A Boy's Revelation That He Is, As Expected, A girl.

I remember...(I love this phrase; it invokes such a feeling of reflection, and reflection is sure to follow it.)

When, during the (comprehensive...thank god (read:http://phillyphollyorie.webs.com/index.htm)) sexual education section of my 10th Grade Health class, all of the boys--rather uncomfortably--had to step up to the board and describe what it means, in spatial terms (what else), it means to be a man.

Likewise, the girls set to work putting vaginas and boobs galore on the white board, amid laughter, giggles, AND REMARKS OF SIMILAR MIRTH. The boys, in contrast, set to work putting peni (quite phallic phellos) glore on the white board, amid laughter, giggles, and a crucial lack of remarks of similar mirth.

Indeed, herein lies the difference between the two groups: girls have fun and talk and boys have fun...often more stupidly and more loudly than the former.

I, eschewing the later behavior, decided I was a girl, under a decidedly ironic context (the difference between men and women is not in any spatial representation, but in how they react to each other during the creation of this spatial representation.

Bie,
Well, girl, look at you!

Some sort of ending.

With each day I fall apart in tears, I feel closer to the end. The end of what? Who knows. There just lurks this haunting feeling that my life, as I now know it, will be ending soon. It just has been too similar for too long, and the stresses (generally associated with the things they are associated with) have lingered too long with little probability of ending. In other words, the stresses have become inherent in the way I interact with the world. And, again, I have this, admittedly illogical, intuition that everything will change as a result--either in suicide or in a seismic change in my life. I cannot say which, as the feeling is too unconscious in nature to constitute as conscience an end as suicide. Truthfully, it doesn't really matter. After all, if you kill yourself, you will be too dead to regret it.

Me or...It (REVISED)

Me or…“It”?

Is it my love,

That you make a goal of?

When you go and adulate the lights,

Is it so that I see you at greater heights?

And, at these heights, you look so nice,

Really, just dinner would have sufficed.

I pondered all day,

And I pondered all night,

Twisting and turning,

Writhing and yearning.

In fact,

I am now sure;

It is right.

With one more look in your eyes,

Just to be completely sure that this is no decision-unwise,

I say “yes” to your requests to marry me,

But, I concede a bit apprehensively,

When you lecherously touch my knee,

At every opportunity,

I wonder what it is that you really want of me.

This poem deals with a woman contemplating whether to marry her boyfriend, who has done outrageous things to get attention and seem impressive (“When you go and adulate the lights”). However, even after replying affirmatively to her boyfriend, she remains unsure as to whether she made the right decision, wondering if he is more interested in sex—the “It” mentioned in the title—or her. (“I wonder what it is that you really want of me.”)

My Love

I love
[kisses]
Every part
[kisses]
of your glorious body
[kisses]
Ravid cuteness!
[kisses]
blood and cum
[kisses]
scream and shout!
[kisses]
fissures in your skin
[kisses]
written with a subtle red
[kisses]
cries!
[kisses]
and then tears
[kisses]
over my knee
[kisses]
squirm, writhe
[kisses]
going to work on your bottom
[kisses]
so jocular, innocent, recalcitrant
[kisses]
[anything to escape !PAIN!
[kisses]
simple wants and needs
[kisses]
you didn't really mean wrong
[kisses]
but all the better
[kisses]
finally, with given all that you could give
[kisses]
you give
[kisses]
you get up
[kisses]
sniffling
[kisses]
!PAIN! lingering, you rub frantically
[kisses]
I stop you
[kisses]
a sorrowful look--"please?"
[kisses]
a light smack ON the face
[kisses]
hands fall back back to your sides
[kisses]
you stand in the corner,
with just one simple wish
[kisses]
another tear or two
[kisses]
that I peck away.

Can I snuggle with you? You are too cute.

Kisses,
G.L.A.Y.

City Lies

LIES!
Yeah, those city lies.
Yeah, those city lies.
Yeah, those city lies.

LIES!
Yeah, those city lies.
Yeah, those city lies.
Yeah, those city lies.

"It's Been Awhile" - Britney Spears

Today, while listening to Miley Cyrus's "The Climb" today, I wondered whether she wrote her own songs. It then occurred to me: it is more artistic that she didn't. When a songwriter syndicates his creations to the world, it makes more of an entity out of them. Pits of genius, only connected in history to their creator, floating abstractly about, waiting for someone to make them real.

I composed a poem to express the above thoughts:

Emotions

Bubbled up

exploding, popping

Everywhere

a commotion oozes out

it runs free

through the night

motley of energy

pulsing

through the fields,

color

Everywhere

on the grass,

on the stars,

on the sky itself,

meets a coduit

to self-expression

whatever,

whatever

it hits

and is let loose

estranged from

its creator

explosions and

explosions

then, color

on everyone

Meaning of "Well, Girl, Look At You"

"While only you can look at yourself, you must be reminded by others to which areas require reflection." - Moi
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Unrelated:

Some, at the end of their lives, will gain assurance through knowing that they achieved their life's dream of, essentially, sentimentality—marriage, children, etc.

Others, comprising a far smaller lot, will gain assurance at this trying time through the knowledge that they lived as eclectically as their resources would allow.

I suspect that this dichotomy has a significant genetic basis, but, like all psychological dispositions, has a strong environmental element also.

As such, societies should encourage their citizens to hold the latter view on their life since, if everyone is striving for diversity, then people will have a far wider-range of different activities/ideas to choose from.

However, it could be argued that if everyone's road has the same destination, then each destination could be reached more easily, per the general idea which supports economics of scale.
It is
My reply to this "hypothetical argument" would be that

[I'm discarding most of the above; this is going to require more thought.]

Oh the pain.

While watching the bloopers of an episode of Roseanne, the only television show I ever watch, I found myself laughing with the actors over seemingly nothing. After noticing this, I was overcome with the most poignant emotion. I was sharing emotions with the specter of a fit of laughter from many years ago, thousands of miles away.

Only the impermeability of human empathy could bridge such a large gap. Empathy is most sublime emotion not because it so romanticized, but to the fact that empathy is the emotion that comes to our rescue whenever we are in trouble—in fact, the romanticization is probably due to this. Whenever we toil, and its end is brought about by the assistance of another, we remember the compassion showed to us and, of course, do so fondly. There cannot be compassion without empathy, so we are latently reminded of compassion previously shown to us when experiencing “severe empathy.”

(Empathy making humans different from most other animals has already been discussed. At just about everywhere.)

Endless Time/Sorrow/Happiness/Ambition/Hatred/ EMOTION

During our time on this earth (followed by, assuringly, nothing more), life can be separated into several fifteen year periods. In a fifteen-year period, you can move somewhere, become part of the place, feel the need to move, and then, cathartically, move.

It occurred to me that the lifespan of the average dog is a similar period of time.

Like dogs, these periods are accumulated throughout life, accompanying you for an episode of the journey. They provide you with both comfort and pain, but in the end, we remember them fondly and express sorrow at their ends.

This association of time and death in the idea of a cherished pet's passing causes us to pause and consider it in the context of the temporal aspect of our lives—how long, really, do we live?

There are so few furry friends that we become close with during our lifetimes, whose lives seem to end so quickly, that the reply to the question is more solemn that one could hope. In other words, “I have had only three dogs in my life, yet my life is half over!” Implicitly, I only have three more dog lives to go. Due to human tendency to abstract even extended experiences to a single idea, this time seems much shorter than it actually was. Further, humans rarely have a good comparison to make between their time and the actual experience it takes to elapse, as time is usually used to compare time—“midlife-crisis,” “hump day,” etc.

Given these tendencies that encourage the above “dog anxiety” (as I felt before writing this post. ha. i try to present my feelings as though everyone feels that way to make myself feel less lonely. ha.), humans would hope that some way could be devised to live forever. It then occurred to me, however, that only scarcity creates value, at least in things that can be quantified. If humans could live endlessly, would they live any differently? I contemplated this. If humans made feasible the longingly unfeasible, would they make any use of the gift? They would not need to. As shown by excessive television consumption, people already treat their lives as though they have no end. On the occasions this cognitive dissonance dissipates, the church welcomes them with open arms, contingent on their open wallets and easily manipulated minds.

Although, by the same mechanics described in making time seem short, humans naturally fall into the lie of everlasting life, on both counts. There should be greater emphasis in our society, perhaps even in the educational system, on making use of life, precisely because it does not extend continually into the after-life and heaven. Making people aware, but not to the point of worry, about this truest fact of life, would result in a much more stimulating culture and richer society. After all, life is short—especially in dog years.

XOXOXOX,

Well, girl, just look at you.

Digital Dichotomization

The digital world is beautifully dichotomized. 1 or 0 or (better yet?) 0 or 1—it reflects reality in the most perfect abstraction. Something either is or is not. Moreover, some things either are or are not. This is still evident in binary, as different dichotomizations can result in overall different effects. 01 is different from 10, as 00 is different from 11. They are both just the result of different process dichotomizations. These series of dichotomizations reflects in reality the different paths of cause and effect leading to different results. For example, I was not born on September 23, 1991 (instead of being born on that day) and was not born African-American (instead of being born African-American). This leads to the result of a non-African American that was not born on September 23, 1991. Beautifully simplistic.

The image that galvanized the above pondering can be found here.

Everything in a modern GUI can be highlighted to one different color: the icons, the text, the backgrounds—everything. This further shows the validity and beauty of cascading abstractions and the universality of logical principals, as something so far from the pure code of binary, but still composed of it, holds its lowest common denominator’s properties.

The invention of the personal computer, the GUI specifically, presents other opportunities of philosophical inquiry and experiment.

For example, in subjective experience, one is not, paradoxically, consciously aware of what they are focusing on. However, with the interceding of computer, one must be aware of what there are focusing on in order to use a computer—in typical computing language, you must “select” it. This enables you do things with it. “I am going to bring this icon into operability by 'selecting' it.” Research on this property will bring knowledge that is more informed on extension of consciousness, human consciousness, focus of consciousness, and philosophy of computer science. This information all comes from the unique experience of the intersection of human consciousness and agency with an interceding console. One reality acting at the bidding of another.

Fresh.

While listening to British girlband Girls Aloud's "Long Hot Summer," it occured to me, at the If you wanna get fresh... line, that "fresh" is an amazing word.

Fresh—the sensation of newness

Opening a new can of Coke from the fridge, arriving back at home after a long day at work, arriving back at school after a long summer at home, getting fucked by a hot boy for the first time, fucking that hot boy for the first time, meeting a new character in your head for the first time, opening a book,

(Post to be finished at a lated date)

Over recent weeks, my classmates have grown to treat me more respectfully (see: like a human being), probably prompted by a school-wide diversity initiative. Even M., who has become as diligent of a harasser of me as his evil friend, seemed to tone down his antics. His evil friend, however, has, woefully expectedly, stayed true to his name. Several revelations have occurred to me during this period of more amiable relations: the most notable being that even as people treat me with more respect, I do not enjoy their presence more. In fact, I only dislike them slightly less; contempt can withstand much duress. I suppose Society and I just are not meant to be, as, really, if we were, the current conditions would foreshadow a relationship between it and me. Too different I suppose—my openness to experience to high, and everyone else’s is far too low. Sex does not faze me at all. Death does not faze me at all. Nothing really fazes me. Yet, when someone tears up, I tear up in return. Both Compassion and apathy run through me, in equal amounts, somehow managing to avoid (inevtiable?) collisions of their apparent contradiction. I always dream of being in love, fucking gender out the window—I learned recently that sex is not important, and people need to stop making themselves feel better about its inherently aggressive-submissive nature by saying that it’s “romantic.” It is not. A guy thinking, “Hey! I can have an orgasm of pleasure, and my girlfriend doesn’t mind it either, so no rape charges! Score!” is just not romantic. I just want to find a person, equally insane, to live with for the rest of my life, maybe to have children with, maybe to create a work of art with, maybe to devise a theory with. Hopefully, all three. I do not know, however, whether a person really exists. If they do, where can I find them? Are they readily available at the world’s top art institutions? They need to be either disenchanted with men or so desperate for a friend that decide to give up on the whole thing, and just dive into life (and love!) with a gay male, in addition to being insane, in the sense that they eschew normality with disgust, are eminently creative, and in the possession of an unearthly level of intelligence. Is that really too much to ask? Besides, if such a person as that exists, I really cannot see them not loving me.

Er…

Anyway, on a recent fieldtrip, my English teacher took notice of M. and his evil friend’s mistreatment of me, corroborating what she had been told of the matter by others. She immediately took both of them aside, and “yelled” (her words) at them for several minutes for treating me the way they do. My favorite excerpt:

“That is no way to treat another student, or any human being in general!”

Yay! I have finally been given passage through the golden gates of Humanity!—the one arena that I have been forbidden from entering for so long, but longed to enter! In (a playful) fact, whenever I would come across, in my studies of Feminism, the famous title of Sojourner Truth’s “Ain't I a Woman?” speech, I would laugh, “While she is fighting for her gender identity to be validated, I am still petitioning just to be allowed into Humanity!”

Always a drama queen. :)

As they received this berating, M. and his evil friend looked down shamefully at the ground like naughty schoolboys. Delicious.

Even more sadistically, there are these great pictures of M. and his evil friend wearing sullen countenances on Facebook just after being verbally whipped.

After the initial shock of being chastised for something that was overlooked for so long, M.’s evil friend took special pains to wait for me and the teacher to be in the same area, so he could show her that he took her lesson of tolerance to heart. He also (resigning sigh) took equally strenuous pains to show me that her words meant nothing when she was no longer near, singing (like the idiot he is), “G.L.A.Y. is a faggot! G.L.A.Y. is a faggot!”

How M. will respond is still to be determined. And, as only his actions really hurt, I am really beginning to wonder.

Ain’t I A Human?,

GIRL, LOOK AT YOU!!!

This has been going on for far too long!

http://www.wrongplanet.net/postp2159592.html#2159592

I am elated that I found this thread. It is kind of a validation for me; I did not realize other people were like this.

Anyway, my social fixations actually do have a tendency to take on romantic overtones, which, combined with my homosexuality and lack of subtlety in my display of affection, results in the object of my obsession, and everyone else for that matter, to feel that I am, in their words, "extremely creepy."

There seems to be only one route to this frequently reached, but alas! unfortunate, destination: A new semester begins, and there is a boy in a class who seems particularly masculine, achieved either through male stoicism (and big muscles) or male jocularity (and big muscles). In both cases, this junction of a rugged constitution with a rugged psyche—the archetypal man— fosters in me an intense need to become close to the boy, with the ultimate aspiration of being affectionately held by the boy in their arms, regardless of whether he loves me or is "just joking." It does not matter because, if a boy were to ever hold me, most likely with the latter reasoning, I would just reconceptualize the scene to my liking, retaining only the embrace.

"Reality is flimsy." ~ A Good Friend

And especially so when you are an Aspie. Thank god, too! If I could not paradigm reality in whichever way I want to jive better with my obsessions, I do not know what I would do. Really.

However, this advantage can be present itself in quite an opposite way when it is not done purposefully. (Nota Bene: I do not have psychosis.) For example, in conversation, I would incessantly hear my crush's name when it has not been said. Additionally, at the height of my obsession with a love, there will be multiple occasions throughout the day where their face will appear unsolicited to my mind's eye. This can become exceptionally annoying—a great many ponderings never came to conclusions due to such causes.

More conscience manifestations of my obsession exist in my constant vigilance in looking for changes on their Facebook pages (I must refresh my current obsession's profile at least 15 times a day, literally), spending long periods of time searching their names on Google, spending long periods of time searching their parents' names on Google, psychoanalyzing them, comparing them to everyone I know, comparing myself to them, making lists of their top 10 friends, wondering if they know that I am obsessed with them, wondering how would they react if they were to find out that they have become a large part of my life, contemplating why I adore them, devising ways to further ingratiate myself with them, coming up with ways to extort hugs from them (including pretending my mother has just died), gaining an interest in psychology to reason out a psychological basis for each of their personality traits, asking them questions that I know the answers to, making mini-collages of their Facebook pictures, talking almost exclusively about them to anyone that will listen, throwing up when they finally find out about all of the above (via the people I told), trying my best to make them feel comfortable, feeling not only hurt, but dejected, due to all of the antics that they employ to avoid me (now I regret being attracted to jocularity), having break-downs when people tell me that they think that my love is "disgusting" (and they only now about the Facebook part and the mini-collage!).

I can spend entire nights listening to music and doing all of the above, surprisingly passively too.

This was for all of my ladies that just wanted a bit more,

Girl, Look at You! (G.L.A.Y.)

The following was written on March 11th, as part of an email to a friend.

Today, R. was sitting right next to me on the floor in Mr. F's room, when I hear a very contemptuous voice, M.'s Evil Friend, say "Look! Now he's hitting on R." So, M.'s Evil Friend was talking about me, with an audience of M. I then hear M.'s Evil Friend say the word gay a few times, as well as some obnoxiously yelled, incomprehensible - and almost certainly negative - comment about Proposition 8. Most importantly, I also hear M. say, "I even went to SAP," in a kind of aggravated way. I assume that he went because of his paranoia that I am “incessantly” looking at him, since he and M.'s Evil Friend were just talking about me and my sexual orientation a moment before, which, frankly, is a little bit ridiculous. While I pretend to not understand why he is acting so negatively, I really do. Essentially, people are afraid of what they don’t understand, and M. doesn’t understand deep emotions and aesthetics. He occasionally attempts to feign depth out of his shallows, a deception that dissipates easily under a distrust of the eye and an active inspection. This lack of emotional depth is at the crux of the problem: he interprets my (former) intense infatuation for him as being purely sexual infatuation, which I assume is mostly what he feels for girls. I remember, when he didn’t hate me and thought of me as being very intelligent, that I would just watch him with quiet happiness—his cute face, boyish demeanor, idyllic and carefree disposition, self-confidence, assertiveness, and ability to just go out and try to get what he wants, without being anxious about whether what he’s doing to achieve that goal is 100% acceptable to everyone. And that’s NOT creepy to feel that way. I’m such an anxiety-ridden person, always worrying about other people are thinking about me, worrying about all the work that I should have done at home that now needs to be finished during school somehow, inhibited by my complete lack of confidence, being soft-spoken, so as to not appear assertive, and trying not to attract attention in any way I can. M. just doesn’t do those things, so it’s completely natural that I would find those traits extremely endearing, as I associate negative connotations with the above traits.

Given his unbelievably strong preference for tangibles rather than intangibles (he didn’t know what Creationism is the belief that God created the Earth and everything on it simultaneously. It’s not only that he didn’t know this fact; it became clear, as he continued talking, that he had never, at any point in his life, wondered how the world got its start. Unbelievable.), which, in addition to size of general knowledge (another area M. is deficient in), correlates highly with depth of emotion and openness to experience, explaining his lack of both—and his strong disturbance to the situation between me and him.

I’m guessing that he was angry because the SAP people didn’t do what he wanted them to do. I don’t really know what he would have wanted out of them, though. Force Mrs. F. to change seats? Ensure in the future that I’m not in any of his classes? Besides, I don’t see under what pretense they could grant him what he wants, as he has no reasonable charge towards me. “He looks at me too often!” Of course, there is the collage, but that is not sexual in any way, shape, or form. As I said before, he doesn’t really understand the feelings that fueled the collage’s creation, beyond that it means that like him in some “weirdly” high degree, which to him means that I’m sexually attracted to him in some “weirdly” high degree. I’m sure that none of this aided by that fact that he already thinks that I’m very odd—wearing “Wal-Mart Clothes,” carrying all of my books, talking very quickly, having an unkempt appearance, limping to keep my schoolbag on my shoulder, fluctuating from being very introverted to very extroverted, etc. According to more than one person, these qualities all give the appearance of being “shady” and “that I can easily be pictured masturbating in front of computer over gay porn all night.”

It’s really all quite upsetting to have everyone, including the man that I once “loved” and who, consequently, is possessive of an opinion that has much effect on me, think of me as being some pervert that should be feared—a metaphorical Frankenstein, composed of a mess of sexual perversions and fetishes. It is a truly, truly, truly upsetting thought to know that you incite fear in people. All the more tragic is, one, when they think that you do so purposely, as M. does, and, two, when you are probably the least likely person to do something to someone that they would rather you not do. I cried, literally, every day of preschool, kindergarten, first grade, and the first two-thirds of second grade because, “I miss my Dad!” I cry at almost every movie and whenever someone else cries, so does Eric. People with more callous dispositions (cough) upset me to no end. My sensitivity surely exacerbates the pain derived from unintentional engendering of fear in people.

I feel that all my problems are helplessly interrelated and just intensify. Due to my sensitivity, I might look at M. to see if he’s upset, which causes him to be even more creeped out, which causes everyone to see me in a more creepy light, which causes me to care less about my appearance since no one is going to like me anyway, which causes everyone to see me in a more creepy light, which...

The M. part of the equation just continually intensifies, intensifying the rest of the chain, because the more creeped out he becomes, the incentive to not look at him, as I don’t want to anger him, grows proportionally with the incentive to look, as I have anxiety over how much he hates me. Because the incentive to look was stronger initially, it continues to be stronger because, as I said, they both grow proportionally, which, again, causes the M. part of the chain to intensify, intensifying the entire chain of anxiety.

Now THAT'S one hell of a tangled web,

G.L.A.Y.

P.S. I just checked, and this is 1,100 words long. When does my emo certificate come in the mail?

Baby.

While contemplating my life, I am often struck with regret for the things that I have said about many individuals, M.’s evil friend and M. in particular.

“If I had just kept my mouth shut, just for one second, on those two occasions, everything in my life would be okay. My homosexuality would still only be a rumor, people wouldn’t back away when I talk to them, and wouldn’t have to wake up to dread going to a place where all of my greatest enemies congregate.”

Really, however, while all of the above would be true, what benefit would be granted? My problems and my loves (the same thing) are essentially all I ever talk about with people. My problems stem from people wishing I were dead and the resulting psychological effects. If people didn’t hate me, there would be little to talk about. While I am already very isolated from my peers, I think that I would actually be even more isolated, since I wouldn't have anything to talk to people about.

On the issue of my crushes, I guess could have just stuck to telling people which boys I find to be “cute,” instead of detailing explicit sexual fantasies and describing the extent to which I worship their smiles. But, I would think this would get old very quickly, as I talk about this topic so often that it needs to be described with a great deal of variety in order for the other person to be mildly interested, if that.

Many elements of my life seems to take the dichotomous form shown above, with me aching for reality to become the other partition from the one I live in (but did NOT choose; how could I foreseen such badness in people?). And, again, as shown in the above example dichotomy, the other side of the partition is not really as nice as I imagine.

I am a rational person, and thus, when I made the original decision within a certain element of my life, I had good reason to do so. By the time the consequences come as a result of this action, I’ve forgotten about the benefits of taking the action and the negatives of not, due to the strong negative emotions forcing me to think that anything could be better than the current situation, which is why I think that I’ve made an obviously wrong decision, when, in fact, I have not.

The grass is always greener on the other side,

lovingtheendlesssorrowcauseifeelsofull

My apologies.

I really apologize for the updates on "my very unfortuante life." It's just that I really can't think of a time when it has been more unfortunate - every dimension of my exsistance has just been thrown into a state of tumult. As is adolesence, I suppose, but having spoken to many peers (too many) about my admittedly self-situated situations, I can't help but feel my problems are more complex and more intricately interwoven, both into each other and into even the most trivial and common of life's

minutiae. I just can't get away from them.

Also, I may finish the "emo anthem" I started earlier. I need closure.

I can't wake up in the city that never sleeps,

pastpassionsneverleavelaterloves

Nevermind.

It got worse. Today, M. actually went up to me and yelled, "What the fuck do you want?"

I'm going to talk to him on Monday because he's got me feelin' sad.

Wow.

I can't believe I thought things were bad yesterday because, today, just about everything blew up. Completely, to smithereens.

I think that's it...

Well, today, M. went even further in his statement of ill-intent towards me, so I'm not sure that I'll be able to finish the "emo anthem" that I started because, frankly, the passion just isn't there. At first, after our "breakup," I treasured everything that I had of his - just some notes that he once copied for me - and my many memories of him. I think that I would have really liked to have kept the fond connotations with them in tact, but alas, the recent events have poisoned them, not to the extent that the connotations are negative, but to the extent that they were rendered completely neutral. It’s actually really interesting that something that elicited such strong, passionate feelings has been dulled to nothing in a day. The title references my abivalence toward the ending my relationship with M. - could something so intese for so long really die in a day?

Adieu to you, my first real obsession. Adieu to you, my first, true, love.

I feel empty.

I'll only tell you if you NEVER look back,

emptyemptyemptyemptyemptyempty

Sympathizes.

http://www.darksiderainbow.net/the-straight-crush/

http://www.queerattitude.com/forums/posts.php?t=9107

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eVI1sg0zsoY

M. and Losing a Love That I Never Had

M. and Losing a Love That I Never Had

With M., all I ever really wanted to do was to be his friend—that and only that. If I could have been his friend, I wouldn't want anything else from him. I wouldn’t ask for a hug, talk to him about boys, or anything else that could jeopardize such a privileged status. If he could treat me in the same, completely informal, jocular manner that he treats all of his friends, there would be few other pleasures that I would want, at least for my immediate circumstances (the future…). Each time I would ask M. a question, almost always with fabricated intent or with people much better suited to supply an answer available, he would reply in such a business-like manner, not cold, but disappointingly formal. This was highly-depressing, considering questions composed most of the interaction that M. and I shared, as, with a question, people rarely become suspicious of someone’s intent in their speaking to them, because a person has a reason for addressing them: gaining required knowledge. I often (rather hastily) threw the guise of requirement and need over myself, pretending to be “reluctantly forced” into the “completely neutral” experience of talking to M. by universal forces beyond anyone’s control. Hey, God rolled dice at the beginning of time, and this was the result*. Their were times, however, when our interaction was more than farce, only slightly, but still genuine interaction nonetheless—like the kind you might actually have with someone in your high school Math class, as I am, not someone you have just met at a business meeting, as I am not.

* In philosophy, as a part of casual determinism, it is stated that all states have their basis in previously-existing states, no matter how complex the abstraction, until the primordial state, whose qualities dictate the qualities of all following states. (John was named so because his mother once knew someone named John that she thought was nice, she was able to meet this person because their parents worked in the same city, they worked in the same city because…ad nauseum; this would continue until the first atom, the qualities of which influenced the qualities of all other things to come into existence.)

I remember both occasions distinctly—what happened before and what happened after. Each time ended with (well, consisted of) M. and I laughing at the same thing, for the same reasons, and at the same time. These could almost be classified as highlights of the year, as to a gay male, laughing, sincerely, with a straight man they adore is like a first kiss—a kiss being comparable to laughing because, for a straight man, above a kiss there is only one higher mode of affection, sex, in the same way there is only one higher mode of affection for a gay male in love with a straight man than laughter with similar company, a hug. The above hierarchy’s unforgiving inequality is regrettable (and very, very lamentable), but it is the nature of being gay. To actually share positive feeling with M. was euphoric; it was such a pleasure to watch M.’s cheeks turn red and his cheek bones rise in laughter, at the expense of his eyes, as that unrestrained, idyllic, jocular, informal sound filled the air. To him, for a moment, while it slipped his mind, I wasn’t only that gay kid who “creeped” on him, but I was what I actually am—his peer and equal. Unfortunately, beyond its mate, each of these brief instances of camaraderie had no other accompaniment.

And it seems they never will. Once M. [omitted in online copy to avoid identification], all hopes—dashed, communication—ended, cautious friendliness—a fondly remembered fragment of the past. To him, I suppose, he was just another victim of my “perving,” as I assume his close association with [M.'s evil friend] and my many other detractors would bias him into perceiving my infatuation as, so for him, it did not seem inappropriate to inform me in such a casual manner, as a joke between him and [M.'s evil friend], that he knew I “liked” (!) him and that I make him uncomfortable. What M. does not realize is that his light-hearted, playful expression of his feelings about me felt like a dismissal of my feelings, as he was, thankfully, I suppose, unaware as to just how emotionally invested I was in him, as my love for him extends far beyond broad shoulders and a deep voice, but to both the persona he presents to the world and the personality that he truly holds in his heart. The boyish, childlike demeanor that M. holds with him, at all times of the day, is, perhaps, the most endearing of all of his traits. He is always willing to joke, to prank, [more coming...]

June Edit: My response to this last paragraph: fuck that shit! He is an outright asshole, bigot, and ruthless, incompassionate overachiever. The last term being ironic, as he does not really want to achieve anything—money and fame are about as real as the pixels illuminated in the "fag purple" that you see before you.

Ugh.

Time always forces me to brake promises. (And that wasn't a typo.)

Also, I've had this throbbing head ache on-and-off for several days, probably due to getting - total - 25 hours of sleep in the last week. Averages out to 3.5 per day. Very tired, but can't sleep.

I'm nearly done a sorrowful-reflective rhaspody on a recent event in my life. 1,000 words so far.

Recent quote from a recent dream: "If location is everything, my life must exsist within one hell of a tragic kingdom" - My dreamself. Tragic Kingdom is also the title of a No Doubt album, which is proably why I decided to use that word combination. Just giving "cred."

Oh, my dear, to fret would be to offend REAL diseases; it's only a smidgen of Mania.

Creativity will be coming soon. Close your hearts and open your minds, just as mother always cautioned before letting eyes meet the world. Don't want to start out the day biased to ancestral impressions given (wrapped extravagantly, I'm sure) to you—aboriginal, but hackneyed; make some new, interesting friends. 

They're there. Believe me. All just waiting for you.

And you thought I'd never get out of bed!,

theoldrunofthemillcandyshoponthethehill