I just had the strangest dream.
I was in New York. I flew there first-class and rented a nice car--BMW I think. For some reason I was completely broke, so I couldn't afford to take the subway. I ended up in Manhattan, driving down 42nd Street, looking for a way to Brooklyn.
My GPS wouldn't work, and I lost all of the contacts in my cell phone. I was freaking out, so I took the first exit which led me to this abandoned shipyard somewhere. I was crying frantically, and it was pouring down rain. I got out of the car and went into one of the buildings, but it was already occupied by some pretty shady people making and obviously shadier deal.
When I ran back to the car, I found the trunk popped open, my luggage littering the ground, and a 30-something housewife sitting in the drivers side seat, smoking what seemed to be a crack pipe. In the back seat was a man with a gun.
The lady was visibly shaken, and she had a bottle of pills between her legs. I asked her what they were, hoping they were some sort of benzodiazepine or opiate (anything to relieve the stress of the current situation). She said they were for her blood pressure, and I freaked out. I think I died in my dream, but I'm not sure, because that's when I woke up.
The strange thing is, I have this intense feeling that something like that has happened before. Maybe in a past life? I don't know. The last time I had a dream like that, the setting was Los Angeles and I was driving along PCH looking for West Hollywood. Now, of course, I could have easily navigated that route with my eyes closed. But ever since I moved to LA the last time, the dreams have stopped.
Maybe it's just a dream. Maybe I'm just putting together bits and pieces of memories I've made or movies I've seen or stories I've heard. Regardless, it's still a little disturbing, in more ways than one.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Life
It's not so bad.
Especially when you're stoned.
Even after falling off a porch while searching for a wifi signal and through a bush and then onto the ground and almost breaking your ankle, but really it's just a deep gash that hopefully won't need stitches and you're still too stoned to really feel it and aren't really thinking about much more than typing this journal entry and that one leftover Butterfinger bar hidden in the bottom of the refrigerator.
Good night.
Especially when you're stoned.
Even after falling off a porch while searching for a wifi signal and through a bush and then onto the ground and almost breaking your ankle, but really it's just a deep gash that hopefully won't need stitches and you're still too stoned to really feel it and aren't really thinking about much more than typing this journal entry and that one leftover Butterfinger bar hidden in the bottom of the refrigerator.
Good night.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Parental Empathy
Tonight I came home, stoned off my ass, and my mother called me out on it. This happens quite often. I deny it, laughing uncontrollably, and then we play cat and mouse about if I were really stoned or if I were just sleepy and had been around too much cigarette smoke, which made my eyes red. Either way, it was all in jest, and nothing would be brought up about it again. We both know that marijuana is the only drug that really doesn't fuck up my life or cause me to do stupid things, so it's cool.
However, tonight, my mother decided to call me out about it in front of my dad. Regardless of whether or not she should be excused on the grounds that she was, as well, high on her own pharmaceutical vices--this was really fucked up. My dad, of course, freaks out as usual and gives me this ten minute long lecture about how pot is bad and I'm going to fail a drug test. My mother and I finally end the matter, as we proceed to simultaneously act like it was just a big joke--that I wasn't really high at all.
At that moment I realized something. I have a lot of empathy with my mother. Thinking back, I remember how we always used to be craving the same foods, without each other knowing. Almost daily when I was a kid, I would crave something uncommon like pineapple juice or Butterfingers, and my mom would come home from the grocery store with a bag full of the things that I had just been dreaming about. And she always knows when something is wrong--just by hearing my voice. And she's almost always right about the general issue, even if I deny it at the time. We fight constantly, but it's usually because one of us lying about something that's clearly a lie.
My Dad, on the other hand, is a very logical person. He has a low ability for sensing other peoples' emotions and understanding their intents. He's a kind of live-by-the-book guy. My mother pretends to be, but I really believe that deep down she's different--and pretty much exactly like me.
However, tonight, my mother decided to call me out about it in front of my dad. Regardless of whether or not she should be excused on the grounds that she was, as well, high on her own pharmaceutical vices--this was really fucked up. My dad, of course, freaks out as usual and gives me this ten minute long lecture about how pot is bad and I'm going to fail a drug test. My mother and I finally end the matter, as we proceed to simultaneously act like it was just a big joke--that I wasn't really high at all.
At that moment I realized something. I have a lot of empathy with my mother. Thinking back, I remember how we always used to be craving the same foods, without each other knowing. Almost daily when I was a kid, I would crave something uncommon like pineapple juice or Butterfingers, and my mom would come home from the grocery store with a bag full of the things that I had just been dreaming about. And she always knows when something is wrong--just by hearing my voice. And she's almost always right about the general issue, even if I deny it at the time. We fight constantly, but it's usually because one of us lying about something that's clearly a lie.
My Dad, on the other hand, is a very logical person. He has a low ability for sensing other peoples' emotions and understanding their intents. He's a kind of live-by-the-book guy. My mother pretends to be, but I really believe that deep down she's different--and pretty much exactly like me.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Actias Luna
I stepped outside yesterday morning for my ritualistic first cigarette of the day, and I found what appeared to be a beautiful butterfly hanging on a brick wall by the back porch swing. Upon further inspection, I realized it was a giant moth with enormous pale green wings, burgundy trimming, eye spots, and a furry white cocoon-like body. I poked it a little and observed no real response, so I assumed it was at the final stages of its life. I was right.
However, today, after forgetting about my find, honestly, I came outside again, only to discover two moths in its place. They were embracing each other, dying together. Come to find out, adult Luna Moths have a life span of approximately one week. During this time, their sole purpose is to seek out a mate and reproduce. They do not eat, as they are born with no mouths, and they rarely move from their chosen spot. Birth, reproduction, death, repeat. Nothing more, nothing less.
Is this life?
At first I thought how horrible it would be to exist in such a way--and how pointless it would be for me, especially, since I have no real plans for reproducing. And then I realized that humans have a slight advantage--instead of only being able to pass along our genetic code, we are able to live on through generations in the form of ideas. Even the most unmotivated and inartistic people can and do have the ability to affect the course of human events in some way. A simple "Hello" has the power to alter the future of the entire universe--or even just witnessing the awe-inspiring and bittersweet life and death of one of nature's most beautiful and tragic creatures.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
The Death of the Sonnet
On writing a sonnet, this much is true,
Tis better to be blue or scorned by love,
Have witnessed the grace in a passing dove,
Studied Shakespeare or St. Vincent Milay,
Else you'll be left out, only to dismay.
Your words must be rich, and butchered, and rhymed
Thoughts must be flowing and very well timed.
Then you will be one of the elite few.
A brooding thought here, a metaphor there,
Quatrains and couplets, ten syllable lines,
Tangled in a pit of poetic vines.
Once you have finished, not even aware,
Passion morphed into pedantic affair,
Your soul torn apart by linguistic mines.
Tis better to be blue or scorned by love,
Have witnessed the grace in a passing dove,
Studied Shakespeare or St. Vincent Milay,
Else you'll be left out, only to dismay.
Your words must be rich, and butchered, and rhymed
Thoughts must be flowing and very well timed.
Then you will be one of the elite few.
A brooding thought here, a metaphor there,
Quatrains and couplets, ten syllable lines,
Tangled in a pit of poetic vines.
Once you have finished, not even aware,
Passion morphed into pedantic affair,
Your soul torn apart by linguistic mines.
Le Petit Dieu
I’m on top of the sky with paint and brush
Could this be my canvas, this infinite sky?
A whale and an astronaut. Elephants and school buses.
Those are my clouds.
I take tiny brushes and sprinkle the earth with rain.
Could this be my canvas, this infinite sky?
A whale and an astronaut. Elephants and school buses.
Those are my clouds.
I take tiny brushes and sprinkle the earth with rain.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Granddaddy
When I was small, I loved my Granddaddy very much. He would always let me help him feed the goats, work on the barn, and various other things he told me little kids like me would love to do.
He'll be 90 in October. The rest of my family constantly talk about how he'll probably outlive all of us. I wouldn't doubt it.
My Grandfather is sick. He's not as sick as most people who are still alive at his age. He just has the usual kidney problems, diabetes, whatever. My mother and aunt take turns driving him to the Veterans hospital once a week for appointments. He receives a $17 travel allowance for each trip, which he keeps, since his goat selling business isn't exactly booming.
Once, at an appointment for his cataracts, my grandfather was complaining about the price of gas, and that he barely had enough to make it to the doctor. A nice little old lady, probably older than him, gave him five dollars, which he quickly put in his pocket. As he walked away from the lady who was smiling about what a good deed she had just done, my grandfather laughed and joked about how someone crazy old bird just gave him five bucks for nothing.
In reality, my grandfather has a lot of money. He hides it in various places, including a bank account that my mother just discovered containing over $40,000.
So, basically, my grandfather is just a greedy old bastard who looked at me not as a young, curious boy, but as a source of free and complacent child labor.
He'll be 90 in October. The rest of my family constantly talk about how he'll probably outlive all of us. I wouldn't doubt it.
My Grandfather is sick. He's not as sick as most people who are still alive at his age. He just has the usual kidney problems, diabetes, whatever. My mother and aunt take turns driving him to the Veterans hospital once a week for appointments. He receives a $17 travel allowance for each trip, which he keeps, since his goat selling business isn't exactly booming.
Once, at an appointment for his cataracts, my grandfather was complaining about the price of gas, and that he barely had enough to make it to the doctor. A nice little old lady, probably older than him, gave him five dollars, which he quickly put in his pocket. As he walked away from the lady who was smiling about what a good deed she had just done, my grandfather laughed and joked about how someone crazy old bird just gave him five bucks for nothing.
In reality, my grandfather has a lot of money. He hides it in various places, including a bank account that my mother just discovered containing over $40,000.
So, basically, my grandfather is just a greedy old bastard who looked at me not as a young, curious boy, but as a source of free and complacent child labor.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Little Boxes made of Ticky-Tacky
The weather tonight is amazing. I love walking around in the rain in the dark by myself. I bet John the Baptist had a similar experience before he became famous.
I want to go back to Hollywood. I think I was born to be an actor. I could never do film or theater, though, because then the audience would know I'm just acting.
Cheers.
----
"You snatch the eyes off a fly that's flying backwards, you spin him around, put the eyes back in the socket before the fly hits the ground." --some homeless black guy on YouTube
I want to go back to Hollywood. I think I was born to be an actor. I could never do film or theater, though, because then the audience would know I'm just acting.
Cheers.
----
"You snatch the eyes off a fly that's flying backwards, you spin him around, put the eyes back in the socket before the fly hits the ground." --some homeless black guy on YouTube
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
My Sincerest Apologies
Dear Jessica's Nanny,
Years ago, when we were in high school, I spent many fun-filled days at your house on Peach Street. Your cookies were divine, and I appreciated that you never complained when we would get stoned in Jessica's bedroom.
I have something that has been on my mind for quite a while, though. Actually, I never really think about it unless I'm stoned, but it has nevertheless caused me countless nights of anguish over the years.
The thing is, the majority of the time I spent at your house, I was fairly intoxicated and a little careless. Sometimes I could not find an ash tray because they had disappeared into other rooms, so I had to improvise. Really, I just didn't want to ash on your carpet. I do respect you dearly.
Anyhow, sometimes we used the little bronze statue of a poodle on a pedestal by the front door--you know the one. It had a bobble head that could be removed from the base. It was really a perfect ashtray--ridiculously creative, too.
I'm sorry I ashed my cigarettes in your dead dog's urn. I felt terrible about it, really, but I couldn't bear to tell you (even though it's all ash, so it doesn't really matter that much). But now that you're dead, Nanny, I figured I would go ahead and let the cat out of the bag. Please accept my apologizes. I hope you're doing well.
Thinking of you,
Ben
Years ago, when we were in high school, I spent many fun-filled days at your house on Peach Street. Your cookies were divine, and I appreciated that you never complained when we would get stoned in Jessica's bedroom.
I have something that has been on my mind for quite a while, though. Actually, I never really think about it unless I'm stoned, but it has nevertheless caused me countless nights of anguish over the years.
The thing is, the majority of the time I spent at your house, I was fairly intoxicated and a little careless. Sometimes I could not find an ash tray because they had disappeared into other rooms, so I had to improvise. Really, I just didn't want to ash on your carpet. I do respect you dearly.
Anyhow, sometimes we used the little bronze statue of a poodle on a pedestal by the front door--you know the one. It had a bobble head that could be removed from the base. It was really a perfect ashtray--ridiculously creative, too.
I'm sorry I ashed my cigarettes in your dead dog's urn. I felt terrible about it, really, but I couldn't bear to tell you (even though it's all ash, so it doesn't really matter that much). But now that you're dead, Nanny, I figured I would go ahead and let the cat out of the bag. Please accept my apologizes. I hope you're doing well.
Thinking of you,
Ben
Phasmatodea
I went for a walk today and came across a stick trembling upon the ground. I immediately questioned my sanity, until I lifted up the epileptic bug who had undoubtedly lost his home.
I carried him around to various trees, shrubbery, and miscellaneous plant life growing in the yard. To no avail, the little creature vehemently denied each of his potential new homes, instead choosing the safety of my finger.
After two excruciatingly long hours of being trapped in my mother's sterile Tupperware container along with a few leaves and a water-soaked towelette, my friend and I decided to recommence our endeavor.
Nearing the brink of exacerbation, I decided to try various alternatives to my new friend's ecologically-favored natural habitat: flowers, automobiles, rotting lumber, and even a plastic mailbox. Finally, and unexpectedly, the little fellow let go of my finger and cheerfully migrated to an empty cigarette pack sitting on the back porch swing.
I tried to withdraw his legs, but he had an astonishingly strong grip, and I was afraid to rip the limbs from his body. So, I let him be.
While logically an empty cigarette pack is not exactly the most viable option for the long-term living arrangements of twig-dwelling insects, I have realized that attempting to usurp my friend's decision could possibly be more damaging than simply letting him realize this on his own.
And so is life.
I carried him around to various trees, shrubbery, and miscellaneous plant life growing in the yard. To no avail, the little creature vehemently denied each of his potential new homes, instead choosing the safety of my finger.
After two excruciatingly long hours of being trapped in my mother's sterile Tupperware container along with a few leaves and a water-soaked towelette, my friend and I decided to recommence our endeavor.
Nearing the brink of exacerbation, I decided to try various alternatives to my new friend's ecologically-favored natural habitat: flowers, automobiles, rotting lumber, and even a plastic mailbox. Finally, and unexpectedly, the little fellow let go of my finger and cheerfully migrated to an empty cigarette pack sitting on the back porch swing.
I tried to withdraw his legs, but he had an astonishingly strong grip, and I was afraid to rip the limbs from his body. So, I let him be.
While logically an empty cigarette pack is not exactly the most viable option for the long-term living arrangements of twig-dwelling insects, I have realized that attempting to usurp my friend's decision could possibly be more damaging than simply letting him realize this on his own.
And so is life.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Unfinished Business
I just finished watching the Showtime series "Dead Like Me". It only lasted two seasons, but it was absolutely brilliant. The premise of the show is a group of grim reapers--regular people who were for some unknown reason chosen to fill the roll after their own deaths--that take peoples' souls in the final moments of their lives, so that they won't feel the physical pain of death.
Sometimes souls refuse to cross over. It's usually because they don't realize they're dead, but often it's because they refuse to let go of their lives.
I have realized tonight that I am not unlike the newly-deceased characters of that show. I have a strong tendency to hold on to feelings that should have long-since met their demise. Regret is a difficult thing to bury once it's been brought to life.
I have finally had the chance put some very strong memories to rest. All it took was a few lines in an e-mail--nothing fancy or sentimental. I feel like I can finally move on with my life. I feel alive again.
Life is strange, but beautiful. From now on, I'm going to cherish every moment of it, from the tears to the laughter. Instead of yearning for the past, I'm going to look forward to the future.
Thank you.
Sometimes souls refuse to cross over. It's usually because they don't realize they're dead, but often it's because they refuse to let go of their lives.
I have realized tonight that I am not unlike the newly-deceased characters of that show. I have a strong tendency to hold on to feelings that should have long-since met their demise. Regret is a difficult thing to bury once it's been brought to life.
I have finally had the chance put some very strong memories to rest. All it took was a few lines in an e-mail--nothing fancy or sentimental. I feel like I can finally move on with my life. I feel alive again.
Life is strange, but beautiful. From now on, I'm going to cherish every moment of it, from the tears to the laughter. Instead of yearning for the past, I'm going to look forward to the future.
Thank you.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Carless in LA
I was born and raised in a small town in Georgia, where everyone had a car because that's the only way there was to get around. It was either drive or stay home. Unexpectedly, I discovered that I shared that same mentality with millions of other people living and working in none other than Los Angeles, the second most populated metropolis in the nation. Sure, everyone's aware that there are buses and trains around, but the majority of the Angelenos I met honestly believed that their mass transportation system was nothing more than another sleeping venue for the homeless.
The first time I took the Number 2 from Sunset and Ivar in Hollywood to Sunset and San Vicente in West Hollywood, I was the talk of Fiesta Cantina. No one could believe it! "You actually took the bus?!", they'd say, astonished. I had been renting a car for the first two weeks of my stay, but the price of gas and insurance fees ended up killing my bank account, so I was forced to go with another option. After an experiment with a $26 3-mile taxi ride, I bought my very first prepaid Weekly Metro Pass for a mere $17. That quickly proved to be the best seventeen bucks I had ever spent--the price of two mediocre cocktails at your average West Hollywood bar.
At first I was slightly dismayed. The timetables were confusing, and the routes were somewhat undependable during the late night hours. But after a while, I began to learn the ropes. If you have a little bit of patience and a little knowledge of the main routes, you begin to realize that this is definitely the way to travel. No more road rage, honking, parking fines, countless hours wasted trying to find a spot on a weekend night--just pure, unadulterated, Metro-riding bliss.
So, whether it's your first time in the city, or you're a traffic-mastering local, you should definitely consider giving the Metro a chance. Not only is it infinitely less expensive, but you also get a chance to see the city in an entirely new perspective. And the frequent riders are actually very friendly and helpful. I've never met someone on the bus who wasn't eagerly willing to give me a few pointers on how to master my newfound friend.
The first time I took the Number 2 from Sunset and Ivar in Hollywood to Sunset and San Vicente in West Hollywood, I was the talk of Fiesta Cantina. No one could believe it! "You actually took the bus?!", they'd say, astonished. I had been renting a car for the first two weeks of my stay, but the price of gas and insurance fees ended up killing my bank account, so I was forced to go with another option. After an experiment with a $26 3-mile taxi ride, I bought my very first prepaid Weekly Metro Pass for a mere $17. That quickly proved to be the best seventeen bucks I had ever spent--the price of two mediocre cocktails at your average West Hollywood bar.
At first I was slightly dismayed. The timetables were confusing, and the routes were somewhat undependable during the late night hours. But after a while, I began to learn the ropes. If you have a little bit of patience and a little knowledge of the main routes, you begin to realize that this is definitely the way to travel. No more road rage, honking, parking fines, countless hours wasted trying to find a spot on a weekend night--just pure, unadulterated, Metro-riding bliss.
So, whether it's your first time in the city, or you're a traffic-mastering local, you should definitely consider giving the Metro a chance. Not only is it infinitely less expensive, but you also get a chance to see the city in an entirely new perspective. And the frequent riders are actually very friendly and helpful. I've never met someone on the bus who wasn't eagerly willing to give me a few pointers on how to master my newfound friend.
Leave Chris Crocker Alone!
I have spent many nights submerged in the fabulous gay culture of West Hollywood. Celebrity gossip abounds in that town. Chris Crocker, of YouTube fame, could be seen walking up and down Santa Monica Boulevard almost nightly with his porn star posse. It was most likely because he wasn't old enough to get into the clubs, but regardless, the talk of the town was that he was a drug dealer, hooker--you name it, he allegedly did it.
I had the unexpected privilege of chatting with Chris one night at a coffee shop on the corner of Santa Monica and Robertson. I was there by myself. The friend I had come with was lost with a trick he had met down the street at Rage. I immediately noticed Chris when he walked through the door--bleached blond hair, pale white makeup, outlandish threads, and a horribly sad look on his face. I sat down beside him after ordering my Blended Caramel Mocha and pretended not to notice who he was. I heard him mutter to himself, "Oh my God." Being the southern gentleman that my mother raised me to be, I immediately asked him what was wrong. He said he hated this place. I don't blame him. We're both from the South--a completely different world compared to where we were then conversing.
A couple weeks later I was at a party with one of Chris's friends, a porn star by the pseudonym Cameron Michaels. We had a pretty interesting conversation about Chris. Apparently, he had become bitter since he achieved his fame and signed deals for upcoming advertisement gigs and a reality show. Everyone pretended to hate him, even though they were probably just jealous that they never had a chance in the limelight.
Anyway, I can't get that image of his face out of my mind. Underneath all the makeup and hairspray, I could tell that he was this scared little country boy with no clue how to make it in such a cutthroat town. And that's exactly who he is--another Britney Spears, River Phoenix, or Janis Joplin. I have a new respect for those kinds of people who are thrown into the fiery pits of stardom. It really takes a toll on a person's soul, and personally, I will never pass judgment on anyone like that again. Because, you know what? We're all the same; just some of us are luckier than others.
I had the unexpected privilege of chatting with Chris one night at a coffee shop on the corner of Santa Monica and Robertson. I was there by myself. The friend I had come with was lost with a trick he had met down the street at Rage. I immediately noticed Chris when he walked through the door--bleached blond hair, pale white makeup, outlandish threads, and a horribly sad look on his face. I sat down beside him after ordering my Blended Caramel Mocha and pretended not to notice who he was. I heard him mutter to himself, "Oh my God." Being the southern gentleman that my mother raised me to be, I immediately asked him what was wrong. He said he hated this place. I don't blame him. We're both from the South--a completely different world compared to where we were then conversing.
A couple weeks later I was at a party with one of Chris's friends, a porn star by the pseudonym Cameron Michaels. We had a pretty interesting conversation about Chris. Apparently, he had become bitter since he achieved his fame and signed deals for upcoming advertisement gigs and a reality show. Everyone pretended to hate him, even though they were probably just jealous that they never had a chance in the limelight.
Anyway, I can't get that image of his face out of my mind. Underneath all the makeup and hairspray, I could tell that he was this scared little country boy with no clue how to make it in such a cutthroat town. And that's exactly who he is--another Britney Spears, River Phoenix, or Janis Joplin. I have a new respect for those kinds of people who are thrown into the fiery pits of stardom. It really takes a toll on a person's soul, and personally, I will never pass judgment on anyone like that again. Because, you know what? We're all the same; just some of us are luckier than others.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Joey
I've never written about this before. I've really never spoken much about it, either, except right after the initial shock.
Anyway, a good friend of mine committed suicide in December. We met a couple years ago at this little gay bar in Macon, Georgia. I remember he was standing by himself, dancing to some random 80s song that was playing on the jukebox. He didn't look like any of the other trendy fags there. He had crazy hair and a punk rocker outfit. He was very androgynous and obviously a little high. My kind of guy.
We ended up just being friends. I'm not sure why nothing ever happened between us. He made it well-known that he had feelings for me, but I just never reciprocated. Anyway, it was probably a good thing I didn't, because we ended up having a long friendship.
He was the kind of guy I could call up whenever I was lonely, any time of the night or day, and know that he would be eager to hang out with me. On several occasions I'd call him up, crying for some ridiculous reason, and half an hour later he'd be at my door in his pajamas and carrying a stack of cheesy ass movies. I'd always go to bed smiling.
Joey changed a lot in the last couple months. He had brain surgery and was in a lot of pain, which he masked with plenty of pharmaceuticals. The last time he came over, he confessed to me that he was becoming a woman. I'm not sure if it was the drugs talking, but he sincerely believed that he actually had female parts inside of him, and that it could someday be possible for him to bear children. I should have known that something wasn't right.
He called me several times during the last couple weeks of his life, wanting to hang out. But I had a full-time job and a brand new boyfriend, so I always made excuses about why I couldn't see him. He was also very sad. Who wants to hang out with someone depressing when they're living the high life?
Now I think I understand how he felt. And I HATE myself because of it. I should have been there for him. I want someone to be there for me now. But I understand why they're not knocking at my door or blowing up my phone, because I was the same damn way. Why are we like that? Why are we so fucking selfish?
Maybe it's karma. I know I deserve it. God, I miss him. I've had the urge to call him up so bad over the past few days. But then I remember that he's not going to pick up the phone.
Anyway, a good friend of mine committed suicide in December. We met a couple years ago at this little gay bar in Macon, Georgia. I remember he was standing by himself, dancing to some random 80s song that was playing on the jukebox. He didn't look like any of the other trendy fags there. He had crazy hair and a punk rocker outfit. He was very androgynous and obviously a little high. My kind of guy.
We ended up just being friends. I'm not sure why nothing ever happened between us. He made it well-known that he had feelings for me, but I just never reciprocated. Anyway, it was probably a good thing I didn't, because we ended up having a long friendship.
He was the kind of guy I could call up whenever I was lonely, any time of the night or day, and know that he would be eager to hang out with me. On several occasions I'd call him up, crying for some ridiculous reason, and half an hour later he'd be at my door in his pajamas and carrying a stack of cheesy ass movies. I'd always go to bed smiling.
Joey changed a lot in the last couple months. He had brain surgery and was in a lot of pain, which he masked with plenty of pharmaceuticals. The last time he came over, he confessed to me that he was becoming a woman. I'm not sure if it was the drugs talking, but he sincerely believed that he actually had female parts inside of him, and that it could someday be possible for him to bear children. I should have known that something wasn't right.
He called me several times during the last couple weeks of his life, wanting to hang out. But I had a full-time job and a brand new boyfriend, so I always made excuses about why I couldn't see him. He was also very sad. Who wants to hang out with someone depressing when they're living the high life?
Now I think I understand how he felt. And I HATE myself because of it. I should have been there for him. I want someone to be there for me now. But I understand why they're not knocking at my door or blowing up my phone, because I was the same damn way. Why are we like that? Why are we so fucking selfish?
Maybe it's karma. I know I deserve it. God, I miss him. I've had the urge to call him up so bad over the past few days. But then I remember that he's not going to pick up the phone.
Friday, August 1, 2008
And now for something a little different...
I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and and let them lead the way.
Just kidding.
No, seriously--I've decided to attempt a somewhat positive post. I know I've been seemingly negative lately, maybe even a bit morose. I'm really not that way all the time. When I'm out and about having fun, obviously, I don't feel the need to publish my feelings on the internet in hopes of being saved.
I had a sort of epiphany tonight, through the help of a dear friend's words and half of my father's Xanax:
Life is an experiment. No, I'm not spouting religiously. I mean, it's our own, individual laboratory project. We honestly have the potential to make whatever we want out of what we've been given. I don't believe there is a final product that some supreme being has designed for us to create. There is no plan, no path, no destiny. It's just us and time. Sure, we may be limited when it comes to our tools, genetics, and basic skills. But apart from that, anything is possible.
Let's just hope I'm still a proponent of this idea in the morning.
"Death without the possibility of changing the world is the same as a life that never was." -- Douglas Coupland, Eleanor Rigby (Great book. Read it.)
Just kidding.
No, seriously--I've decided to attempt a somewhat positive post. I know I've been seemingly negative lately, maybe even a bit morose. I'm really not that way all the time. When I'm out and about having fun, obviously, I don't feel the need to publish my feelings on the internet in hopes of being saved.
I had a sort of epiphany tonight, through the help of a dear friend's words and half of my father's Xanax:
Life is an experiment. No, I'm not spouting religiously. I mean, it's our own, individual laboratory project. We honestly have the potential to make whatever we want out of what we've been given. I don't believe there is a final product that some supreme being has designed for us to create. There is no plan, no path, no destiny. It's just us and time. Sure, we may be limited when it comes to our tools, genetics, and basic skills. But apart from that, anything is possible.
Let's just hope I'm still a proponent of this idea in the morning.
"Death without the possibility of changing the world is the same as a life that never was." -- Douglas Coupland, Eleanor Rigby (Great book. Read it.)
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