Hello all,
I was woken up by text from Fuckhead this morning. I called him in a last ditch effort to talk about the letter he was sending me.
No letter.
I found out through a text as well that he wrote it but did not send the letter (insert sigh and eye roll.....now). But in his defense, he's VERY busy with work and whatnot. Like I give a flying donkey dick how busy he is. The nerve. Since when did he start listening to me? He has the most selective hearing I have ever been encountered. It's like the opportunists guide to listening- hear what ever works for you.
I would still like to know what he wanted to tell me. It was important enough for him to contact me, which I explicitly told him not to do, so it must be something. I really can't deal with the waiting and the inconsistency. It's enough to make me scream. I already need to take Tylenol PM to go to sleep at night, yes that's right-NEED. I really don't need anymore headaches from the one person who systematically ruined the life that I had been planning when things have been going so well for me.
True, I have not had a successful personal life since I was left at the intersection of Virginia and NY, but it's baby steps. Baby steps to not sucking so much. Baby steps to moving out of the house. Baby steps to being the most awesome I can be. Baby steps.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
I've Been Craigslisted Vol. IV
Hello All,
I swear to God I don’t ask for this, but I’ve been craigslisted again! In my defense I just bought new clothes for work, so I was bound to be accosted because of my superstore hotness.
He came through my lane about 2 hours before my shift was over, I could tell he was interested because of the unyielding eye contact. He was a bit more stout than the usual guy I’d notice but he had a nice wallet, on which I commented, and as I bid him a good day he made sure to grab both of my hands and linger as I handed him his bag of malted milk balls, seriously. I think somewhere there’s a code of retail non-verbal advances, the lingering hand grab as you hand them their purchase is one of the basics. On one hand it’s nice to get a little human contact; on the other it’s a little creepy.
Well, when I came home and hopped on Craigslist for my daily dose of local desperation I saw someone desperate for me:
You were a cutie working a register. You commented on my wallet. I was trying not to say anything to bold. I think it would be nice to chat with you. Maybe ask you out on a date. If your reading this hit me up and let me know your name. I made it a point to remember it. This all happened around 4pm on Monday (Memorial Day) I look forward to hear from you.
Since I couldn’t remember what he looked like exactly, I didn’t see his lower half, and he mentioned the word “date” and not "NSA B.J." or “Handy-J” I decided to see what would happen(Handy-J is one of my favorite words on the whole planet-it always makes me smile) . I responded to the message, and through a complex series of email tag, I planned for us to take my dog for a walk around the municipal center blocks away from work. Worst case scenario, we could talk about how freakin’ cute my dog is and “Oh my Gosh! It’s getting so late! I need to go home and get my dog some water!”
As I pulled up, I saw him in a burgundy pick-up truck and thought, “Huh, truck. Well, he’s either a rugged outdoors man or a little white-trashy.” The latter was true. At work I saw him in his work out clothes so I didn’t necessarily judge him on what he was wearing, but as I stepped out of my car I got the full effect of the ribbed Tommy Hilfiger V-neck T-shirt, jean shorts (don’t get me started), and tennis shoes with black cropped socks, he was also a good deal heavier and older than what I had envisioned. “Are you fuckin’ kidin’ me,” I said under my breath. No, this was real.
We walked and talked for a few hours. He was very nice and polite and I reciprocated the pleasantries. We talked about jobs, school (or lack of, in his case), hobbies and past relationships. He was very talkative and I like talking about me, so we got along just fine. I found out that he’s a flight attendant who stopped playing the trumpet his senior year of high school, went to college for 2 years, and commonly did background checks on his personal friends because of his trust issues. Where the hell do I find these people? Oh, that’s right, Craigslist and a superstore……I actually should have expected this.
As the evening shade disappeared, he invited me and Graham to come back to his house he shared with a female flight attendant to play cards. He gave me and Graham bottled water, “No really, tap water if fine,” I said. He said that it was not fine and he would never offer a guest tap water.
We played a hand of Phase 10 and Skip-Bo. I informed him that these were not real “cards”, I think he thought that this made me sound a little more hard core than what I really am, but oh well. He made sure that I texted him that I got home safely, which was nice but a little much for a person I met a few hours prior, but I obliged.
He emailed me the day after to say that he had a nice time and it was then that I informed him that I wasn’t interested in a romantic relationship but I also had a nice time. He told me that even though I am a “cute guy” he wasn’t interested in me either. WTF?!?!!? I’m a catch! He should be knocking down my door for a piece of this action! Scoff!
I think I could sooner find a way to transfigure Graham into a dateable hottie than get hit on by Mr. Right. Just think about it, Graham and I already sleep together every night, he has very muscular thighs from jumping up stairs, and he is never going to lose that thick black hair. There’s chemistry there, real chemistry.
I swear to God I don’t ask for this, but I’ve been craigslisted again! In my defense I just bought new clothes for work, so I was bound to be accosted because of my superstore hotness.
He came through my lane about 2 hours before my shift was over, I could tell he was interested because of the unyielding eye contact. He was a bit more stout than the usual guy I’d notice but he had a nice wallet, on which I commented, and as I bid him a good day he made sure to grab both of my hands and linger as I handed him his bag of malted milk balls, seriously. I think somewhere there’s a code of retail non-verbal advances, the lingering hand grab as you hand them their purchase is one of the basics. On one hand it’s nice to get a little human contact; on the other it’s a little creepy.
Well, when I came home and hopped on Craigslist for my daily dose of local desperation I saw someone desperate for me:
You were a cutie working a register. You commented on my wallet. I was trying not to say anything to bold. I think it would be nice to chat with you. Maybe ask you out on a date. If your reading this hit me up and let me know your name. I made it a point to remember it. This all happened around 4pm on Monday (Memorial Day) I look forward to hear from you.
Since I couldn’t remember what he looked like exactly, I didn’t see his lower half, and he mentioned the word “date” and not "NSA B.J." or “Handy-J” I decided to see what would happen(Handy-J is one of my favorite words on the whole planet-it always makes me smile) . I responded to the message, and through a complex series of email tag, I planned for us to take my dog for a walk around the municipal center blocks away from work. Worst case scenario, we could talk about how freakin’ cute my dog is and “Oh my Gosh! It’s getting so late! I need to go home and get my dog some water!”
As I pulled up, I saw him in a burgundy pick-up truck and thought, “Huh, truck. Well, he’s either a rugged outdoors man or a little white-trashy.” The latter was true. At work I saw him in his work out clothes so I didn’t necessarily judge him on what he was wearing, but as I stepped out of my car I got the full effect of the ribbed Tommy Hilfiger V-neck T-shirt, jean shorts (don’t get me started), and tennis shoes with black cropped socks, he was also a good deal heavier and older than what I had envisioned. “Are you fuckin’ kidin’ me,” I said under my breath. No, this was real.
We walked and talked for a few hours. He was very nice and polite and I reciprocated the pleasantries. We talked about jobs, school (or lack of, in his case), hobbies and past relationships. He was very talkative and I like talking about me, so we got along just fine. I found out that he’s a flight attendant who stopped playing the trumpet his senior year of high school, went to college for 2 years, and commonly did background checks on his personal friends because of his trust issues. Where the hell do I find these people? Oh, that’s right, Craigslist and a superstore……I actually should have expected this.
As the evening shade disappeared, he invited me and Graham to come back to his house he shared with a female flight attendant to play cards. He gave me and Graham bottled water, “No really, tap water if fine,” I said. He said that it was not fine and he would never offer a guest tap water.
We played a hand of Phase 10 and Skip-Bo. I informed him that these were not real “cards”, I think he thought that this made me sound a little more hard core than what I really am, but oh well. He made sure that I texted him that I got home safely, which was nice but a little much for a person I met a few hours prior, but I obliged.
He emailed me the day after to say that he had a nice time and it was then that I informed him that I wasn’t interested in a romantic relationship but I also had a nice time. He told me that even though I am a “cute guy” he wasn’t interested in me either. WTF?!?!!? I’m a catch! He should be knocking down my door for a piece of this action! Scoff!
I think I could sooner find a way to transfigure Graham into a dateable hottie than get hit on by Mr. Right. Just think about it, Graham and I already sleep together every night, he has very muscular thighs from jumping up stairs, and he is never going to lose that thick black hair. There’s chemistry there, real chemistry.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Taking It from Behind in Stride
Hello all,
After all the tumultuous dealings over the last few months, I did not need something else to add to the plate, but as my father said, "If we had luck, it'd be no luck." I don't fully understand that because if you had no luck you wouldn't have luck to begin with, but it sounds like it makes sense to him. My dad has many funny sayings, most of which are replacements for "Omigod!", such as "Goodnight!", "Merry Christmas!", and my favorite "Ho Chi Min!" Although my dad absorbs a lot from TV and movies, he is not a worldly man. Most of his pop cultural idioms come from the 1950's and he feels very "slick" saying them. I won't burst his bubble and tell him that Ho Chi Min is actually a Vietnamese communist leader.
But I digress. On the way to work a few days ago I was in heavy traffic and rear-ended by a Jeep Compass. Only my car was really damaged, and the other driver's insurance is paying for it all. I knew it wasn't my fault when it happened but the second after I was hit I yelled, "MOTHER FUCKER!" After all of the reserved, "Ho Chi Min"s and "Goodnight"s it felt so good to exclaim a real reaction. Say it now, "M-O-T-H-E-R F-U-C-K-E-R." Feels good, right? I knew it.
Since life is cyclical, "piss-on-your-leg"-type of joke, I have naturally had a resurgence of gentlemen callers. Scrooge didn't have it so bad.
Mr. C, the guy from Chicago, called me and told me that he had been thinking about me and wanted to know what I was doing. The last time we had talked his long term goals were for us to go camping at a gay campground in southern Indiana. There are so many things wrong with that sentence I don't have the time to explain to you why it wouldn't have worked out. He was instead going with his friends and wanted me to know that he was thinking about me.
Whoopty-freakin'-do. I'm sure he was. Not to sound too full of myself but I'm the cutest guy who ever pretended that he had a chance in hell with him. At the end of our conversation he said that I shouldn't be a stranger and to feel free to give him a call sometime. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I was surprised that his number was still in my phone and I just said, "Ditto, bye!" and hung up.
The older gentleman who craigslisted me texted me today, prefacing his message with, "I'm not expecting a response, but I just thought I'd tell you that my new puppy hasn't gone potty in the house in 3 days." sigh.
This is who I attract. Desperate outdoorsmen and hypersensitive dog-owners. Lucky me. Lucky fuckin' me.
And last, but certainly not least, I got a text from Fuckhead today. Why? Why why why why why? It read, "I am mailing you something. You should get it by Thursday." I responded, "Why and what?" I didn't want to answer at first, I have been doing awesomely with my steps toward a life less failed and have been looking forward to not thinking about him everyday. But as SSSomeone told me, that's when they find you.
"I need to and it's a letter" he responded. I was driving home from work at this point and would have texted him but with my current driving situation I decided to brave the possibilities and call him instead. And by call him I of course mean yell at his voicemail, for he never answers....ballless sack o' crap. My message sounded something like this:
"Letter? A letter. Save your God damn postage! That letter's about 6 months too late! I don't care what you have to say! I don't want to know ANYTHING about you. If you need to write a letter to me to get things off your chest; write it and then throw it away! Just throw it away! Arg! ....bye."
Letter.....a fucking letter! Piss me off, mother fucker and your mother fucking letter! HO CHI MIN!!! I will of course keep you posted when it comes.
After all the tumultuous dealings over the last few months, I did not need something else to add to the plate, but as my father said, "If we had luck, it'd be no luck." I don't fully understand that because if you had no luck you wouldn't have luck to begin with, but it sounds like it makes sense to him. My dad has many funny sayings, most of which are replacements for "Omigod!", such as "Goodnight!", "Merry Christmas!", and my favorite "Ho Chi Min!" Although my dad absorbs a lot from TV and movies, he is not a worldly man. Most of his pop cultural idioms come from the 1950's and he feels very "slick" saying them. I won't burst his bubble and tell him that Ho Chi Min is actually a Vietnamese communist leader.
But I digress. On the way to work a few days ago I was in heavy traffic and rear-ended by a Jeep Compass. Only my car was really damaged, and the other driver's insurance is paying for it all. I knew it wasn't my fault when it happened but the second after I was hit I yelled, "MOTHER FUCKER!" After all of the reserved, "Ho Chi Min"s and "Goodnight"s it felt so good to exclaim a real reaction. Say it now, "M-O-T-H-E-R F-U-C-K-E-R." Feels good, right? I knew it.
Since life is cyclical, "piss-on-your-leg"-type of joke, I have naturally had a resurgence of gentlemen callers. Scrooge didn't have it so bad.
Mr. C, the guy from Chicago, called me and told me that he had been thinking about me and wanted to know what I was doing. The last time we had talked his long term goals were for us to go camping at a gay campground in southern Indiana. There are so many things wrong with that sentence I don't have the time to explain to you why it wouldn't have worked out. He was instead going with his friends and wanted me to know that he was thinking about me.
Whoopty-freakin'-do. I'm sure he was. Not to sound too full of myself but I'm the cutest guy who ever pretended that he had a chance in hell with him. At the end of our conversation he said that I shouldn't be a stranger and to feel free to give him a call sometime. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I was surprised that his number was still in my phone and I just said, "Ditto, bye!" and hung up.
The older gentleman who craigslisted me texted me today, prefacing his message with, "I'm not expecting a response, but I just thought I'd tell you that my new puppy hasn't gone potty in the house in 3 days." sigh.
This is who I attract. Desperate outdoorsmen and hypersensitive dog-owners. Lucky me. Lucky fuckin' me.
And last, but certainly not least, I got a text from Fuckhead today. Why? Why why why why why? It read, "I am mailing you something. You should get it by Thursday." I responded, "Why and what?" I didn't want to answer at first, I have been doing awesomely with my steps toward a life less failed and have been looking forward to not thinking about him everyday. But as SSSomeone told me, that's when they find you.
"I need to and it's a letter" he responded. I was driving home from work at this point and would have texted him but with my current driving situation I decided to brave the possibilities and call him instead. And by call him I of course mean yell at his voicemail, for he never answers....ballless sack o' crap. My message sounded something like this:
"Letter? A letter. Save your God damn postage! That letter's about 6 months too late! I don't care what you have to say! I don't want to know ANYTHING about you. If you need to write a letter to me to get things off your chest; write it and then throw it away! Just throw it away! Arg! ....bye."
Letter.....a fucking letter! Piss me off, mother fucker and your mother fucking letter! HO CHI MIN!!! I will of course keep you posted when it comes.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Behind the Scenes Vol. III
Hello all,
Weeks ago, I was told by my public defender that I was not going to be going beck to jail and that everything was blown way out of proportion. She was very apologetic and encouraging. She put together my guilty plea- community service, MADD seminar, random drug tests, probationary license. It all seemed pretty reasonable, but just to hear I wouldn't be going back to jail was good enough for me.
I was also told by her that the most tedious part of today would be the waiting to met with a probation officer and I decided what I should bring to occupy myself. I initially thought iPod, but I didn't want to get it stolen by all the hoods. So naturally, I brought a book.
With a book you don't even need to be reading it and you already seem better than the people around you. "Look at him. He has a book. He must be a smart person," I hear them say. But what book?
I'm reading Russel Brand's My Booky Wook: A Memoir of Sex, Drugs and Stand-up. I decided not to bring that one because, well just think about it: I was going to a trail about abuse of alcohol. How bad would I look? So that also ruled out my second choice, Are You There Vodka, It's Me Chelsea? I settled with a book that I've been reading for the last 4 years but have only really read the bulk of in the last few months. It has nothing to do with sex, drugs, or alcohol.
Anyways, today was pretty standard. The judge did my case with a man who was 40 years older than I to save time. I liked her fast pace nature, she was a different one than the one who incarcerated me. Bitch. With this being my last and final appearance in court dealing with this whole mess I have learned one thing. There needs to be more lawyer related dramas on TV. I was the only one there in a shirt and tie! I even slicked back my hair! Everyone else was wearing jeans and Indy race car shirts. No one knew how to dress for court. I mean really, why not break the mold and not come in like the person you were convicted as. Did I come in with a wrinkled button down and vomit and vodka on my breath? No.
Weeks ago, I was told by my public defender that I was not going to be going beck to jail and that everything was blown way out of proportion. She was very apologetic and encouraging. She put together my guilty plea- community service, MADD seminar, random drug tests, probationary license. It all seemed pretty reasonable, but just to hear I wouldn't be going back to jail was good enough for me.
I was also told by her that the most tedious part of today would be the waiting to met with a probation officer and I decided what I should bring to occupy myself. I initially thought iPod, but I didn't want to get it stolen by all the hoods. So naturally, I brought a book.
With a book you don't even need to be reading it and you already seem better than the people around you. "Look at him. He has a book. He must be a smart person," I hear them say. But what book?
I'm reading Russel Brand's My Booky Wook: A Memoir of Sex, Drugs and Stand-up. I decided not to bring that one because, well just think about it: I was going to a trail about abuse of alcohol. How bad would I look? So that also ruled out my second choice, Are You There Vodka, It's Me Chelsea? I settled with a book that I've been reading for the last 4 years but have only really read the bulk of in the last few months. It has nothing to do with sex, drugs, or alcohol.
Anyways, today was pretty standard. The judge did my case with a man who was 40 years older than I to save time. I liked her fast pace nature, she was a different one than the one who incarcerated me. Bitch. With this being my last and final appearance in court dealing with this whole mess I have learned one thing. There needs to be more lawyer related dramas on TV. I was the only one there in a shirt and tie! I even slicked back my hair! Everyone else was wearing jeans and Indy race car shirts. No one knew how to dress for court. I mean really, why not break the mold and not come in like the person you were convicted as. Did I come in with a wrinkled button down and vomit and vodka on my breath? No.
Behind the Scenes Vol. II
Hello all,
- A month passed until I was due back at court. Even though, all of my friends told me I wasn't going to jail, I still though that I'd wear nice, functional underwear just in case.
-I showed up at the court house with Dad in tow and when I went to the clerks office they told me that I was due a month ago and the poor handwriting on my court date was wrong and that there was a warrant out for my arrest and I wasn't notified. WHAT THE FUCK.
-Drama, drama, kick-ball-change. I cried so hard in front of so many strangers. The judge was a bee-otch and said that I probably changed the date on my court date ticket myself. My public defenders were completely offended by the judge but before you know it I was in a chain gang and orange jump suit and on my merry way to jail through a spooky underground tunnel. Fucked up are the words you are looking for, FUCKED THE FUCK UP.
-More government issue bologna sandwiches, I lost some weight, yay.
-I met a football player from the CFL. I pretended to know what that was until he spelled it out for me. Canadian Football League. He was a very tall, muscular, and handsome black man but the only response I had to him was "Huh, they have football up there? Gee, I bet it's cold. Do they have a gym you use here?" We didn't talk for long.
-Total I was only in my cell for about 30 seconds. Honestly, only 30 seconds. The getting there, signing up, and waiting takes the longest. I knew I had my Dad paying for my bond on the outside, so right when I got in there the bond was posted and I immediately was sent back out.
-The actual jail block was not so bad. 2 stories, open balcony, showers, phone, workout equipment, and you share your cell with one other person at night. Very intimate. With the right person it could be a very romantic detox center.
-When you leave jail, they just trow you out on the street. I had no idea where I was. Luckily enough Dad was there circling the block waiting for me. How nice is that?
-And just to recap, I was in jail for 30 seconds because of some fat cop's poor handwriting. WTF?
More to come.
- A month passed until I was due back at court. Even though, all of my friends told me I wasn't going to jail, I still though that I'd wear nice, functional underwear just in case.
-I showed up at the court house with Dad in tow and when I went to the clerks office they told me that I was due a month ago and the poor handwriting on my court date was wrong and that there was a warrant out for my arrest and I wasn't notified. WHAT THE FUCK.
-Drama, drama, kick-ball-change. I cried so hard in front of so many strangers. The judge was a bee-otch and said that I probably changed the date on my court date ticket myself. My public defenders were completely offended by the judge but before you know it I was in a chain gang and orange jump suit and on my merry way to jail through a spooky underground tunnel. Fucked up are the words you are looking for, FUCKED THE FUCK UP.
-More government issue bologna sandwiches, I lost some weight, yay.
-I met a football player from the CFL. I pretended to know what that was until he spelled it out for me. Canadian Football League. He was a very tall, muscular, and handsome black man but the only response I had to him was "Huh, they have football up there? Gee, I bet it's cold. Do they have a gym you use here?" We didn't talk for long.
-Total I was only in my cell for about 30 seconds. Honestly, only 30 seconds. The getting there, signing up, and waiting takes the longest. I knew I had my Dad paying for my bond on the outside, so right when I got in there the bond was posted and I immediately was sent back out.
-The actual jail block was not so bad. 2 stories, open balcony, showers, phone, workout equipment, and you share your cell with one other person at night. Very intimate. With the right person it could be a very romantic detox center.
-When you leave jail, they just trow you out on the street. I had no idea where I was. Luckily enough Dad was there circling the block waiting for me. How nice is that?
-And just to recap, I was in jail for 30 seconds because of some fat cop's poor handwriting. WTF?
More to come.
Behind the Scenes Vol. I
Hello all,
Due to an inconvenient facebook faux pas on my part I will now tell what the who-ha-dilly-yo has been going on behind the scenes of my mildly entertaining blogs. There are many facets that can be added to this to make it far more interesting but I probably perform them better live and in hindsight they were much more dramatic as it was happening. I will now break it down fo' you in bullet points.
-On Valentine's day I went out by myself, as I had been doing, and decided to get myself a quality lay for a nice change of pace. Well, after a few drinks I met a hot blonde guy, we exchanged some pleasantries in the bathroom stall, and decided to go to another bar.
-That is were my memory cuts out. As from what I can piece together from text messages and snapshots of cognitive thinking; I had many drinks bought for me, I made out with some guy who looked like a Beetle that I think I worked with at the Gap, and I had many condoms and phone numbers stuffed in my pocket.
-Police lights.....failed sobriety......handcuffs......nice chat with a female police officer. You get the picture.
-I was taken to the processing center where I had no clue on how to communicate to the outside world, no one knew where I was; my parents thought that I was spending the night with whomever I met the night before, which is very progressive of them.
-In a suit vest, tie, and tight jeans I did not fit the bill of the average abusive heroin fiend, so I got many a quizzical stares. Luckily enough I befriended the only other gay person there. He was a skinny twink, probably weighed about a buck thirty. He was moving home to Chicago the next week, had a vague history with a gay pornography site that never produced his video or pictures, and a fetish for beefy cops, of which there were plenty. After the first couple of hours we parted ways.
-After that I was grouped in cells with kids of my alma mater and similar levels of grammar, sent to the judge where I received a court date in poor handwriting and eventually given back my belongings (2 pockets worth of Mardi Gras beads and condoms) and thrown back on our capital's streets.
-Oddly enough no one in my company could legally drive but I was the only one who didn't have his car towed so I got us home. The last boy on my stop lives 2 miles away from me and his brother dated on of my high school friends. Small world. He was very handsome and had just started classes to become a skin specialist for Aveda. He was not gay, let me repeat, not gay. We had a long time to talk, so eventually I had to have the whole "I'm gay and my life is pretty normal" talk with him. He said that he didn't know any gay people. Seriously.....seriously? You're in Aveda skin care school and you don't know any gay people? He said that I seemed pretty cool and that he was lucky he was the only boy with all the girls in class because the odds were in his favor for "hittin' that". Straight.
-I eventually made it home where I showered the smell of government issue bologna sandwiches and the lower class immediately off of me. I fell in to my Mom's arms and cried like a freakin' baby, did the same thing to Dad the next day. They've been very great and supportive throughout the whole thing.
More to come.
Due to an inconvenient facebook faux pas on my part I will now tell what the who-ha-dilly-yo has been going on behind the scenes of my mildly entertaining blogs. There are many facets that can be added to this to make it far more interesting but I probably perform them better live and in hindsight they were much more dramatic as it was happening. I will now break it down fo' you in bullet points.
-On Valentine's day I went out by myself, as I had been doing, and decided to get myself a quality lay for a nice change of pace. Well, after a few drinks I met a hot blonde guy, we exchanged some pleasantries in the bathroom stall, and decided to go to another bar.
-That is were my memory cuts out. As from what I can piece together from text messages and snapshots of cognitive thinking; I had many drinks bought for me, I made out with some guy who looked like a Beetle that I think I worked with at the Gap, and I had many condoms and phone numbers stuffed in my pocket.
-Police lights.....failed sobriety......handcuffs......nice chat with a female police officer. You get the picture.
-I was taken to the processing center where I had no clue on how to communicate to the outside world, no one knew where I was; my parents thought that I was spending the night with whomever I met the night before, which is very progressive of them.
-In a suit vest, tie, and tight jeans I did not fit the bill of the average abusive heroin fiend, so I got many a quizzical stares. Luckily enough I befriended the only other gay person there. He was a skinny twink, probably weighed about a buck thirty. He was moving home to Chicago the next week, had a vague history with a gay pornography site that never produced his video or pictures, and a fetish for beefy cops, of which there were plenty. After the first couple of hours we parted ways.
-After that I was grouped in cells with kids of my alma mater and similar levels of grammar, sent to the judge where I received a court date in poor handwriting and eventually given back my belongings (2 pockets worth of Mardi Gras beads and condoms) and thrown back on our capital's streets.
-Oddly enough no one in my company could legally drive but I was the only one who didn't have his car towed so I got us home. The last boy on my stop lives 2 miles away from me and his brother dated on of my high school friends. Small world. He was very handsome and had just started classes to become a skin specialist for Aveda. He was not gay, let me repeat, not gay. We had a long time to talk, so eventually I had to have the whole "I'm gay and my life is pretty normal" talk with him. He said that he didn't know any gay people. Seriously.....seriously? You're in Aveda skin care school and you don't know any gay people? He said that I seemed pretty cool and that he was lucky he was the only boy with all the girls in class because the odds were in his favor for "hittin' that". Straight.
-I eventually made it home where I showered the smell of government issue bologna sandwiches and the lower class immediately off of me. I fell in to my Mom's arms and cried like a freakin' baby, did the same thing to Dad the next day. They've been very great and supportive throughout the whole thing.
More to come.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
The Rabbit Hole
Hello all,
I’ve always thought that I should write a book. I’ve had many friends tell me, “Oh Noah, if you ever write a book, I would so buy it.” Like at least 7-10 people, maybe more. That’s a lot. Think about it. How many of your friends have asked you to write a book? Probably not that many.
If 7-10 people buy my book, plus the additional randoms that would buy it after they see me on Oprah, that’s totally enough people for a publishing company to publish my book. There are so many bull shit books out there that no one ever buys, just think; you’re reading this blog chances are if you’re gonna read this blog-you’re gonna buy my book. And that’s like what…..3ish more people. And total that’s like 10-13 plus or minus 500,000,000 people or however many people buy what Oprah tells them.
I should so write a book. My parents would buy 10 copies or so, sure the book would be sprinkled with fuck this and shit that, but they’d still buy it. They’re pretty supportive people. They only wouldn’t be supportive if I got into porn. I mean, I’m in the performing arts so it’s definitely on the list…..but it’s pretty far down.
Anyways, for years now I’ve been thinking of what the title of my book should be and it finally came to me. The Rabbit Hole. It’s good, right? Sure, at first glance you might think, bunny asshole, but after the first couple pages or at least the cover art you wouldn’t think of the external sphincter of the Easter Bunny. With my family’s involvement in the rabbit biz, Fuckhead’s obsession with Alice in Wonderland, and my slip away from my personal goals into what has now become my daily life; I think it makes a lot of sense. It’s catchy, right? I think so. Ooh, also The Matrix. Remember in The Matrix where Morpheus asks Neo about the red or the blue pill and asks if he wants to go further down the rabbit hole? There are references are endless. It also sounds like the name of a dive bar in some hick-town. I can see it. The Rabbit Hole.
Sure, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Noah, you don’t even like the rabbits! Aren’t you allergic to them? Don’t they smell? Aren’t they less affectionate than iguanas wearing mink stoles?” Yes of course, but it’s called irony. That’s what’s going to make my book sell like hotcakes.
I’ve always thought that I should write a book. I’ve had many friends tell me, “Oh Noah, if you ever write a book, I would so buy it.” Like at least 7-10 people, maybe more. That’s a lot. Think about it. How many of your friends have asked you to write a book? Probably not that many.
If 7-10 people buy my book, plus the additional randoms that would buy it after they see me on Oprah, that’s totally enough people for a publishing company to publish my book. There are so many bull shit books out there that no one ever buys, just think; you’re reading this blog chances are if you’re gonna read this blog-you’re gonna buy my book. And that’s like what…..3ish more people. And total that’s like 10-13 plus or minus 500,000,000 people or however many people buy what Oprah tells them.
I should so write a book. My parents would buy 10 copies or so, sure the book would be sprinkled with fuck this and shit that, but they’d still buy it. They’re pretty supportive people. They only wouldn’t be supportive if I got into porn. I mean, I’m in the performing arts so it’s definitely on the list…..but it’s pretty far down.
Anyways, for years now I’ve been thinking of what the title of my book should be and it finally came to me. The Rabbit Hole. It’s good, right? Sure, at first glance you might think, bunny asshole, but after the first couple pages or at least the cover art you wouldn’t think of the external sphincter of the Easter Bunny. With my family’s involvement in the rabbit biz, Fuckhead’s obsession with Alice in Wonderland, and my slip away from my personal goals into what has now become my daily life; I think it makes a lot of sense. It’s catchy, right? I think so. Ooh, also The Matrix. Remember in The Matrix where Morpheus asks Neo about the red or the blue pill and asks if he wants to go further down the rabbit hole? There are references are endless. It also sounds like the name of a dive bar in some hick-town. I can see it. The Rabbit Hole.
Sure, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Noah, you don’t even like the rabbits! Aren’t you allergic to them? Don’t they smell? Aren’t they less affectionate than iguanas wearing mink stoles?” Yes of course, but it’s called irony. That’s what’s going to make my book sell like hotcakes.
Choking Strangers
Hello all,
Holy shit. I sit here after a 9 1/2 hour work day, which seemed like a 507 hour work day, after I waited 45 minutes for the God damn computer to start, while my parents watch P.S. I Love You on our free weekend of HBO movies. It's the part of the movie where Judy Garland is singing "The Man That Got Away", previously one of my favorite songs, now it makes me want to claw the skin off of my own face.
Christ on a stick, was it an awful day!
I really wasn't feeling work anyways but the very first customer I had set the pace for the entire day. I was in the express lane and we had finished the transaction and I was just waiting for her to take her receipt. I stood there with it outreached in my left hand while I started ringing the next customers things with my right. I had no angry look upon my face, I had no reason, I was perfectly content. Out of nowhere, homegirl throws her bags in her cart and says, "God, I'm sure glad you start ringing the next person when I'm not even gone yet!"
Now, I watch a lot of television and I have a problem with answering assholes with the accuracy that the average person dreams of....it's a gift. So naturally, after I recoiled my furrowed brow I said, "Good!"
"What did you say?" said the bitch. Here's where I should have said nothing or "Have a good day" but instead, as if I were talking to a retarded person from Peru I said "GOOD!!" and I craned my neck as if I were the missing friend from 227. "*Scoff*, Well, I'm going to go talk to your manager!!", said the bitch. "That'd be great!! You can find him right over there!!" I said.
I felt bad for about 5 seconds. We get a lot of bitches at my store, so naturally my manager had nothing to say about it. It just ruined my day.
Later on I asked some handsome frat-looking guy who was buying wine with his girlfriend if he wanted to come over to my lane, because I was empty. He said, "You 21, son?" "Yeah, are you?" I said. I looked at his ID and I said "I'm a whole year older than you, sonny." His nice friendly girlfriend laughed at the whole thing, but than dick-wad chimed in and said, "You're not being very nice!" And he was dead serious. I hope he gets the clap. After the day I had I decided not to talk to him anymore and let go away with a simple nod and big ol' fake smile.
My last customer was this old man who grunted at me. Charming. After I told him his total he said, "Do take American money?" I looked up, ready to give him the look he deserved, but I could tell from the twinkle in his eye that he was a nice person who was just kidding and having a good time. "We just started last week." I said. He laughed and said, "Well that's good cause it's all I got." As he counted his money in my hand, he referred to his change as a quarter and two coppers to make 27 cents. He was like some cute old Disney grandpa. Charming, actually charming, and that's saying a lot, I don't like old people. As I said goodbye to him, he looked me straight in the eyes and said, " I hope you have a great life."
I was so genuinely flattered and bemused by his words that I didn't know how to respond. I just said, "Thank you, I hope you do too." He gave me a quick one over and said, "No no really, I hope you have a fabulous rest of your life." smiled and left. How nice is that? A perfectly straight man who can say fabulous and not sound gay. If It weren't for that nice man I probably would have choked the next asshole I saw.
Holy shit. I sit here after a 9 1/2 hour work day, which seemed like a 507 hour work day, after I waited 45 minutes for the God damn computer to start, while my parents watch P.S. I Love You on our free weekend of HBO movies. It's the part of the movie where Judy Garland is singing "The Man That Got Away", previously one of my favorite songs, now it makes me want to claw the skin off of my own face.
Christ on a stick, was it an awful day!
I really wasn't feeling work anyways but the very first customer I had set the pace for the entire day. I was in the express lane and we had finished the transaction and I was just waiting for her to take her receipt. I stood there with it outreached in my left hand while I started ringing the next customers things with my right. I had no angry look upon my face, I had no reason, I was perfectly content. Out of nowhere, homegirl throws her bags in her cart and says, "God, I'm sure glad you start ringing the next person when I'm not even gone yet!"
Now, I watch a lot of television and I have a problem with answering assholes with the accuracy that the average person dreams of....it's a gift. So naturally, after I recoiled my furrowed brow I said, "Good!"
"What did you say?" said the bitch. Here's where I should have said nothing or "Have a good day" but instead, as if I were talking to a retarded person from Peru I said "GOOD!!" and I craned my neck as if I were the missing friend from 227. "*Scoff*, Well, I'm going to go talk to your manager!!", said the bitch. "That'd be great!! You can find him right over there!!" I said.
I felt bad for about 5 seconds. We get a lot of bitches at my store, so naturally my manager had nothing to say about it. It just ruined my day.
Later on I asked some handsome frat-looking guy who was buying wine with his girlfriend if he wanted to come over to my lane, because I was empty. He said, "You 21, son?" "Yeah, are you?" I said. I looked at his ID and I said "I'm a whole year older than you, sonny." His nice friendly girlfriend laughed at the whole thing, but than dick-wad chimed in and said, "You're not being very nice!" And he was dead serious. I hope he gets the clap. After the day I had I decided not to talk to him anymore and let go away with a simple nod and big ol' fake smile.
My last customer was this old man who grunted at me. Charming. After I told him his total he said, "Do take American money?" I looked up, ready to give him the look he deserved, but I could tell from the twinkle in his eye that he was a nice person who was just kidding and having a good time. "We just started last week." I said. He laughed and said, "Well that's good cause it's all I got." As he counted his money in my hand, he referred to his change as a quarter and two coppers to make 27 cents. He was like some cute old Disney grandpa. Charming, actually charming, and that's saying a lot, I don't like old people. As I said goodbye to him, he looked me straight in the eyes and said, " I hope you have a great life."
I was so genuinely flattered and bemused by his words that I didn't know how to respond. I just said, "Thank you, I hope you do too." He gave me a quick one over and said, "No no really, I hope you have a fabulous rest of your life." smiled and left. How nice is that? A perfectly straight man who can say fabulous and not sound gay. If It weren't for that nice man I probably would have choked the next asshole I saw.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Old Man Candy
Hello all,
As you remember from "I've Been Craigslisted Vol. 2", there is an older gentleman, "O.G.", that posted an ad for me on craiglsilst. We sent a few emails back and forth and he asked me out numerous times but I decided that I was not interested and had standards enough not to pursue a relationship with and old guy.
Well, he kept emailing me and I responded because I was raised well. He eventually came to my work one day and took it a step too far. We had talked a little about our lives, exes, and dogs and I was actually thinking that we could hang out. I mean if I love anything it's attention, so what's the harm in getting my fix with no strings attached? He had visited me at work before, and as usual, I was too busy to have an actual conversation. But there was something different about him today. He was dressed up. Nice shirt, uncomfortably unbuttoned down to the forth button, I prefer 1 or 2, pressed slacks and an overdose of cologne. This was like a mini date for him.
After I absorbed what I was dealing with I got very quiet and finished my job. Upon bagging the last of his goods he grabbed my hands as I handed the bag to him. I dropped the everything and he placed something in my hand. Mind you, this all happened while my manager was standing behind me, waiting to sent me to a different register and there was a line of people. I first thought that he gave me a lump of coal, but upon further investigation I saw that had given me a ceramic Scottish Terrier magnet the size of a small peach.
"Wha....uh...oh...thank you.....", was all I could say as I was hurried off to my next location. How creepy is that? I think really, really creepy. I've made the conscience decision to not have Scottie shirts, magnets, cups, or stickers because I live with one. Why do I need reminded of what my pet is? I can just look down and there he is. I don't need a lot of crap to remind me of what kind of dog I have. If I loved unicorns or hippos or something not readily available in Indiana, then maybe, maybe I would get a hippo T-shirt, but I don't need a magnet of my dog to put on the fridge when chances are he's at me feet licking the vegetable drawer.
By the look on his face, I could tell O.G. was very pleased with his gift, but I didn't have adequate time to make up an exaggerated thank you. So I texted him my thanks later. I also told him that he looked as though he was not coming to see just a friend and told him that although he told me he was coming to get groceries he didn't get any food at all. He texted back that maybe he did come to see me, driving 40 min, but he was not going to get attached.... Look up attached in the dictionary and you'll see a picture of awkward presents between mild acquaintances. I told him that I wasn't certain that he could distance his feelings for me into just a friendship and that it was best if we parted ways. He was not happy with this decision but he obliged.
My mom found the magnet and put it on the fridge because, "I don't know, I though it looked like it belonged on the friderator and I didn't want it magneticecising the thingie on your keys....." Um, ok Mom. I get any knowledge of anything technical from my Dad, strangers, or television.
Later on that day, with my small Scottie in my pocket, I had another encounter with an older gay gentleman. He was very tall and pot-bellied, gray hair and wearing sunglasses inside, one of my pet peeves. We had this conversation as he eyed me up and down, smiling and winking the entire time.
Him: "Um do you know where I'd find things for cold sore?"
Me: "Uh, do you mean like Abreva?"
Him: "Yea, yea, something sorta like that."
Me: "Well, did you check the pharmacy?"
Him: "It's Sunday, no one's there."
Me: "Well, you might want to look around the chapstick. I think there should be something there."
Him: "Well it's not really a cold sore. It's like a cold sore.....ya know...but it's down there." (as he gestured downwards)
Me: " OH!.....Ah, well you may want to go see an actual doctor about that. I...I....I don't know if we have anything over the counter for you.....but you can check."
He winked, smiled, and walked away and I threw up in my mouth. How can I not get a guy who was born in my decade to look at me but if you're above the age of 40 you clearly see a shirt that says "Slut, Twink, Lovin' the Oldies" on me!?!? I gotta change jobs, I'm getting to old for this.
As you remember from "I've Been Craigslisted Vol. 2", there is an older gentleman, "O.G.", that posted an ad for me on craiglsilst. We sent a few emails back and forth and he asked me out numerous times but I decided that I was not interested and had standards enough not to pursue a relationship with and old guy.
Well, he kept emailing me and I responded because I was raised well. He eventually came to my work one day and took it a step too far. We had talked a little about our lives, exes, and dogs and I was actually thinking that we could hang out. I mean if I love anything it's attention, so what's the harm in getting my fix with no strings attached? He had visited me at work before, and as usual, I was too busy to have an actual conversation. But there was something different about him today. He was dressed up. Nice shirt, uncomfortably unbuttoned down to the forth button, I prefer 1 or 2, pressed slacks and an overdose of cologne. This was like a mini date for him.
After I absorbed what I was dealing with I got very quiet and finished my job. Upon bagging the last of his goods he grabbed my hands as I handed the bag to him. I dropped the everything and he placed something in my hand. Mind you, this all happened while my manager was standing behind me, waiting to sent me to a different register and there was a line of people. I first thought that he gave me a lump of coal, but upon further investigation I saw that had given me a ceramic Scottish Terrier magnet the size of a small peach.
"Wha....uh...oh...thank you.....", was all I could say as I was hurried off to my next location. How creepy is that? I think really, really creepy. I've made the conscience decision to not have Scottie shirts, magnets, cups, or stickers because I live with one. Why do I need reminded of what my pet is? I can just look down and there he is. I don't need a lot of crap to remind me of what kind of dog I have. If I loved unicorns or hippos or something not readily available in Indiana, then maybe, maybe I would get a hippo T-shirt, but I don't need a magnet of my dog to put on the fridge when chances are he's at me feet licking the vegetable drawer.
By the look on his face, I could tell O.G. was very pleased with his gift, but I didn't have adequate time to make up an exaggerated thank you. So I texted him my thanks later. I also told him that he looked as though he was not coming to see just a friend and told him that although he told me he was coming to get groceries he didn't get any food at all. He texted back that maybe he did come to see me, driving 40 min, but he was not going to get attached.... Look up attached in the dictionary and you'll see a picture of awkward presents between mild acquaintances. I told him that I wasn't certain that he could distance his feelings for me into just a friendship and that it was best if we parted ways. He was not happy with this decision but he obliged.
My mom found the magnet and put it on the fridge because, "I don't know, I though it looked like it belonged on the friderator and I didn't want it magneticecising the thingie on your keys....." Um, ok Mom. I get any knowledge of anything technical from my Dad, strangers, or television.
Later on that day, with my small Scottie in my pocket, I had another encounter with an older gay gentleman. He was very tall and pot-bellied, gray hair and wearing sunglasses inside, one of my pet peeves. We had this conversation as he eyed me up and down, smiling and winking the entire time.
Him: "Um do you know where I'd find things for cold sore?"
Me: "Uh, do you mean like Abreva?"
Him: "Yea, yea, something sorta like that."
Me: "Well, did you check the pharmacy?"
Him: "It's Sunday, no one's there."
Me: "Well, you might want to look around the chapstick. I think there should be something there."
Him: "Well it's not really a cold sore. It's like a cold sore.....ya know...but it's down there." (as he gestured downwards)
Me: " OH!.....Ah, well you may want to go see an actual doctor about that. I...I....I don't know if we have anything over the counter for you.....but you can check."
He winked, smiled, and walked away and I threw up in my mouth. How can I not get a guy who was born in my decade to look at me but if you're above the age of 40 you clearly see a shirt that says "Slut, Twink, Lovin' the Oldies" on me!?!? I gotta change jobs, I'm getting to old for this.
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