Tuesday, February 21, 2012
jennnn
"Your pantomime is hilarious," Jen said while I pretended to simultaneously shove two falic objects, that may or may not have been imaginary penises, into my eye socket. I love toilet humor like that. It's so juvenile and idiotic but pretending to take on a team of burly guys in my living room while Jen watches makes us laugh. Sure we had some social lubrication devices that aided in the humor we both found in this, but I'm pretty sure we were both sober when I lit my farts on fire for an hour. And I'm also pretty sure we share the comedic mentality of geeky middle school tom boys. While I can't resist laughing at a good fart, I do appreciate and practice good clean wit, and I love that Jen is on the same page.
We started to wind down after the miming. We usually do that. Laugh for a good hour or two and then take a breather with a few moments of serious talk, like how are you? Which really means how are you coping with the latest reason for your heavy heart.
We started to wind down after the miming. We usually do that. Laugh for a good hour or two and then take a breather with a few moments of serious talk, like how are you? Which really means how are you coping with the latest reason for your heavy heart.
white trash
You know your at a white trash bar when the Karaoke book is comprised of only white singers. I was at a dive bar in Kansas City last night and after hearing my third Kenny Rogers song, I decided I needed to show every one what a good song was. Unfortunately, I stick to singing songs sung by black artists, because lets face it, black people make better music, and the only black artist they had was Aretha Fraklin. They did have a "New Music" selection which was two pieces of paper filled with songs by Rihanna and Destineys Child. I didn't end up singing Kareoke but I did end up dancing like a hooker for a bunch of bar dwelling white men. I figured if I couldn't show everyone how to sing, I could show them how to dance.
Typically when I go Kareokeing, I wait until someone sings a song I can sing better, and then sing it right after them to assert my whimsical voice and also to make them feel terrible for not being as good as I am. It's pathetic I know, but it gets me by. I've been known to do this in many other aspects of my life, for instance, in painting classes I've always made it a point to befriend the worst artist in the class, in order to assure dominance. They always ask for my advice on how to exicute their piece of crap paintings and I always give it to them in a condecending way. "Maybe instead of painting with a brush you should try painting with your fingers, because you seem to have difficulty controlling the bristles. Finger painting is a highly respectable means of fine art." I might say while they obsorbe my awful advice and put it into practice.
Looking back on all the relationships I've had with lovers, it's safe to say that I do this romantically as well. I don't go for the put togeather guy with a job and no chemical dependancy issues. Instead I go for the guy who can't pay his rent, needs me, and drinks everyday to forget his past. For a long time I've wondered, "why do I attract these types of men?" in a self loathing, pittying way. I'm starting to accept that maybe it's because I'm an ass hole and need to be better than my lover, becuase competition is not really my strong suit. When I was 18 I was dating a 26 year old who lived in a cocain den. I moved in with him a week into our relatoinship, and I quickly became his mother and lover. He would cry sometimes about how big of a looser he was, and I would comfort him and coach him on how to become better, usually with one hand comforting his back and the other hand holding a glass filled with vodka and disolved sleeping pills. I knew it was hypocritical, but I was in college, there for on the right track, where as he was serving tables and chasing his dream of going back to hair school. As far as I was concerned I was way better off than him and he needed my help. It was fullfilling for a little while until I became an actual parent to him and began lecturing him while he puked up four pitchers of beer on our carpet I HAD JUST HAD STEAM CLEANED! It was unhealthy to say the least. I became addicted to taking care of him and pushing him to achieve his goals, thinking that if I could make him have aspirations, I would get them for myself to. Whet ended up happening was that I got sucked down into a heavy depresion and lost all aspiration and respect for myself, so much so, that I dropped out of college to take on the full time job of our relationship. I also began a pretty radical addiction to NyQuil night time cough syrup.
Typically when I go Kareokeing, I wait until someone sings a song I can sing better, and then sing it right after them to assert my whimsical voice and also to make them feel terrible for not being as good as I am. It's pathetic I know, but it gets me by. I've been known to do this in many other aspects of my life, for instance, in painting classes I've always made it a point to befriend the worst artist in the class, in order to assure dominance. They always ask for my advice on how to exicute their piece of crap paintings and I always give it to them in a condecending way. "Maybe instead of painting with a brush you should try painting with your fingers, because you seem to have difficulty controlling the bristles. Finger painting is a highly respectable means of fine art." I might say while they obsorbe my awful advice and put it into practice.
Looking back on all the relationships I've had with lovers, it's safe to say that I do this romantically as well. I don't go for the put togeather guy with a job and no chemical dependancy issues. Instead I go for the guy who can't pay his rent, needs me, and drinks everyday to forget his past. For a long time I've wondered, "why do I attract these types of men?" in a self loathing, pittying way. I'm starting to accept that maybe it's because I'm an ass hole and need to be better than my lover, becuase competition is not really my strong suit. When I was 18 I was dating a 26 year old who lived in a cocain den. I moved in with him a week into our relatoinship, and I quickly became his mother and lover. He would cry sometimes about how big of a looser he was, and I would comfort him and coach him on how to become better, usually with one hand comforting his back and the other hand holding a glass filled with vodka and disolved sleeping pills. I knew it was hypocritical, but I was in college, there for on the right track, where as he was serving tables and chasing his dream of going back to hair school. As far as I was concerned I was way better off than him and he needed my help. It was fullfilling for a little while until I became an actual parent to him and began lecturing him while he puked up four pitchers of beer on our carpet I HAD JUST HAD STEAM CLEANED! It was unhealthy to say the least. I became addicted to taking care of him and pushing him to achieve his goals, thinking that if I could make him have aspirations, I would get them for myself to. Whet ended up happening was that I got sucked down into a heavy depresion and lost all aspiration and respect for myself, so much so, that I dropped out of college to take on the full time job of our relationship. I also began a pretty radical addiction to NyQuil night time cough syrup.
My mother is the cheapest person in the world. After 8 years of saying, "I need new living room tables, these things are so old and ugly," she finally bought an end table last week. The table she bought was on clearance. It was on clearance because it had all but been run over with a semi and then dragged through a red paint factory by a string tied around a calf's tail. The look on my mothers face when she gets a good deal is parallel to the look she had when I graduated high school, or had my first art show. She lights up. I've always found this quality in her annoying as hell, an ugly quality that unknowingly has rubbed off on me.
I was on a date with a handsome man I met in my creative writing class named Topher. Topher was chubby in all the right places and thin in the important ones. His face was beautiful and I found myself lost in his 27 year old smokers laugh lines. Topher took me to an upscale steak house that charged eighteen bucks for two peices of iceberg lettuce smothered in blue cheese. I gasped so loud when I saw the price of a cocktail that the waiter rushed over to make sure there wasn't a pubic hair in my water, (which was two dollars because it was purified.) Normally I would have walked out upon seeing these prices and gone to Mc.Donalds instead, but since Topher was paying I ordered a 16 ounce steak, cheesy bacon gourmet potato wedges, a coke not water, and two pieces of iceberg lettuce. Our bill with tip was well over a hundred dollars, but that's one thing I've learned from my mom, if someone is going to pay; pretend that you are going to pay and then let them pay immediately after you reach for your wallet.
It wasn't until the food got to our table that I realized I was so full on free coke refills that the thought of cramming anything else in my mouth would result in vomit. That I learned from my father, the cheapest man in the world. When my father would take my brother and I out to dinner, he would ask the waitress for about a thousand refills before we begged him to stop. Half way through the demolition of my 30 dollar steak, I began to sweat like a pig, occasionally letting my head fall backward in pure food fatigue. Dinner conversation had been reduced to me grunting through a mouthful of steak and potatoes and my skin tight shirt was hugging my growing gut in a repulsive way. I was truly the image of a bad date.
"Ryan, you don't look like your having a good time, lets get a to go box and we could go watch a movie at my place." Truth be told, I was misserable, I was so full it hurt. But instead of taking Topher up on his offer, which probably would have lead to me getting laid, I opted to finish my meal. Letting a perfectly hot meal go to waist is a travesty akin to that of a global holocaust in my mind. Later that night, when eighty dollars worth of food was launching itself from my throat, I was forced to ask myself why at the age of 22, so I frequently eat so much I get sick? The answer was simple: food costs money, and if you waist food you might as well take money out of your pocket and throw it in the trash.
I was on a date with a handsome man I met in my creative writing class named Topher. Topher was chubby in all the right places and thin in the important ones. His face was beautiful and I found myself lost in his 27 year old smokers laugh lines. Topher took me to an upscale steak house that charged eighteen bucks for two peices of iceberg lettuce smothered in blue cheese. I gasped so loud when I saw the price of a cocktail that the waiter rushed over to make sure there wasn't a pubic hair in my water, (which was two dollars because it was purified.) Normally I would have walked out upon seeing these prices and gone to Mc.Donalds instead, but since Topher was paying I ordered a 16 ounce steak, cheesy bacon gourmet potato wedges, a coke not water, and two pieces of iceberg lettuce. Our bill with tip was well over a hundred dollars, but that's one thing I've learned from my mom, if someone is going to pay; pretend that you are going to pay and then let them pay immediately after you reach for your wallet.
It wasn't until the food got to our table that I realized I was so full on free coke refills that the thought of cramming anything else in my mouth would result in vomit. That I learned from my father, the cheapest man in the world. When my father would take my brother and I out to dinner, he would ask the waitress for about a thousand refills before we begged him to stop. Half way through the demolition of my 30 dollar steak, I began to sweat like a pig, occasionally letting my head fall backward in pure food fatigue. Dinner conversation had been reduced to me grunting through a mouthful of steak and potatoes and my skin tight shirt was hugging my growing gut in a repulsive way. I was truly the image of a bad date.
"Ryan, you don't look like your having a good time, lets get a to go box and we could go watch a movie at my place." Truth be told, I was misserable, I was so full it hurt. But instead of taking Topher up on his offer, which probably would have lead to me getting laid, I opted to finish my meal. Letting a perfectly hot meal go to waist is a travesty akin to that of a global holocaust in my mind. Later that night, when eighty dollars worth of food was launching itself from my throat, I was forced to ask myself why at the age of 22, so I frequently eat so much I get sick? The answer was simple: food costs money, and if you waist food you might as well take money out of your pocket and throw it in the trash.
Jen's been in Florida for almost a week teaching baby dolphins how to do math, and parasailing with German prostitutes, or at least that's what it sounded like she said when she called me, screaming, from the beach. I love Jen, so it's hard for me to hate her, but at that moment I could have crushed her skull with a mallet. Jealousy is dangerous, and I can't help but flirt with it. "Ryan, you need to get here, you're going to love it here, I'm taking you here when our lease is up." Jen has been promising me Florida for almost four years now. We came up with our Florida master plan a few years ago when she was going to peruse her dreams of starting her own publication. For me though, Florida was where I planned to become the drag queen I always wanted to be.
Thank God her car broke down and our move to Florida was postponed, because I was so dead set on being the next famous stand up comic in drag, that had it all worked out, my penis would be duck taped to my back hair right now. That's one thing I learned living with Star, being a tranny whore is a lot of work, in fact cross dressing in general is one of the most time consuming hobbies or lifestyles out there. Next to hoarding sand granules. Star used to spend hours injecting herself with hormones, taping her dick to her small intestinal track, and globing on make up; just to walk down the street and buy a pack of Dorels. As a man, Star was tall awkward, and ugly. As a woman, she was tall, awkward, and slutty. Men loved her.
I also learned that no matter how big of a bitch someone who is a transexual or a drag queen might be, they are always funny. For example; if I were to walk up to a woman and cup her breasts and then say, "Bitch your titties are saggy as shit," I would probably have a black eye at the least. But when Star did it to an overweight woman in the line of Dominik's grocery store, the woman just laughed and said, "I know! Do you know a good plastic surgeon because yours look great!" Star was the biggest bitch I've ever known, but I loved her because she was funny, and honestly if you took away the make up and the fake tits, she would have had the comedic impact of a bean sprout. Which is why, two years ago, I was planning to move to Florida with Jen to be a drag queen. I wanted the kind of power that allows you to verbally terrorize someone, but have them find it funny.
Don't get me wrong, I love being a man. I've seen the aftermath of Jen's herculean periods scattered around the house. Between the tampon and chocolate wrappers, I could probably build a car that is self sustaining on the melted down energy of plastic wrappers alone. I want no part in that. No part of me wants to be a woman. Instead of doing stand up in drag, I had to settle for stand up, not in drag, which as we all know, is not as funny. I started doing stand up at a comedy club in Kansas City called, Stanfords. My first bit I did was about the hilarity I found in getting tested for HIV, it killed. Apparently people find AIDS as funny as I do, which is weird because I don't find AIDS funny at all. I just like making something so terrible and sad funny.
Thank God her car broke down and our move to Florida was postponed, because I was so dead set on being the next famous stand up comic in drag, that had it all worked out, my penis would be duck taped to my back hair right now. That's one thing I learned living with Star, being a tranny whore is a lot of work, in fact cross dressing in general is one of the most time consuming hobbies or lifestyles out there. Next to hoarding sand granules. Star used to spend hours injecting herself with hormones, taping her dick to her small intestinal track, and globing on make up; just to walk down the street and buy a pack of Dorels. As a man, Star was tall awkward, and ugly. As a woman, she was tall, awkward, and slutty. Men loved her.
I also learned that no matter how big of a bitch someone who is a transexual or a drag queen might be, they are always funny. For example; if I were to walk up to a woman and cup her breasts and then say, "Bitch your titties are saggy as shit," I would probably have a black eye at the least. But when Star did it to an overweight woman in the line of Dominik's grocery store, the woman just laughed and said, "I know! Do you know a good plastic surgeon because yours look great!" Star was the biggest bitch I've ever known, but I loved her because she was funny, and honestly if you took away the make up and the fake tits, she would have had the comedic impact of a bean sprout. Which is why, two years ago, I was planning to move to Florida with Jen to be a drag queen. I wanted the kind of power that allows you to verbally terrorize someone, but have them find it funny.
Don't get me wrong, I love being a man. I've seen the aftermath of Jen's herculean periods scattered around the house. Between the tampon and chocolate wrappers, I could probably build a car that is self sustaining on the melted down energy of plastic wrappers alone. I want no part in that. No part of me wants to be a woman. Instead of doing stand up in drag, I had to settle for stand up, not in drag, which as we all know, is not as funny. I started doing stand up at a comedy club in Kansas City called, Stanfords. My first bit I did was about the hilarity I found in getting tested for HIV, it killed. Apparently people find AIDS as funny as I do, which is weird because I don't find AIDS funny at all. I just like making something so terrible and sad funny.
I've been preforming the lesbian limbo for about 10 days now with a boy named Tony, which means we've spent every waking moment together and all but searched for apartment listings near a nice school district to raise our adopted Chinese babies in. By day six he was kissing me the way I remember, long ago, being kissed by someone who loved me. I know he doesn't love me, but it's nice to touch like your in love. It's like cutting out the middle man and jumping straight to love making, without the hassle of getting to know someone.
Tony is not my type for many reasons, but mainly these: he is not an alcoholic, he is kind, he is gentle, and he is confident. I'm used to dating insecure alcoholics who do things like, put cigarettes out on my face, punch me at college parties and who wake up and say things like, "your hair looks like shit." I've been trying to date a nice guy for years, but the second I realize that they are not going to hit me or feed my eating disorder with insults, I freak out and run. What can I say, I love a challenge. But as time has flown by and I find myself a confident adult, I am not attracted to ass holes anymore. I am attracted to other confident men.
I once dated a nice guy named Wagner, and I hated him. He held doors open for me, and told me I had a beautiful voice. It was awful. It wasn't until he pushed me down a flight of stairs because his mother had woken up and he needed to hide me, that I became irrevocably and detrimentally attracted to him. Sometimes I look back at men like Wagner and gawk at my stupidity. I really thought I could change them, and after a lot of reflection I've decided I dated train wrecks because I was under the impression that no one would want me if they didn't need me. I don't know what it's like to be wanted.
Tony is not my type for many reasons, but mainly these: he is not an alcoholic, he is kind, he is gentle, and he is confident. I'm used to dating insecure alcoholics who do things like, put cigarettes out on my face, punch me at college parties and who wake up and say things like, "your hair looks like shit." I've been trying to date a nice guy for years, but the second I realize that they are not going to hit me or feed my eating disorder with insults, I freak out and run. What can I say, I love a challenge. But as time has flown by and I find myself a confident adult, I am not attracted to ass holes anymore. I am attracted to other confident men.
I once dated a nice guy named Wagner, and I hated him. He held doors open for me, and told me I had a beautiful voice. It was awful. It wasn't until he pushed me down a flight of stairs because his mother had woken up and he needed to hide me, that I became irrevocably and detrimentally attracted to him. Sometimes I look back at men like Wagner and gawk at my stupidity. I really thought I could change them, and after a lot of reflection I've decided I dated train wrecks because I was under the impression that no one would want me if they didn't need me. I don't know what it's like to be wanted.
After I told Kevin's Chemistry professors that I snort cocaine out of the compartment in my turquoise ring, as a means of making small talk, I realized I'm not very good at making a good first impression. Which is one of the reason's I hate meeting the parents and friends of who ever I'm dating because believe it or not, I haven't had the best luck in the past. I first met Cow's father at his home in the Lake of the Ozarks. His father was on dialysis for liver and kidney failure on account of his lifetime of alcoholism. Cow and I stayed for a few days in a tiny trailer outside of his fathers house, sitting, smoking and laughing at dark times in their family's past. Then I met his step mother; it took no time at all before she taught me how to inject vodka into a baby watermelon. They were nice people but had the solidarity of a dandelion in he blades of a tractor.
Meeting Cow's mother was one of the saddest things I've ever done.
Meeting Cow's mother was one of the saddest things I've ever done.
Jerrods story.
It was like when I was little and was convinced I had psychick powers. I would sit accross from someone and say, "i'm going to tell you with my mind a nuumber between 29 and 23523, and you have to say it." I would then contort my face, screaming a number in my head, making my eye balls wide open, so that they would understand what was in my head. Jered gave me that look that night, and I didn't know what he was saying. But I knew he was saying something profound.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
If I can't convince myself, maybe I'll convince you.
Three days after I wrote about how in love with Kevin I was, he decided he didn't want to love me anymore. I don't know what to say about it really. I'm devastated, that much I know. I put a lot of faith in that relationship, and I am stunned in a way that I cannot confront right now. It's weird to me how a broken heart can pause a person, de-root them, and change the trajectory of their life. I don't think most people are like that, but I am. For instance, five days after Kevin spit on my heart, I quit my job, gave notice to my roommates and booked a train ticket to San Fransisco. Like I said, I don't think most people would react that way, but I do and I did. I'm not sure what it says about me, but I figure I'll think about it on the 52 hour train ride from Chicago to San Francisco, which departs in less than 48 hours.
I know that while I love Chicago, I quickly found that I wasn't enjoying my time here as much as I thought I would. Perhaps it's because I transferred jobs to get here, a job that I hate so much it has made me cry like a baby, and that because I was doing the same thing here, not much changed. What did change was how I got to work. I walked a mile in the freezing cold to a bus stop where I waited for a bus, sometimes for half an hour; and then rode the bus for 20 minutes, got off and walked a half mile to my job that I hated. But that can't be it. That can't be the reason I was still as unhappy as I was in Kansas City. Then I thought, perhaps I haven't been happy because of my living situation. I have been living with 7 people and let me tell you if you at all require alone time (which I certainly do) living with 7 people destroys any sense of calm that home has for me, always provided.
That can't be it though, living with 7 people can't be the reason I'm unhappy here. I have been unhappy for a long time and I think it is because I have not accomplished anything big and I want so badly to accomplish something big. I want to be an author, I want to have art shows, I want to strip off my layers of artistic timidness within me and create something so heartfelt that people will cry as I have cried and that people will laugh as I have laughed. I thought Chicago was going to change that, I thought it was going to all happen at once and that I would accomplish all of my life goals instantly. What happened was I fell in love with someone who loved, for a short time, me harder than I have ever been loved. And that for me did change me. This city has not.
This city has taught me. It has taught me that walking 3 miles can be done in less than twenty minutes if you let your body take over and quite your mind. It taught me that strangers are not strangers at all and that you can share a laugh with someone next to you on a bus or someone you meet in passing waiting for a subway. I feel very connected to this city, it works as one and while there is crime, murder and an unfair amount of ill distributed wealth, at the end of the day as the sun sets behind the towers this city is whole and every person within it's walls is within them together. This city pushed my body harder than it has ever been pushed. The city taught me that there are so many people like me. People who are unsure, free, and searching and while I interact with those people I do not feel alone. This city has taught me that a city cannot change you it can just teach you, and that change is so fucking hard at times that it's easier and more tempting to not change, and to stagnate.
I think the allure of San Francisco for me is that I have no expectations for it. I can start over without the expectation of change or of love or of enlightenment. I do not regret moving here, I don't think I'll regret leaving either because I can accomplish anything I want, anywhere. It doesn't matter if it is in Chicago, California or a corn field in Kentucky, because I will always write and I will always create. I have so much work to do on myself, so much to figure out and accept and to forgive. When people tell me I ran away to Chicago they are right. I was running from those things within myself, running from the work I need to do to fulfill myself; and lets face it, not only is that type of work really terrifying, but I'm also really lazy. And while I know I am running away to California, I'm running there with the understanding that I am ready to confront myself in a way that I was not ready to do in Chicago, and that I'm on the verge.
All I can do at this point is be thankful for my time here, and hope to God it all works out. Isn't that what we're all doing in some way. Just hoping it all works out? Well if I've learned anything I've learned that hope and hard work fit into a suit case easily and you can carry them with you across the world.
I'm going to carry my hope accross the continent.
I know that while I love Chicago, I quickly found that I wasn't enjoying my time here as much as I thought I would. Perhaps it's because I transferred jobs to get here, a job that I hate so much it has made me cry like a baby, and that because I was doing the same thing here, not much changed. What did change was how I got to work. I walked a mile in the freezing cold to a bus stop where I waited for a bus, sometimes for half an hour; and then rode the bus for 20 minutes, got off and walked a half mile to my job that I hated. But that can't be it. That can't be the reason I was still as unhappy as I was in Kansas City. Then I thought, perhaps I haven't been happy because of my living situation. I have been living with 7 people and let me tell you if you at all require alone time (which I certainly do) living with 7 people destroys any sense of calm that home has for me, always provided.
That can't be it though, living with 7 people can't be the reason I'm unhappy here. I have been unhappy for a long time and I think it is because I have not accomplished anything big and I want so badly to accomplish something big. I want to be an author, I want to have art shows, I want to strip off my layers of artistic timidness within me and create something so heartfelt that people will cry as I have cried and that people will laugh as I have laughed. I thought Chicago was going to change that, I thought it was going to all happen at once and that I would accomplish all of my life goals instantly. What happened was I fell in love with someone who loved, for a short time, me harder than I have ever been loved. And that for me did change me. This city has not.
This city has taught me. It has taught me that walking 3 miles can be done in less than twenty minutes if you let your body take over and quite your mind. It taught me that strangers are not strangers at all and that you can share a laugh with someone next to you on a bus or someone you meet in passing waiting for a subway. I feel very connected to this city, it works as one and while there is crime, murder and an unfair amount of ill distributed wealth, at the end of the day as the sun sets behind the towers this city is whole and every person within it's walls is within them together. This city pushed my body harder than it has ever been pushed. The city taught me that there are so many people like me. People who are unsure, free, and searching and while I interact with those people I do not feel alone. This city has taught me that a city cannot change you it can just teach you, and that change is so fucking hard at times that it's easier and more tempting to not change, and to stagnate.
I think the allure of San Francisco for me is that I have no expectations for it. I can start over without the expectation of change or of love or of enlightenment. I do not regret moving here, I don't think I'll regret leaving either because I can accomplish anything I want, anywhere. It doesn't matter if it is in Chicago, California or a corn field in Kentucky, because I will always write and I will always create. I have so much work to do on myself, so much to figure out and accept and to forgive. When people tell me I ran away to Chicago they are right. I was running from those things within myself, running from the work I need to do to fulfill myself; and lets face it, not only is that type of work really terrifying, but I'm also really lazy. And while I know I am running away to California, I'm running there with the understanding that I am ready to confront myself in a way that I was not ready to do in Chicago, and that I'm on the verge.
All I can do at this point is be thankful for my time here, and hope to God it all works out. Isn't that what we're all doing in some way. Just hoping it all works out? Well if I've learned anything I've learned that hope and hard work fit into a suit case easily and you can carry them with you across the world.
I'm going to carry my hope accross the continent.
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