myself_i_must_remake

I know this was supposed to be a kind of melancholy, reflective piece, but I just got caught up in the part about wonderful sex. (Been a while since anyone really... did it right for me. Why is a good man so hard to find?) But if you liked Dancer from the Dance, a book that's pretty similar and set around the same time is Alan Hollinghurst's The Swimming-Pool Library.

Your attitude is certainly better than mine. I think this election is a test case for a certain question: at what point does respect for the office of the President stop being enough to compensate for the holder of that office? I am glad some people, like yourself, have a positive attitude and are able to put their grievances aside and give him a chance, but for people like me, his chance was during the primaries and the general election season, and he already made so many threats to so many people, that I literally cannot imagine what he could ever possibly do to win back my respect. And I hope no one here finds that unreasonable. We already know who he is.

If there were ever a gay religion, and if its Bible-like text were a collection of stories, this would belong amongst those stories.

yeah!

Haha. So some of the book lists should really include: Hut-building for Dummies and A Field Guild to Plants that Can Kill You.

Nabokov's Pale Fire Coetzee's Disgrace Foucault's History of Madness Joyce's Dubliners Rushdie's The Satanic Verses

vacuous. there are few gays, few places to find gays, and scarcity makes us alternately nasty and needy.

I've made a very similar rant to this before. Unfortunately, when the guilty parties read this, instead of considering they might be wrong, they double up and become worse. They sling insults at the writer, or "HEY I JUS LIKE WUT I LIKE" becomes a defense that somehow accounts for their having insulted entire sectors of the gay population. Like what you like, fine, but don't denigrate people who are already struggling enough as it is. I have a million points I want to make, but I'll stick to one of the more infuriating ones: what they mean by masculine is almost always a surface descriptor. By "masc," they don't want someone who sticks to his guns and isn't afraid to stand out from the crowd, because everyone with 2 IQ points could obviously realize that so-called fems do that everyday; no, they want someone who passes for straight, regardless of whether or not he can change his oil or file his own taxes. RAAAAGGE.

I am speechless.

Ugh. Rewind to 2006. Earlier tonight, I drove to Athens from Painesville in order to pick up my friends Brandy and Steve from Ohio U. Tomorrow I'm getting my black belt, and there's this whole extravaganza about it that I want them to see. As it turns out, a girl, Kaylee, who was a stumbling block to my becoming gay (and who turned out to be a lesbian herself) is also home from college this weekend. Kaylee and Brandy call me, ask me to come out to a gay bar with them. I hesitate and make excuses. "But you could meet a boy." I put on my camo shorts and black poker T-shirt, because unlike most gays I have no fashion sense, and because I don't understand that you don't wear shorts to clubs, at least not unironically. Somewhere we pick up another girl, Cate, who is an established lesbian. I remember seeing her against the wall with any number of genderless humans in high school. Cate drives us to Cleveland, parks us in a lot. Kaylee pulls out a bottle of 99 Bananas. Everyone passes it around. I take a few sips. It tastes foul. Kaylee, whom I'm still in the habit of trying to impress, tells me to drink more. I chug and chug. We get out of the car. During the hundred-foot walk from the lot to the front door of the club, I become extremely drunk. On the outside, the club has old brick and white pillars. "This place looks like Abe Lincoln's house," I say. Inside, we stand in a line where a man asks for our IDs and stamps our hands. The music is loud. Once we've all paid our five dollars, we take to the dance floor. I don't really understand dancing, so I just dry-hump my friends. All of us make out with each other. I use the restroom. I don't know why I am surprised to see girls in the guy's restroom. When I come out again, my friend Brandy tells me not to get mad. "I gave a guy your phone number!" she says. At this point in my life, I still don't have a cell phone, which means he would call my house. I defect from the group, and begin to black out. I stumble around asking guys to make out with me. At some point, I realize I'm making out with someone I don't even find attractive. I stop kissing him. "You're really cute," he says. "How old are you?" "Twenty-four." I walk away without saying anything. I seem to blink again and the bar is closing. I don't know where I've been. My friends usher me into the car. On the way home I vomit repeatedly out the back door, while we're going 70 on the highway. Somewhere, Kaylee has found Doritos and is throwing them everywhere. The next morning we wake up. In my pocket is a napkin. "Look guys, a napkin." The girls start laughing really hard. I flip over the napkin. There's a phone number with too many digits on the back. The girls feed me my night. I was witnessed doing strange Karate dances on a platform, and then running away. At some point, a strange lesbian had come up to them and asked if they were my friends. "Your friend Billy is in the bathroom. I think he needs your help." What I'll never know is 1) how bad I must have looked that a strange lesbian actively searched out my friends for me and 2) how I managed to describe my friends so that she was able to distinguish them from the hundreds of other people there. In short, it was horrible, but that was probably mostly my fault.

get it.

FUCK YEAH ENGLISH!

I just hope you feel like you're being honest to yourself. Fuck audience, man!

As a teenager, I threw boomerangs, did flips, climbed shit, and was whiney and annoying. I -was- Yuffie.