Death and Taxes and Rainbows

People don't change. It is the idiom that no one wants to believe. You always want to believe that everyone exists in the same mental reality that you do. In the sense that they think about the things they do, their actions, the effects of those actions, and they always want to do better by them-for themselves and for everyone in their lives. But it's not true.

Most people only exist for what is the better for them. It is just the sad truth. And so when people tell you "he'll never change", "she'll never change", it's not because they are being cynical, and you want so much to believe that they: JUST DON'T GET IT. They: JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS PERSON THE WAY YOU DO. But the truth is . . . that they do. Maybe they don't understand that particular person, and so they have no emotional attachment to cloud their views. But they at least understand human nature, in a way that dreamers and artists rarely do. We are optimistic! Visionary! We see potential where others see blank canvas and maybe just a lump of misshapen clay. Where they see chaos or fear-inducing uncertainty, or so much potential, that it just stops them dead in their tracks without even trying-we often see hope and a vision. And who is right?

I guess it depends on whether it is life or art, or life imitating art-which is usually the mind of the artist. We can't let go of the reality of failure. A failure is just an opportunity that we might not have seen with our eyes glued to perfection and our original vision. So who is right?

I don't know. It depends I guess on what you view as right or successful. Safety? Peace? Predictablility? Everything going according to the great happy plan? And maybe you thrive on chaos. Maybe you thrive on drama. Maybe you thrive on the anxiety and intensity of it all. Or maybe it rips you to shreds, as you realize, that no matter how optimistic you are, no matter how many colors of paint that you layer, over layer, over layer, you still can't let go of the work. You can't just step away and go: done. I should stop now. And so you keep on swirling that brush around and around; blues, greens, yellows, reds . . . but it doesn't matter. You just end up with a murky, greyish- brown. It is one thing, other then death and taxes that is certain. You can layer all the colors you want, and mix them fervently with all the hope you have, but you will never end up with a rainbow.

They might be right.

On the right side of the Queen

Oh dear. It's been almost a week and I've nothing to write about. Or rather-nothing I wish to write about . . . oh my. Life is a conundrum, an experience, an exchange of ideas and tolerances and expectations and beliefs and . . . it's life. Let's see . . . never one to want to disappoint, let's come up with a story.

Once upon a time there was a girl who lived in a forest. This was an ordinary forest except for one thing . . . there were no trees. This forest was full. It was hard to navigate and explore, so dense and full of objects and obstacles it was. But instead of chipmunks, and trees, and salamanders and wood-nymphs, there were only ideas, beliefs and philosophies. And there were paths . . . many . . . to choose.

One day, this forest-princess set out on a journey to become what she should be, and instead, discovered a path of who what she could be, if only she were to open her mind and heart and close her pre-conceptions of the world in front of her and what is was she thought it expected of her and would praise.

And she woke up one morning, her heart light and full of hope and peace, and discovered that she had not felt hopeless about herself, as much as hopeless about that idea. Of life empty of the love of one, who although would never seat her at the right side of the Queen, would seat her at the right side of herself. A life of love, and tenderness, and her heart's beauty . . . none of which had been witnessed in quite that way before.

And it was a splendid thing.

Ravenous Rippet' Snippet'

Sooooo, I mentioned before that I might occasionally post up little bits of what I am writing. The great thing about awful things happening to you is that it gives you something to write about. Keep in mind, this little snippet is part of a bigger, overall picture and story, and is not so depressing as it sounds. Just getting it out with words you know?

I have become acutely aware of our separation. I hover on the outside, looking into two worlds. Not belonging to the groovy, hip has-not’s, and not wanted or accepted with the ones who “have”, I now struggle to find my place in between those worlds. Where once was only the “idea” that we were different- a vaguely held concept that those kind of people believed they were above me-there was now hard fact. And learning this, and knowing this, and understanding this . . . shook me to my core.

I had always wanted to believe these feelings and ideas were in my head. Just a symptom of growing up poor-ish, or at least in less than ideal circumstances. A life lived with that deeply ingrained understanding of your place in the world. I never sat down to define myself. I never intentionally put myself into a category or tried to compartmentalize my life-it was just one of those things that was understood. You grow up “knowing” where you fit in. You go to work “knowing” the kinds of jobs you will have. And you love certain kinds of people “knowing” they are like you . . . and brave are the ones who push hard enough, and take the risk to redefine themselves, because they will always be resisting those who want to push them back into their place so they can be the king of their hill.

It is the way of all species.

Only we humans do it with forethought, and consciousness, and often sometimes cold cruelty, in the desire to make more room for ourselves, so we can open our feathers wider, drop our seeds into more fertile ground, and so our egos have more room to grow like over-fertilized chia-pets, and we often don’t care who we cast into the shade, to wither and die without the sun.

I do it too.

Marcoi' and The Princess

So . . . the deal with my last post "Fallen Bird", and this little

number, is basically that the guy I was recently dating told me that he would be embarrassed to tell his friends and family what I do for a living . . . that I am a cook. I'll spare you all the details except I severely misjudged his character. I've been treated badly many times, and put up with way too much crap before, but never have I had someone tell me that I was not good enough for them to be proud to be with me. Pat myself on the back though-I left.

Marcoi': "My name is Marcoi' . . . I look noting like dis in real life . . . dis is just your fantasy of how you wish I looked . . . actually. . . I look like a republican . . . with a right-side part."

Princess: "Aahh . . ."

Marcoi': "I am highly succesful business man . . . I travel far and wide . . . you can use my frequent flyer miles . . . I will take you . . . ANYWHERE."

Princess: "Gasp! How could I be so lucky!"

Marcoi': "Did you buy that dress to impress me today?"

Princess: "Of course . . . I never owned a single nice thing before I met you . . . I never had any reason to look good before I met you. You have saved me from my raggy, peasant life."

Marcoi': "What is it you do Maiden, to earn your keep?"

Princess: "I . . . er . . . mmm . . . eh . . . eee . . . cook?"

Family and Friends: "Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! he! he! he! he! . . . ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! . . . Loser! . . . How embarrassing! . . . She's a what?!?"

Marcoi': "You shame me."

Princess: "Pompous, self-righteous, smug, shallow, hypocritical, judgmental, arrogant, small, small, small, small boy-man . . . If you were not the self-important, "successful" white-collar person you are . . . I, would be out of YOUR league. Get it? Good."

Fallen Bird

Once upon a time there was a tiny little hummingbird. The hummingbird moved very, very fast-as you would expect a hummingbird to do, and given the nature of a hummingbird, moving fast was no miraculous feat. The miracle of this hummingbird, or rather, the most unusual thing, was that it believed it could fly.

Born and raised with other birds like itself, the little bird knew nothing else than being the bird it was. It watched the other birds buzz their wings, and it buzzed inside itself in the places that would move it’s wings too. It felt the buzz in its’ back, the tickle in its very fast heart and because of the way it felt these things, it always assumed it could fly.

So one day, the little bird saw another bird-a different kind of bird, one that had grown up in a different kind of nest all together. A nest made of tinsel, and gold, and very soft things, and the little bird walked to the edge of its own nest, a nest made of twigs, and grass and pokey things and string, and stepped off, believing it would fly to the other bird.

However, as soon as the bird stepped off it’s nest, it fell quickly to the ground. It did not fly at all-it only fell-the way it was always afraid it would. And though it flapped it’s wings, and felt the buzz, and tried so very hard to reach the other bird, it fell straight down and landed underneath it’s nest.

“I don’t understand”, the bird thought to itself. “I don’t understand!” the little bird shouted to the other bird on the ground. “Where are my wings?” it asked, and turned to look at it’s reflection in a pool of water on the ground.

The little bird flexed the muscles on it’s back. It shrugged it’s shoulders and stretched its neck, and puffed out its back, and behind its’ head, the most glorious of wings unfolded; wings three times the size of the other birds. The little bird stretched it’s wings out as far as it could, and they reached over the ground, and across the grass, all the way to the other bird; pulsing with life, and beauty and untaken flight. It wrapped its’ wings around the other bird, and caressed its cheek with its feathered tip.

“Oh bird,” the little bird said to the other one. “I believed I could fly to you,” “but instead, I only fell to the ground.” And the other bird said to the little fallen bird, “I’m sorry little bird, I did not know". "I never have to leave the sky."

Free

This is another little ditty I wrote down one day. It is not entirely memorable or notable, just a freewrite I did to come up with some ideas for songs. I'm kinda busy so haven't had time to post and thought I might put something up. Looks longer than it is . . .

Free

I keep looking back

for what you said I lacked

And I see you and me

and the space between

trying to fill a dream

and this is the place I’m at

trying to see the sky as blue

instead of black and

pull this weight off my back and

if love is my religion

does that mean that I am an atheist

or a realist

and do I have to go to war to fight

for my right

to keep them from pounding on my door

because I bought some Nyquil or Anbesol

or some other shit they say

I can get high from

and I’m standing there and I can barely breathe

and they say they want to look around

and I’m like: “this is America man” . . .

And they say: “exactly”.

And so I do a little pirouette and I say:

"How’s that for a look around?"

and they are not amused

And I’m surprised because

usually I think I’m a pretty funny girl

Or a woman,

I haven’t made up my mind yet

and I can see he’s got his hand on his trigger

and I’m like Man, I am not interested

and he says I can see

you’re not going down without a fight

and I’m like: “Baby . . . I can be your worst nightmare . . .

. . . or your best bad dream”.

And It’s like I’m an invincible wall of

fire

and I’m shooting out one tiny hole of light

but it’s a blinding ray

and so I spend a lot of my time wondering

if I should be dimmer . . .

and if you had a pull chain on your neck

I would think that it was kinda strange

and yet . . . strangely convenient

On - Off

On - Off

Off - off - off.

And now all I have left is god and me

when he’s not too busy answering prayers and

being a poster-child for the latest conflict

in the name of his almighty saving grace

and everyone is just praying and praying

Should I take this job?

Should I buy this TV?

Should I drop this bomb?

And God is just yelling:

“Think! Think!”

He’s a busy guy

Or gal, or woman

I don’t know, I haven’t decided yet

And I’m not sure I want to

Hunger

This is another story I wrote in college. Bon appetite.

HUNGER

I met Mary at the deli on Third Street. She was buying hot dogs. I was buying ham. She looked at me and asked me which were the ones I would buy; the ones with skins or the ones without. Before I could tell her I didn’t really care, she asked me about the cheese and pickled eggs, and told me about her tomatoes that she grew in the sun. She told me these things the way you would tell a friend. I listened while I thought of other things, watching her reflection in the glass that covered the meats and cheeses, the roundness of the glass elongating her neck like a gazelles. She talked to me about her tomatoes, and I wondered if a neck could work like that. In line to pay she came up behind me. “I got the one’s with the skins” she said. “Oh”, I said. What else could I say?

Sometimes I saw her other places. She would ask me things like: what do they do for fun around here? I told her I had never really noticed. She wanted to know where a good place was for her to take her car. I didn’t have one. How would I know a thing like that? Once at the Cafe she asked me what time it was. I looked down at my bare wrist. All I could think to say was that if I wore a watch, I’d always be reminded of where it was I’d rather be.

The Soap Bubble was the last place I saw her alive. She was eating crackers. She sat there, breaking them into tiny pieces, and putting the crumbs on her tongue where they lay like dry, brown snowflakes. She sat there with her tongue sticking out like that, just staring at her clothes. Once in a while she pulled her tongue back in and the snowflake would disappear. I watched her do this for a while, swallowing each piece like it was wet sandpaper. It made me hungry.

I asked her if I could have a cracker and she gave me the whole box. I took them and pushed them into my mouth, two, three at a time. She kept staring straight ahead while I chewed and swallowed. I stared at the box, trying to think of something to say. I reached my hand into the box and circled my fingers around a broken piece rocking it back and forth between my fingers and looked at her again. I wished I could climb inside with the socks and underwear that tumbled around inside. I wished I was under her car’s tires outside the front door, a sort of second page story in tomorrow’s news. I wished it were that easy. Instead I said, “good crackers”, and stuffed another one in my mouth as proof. I crushed it between my tongue and the roof of my mouth and waited. She didn't speak and so I said, “I hope your clothes come out really clean,” and left. I left her sitting on the table like that, watching her things, turning in circles.

The last time I saw her was in the paper. She was dead. The paper had a little picture of her and so I knew who it was; it was a good picture. A couple days later I went to her wake. I took my place in line with the all the others-waiting my turn to grieve. I nodded solemnly and listened to things like: such a loss . . . she was so young . . . such a tragic thing. I took it all in, saving those words for times when words would fail me. Finally it was my turn. I thought she looked just fine. Her hair was shiny, her clothes were clean, her cheeks were pink and full of cotton. She looked like she’d just been born. I touched her arm, the silk fabric of her blouse sliding over her cool skin. I wrapped my hand around her wrist and shook it gently. Wake up I whispered. I took her other hand in mine and shook her again. Wake up I said.

Objectified

When did hello become: "You have a great body". When did: "Hi, can I buy you a

drink?" turn to: "I think you're sexy". When did it become okay to greet me with: "I like

your build". And what makes you think you can ask if you can touch me, (as you reach

your arm out towards me, your index finger erect, as if you were poking a piece of

cooking meat to test and see if it is "done".

You think these things represent me? You think I find this endearing? You think I am my

arms, my ass and my little titties which you can't take your eyes off of as I speak? You

think you make my heart skip it’s lonely beat or thaw the frost that builds thicker and

thicker inside, until it's walls close in, and there isn’t any more

room left inside for your meat?

It makes my tight firm skin crawl. It makes me want to fold in on myself, until there’s

nothing left for you to see but what’s inside. It makes me want to eat Twinkies and

Doritos and Chunky bars until my cheeks bloat out, my walk slows, and my flesh jiggles.

What will you think of me then? And will you say hello? Or nothing at all.

Bikram

Disgusting. The air felt toxic. The people looked toxic; crazed really. I felt like I had stepped into a cult of the already initiated, and so enmeshed they were in their common belief that what they were doing was right. What they were doing was good, that they had lost sight of reality: they were surrounded by germs.

The air was resplendent in them. It smelled the way it might if I piled 12 un-showered teenage boys, fresh from soccer practice, into my little Honda Fit. In the middle of summer. During a heatwave. While I sit in steamy air, in the drivers seat wearing all of their 24 socks tied around my neck. I tried not to breathe. Anxiety rose in me, and a little tiny voice of common sense and reason-that I have long since become accustomed to ignoring-telling me to: GET OUT. GET OUT NOW.

Having only seen the worn and glistening wooden floors, and soft cozy lighting of other studios, I looked down at the indoor/outdoor carpeting that covered the entry, changing areas and cubby spaces. And gasp! Horror of all horrors! When I opened the door to the practice room, I saw that the carpet flowed into that space as well. I trodded into the room in my bare feet. The floor felt sticky.

I found a spot for my mat, and before unrolling it seriously considered writing off the 16$ I had just paid as a relatively cheap lesson in common sense. Instead I stayed, and sweated, and tried not to think about what lived in the fake fibers of the furry thing underneath me-and now in between each of my poor, once pure toes. I Warriored and Scorpioned with the rest of them, doing my best never to touch the floor with my hands, while I watched in the cracked mirror on the wall, the rivulets of sweat pouring off the man in front of me, onto his towel, off his mat and into the floor.

And when I left, still wearing my soaking wet clothes and carrying my mat- which I would sanitize when I got home for the first time ever- I felt great, and I knew I would never, EVER, go back.

For T.

Since we never had one of the talks you wanted to have because you said: “we need to” or, “I want you to know how I feel”, and you never sent the letter you said you wanted to write, I have only confusion. I feel adrift in space, bouncing off the moon, hitting the sun and ricocheting off stars as I try not to fall towards the space at the bottom where you will send me flying again.

I can not make sense of your love that turned to indifference so quickly. I make myself crazy trying to figure it out, even as I see that whether I understand it or not it will still be the same. And realizing this is like buckshot that shatters my heart, my ego and my hope with that one blast. Realizing that you don’t want me- no matter how much you keep telling me you do- is a hard thing.

You texted me again last night. The words “I love you” lit up my screen, and for a moment my heart. These voiceless displays of your affection that were once your arms around me are familiar now, and though once I would feel the ache that I was soaked in drain from my body-I know better now. I know those finger taps are some misfiring synapse between your brain and your heart and having reached into that steely-toothed jaw inside you so many times before, I have gnawed my hands bloody trying to free myself; only to reach in again.

It is so easy to wrap my love around you, and so hard for me to stay angry, which keeps me sliding back into your black hole gravity. I know by now though, that although you may point your confused love at me, it is my finger on the trigger. Every time I read those words and I believe you I injure myself, and each time my heart becomes smaller and less recognizable. Each time I become smaller and less recognizable. We’ve played this game before and it has no winner. Just a slow pecking away at everything that once made us real to each other.

My phone dings again and I see the words: “I miss you . . . do you love me?”, and instead of telling you that I miss you too-which I do like a cut that will not heal-I tap back on the screen: the thing about missing people is that there’s an easy cure.

We both know you live only a five minute walk away although I think I’m the only one who understands this.

You ask: what is that?

I answer: that’s like asking what the cure for hunger is.

You say: I get it . . . but you don’t do anything about it.

* * *

I want to remember us that day at your mothers. The day at the beach when I took your dog (OUR dog, you corrected me) for a long walk to give you some peace because I knew her energy was hard for you. You stood in her living room and as I crossed the room to you, you looked at me and said, yes . . . whatever it is, yes. I want to remember you that day - the way you looked at me. You still saw me as perfect.

Instead I try to remember you as you were the last time I saw you. Our bodies with each other only the night before, I could not understand your coldness and reached out and touched you asking why, trying to grasp what was not comprehendible, and when you said to me: leave Deb, just fucking leave . . . just go, I finally did, with a new resolve and anger towards you I had never felt before, which would melt away in days under the heat of my love for you.

I want to remember you the way you were that last night I saw you, but instead, all I can think of is you, the way you were that day, leaning against your mothers wall.

In The Dark

This is a short story I wrote in college. One of several that I never quite finished - meaning, get to where I want it to be, or where it needs to be. But I've always liked it, and so here it is-in all it's unpolished glory.

In The Dark

Nothing grew. Every tree we planted, every seed pushed into the ground, every blade of grass we coaxed to the surface with water and sweat and torn skin withered when it touched the sun; it was as if we’d purchased death.

We saw the house the day we buried your mother. Afterwards you said you needed to drive, and so we drove to the beach and stood on rocks with salt water spraying our feet and when you told me you could’t have gone through this alone, I knew alone meant: without me. We drove back that night and first saw the house in the dark. The “for sale” sign hanging from the lamp post creaked in the quiet wind, while we walked on the porch peering into empty rooms, seeing our furniture and record collections in those spaces. We held hands and imagined our bare feet under blankets in bed, finding each other.

We took a mortgage from the bank, and our stereo and record collection to the living room and put our bed in a downstairs room instead of up, because you said you wanted to be closer to the sand. Every morning you opened the outer doors to our room and stood in the sun, the cool air growing bumps on your skin as I pulled the blankets to my chin and watched you. The floorboards creaked and I always knew when you woke in the night to find the bathroom, or water, or to smoke. I watched as your cigarette floated up and down like a red firefly, lighting your face as you inhaled and then as you exhaled, I watched as you slowly faded away.

We scrubbed old wooden door frames and polished tarnished brass fixtures and planted the garden. When it didn’t grow we said the soil needed work and we’d try again next year. We made shelves for our books, and put hooks under the cupboards next to the sink for our cups, and we bought a new blender. On Sundays in summer we played music and sat on chairs under the umbrella, its’ ruffled edge hiding us from the sun. We chose books from the shelves to read and you paused every few pages to put your head back on your chair and quietly look at me, and after a while I stopped asking why.

When I was sick in September you made me your mother’s soup. You rubbed my back and brought me tea and blankets to ease my chill. Too sick to sleep and too tired to see you read to me stories by Hempel and Carver and asked: wouldn’t I like something a little more upbeat? I fell asleep to the harshness of your voice, and the sound of living.

When the weather turned cold we folded away the umbrella. You wrapped it in an old sheet to keep the dust away and put it in the shed until next year. In winter you shoveled prairies of snow from the roof and paths to our chairs and then shoveled those too. On Sunday mornings we wrapped robes and blankets around our shoulders, and sat on frozen chairs eating toast with jelly and drinking coffee cooled too quickly by the cold air, while waves crashed against the break.

In March you went to bed and I rubbed your back. I made your mother’s chicken soup and wrote the recipe down to have for later; when you were gone. I shoveled wet, sun-warmed snow from soggy walks and scraped the ice from the windows of our car. I mixed our records together and crossed out names. No longer mine and yours, now ours.

In June I took the summer things back out alone. Brushing away cobwebs gathered over winter, I unwrapped your work. I set it on the patio where for a day it stood folded in the sun, it’s wooden arms tucked safely into it’s sides, until I could see enough to open.

"Them"

From the first moment we were physically near one another, it was like I had found that thing to fill the empty space beside me-a space I didn't even realize was there. Standing near him, barely minutes after we met, walking by his side, had the comfort of a deep hug. I quickly fell into sublimely comforting love.

He suffers from paranoia. I think he realizes this to a degree, but not enough to really do anything about it. To expect someone who thinks everyone around him is messed up and out to get him, to look that deeply inside and be able to see that they are really the one who needs help, is probably asking too much. But he has this heart. This sweet, tender, so giving heart, and an innocent, child-like quality that just wounds me in it's sincerity. But there is everything else. Between his alcoholism, paranoia and extreme (bizarre) defensiveness over the most unexpected things (he once told me he was more grown up than me because he lived in a house with a dog, and I only lived in an apartment with a cat), I felt sometimes like I was barely holding onto my own mind. And I could feel myself growing ever smaller as a person.

The last time I saw him he told me he didn't trust me. Basically that he thought I would turn on him and try to harm him in some way. He didn't want me in his house anymore when he wasn't there and one day he changed the locks on his doors. I can't say more about the last conversation we had that day, because it would be betraying a trust and there are a few lines I won't cross. I just know that with all the insanity up until that moment, that he finally did something I could not live with; he didn't trust me. I became one of "them" to him. Someone out to get him. And it was like in one of those movies (I think I've used this analogy before) where someone is standing and the camera shot pushes the back wall so far back that you can't reach it anymore, even though no one moved. And that's what happened in the car that day as we rode back to his house and I got in my car and drove away. Two feet away from each other, we couldn't even touch.

I texted him tonight because I have something at his house I need to get, and because deep down (not deep enough yet) I still crave any opportunity for contact. And so I asked him if he would be home Saturday so I could get my thing and he said he didn't know, but would leave the key. He would leave the key. "Why?" I asked. "Why now?", even though I think I already understood. "Just do it, okay", he wrote back. And because I believe there was so much more that he wanted to say but couldn't, when I closed the text I cried.

Men seeking men

Mike left his Ipod touch in my couch. It must have fallen from his pocket that day he sat there shortly after we had broken up. Having shown little to no interest in our relationship till then, now that I was finally saying: "aannnnnd cut!", he suddenly wanted more. Outside the door to my apartment, on the carpet in the hall, he dropped to his knees and looked up at me: "Take me back," he said. "This doesn't feel right". I reached down and put my hands around his confused, little face. "Call me in a month if you still feel that way" I said, and shut the door.

I met Mike in a bar. I was hanging and chilling listening to the band that it turns out he was playing in. When he walked by my table he immediately caught my eye in that way that makes me go, Oh! and catch my breath a little. Outside later he seemed to be waiting for me and after we talked for a while, without my asking, he wrote down his name and number and asked me to call sometime. Two days later, when I made the first call, would be the beginning of a pathetic effort of mine to make the connection that he had initiated. Finally, after a few efforts and being blown off, I said "nay" to the game and went about my business. A few days later, like the miracle of the face of Jesus on a piece of toast he called; on his big boy own. He wanted to get together; oh lucky me! Dreams can come true.

So to make a very long story short, and save enough material for my next one, I met him and his-taped-together-with-blue-painters-tape-headphones downtown, and continued our game of cat and mouse. So eventually (yada, yada, yada) I realized that I was wasting my time, which brings us back to Mike in the hall on his knees and the discovery of his Ipod touch in my couch.

After calling him and telling him I had found his little pod, I set it on the table next to my bed and went about my business. A couple of hours later, lounging in my bed, I looked over at it and thought I'd check out his tunes. He had freely let me listen to it before so it didn't seem invasive to me at all, besides, everyone I know-including myself-freely shares their ipods with others. It seemed like an okay thing to do. Ipod touches are a little different from regular Ipods though, because they can access the internet. And so it was with the great big blank canvas of my mind, that I powered it up and found myself staring at a CraigsList ad. A personal ad; men looking for men. It took me a while to register this and then of course I started to pry (that's right: pry, not cry). I had been dating and sleeping with this man for a couple months now and felt like I kinda had a reason to know. I pulled up the history of the other sites he had recently visited on the net. I guess I was hopeing my original discovery was some freak anomally, but instead what I saw was page after page of men seeking men ads. I was a tad stunned.

Later when I brought his Ipod back to him I asked him: "hey uh, you don't have to answer this but . . . what's up with all the dudes?" He only paused for a second before he answered.

Hello, I'm back.

Don't know if anyone is out there. Things are a little different now and I'm not sure exactly where I'm going to go with this, but somewhere. These last two years have been a ride, and a lot of it a pretty freaky one. I'm not making pots right now and thought about starting a new blog altogether, but I thought-hey-I've already got this one and so might as well carry on. I've got so much shit to write about you can not even believe. It's gonna blow your mind. If I had been writing all along, maybe it wouldn't have blown mine so much. This won't be for the faint of heart. I'm just gonna write real cause when I don't, I'm not real, and that just sucks. That's it for now. There's a lot swirling in my head right now and I'll let it out in a bit. See ya :)