could be allergic to gummi bears. You don’t know. Overall, it’s just a bad idea to feed the animals. Right?

That’s the kind of thinking that runs through my mind when it comes to the Boy. I know at certain times I will I see the Boy, and I don’t try to fuck with the schedule. I don’t feel like I should encourage or nurture this ‘crush.’ I hate the word ‘crush.’ But I feel like forcing interaction with him would be a lot like feeding the animals. Don’t try to forge something that shouldn’t happen. Oh, spaz is me. Have I forgotten to mention the boy is of the hetero persuasion? Much like the quarterback in high school. But alas, I don’t want to feed the animals. I don’t.

He loves me not.