Brandy

I have the sensation of swift movement from 15th and Lasalle to 18th and 3rd. I don’t have this visually. Aries is mumbling about bullshit, cursing about the emergency phone call she just made to Wicca and the attitude she got. I am in tatters. I am so far beyond that car and that moment, I am on another planet where I can‘t feel the pain or the burning tears soaking my face and my t-shirt. I drift out of the car, up the stairs and after the buzz, I drift down the stairs to the basement.

The apartment is sparse, smoke-filled, beautiful black and white photography on the walls a place mockingly familiar in this new cruel, alien world. Incense and cigarettes and Wicca’s expression of concern, all decked out and perfumed to go to a birthday party. I fall into her arms and cry harder than I ever have before. I am crying so hard I can’t even breathe; literally suffocating in grief like bile trapped in my throat. Then, there is a glass in my hand and I gulp down amber liquid without even thinking, without feeling.

It’s a magic potion. I am instantly coherent and have a pleasant warm feeling. The story tumbles from my mouth like vomit, the worst kind of breakup possible, the kind that blindsides you in the cruelest way imaginable; the lies spouted by another person that the one you love takes as truth and there are no words to make them believe you. It’s an injustice where you are screaming the truth and not a single word is heard or understood. It is a rending of the soul with so much left unsaid, so much business that will permanently remain unfinished. So many long conversations and late-night walks and plans for the future gone in one swift, violent stroke.

She listens quietly. She smiles and nods. There is a fierce calm about her the entire time, which I hold onto like an anchor until I notice she has tears in her eyes. Angry tears. I ask her why and she says the thing that will ring in my head forever.

“He broke his promise.”
“What promise?”
“He promised he would never hurt my Aaron…”

Then we’re both crying, but this time I smile through my tears. He’s gone, but I know I am loved no matter what. There is an unconditional love that no amount of overheard conversations, lying psychotic bitches or the loss of charming, southern gorgeous alcoholics can ever hope to destroy. It’s there in her eyes. It’s the love of acceptance, of truly seeing me for what and who I am at that moment in that space and time.

Even through the stinging tears, I know it will be okay.

At Summer's End

I have been practically WILLING Summer to end. I watched "Halloween" and every other fall-related movie I own. I have been shaking my fist at the TV whenever I see an extended forecast with 80s in it. I have practically gone out spray-painting the leaves to get them to change. I start school on Monday. I have two classes back-to-back on Mondays only which has totally wreaked havoc with my work schedule and chances of changing jobs. To make matters worse, the last 2 stupid electives I have to take are ONLY offered on Monday nights, which means I may be stuck there for another full year to finish my degree!! I know that I am going to take some classes over the summer to stave off the raging depression that hits me annually in the summer.

Summer in review: I have been broke the whole time because of bullshit going on at work, seen a bunch of bad movies and very few good ones, went on a great vacation to San Fran and didn't do much else but watch a bunch of TV and moan about not having a life. I got a car that I can barely afford to keep gas in and watched in horror as my way-too-high insurance payments started coming out. I also nearly died spending summer number two in the hottest apartment I have ever lived in. I interviewed for a position I really wanted, was promised a call back and was unceremoniously sent a form letter saying thanks-but-no-thanks.

Overall, this summer has really fucking sucked. Bring on Autumn, baby!!

As to the brokeness, I have been forced to scale back my lifestyle. I am still in the process of doing so, cutting corners wherever I can. It's not an easy thing to do and usually involves over-eating and raging depression. Oh, and mental breakdowns where I assume my closest friends are conspiring against me. Once January hits and I have better insurance I fully intend to take a fistful of anti-depressants and go to regular therapy sessions so I can finally figure out what the fuck is wrong with me, or at least talk about it with a stranger who is paid to listen without obvious judgment once a week.

NEW SPECS

Depressing

I put in my graduation year and high school in myspace and did a search. There are 31 people listed on there including me and evey single one of them lists themselves as "straight". I WASN'T crazy. No WONDER I felt so alone. Most of them are big losers who have drunken pics of themselves and talk about all the partying they do. HA!!

Three Weekend Paycheck or Financial Vivisection

For those of you out there that get paid bi-monthly (15th and last day of the month or some other vartiation) you know that there is nothing worse than a month with a 31st. Two of them happen to fall in a row during the summer. Sometimes you luck out and the weekends kick you a break. Not so with the month of August this year. Ya see, the last paycheck I got was on July 29th. My next paycheck is on the 15th, which happens to be a Tuesday. If you have a calendar handy, count the weekends. That's right, THREE weekends with one paycheck. There is absolutely nothing worse, especially if you are getting a pittance per hour like me and have rent of $650 per month. On the plus side my lack of an incentive at work lately has caused me to trim some of the fat from my life, spending-wise (Cable, gone) on the negative side I have an empty tank, no money to do anything and a full weekend yawning before me. The third broke weekend in a row. If I were the type of person that could learn to budget my money, I think I would have done so by 31. And it doesn't seem to happen no matter how much I am making. The brokeness is an equal opportunity aggressor, if you know what I'm saying. I honestly don't think anything would be different if I made Enough. Enough for me is somewhere around $2500-$3000 per month after taxes. For that I would need to be making about $25 per hour. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Do people MAKE $25/hour? Does ANYONE make $25/hour? I mean, besides CEOs. That's more than twice what I make right now. I suppose a job like that means COLLEGE and SPECIAL SKILLS. Sheesh... I hate being broke, though.

Sin Grasa

I have been on Weight Watchers for the past few weeks trying AGAIN to lose weight. It just may work this time because WW is SANE. I actually like the overly-anal attention you have to pay to what you eat, counting points, and most importantly feeling smug when I see someone eating greasy fast food. There's a BK right downstairs from my job and there is a group of people who eat there at least 3 times a week. Every single one of them is about busting out of their chair after more than a year of this. As far as results go, today will be my 4th weigh-in. In 3 weeks I lost 12.6 pounds. Woo-hoo!! I'm not expecting my results to be very dramatic this week because SOMEHOW I hurt my effing ankle taking a long WALK on Monday. YES! You read that right! I wasn't mountain climbing or rapelling or god forbid playing sports, I took a WALK; albeit a murderously LONG walk. Now my right ankle and foot hurt so bad when I walk I would not be surprised at all if I looked down and saw a roofing nail sticking out of them. At this point I can't walk to work like I normally do which was greatly helping with the weight loss. Shit, I can barely make it to the bus stop and back. Weight Watchers is my last ditch effort before I opt for surgery to lose weight. My brother in law told me a few years back that I WILL get Type 2 Diabetes if I don't lose some weight because my father has it. His words continually ring in my ewars. I have a self-imposed deadline of the end of this year to get things permanently turned around before I go under the knife. I am fighting like hell on WW. I just don't want to limit myself like I have seen some of my friends do. Besides, it isn't a permanent fix and I see a few of them gaining the weight back.

On the DREAM front I had a sick and twisted dream about "Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning" Basically, I was watching it but I was kinda there, too. The movie would be scary as hell if they took what was in my dream and put it in the movie, but I get the feeling it will be a huge piece of stinking over-produced shit like the remake.

P.S. I hate my fucking job.

Insane?

Saturday night I dreamed that someone told me I had better pick up all of the clothes off my floor and put them somewhere else because mice would nest in them. Still half-asleep I got up and threw all of the clothes on the floor into the laundry hamper in my closet. I went back to sleep and when I woke up I thought I had dreamed that part. I didn't. My clothes were all in my closet.

6-13

Sixth Grade: George Michael's "Faith" video. I can't figure out why my eyes are plastered to HIS side of the jukebox, rather than the girl's. I think I just really like his ripped jeans for some reason.

Seventh Grade: His name is Tommy. I like him. I really like him in a way that makes me want to be around him alot. He’s my age and he’s so smart and funny. So cute. I like him in the locker room, too. The boys want to change real quick and get into the gym because that’s where the girls are. I like it in the locker room. And I don’t know why.

Eighth Grade: The girls are all fixated on the cutest boy in school. His name is Marc. He’s a ninth grader. He’s tall and tan and has a smile that makes my knees weak. I’m so shy and fumbling and nervous. I have glasses for the first time. Big coke bottle glasses that make the other boys punch me and push me and spit on me. I don’t fight back.

Ninth Grade: Marty finally gives a name to it. A name to what I am. He calls me faggot in Art class and nobody cares. He calls me faggot in front of the teacher and the teacher didn’t care. He looked at me with this sly smile. He knows what it means. I know it means something really bad, but I’m not sure what it is. The girls at the table flirt with Marty before during and after he calls me faggot and even before during and after he punches me when the teacher isn’t looking. They laugh and flirt. I hate them for it. I hate them more than him because they didn’t do anything about it and because he might make out with them like I want him to make out with me. I’m confused as to why, even while he’s punching me, I still think he’s really hot. I want to die.

Tenth Grade: My shuffling walk. My coke bottle glasses. This place is much bigger. I am invisible here. I can sit at the back of study hall and read Stephen King and be invisible in blissful anonymity while the girl behind me whispers her Spanish homework under her breath. Nobody can see me. Nobody wants to see me. I know exactly what it is now, and I know I am the only one on the planet. Alone. All alone. My own private hell that wraps around me and comforts me. I see the world through scratched smudged coke bottle glasses. I know what it is because it’s in style for cool guys to roll the sleeves of their t-shirts up over their biceps and one guy brushed past me, his bicep grazing across my bare arm for a moment and I know it all in a blinding flash of truth and terror and reality. That wonderful combination of hot, hard and smooth that is another man’s body.

Eleventh Grade: I came out to my sister and my mom last summer. My friends still don't know because I don't want them to think we are checking out the same guys. My psychology teacher asks what Freudian psychological stage gay men are trapped at and when one smart-ass says “Anal” the teacher laughs heartily and says “No, but I understand why you might think that”. I hate the teacher with such blinding pure rage and I realize that the rage feels good. The rage is something that other like me feel. They may all be in New York and San Francisco doing it in filthy alleys, but they feel it too.

Twelfth Grade: A guy in English Class during our persuasive essays bursts out that if he sees two guys holding hands he will beat the living shit out of them. They need to stay in the closet where they belong. Before the enraged English teacher can say anything a girl pipes up and talks about how that’s really fucked up. “Why do all ugly-ass straight men think that every gay man wants them?” I want to stand up and cheer. Instead, when asked to write my Autobiography for English class, I tell the truth. I call it The Difference and it is the Difference that dare not speak it's name. My teacher commends me for my courage, and I get an A. TO this day she is one of the true heroes of my life.

Thirteenth Grade (AKA Community College): Speech Class. I give an impassioned speech about gay rights and get a standing ovation. I smile and shudder at the statistic I found directly linking the way gays and lesbians are treated in America to the way Jews were treated in Germany right before the Holocaust.

P.S. Marc, the hottest guy at my Junior High that all the girls wanted, was making out with a guy at the Nineties the first time I went there. I don’t know if I will ever recover from the shock.