Lately, I have been sleeping through a lot of bad dreams. Actually, I cannot distinguish whether they are good or bad. They're just dreams. I wake up in a bad mood, however, so I guess that would make them bad dreams. Strangely, they aren't really dreams but more like memories stuck in dreams. Memories of fraternization and camaraderie (that I was not apart of), smiles (that weren't necessarily mine) and new friendships and bonds made (that didn't involve me). See, I keep having these dreams of college.

Now, don't get me wrong. I didn't exactly have the most harrowing college experience ever. It's not like I was dragged through broken glass for three years. Yes, I didn't even graduate college. Isn't that horrible? I have three years under my belt. Isn't that like running a city marathon and dropping out in the last ten miles? I had to leave for financial reasons. That's what I tell people. And that's 100% true. Whatever, I'm poor. But I also feel like had I stayed in college I would most likely have graduated into an asylum as opposed to the big, bad corporate world (though to some, the two are one in the same).

Everyone who has ever read a blog entry of mine knows that there's always one part where I whine incessantly and without restraint and here it is: it's just that everytime I hear about people who still talk to their college friends, or how they're getting together with their old roommate for Homecoming or how they're going to meet their fraternity brother for dinner I just want to hit myself in the back of the head. Because I didn't have any friends in college (which is so untrue, I just didn't keep in touch with any of them). Because I was too depressed. Yeah, I know; shocker! Derrick was depressed. I'm just like, I mean of all the years in my life when I could've realized that I like penis it had to be in college? When I was still interrupting study time for Bible time and still referring to God as my "Dad" in prayers?

"Wait, you referred to God as your dad?" Chris interjected one Sunday afternoon over brunch.
"Yeah, I mean, I never had a real father. And he's 'our Father.'" I answered sheepishly.
"There's something so fucked up about that."
"I think it's cute." Brandon smiled, with reassurance, at me before taking another bite of his eggs benedict.
"Wait, so was Jesus your brother?" Eric jumped in, laying his fork down and glaring at me with inquisitive eyes.
"Yeah!" I answered, excited at the recognition, "He was my big brother."
"And Mary was your mom?"
"No." I corrected, "I already had a mom."
"What the hell?" Chris said, "You can't just exclude Mary. She's Jesus' mom."
"And therefore yours."
"But I already have a mother."
"Well, then you had two."
"Oh my God!" Eric laughed, "You had lesbian mothers!"
"Whoa, you can't just refer to Jesus' mother as a lesbian in public!"
"So says the freak who spent his teen years calling Jesus Christ his big brother."
"So like," Eric laughed, "Were you afraid that if you misbehaved God would like, strike you down with lightening as a form of spanking?"

Anyways, as I was saying; it's hard to have a good time when you feel like you're being invaded by some disease. I was so full of self-hatred and disgust.

"Maybe you should've asked your 'dad' for some advice." Chris laughed.
"Shut up."

So, back to these dreams. It's like I'm there again and I'm watching it like a movie. All of those moments and those people; all of the chances I'd passed up in terms of making friends and having a good time simply because I was afraid of "the gayness." And I'm just like 'why did I do that?' and 'why didn't I do this?'

"That sounds like you now."
"Yeah, not much has changed." Chris said.
"Whatever. But here's the thing: I think I want to go back to school."
"That's awesome!" Brandon cheered.
"I think that's the best idea ever!" Chris congratulated. "Are you going to take night classes after work or distance learning?"
"You should totally go to Columbia. How awesome would that be to finally get your degree from Columbia?" Eric said.
"Cheers to you." Chris announced as they all toasted me with their mimosas.
"No, I was thinking I'd go back to Florida State."
The three of them attempted to suppress choking on their drinks.
"What?"
"I mean, maybe that's what my dreams are telling me." I said, attempting to gloss over the topic by casually returning to my caesar salad.
"But your life is here. Your job is here. Your friends, hello, are here." Chris said.
"Yeah, but school is down there." I answered.
"Where is FSU? Miami? Because I so could use someplace to crash whenever I head to South Beach."
"No, it's in Tallahassee. You know, the capital. Up below Alabama."
"What?" Brandon asked, genuinely perplexed, "Why would anyone want to go there?"
"Look, I miss college too." Eric offerred, "I really do. Especially that kid on the wrestling team I used to fuck with--God, was he flexible. I mean, wait, I miss college too but you can't just uproot yourself now and go back nearly ten years later."
"Yeah, and what are you gonna do surrounded by a bunch of horny 18 year olds anyways?" Chris said before adding, "Wait a minute, considering you've had like, years to work on your game you could probably fuck your way through half the dorms on campus by second semester!"
"You're not helping." Brandon accused. "Look, Derrick you can't just go chasing memories across the country. I don't care how many sexually experimental boys you'll be able to bang."
"It does sound a bit tempting now, doesn't it?" Eric pondered aloud.
"Shut up, Eric."
"I'm not chasing memories." I lied.

Ok, so I'm chasing memories. That's probably why I never went back--to any college--to finish my final year. Well, that and I had no money. But I could totally just get another job down there and--

"And what?" Chris asked, "Live in the dorms?"
"No...." I replied unconvincingly.
"Aren't you just a tad too old for dorms?"
"They have apartment style dorms."
"Yeah, and then you can fuck your roommate in between all the fresh tail you'll be bagging elsewhere across campus at the frat parties and shit." Eric joked. "Wait," he added with a contemplative tone, "why is this increasingly sounding like a good idea?"
"Well, I don't know what to do..." I gave in.
"I second that you should just ask dear old 'dad' for advice?" Brandon laughed.
"I just, I don't know what to do right now. What is it about being 29 that makes you regret everything? It's like someone just flipped a switch and suddenly I'm in scour mode over the last decade or so of my life. With a magnifying glass!"
"I don't know, but if this keeps up we are so not hanging out once you hit 30."
"Your problem is you are too self aware." Chris advised, sipping his drink.
"What's wrong with being self aware?" I asked.
"Nothing, if you're Dakota Fanning gunning for an Oscar."
"Maybe you're going through your mid-life crisis." Eric offered. "Yeah, this is totally your 'American Beauty' moment. You're like, Black Kevin Spacey."
"That would explain the sudden desire to fuck a bunch of 18 year olds." Chris chimed in.
"I never said I wanted to go back to school so I could sleep with freshmen!" I responded, "I'm just saying...maybe this, this is my chance for a do over."
"Dude," Chris said after hailing the waiter for another round of drinks, "life does NOT afford people do overs."
"Well, maybe it does." I said defiantly.
"If it did, I'd be able to go back to my first boyfriend and let him know that I was only being a dick because I was afraid of being in love and that he really is a great person."
"And I would go back to before my mother died and spend every waking moment savoring the mere fact that she's alive and able to answer me when I tell her that I love her." Brandon added, slicing into the remainder of his eggs benedict as a distraction from his emotions.

I suddenly realized how petty I was being. Life is life, and it moves forwards, not backwards. Yeah, I had a bad time in college; but it is what it is. All that I can do is concentrate on enjoying every moment of the future in the ways that I didn't 8 years ago. Besides, I did have some really good times in college. College was when I first started coming out of my shell and talking to people. See, it was high school that was the real trip to Hell for me. But that was like almost twelve years ago or so (Jesus! Am I that old!?). I guess this is what I do. I get stuck on these emotional rifts and I just keep going over them and over them like they're the most important things in the world. While completely ignoring the reality of the situation. It's the source of my whining. And everyone who knows me knows that whining is like, what I do best (well, the second thing I do best...). So no, I'm not going back to Tallahassee. Though I never did get to do study abroad so maybe I'll go to the Florida State campus in London!

Just kidding.

I could tell by the way he was looking at me, impatience etched into lines in his furrowed brows, his head cocked to one side in annoyed confusion, that he he had no idea, nor the care to take the time to figure out, just what the fuck I was saying. But I didn't care. I had suddenly found myself locked into a desire to speak, not necessarily from the heart, but instead from that small part of your brain that feels its duty is to constantly remind that, no matter how well off you may feel personally, there are always some number of ways in which you can be better or that you've fucked up royally. And here, on the busy platform of a downtown express train of the New York City subway, that particular section of my mental decided, despite the rush hour push and shove, to stop this boy, an old "friend," whom I hadn't seen in years, and apologize.

"I'm sorry, what...what are you apologizing for?"
"When we were friends," I began plaintively, "I was so neglectful. I never even thought of your needs. I was just--I was young and, and..."
"I barely even remember you. When...when did we hang out?"
"Well, we didn't really," I screamed over the approaching train on the opposite track. "We just sort of ran into eachother at the clubs and stuff. But you were always friendly and I was always drunk so I think I was kinda wierd. But I didn't mean to be wierd. I was just drunk!"
He took a few steps steps back.
"And there was that one time you sat down next to me on the bench at Tunnel, and I just got up and walked away. Do you remember that?"
"No..."
"Well, I mean--it was so rude! I don't know why I did that!"
His eyes narrowed and he stared at me as if trying to peer through me in order to locate the emergency exit behind me.
"Ok," he said, "It was nice seeing you. Uh, take care."
And then before I could offer a response or reprieve he had been swallowed into the crowd.

"Wait," my friend Chris countered as I told him the story over tea and 'Sex And The City' the next day at his house, "who is this person again?"
"Someone I used to kind of hang out with."
"When?"
"Um, like 2000 I guess. Maybe 1999."
"What?!" He said, pausing the show during one of Carrie's rants and turning to me, "Nine years!? And NOW you're apologizing?"
"I know, right? How could I have taken so long!?"
"No, more like why do you even give a fuck? Clearly he doesn't."

I seem to have some issue with guilt. And no, it's not Catholic Guilt. I'm not even a fucking Catholic. I don't know what Catholic Guilt even is. It's just that I can't seem to let my own personal slights go. I have some sort of tally in my head of every small mis-step, every coulda, shoulda, woulda.

"Do you think that hurt his feelings?" I yelled at Chris over the blaring music in the background, one night in a Downtown gay club.
"Who cares?" He shot back, cruising the crowd for hot boys.
"Do you think I was mean?" I responded as I scoured the crowd for the boy who had previously approached me that night for sex, and whom I readily turned down.
"Derrick!" He said, spinning back towards me in frustration, "Who the fuck cares?! People get turned down all the time. Look, do you wanna fuck him?"
"No."
"Well, then..."
"Maybe I should've said yes and gone home with him." I pondered after some silence.
"What!?" Chris exclaimed, spinning back around to me, "You'd do that? Just so he wouldn't feel bad?"
"No, but..."
"Look, you were alot nicer about it than I would've been. You politely declined. I woulda just laughed at him."
"I could've been nicer about it though, right?"
"Whatever. Coulda, shoulda, woulda."

What is this thing that I have where I feel need to bend over backwards for the entire world? And why the hell am I so hard on myself when I don't do it? I literally feel like I've spent my entire life on damage control, cleaning up everyone's shit--and my own perceived shitting--so that everything has the look of being all right. I'm forever bending over backwards to make sure that the pieces fit perfectly, or atleast give the impression that they do. Which leads me to my last relationship.

"I was a horrible boyfriend." I lamented to Chris on the phone earlier this year.
"You were not. He stayed with you for six years. Nobody stays with horrible people for six years unless you steal an election via Florida."
"But there were so many times that I made him cry."
"So...?"
"So, I could've been better. I could've worked on IT instead of on keeping up it's appearances."
"Coulda, shoulda, woulda."

The thing about life is, you have to grant yourself the opportunity to make mistakes. But somewhere in the back of my head, at some point in the earlier stages of my life, I programmed myself not to accept that. And, in fact, even when I'm not showing remorse or displaying how much I hate myself for not performing correctly, I'm still hard on myself about the whole thing. I just keep internalizing it, and packing it on. But what does that do for me? Absolutely nothing but hand me a bigger, heavier load. And make me look like a idiot in front of people as I apologize for the silliest of infractions, even eight years later.

"You know what you need to do?" Chris finally counselled, "say 'fuck it.' Just go out there and say 'fuck it.'" He reclined in his chair at this, proudly. "I do it. It's wonderfully liberating."


That night, while walking home through Union Square Park, I was deep in thought, tearing apart the layers of my mind and trying to figure out why I am afflicted this way. "Fuck it," I kept mumbling to myself with each passing thought or reminder of my infractions upon others.

"I should've hugged him more as a child..."
Fuck it.

"I should've given him more rides instead of him always having to pick me up to go out."
Fuck it.

"I should've called her everyday to let her know I was thinking about her."
Fuck it.

"I should've kissed him, eventhough I didn't want to, just so he wouldn't feel rejected."
Fuck it.

I had become so enthralled in my mental lifechange that I had not realized I had started to move my verbiage from internal to external. There I was, strolling through Union Square Park, head down, with angry face and gestures, mumbling "fuck it" in steadily increasing volume. The more I pondered it, the more easily my thoughts became a tornado of emotions and the situations I'd been sifting through became people. People whom I had subjugated myself to. People whom I had spent time and energy on pleasing or emotionally coddling, who had, in return, only openly hurt me. Suddenly "fuck it" became "fuck you."

"Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!"

Suddenly, those tornado winds stopped swirling.

"What the fuck you say to me?"

A voice from the calm outside the storm. Except the voice didn't sound so calm. And all of a sudden I'm back on solid ground. Back on Earth. And there's a six-foot-two burly Black man staring me down in the face.

"Um...I-I'm sorry I wasn't--"
"What are you? One of those fuckin' nut balls?"
"What's a nut ball?"
"You makin' fun of me!?" He pushed his body closer.
"No! Honestly. I-I-I was actually talking..." I laughed nervously, "I was actually talking to the voices in my head."
He pulled back.
"It's not as crazy as it sounds. They weren't really voices. They were more like um, people."
He took another step back, his angry face falling to fear.
"No, i'm not crazy. See, there's just these people in my head and I just have to tell them to fuck off so I can be better."
"Nah, it's cool, man."
"No, no, no..." Suddenly I was the one approaching him. "It's not like that..."
"No, forget about it. You go ahead and finish what you were doing."
"No, I'm not crazy! This is so I can be happy!"
"I'm sure it is." He yelled back after turning and booking it towards 14th St, "G-G-Good look with that!" He added before, slightly lowering his voice, he continued "...fucking psycho motherfucker."

"You know," Chris laughed on the phone later that night, "that's probably the one time you subjugating yourself actually came in handy."
"Blah..."
"Seriously, he so woulda kicked your ass if you hadn't tried to so hard to please him. And seriously, who tries to please their physical aggressors. You seriously are fucked up."
"Thanks. No, really. Thanks." I said with ample sarcasm.
"Look, just be happy you have all your ribs still intact."
"But you know, I so could have handled that better."
"Coulda, shoulda, woulda."

Sometimes it can be the simplest aspects of life that are the most difficult for me to actually live in. Ten years ago, I was applying to transfer colleges. As I poured over seemingly useless, tedious form after form for each of the seven schools I applied to, each one more invasive than the other, I found that it wasn't the call for personal information, the requirements of former teacher recommendations or the cost of forwarding my test scores and records to yet another institution that stumped, confounded or irked me the most, but instead it was the self-identification section at the end of the application. I seriously had no idea: was I supposed to check "African American/non-Hispanic black" or "other?"

"Check "black" honey," my mother advised with the unflinching casual warmth of a mother offering border-line bad advice without a care, "that way you get more federal funding."

Recently, I was asked what do I identify with? I was immediately reminded of those moments and of my mother, bless her, who never raised us with any association of race. I had no idea which box to check off because, in my life, race had never been an issue. Atleast not within the walls of my house. I was simply, Derrick. This actually may have been more detrimental than beneficial, considering all of the racism I was confronted with on the outside of my house from Whites who found me oddly darker than they or Blacks who felt I was an "oreo" or "a sellout" because I "talked/acted White" to the light-skinned Latinos who'd call me "negro" because of the color of my skin. I had no idea what the big deal was, which made it only hurt more.

"You're black, right?" Summer, a classmate in my Women's Studies class sophomore year in college asked during a class discussion on the correlation of class and race in America.
"Yeah, I guess...." I shrugged.
"What do you mean 'you guess?'" The professor, Mrs. Ray, entered the conversation.
"Well, I mean..." I struggled under the pressure, "I mean, I'm darker, right?"
"Well," Mrs. Ray asked with neutrality, "do you feel black?"

I wanted to say no. That I didn't feel anything. But I only thought the response would lead to gasps and dismissive head nods. So, I lied and said yes. But I could immediately remember times, in Florida State's student union, walking through the center aisle between the cafe tables between the Black students, all gathered on one side of the room, and the White students, huddled in loud social pools on the other. I remember feeling the irony of being inbetween the two groups. I wanted to talk to the Black kids, but I could feel them boring their eyes into me whenever I'd pass and I'd suddenly recall the Blacks back at home, repeating to me that I "talked/acted White" or that I "walk around like you're too good for anyone." Then, on the other side, were the White guys, with their backwards hats, their gelled-up hair and their cargo shorts. I knew I wasn't particularly welcomed there. I knew I for sure didn't meet the physical requirements. I knew that most of those boys had an issue with "the gay thing," but I had to find myself somewhere.

And that was the problem.

"Do you consider yourself a gay man?" I was recently asked.
"Yeah, I guess." I said, "I mean, I like gay stuff."
"Those are social constructs."
"I don't understand..."
"Do you identify with being a gay male or with what, typically, gay men do?"

It was a good question because it made me face the fact that at some point I did feel compelled to "find myself somewhere." From a household where I grew up identifying with nothing but simply being alive, I had to force an identification onto myself. Everyone has to fit in somewhere. The best way to do that, is attach yourself to the same social constructs I grew up avoiding.

"Well," I continued to respond, "I don't know...I like going to gay bars."
"That's what you identify with? Going to gay bars?"
"No. I mean...I'm gay because I like gay things, right? I like campy movies and going on like, vacations to gay places and being around other gay people. And, I mean, I'm attracted to other men."
"And that's it. Being attracted to other men is what you should be identifying with, no?"
"I guess."
"All the rest of it is...."
"What I have attached to that." I finished, catching the drift.

When I confront all of the things I've denied myself, because that child's view of the world, of being ok with just being, or with being unique, I am confronted with the cold fact that, for so many years I've felt transparent to anything outside of my skin because, well, I had made myself that way. Instead of promoting who I am, which is, simply, Derrick, I absorbed identities of all those around me, painted myself with them and then hid behind them. To the curious, confused and hurt child that I was, this was security. This was a way to feel safe outside of my house: to be them and not me. And by house, I don't just mean my physical home, but my mental, spiritual and emotional home as well. In fact, mainly so. Perhaps we all do this. Perhaps I'm making a deal out of nothing. Perhaps, I'm realizing, no matter how many other people do this, I'm not happy being one of them.

"What do you like to do?" The conversationalist continued.
"Uh..."
"Why do you have to think about it?"
"I don't know..." I flustered, "I'm trying to think which things I like to do I actually like and don't do just because..."
"Can you tell me who you are?"
"I thought I could..." I sighed, defeated, "but I think if I started to, at any moment before right now, I probably would've listed those things that aren't me, but are."

Sometimes it's the simplest aspects of life that are the most difficult for me to live in. Sometimes, I think back to the little boy that I was, who was content with being alone in his own imagination, and who didn't feel confounded by the mortal wounding of those random Black boys telling him he wasn't Black enough or gay men telling him how he needed to be or typical White gay men telling him they "don't do Black" or prom queens and football stars telling him he was ugly because he didn't fit the traditional mold. These are the things that every normal person goes through, aren't they? Apparently, I must not be normal. Because I never actually went "through" it. I'm still that 10 year-old wondering why they won't talk to me. Or why everyone wants me to fit somewhere, be it stupid or smart, popular of loser, gay or straight, black or white. "I'm just Derrick," I wish I would've told them. Instead, I took the bait, and told that little boy to run back inside the house. And from behind a million fake smiles, adopted fashion trends and dollars thrown down on rainbow-friendly bar tops, I found my identity. However unhappy it made me. However much of a blank slate it made me feel like. Now that I look out into this big world and ponder how it is I can have lived this life in inaction, without passion or purpose, minus regard for propelling myself into a career that I love or making my mark on society by showcasing my talents towards the things that I love to do, I see the near impossibility of it, of becoming someone, when I am, and wholly feel, the emptiness of being a complete and literal no one. What can I give, but what they've already got? Because that's what I've adhered to all of these years. Emptiness, begets emptiness.

"Do you even know who you are?" The conversationalist's voice was calm yet inquisitive.

I looked away. At cars speeding by the nearest avenue. At a world that will continue to speed, to turn, to mobilize, to push into the future, whether I am happy or not. Whether I have proper identification or not. I suddenly felt a strong sense of responsibility close its fist around my heart and light a fire behind my eyes.

"No," I said with flat tone before inhaling deeply, "but I want to find out."

My mother always told me, as a child, that if I wanted something, I should go after it. As evidenced by my lack of involvement in any extra-curriculars in secondary school and my general lack of friendships, this was advice I generally ignored. Approaching mid-middle age, however, the advice is becoming harder to push past. Hence when further approached by my burning desire to make it with a girl again...

"What!?" my friend Chris gasped incredulously, spilling his Belvedere and Tonic onto the bartop. "What is this? Some kind of cruel joke?"
"No," I replied with a casual smile, "I've wanted to for awhile. I think I should go for it."
"Ok, Derrick...." Dave leaned in, putting one hand on my shoulder and speaking in the manner of a sympathetic teacher, "see, women have vaginas. You're gay and gay means you like penis."
"You don't have to spell it out." I laughed, "I know."
"So, this is for real?"
"Yeah. I've wanted to hook up with a girl again for awhile now."
"Again?"
"Yeah, I"ve been with girls before." I tried to laugh off the spotlight of their disbelief.
"And that's a mistake you want to repeat?"
"It wasn't a mistake."
"Look," Chris began in a calming tone, "you shouldn't punish yourself like that. If you're looking for a device of self-torture, can't you just put a Rhianna CD on repeat?"
"Maybe he's drunk," Dave offerred, pulling my drink towards him.
"I'm not drunk." I protested, grabbing it back. "And I need your help. I need to know how to talk to girls."
"You're asking two gay guys how to bed a woman? While in a gay bar?"
"Well, lets go to a straight bar."
"What?! Why would we do such a thing!?"
"Yeah, you're the one with the self-punishing kick, not us." Chris laughed, kicking back on his stool.
"C'mon!"

As I'm reliable to do, I whined my way with the two and within 45 minutes we were out on the sidewalk making our way to the nearest heterosexual drinking hole.

"This is pointless." Chris protested. "I don't even know how to act around those people."
"They're still people," I laughed, "Just non-penis craving ones."
"The girls are." Dave added, shifting away from a passer-by, "by the way, when did you become bi?"
"I'm not bi."
"Phew!" Chris threw his arms up in exhale, "This was all a big joke!? You sonuvabitch! Back to the bar! I need a whole new martini now."
"No, I do wanna hook up with a girl."
"So you are bi?"
"No, I'm gay. I'm experimental." I glowed with the distinction.
"No," Dave corrected, "Drunk straight boys with long repressed homo desires--"
"Or straight up horny ones!" Chris interjected.
"Right." Dave continued, "they are experimental."
I shrugged to both of them as we rounded the corner onto Sixth Avenue.
"Ok, let's do a test." Chris offerred, his gestures demasculated from liquor. "Madonna, Mariah and Britney."
"Love them!" I gushed.
"GAY!" They both called out.
"That's no fair..." I blushed.
"Ok, favorite beer?" Dave asked, the taxis zipping by before us.
"Um, I dunno I usually get like, Coors Light or Bud Light."
They both glared at me incredulously.
"What? They're the cheapest."
"That's so gay."
"Actually, that's like, lesbian." Dave corrected.
"Great!" I interrupted, "Then I can kiss a girl!" I shuffled off across the street.
"Do you miss your boyfriend?" Chris called, running after, "Cause I'm sure if you ask him he'll let you kiss him."

I approached a generic bar on the corner. The bar itself looked pretty crowded with the sidewalk packed with loud post-fraternity yuppies-in-training and homogenously dressed girls shrieking alternately about subjects ranging from cigarette types to Christian Bale's hotness factor between the two Batman movies.

"OMG! I shrieked myself as we made our way through them, "He was so hotter in the first Batman!"
"Um, you won't be scoring any pussy that way, Tinkerbell." Chris chimed in, patting me on the back sarcastically.
"Oh yeah..."

We reached the center of the bar, looking around us at the swelling early Saturday night crowd. I could see the discomfort on Chris and Dave's faces.

"So, shall we get a drink?" Dave offered.
"Sure, but what do we order?" I asked, confused.
"Um, liquor."
"I mean, what do straight people drink? I don't wanna go up there and order a Malibu Bay Breeze or something."
"If you ordered that in a gay bar, I'd even slap you silly." Chris chided as a drunk 22-year old in a backwards Red Sox hat knocked into him.
"It looks like most guys here are drinking beer. So order that." Dave helped out. "But not a Bud Light."

I gazed up at the wall list of available beers with wide eyes.

"How do you know which one to pick?" I asked, concerned.
"Which sounds the most fierce?" Chris advised, "Go for that one." He pointed to the second column.
"Stella...Art...art-artoys?" I struggled.
"Yeah, I dunno who she is, but she sounds fabulous." Chris beamed.
"I think it's French." Dave advised, "Like Artwah. You gotta say it right or people will think you're gay."
"I am gay."
"Apparently you're bi."
"I'm gay!" I said, louder with frustration.
"Can you keep your gay down?" Dave laughed, "You'll scare the straights."
"I can't just turn it off. I'm not a TV."
"You mean like a tranny?"
"There aren't any trannies in here." I corrected Chris, smiling.
"No, but some of these hard bitches look like they can pass for one."
"Ok, I'm getting and Artwah." I said pushing towards the bar.

I returned with three beers, walking carefully as to not spill on any of the boys standing, screaming at the baseball game on the TVs above the bar.

"How much were they?" Dave asked, taking his and giving Chris one.
"Five bucks each."
"That's cheap."
"No, Bud Lights are $2.50 at the gay bar."
"That's because self-respecting homos don't drink them."
"So they generally have extras to mark down." Dave added.
"This doesn't taste nearly as fierce as it sounds." Chris commented after sipping his Stella.
"It's not so bad." Dave shrugged, "But do straights have to be so loud!? It's just sports, geeze!"
"Oh, like you wouldn't be screaming your queeny ass off it that was Confessions Tour up there?"
"Maybe if Guy Ritchie was here fucking me while watching."
"Ugh," Chris grimaced again taking his second sip, "Stella Artwat is more like it."
"Speaking of twat, can you go find one so we can get back to normalcy."

A commercial began on the TV and the bar filled the time with music. I stopped and looked around for a girl to approach. I then realized I didn't know how to approach a girl. I don't even know how to approach a guy. I noticed a table fo three girls towards the near corner of the bar. Of the three, I felt an attraction to the Latina with long curly hair, thin, dark arched eyebrows and black high heels. When she spoke, she occasionally flicked back her thick black hair and smiled faintly.

"What is this drivel?" Chris asked, grimacing again, this time at the music playing overhead.
"Dude, it's Bon Jovi." Dave shot back.
"What are you? A closet straight too now?"
"Bon Jovi doesn't make you straight." I laughed.
"Well, do you think they take requests?" Chris asked, looking for the DJ "I need to hear some Mariah to take my nerves off in this place."
"I doubt it." Dave laughed.
"I'm gonna go talk to those girls!" I gushed quickly before spinning on my heels and making my way over to the table. I heard Dave call out something to me but I ignored it. Suddenly, I was a man on a mission. The loud music drowned out behind me, and the crowd around me blended and merged into a pool of distraction I refused to allow. My heart began to beat a little harder and my palms began to moisten until I had finally reached the table.

As the three girls interrupted their conversation and shifted their curious-yet-frightened, expecting eyes to me, somehow I lost all notion of "game."

"OMG! I love your shoes!"

Did I just say that? Seriously?

"Really?" The Latina's face softened, the other two soon following suit. She smiled from ear to ear, happy for the compliment. "You don't think they're too much for tonight?"
"Uh, no. No." I tried to continue, realizing I'd fucked it up already, "Louboutin, right?"

I heard the faint sound of palms slapping against foreheads in exasperation from behind me.

"Wow, how did you know?" One of the girls asked.
"Girl, I just saw them in Elle earlier this summer!"

And then, from behind me a gasp and then a groaned, "Oh my God!"

"You read Elle too!?" The Latina asked. "Awesome! I'm so over Vogue."
"Me too. I'm like, get over yourself Anna Wintour. But I'm still a Cosmo girl all the way!"

Suddenly, there were two hands grasping the insides of my biceps from behind.

"Excuse us, ladies." Dave said, "We need to borrow him."
"So that we can pummel him into the pavement." Chris added.

They girls laughed and waved as Dave and Chris dragged me out of the bar.

"You forced us to come here to help you sexperiment and as soon as you got the chance to hit on a girl you went into super-homo-mode!?" Chris yelled.
"You don't even act that gay around other gays." Dave added.
"I don't know, it just came out."
"Although, I'm totally a Cosmo girl still too." Chris softened, "I mean, hel-lo it's the bible."
"Look, can we put Misadventures In Straightville back on the shelf tonight and go back to the gays?"
"Yeah..." I sighed, defeated.

On the way back to the gay bar, we passed cliques of gays out roaming the streets for the next party or the next hookup. Yes, there was something comforting about being around them all, there in the 'gayborhood' of New York. But was it comforting only because I didn't have to pretend, or affect a smoothness or style? I always complain that the gay scene is "not me," but maybe it is? Moreso than the heterosexual scene? As Chris ran into a few friends and exhanged air kisses, I started to think that maybe I'm not really comfortable in either scene, it's just that I've had more practice hiding behind myself in the gay scene. I sighed and started feeling down on myself.

"You got scared and fell back on the gay thing, huh?"

I looked over, interrupted from my internal self-pity fest to see Dave smiling at me with genuine compassion in his face.
I didn't reply.
"Doesn't matter what scene you're in. Just be yourself."
"Yeah..."
"Easier said than done, I know. But if you look at it as just, whatever they're just people, then it's like it's nothing."

I smiled enough to signal I wanted to change the subject and he ran ahead to Chris and his friends. I stayed behind pondering how much work I have to do. Because I'm still afraid of people, of people seeing right through me. So much so that I adopt and hide behind social visages that, ironically, only serve to make me more transparent. I took a deep breath and followed the other two back into the bar, reminding myself that I have nothing to be intimidated by, nothing to be afraid of, and that being honest with myself is the only way out of this. My mother also always told me, as a child, to never be afraid fo who you are. Apparently I ignored her on that one, too.

"Do not be misled by what you see around you, or be influenced by what you see. You live in a world, which is a playground of illusion, full of false paths, false values and false ideals. But you are not part of that world. "
Sri Sathya Sai Baba

The sky cracked, like an oil tanker, traveling at high speed, smashing into the side of Manhattan, at the same time that I did, and before anyone could gather their bearings to run, or to hide, or to simply engage and open up their umbrellas, the sky ripped open, seemingly torn from itself by the wound of the booming thunder, and a downpour of cool rain fell onto the crowd.

I welcomed it.

I had not been to a New York City Gay Pride celebration in years. And even when I had gone, I'd generally given up on the festivities about an hour into them and instead headed straight for the bars. The ensuing twelve or so hours spent imbibing insane amounts of liquor, grasping onto plastic cups like they were my golden salvation, smiling and flirting and holding my pride up on stumbling, drunk feet. That was my gay pride. On top of bars and in the glassy eyes of fellow drunks--that's where I found my "ROY G BIV." Ahh, but I was younger then. Youth grants you sympathy from the devil. You make concessions against what you reallly want. I must be getting old, because after ditching the parade, an hour into it as usual, I found myself standing at a bar, waiting, rather uncomfortable in my own desperation, for "ROY G BIV." The swelling crowd, raucous and pretty, made it obvious to me that they had each already found him. They gazed upon eachother with hungry, glassy eyes and wet lips, their body movements accented by intoxication, and I felt left out. Which is a usual feeling for me.

"You shouldn't have to get drunk to have fun at Pride," a friend counselled.
"I'm not trying to get drunk." I blatantly lied, "I'm just...I mean, I want a drink."

I couldn't admit, to rip myself open and let it rain down on everyone around me, that I wasn't comfortable. That I needed the liquor to be comfortable like oil to my hinges, cogs and wheels.

"Maybe the scene just isn't your thing?"

Wait. Is this possible? I'm gay but I don't feel comfortable in the gay world? We went to this one gay bar in Chelsea and I was so uncomfortable, felt so glaringly out of place, that I could barely function. I stood there, at moments immobilized, helpless, my eyes darting nervously from one lacquered pretty face to another. These boys with their perfect eyebrows, faces adorned with foundation, designer clothes and perfect teeth. Who are these people and why am I even here? I was a saltwater fish suddenly dropped in a freshwater tank. But you've done this before, why are you being so affected by it? I don't fit in here, and it upsets me that I don't. I felt anchored down by the energy. It's easy to call these people pretentious, but it's harder to put a word on that energy. It was like a heavy, transparent cloud pushing and weighing down on my shoulders.

"This is probably a good time to tell you this," another friend offerred later that day as I explained the events of the day to him, "You've gotta stop doing this."
"Doing what?" I fiddled with my empty McDonald's cup nervously, "I don't do anything."
"Dude, you're killing yourself."
"You mean like, death?" I panicked, "Like, does my diet suck?"
"No, I mean it's like your spotlight is out." He motioned a cessation above his head.
I glanced around myself, confused.
"Look," he sighed, "Do you remember our first conversation when we met?"
"Um," I pondered, "'That's a fucking wall you just walked into, idiot'?"
"Oh." He looked away, his face blushing, "After that."
"'What fucking planet where you birthed on, wierdo?'"
"Yeah! But, you know, I meant that in a good way. It's like, you're so different. You're genuine and sincere and you always try to make everyone feel good and you care about people. But it's like lately you've been actively trying to kill that part of you to fit in with 'the gays.'" He dropped his voice on 'the gays' for an eerie, spooky emphasis.
"Really?" I leaned in, concerned. "Do you think so?"
"Yeah, dude your light is out."
I scratched my head. "You mean like, on my cell phone?"
He smacked his palm against his forehead in exasperation. "No, Derrick...."

But last night I started thinking, if something upsets you to the point where you have to drink yourself into complacence with it, why would you subject yourself to it? So I did what I usually do when I'm trying to figure something out, I called a friend for advice.

"Because you came out and decided 'this is what I need to be like to be gay' because everyone else is and you've been striving to be a walking stereotype ever since. We all do it. You're just having a harder time crossing over."
"What is this, Unsolved Mysteries?"
"More like Battlestar Gay-lactica."
"Why am I having a harder time crossing over?"
"Because it's not who you are. Your personality knows it. I know it. Everyone knows it. I think you know it, too. You just refuse to accept it. Because you want to fit in."
"What do you mean?" I feigned offense, "My personality is totally pliable! I can fit in with them."
"The fact that you refer to other gay men as 'them' says alot. Besides, when's the last time you even had a one night stand?"
"Um...2000. And that wasn't even really a one night stand. He just didn't return my calls after. I think he had a boyfriend, or something."
"2000! I was in like, high school!" He said, driving his point home, "Having one night stands, myself."
"So, these days they teach 'gay slut' right after reading, writing and arithmetic?"
"Look, don't get bitter just because you're a non-gay."
"I don't get it." I sighed, not caring how sad I looked.
"You're trying so hard to be the physical emodiment of gay. Just like 90% of the faggots you see out there. But you're not. And I'm telling you, that's why people like you."

As the Sunday rains began to drench the Pride Parade, I wanted to tilt my head back and allow myself to be washed over. My friend and I eventually ran for cover, but I wanted to get wet. Soaking wet. I realized I had signed up for something, this "gay", with intentions of eventually handing myself over to it. Because I wanted to be "like them," to be adored and embraced, to be all smiles and brunches and nights out with martinis and phone numbers, to be perfect bodies and an impeccable wardrobe. But, the reality is, I have never been able to do it. I've still got that pen in my hand, suspended mere inches away from the dotted line. I came out at 18, and after a decade of trying, maybe it's time for a new direction. Maybe I should stop trying to find myself in other people. Because the reality of living your own life is realizing that personal security, be it mental, emotional, physical or financial, is of your duty and entitlement. One that cannot be created, maintained and nurtured by anyone but you. That reality can be broken down even further, because life is productivity, and productivity thrives on energy, and misdirected energy yields shoddy, misdirected results. To be cliche, "you get what you give."

In that same Chelsea bar after the parade, I stood nearly ten minutes at the bar while the bartender flirted and only served his apparent friends and those patrons he found personally attractive. "He's so bad," the guy next to me, another friend of the bartender, exclaimed with an ignorant smile, practically yellling over the incessent background thump blaring out of the speakers overhead, "trying to pick up boys from behind the bar!" "Really?", I wanted to say, "He should do his job and work on adding notches to his bedpost on his next break." But I was interrupted, as a guy behind me loudly griped to his friend that he wanted to leave. "It's too crowded." He protested. "Oh, c'mon!" His cute, drunk friend countered, "You can't leave, you haven't gotten fucked in the bathroom yet." I took a deep breath and glanced at the crowd once more. Yes, they were all beautiful boys, impeccably maintained. Yes, to be accepted as one of them and be part of their world would say something about me. Yes, taking one of them home would be a nitro boost to the ego. But the reality is, nothing matters. And it's the illusion of these people, of this gay life, that makes me hate on myself, that makes me try so hard to fit in instead of trying equally as hard to maybe go back to school, or make a relationship work, or call my mother more. Yes, I've been blinded by illusion. But it's time to get real.

I put my money in my pocket. And walked out.

The other night I wanted to hang myself from the rafters. You know how when you spend all day thinking about yourself? I mean, really dissecting, tinkering (and a little bit of unchecked alcoholism), adjusting and regurgitating every aspect of who you are and what you think and how you value yourself? It's like "God, please rescue me from...myself." Yeah, so that's been me pretty much, well, my entire life, but myltiplied by about 5,000 for the past two weeks. And do you know what I discovered? Alot of shit. Mainly that--newsflash--I think too much! But secondly, that I am pretty much the king of self-dissolution. And that it's so intrinsic to who I am, I don't even realize it. But that's what this whole blog is about, isn't it? How often I trip myself up in life by, shocker, thinking too much.

But today feels different. It's almost like the culmination of all that tripping up and dissecting, tinkering (and a little bit of unchecked alcoholism), adjusting and regurgitating every aspect of who I am and what I think and how I value myself. And here I am, luxuriating my newfound confidence of self and feeling fat full, like I've just eaten the most grand meal ever and have yet received that "I've really gotta take a shit" feeling. I'm at the finish line and I'm looking back over the rough patches, the rocky terrains, the hills, hills, hills and I'm out of breath but I'm smiling because "Wow, I did that?" For two weeks I've been pulling up the most uncomfortable chairs ever made and sitting awkwardly at a heavy wooden table with ghosts of my past and present, whether I wanted to or not. I've been laying to rest in bed beside my insecurities, having late-night conversations that mainly consisted of "What the fuck do you want from me?" I have set aside, counted and sorted my motivations, defeatist behaviours and values like an obsessive compulsive let loose into a kindergarten class at the end of the day where Legos lie strewn out over the floor. That shit was not fun, but now it's over and done. I'm pushing my left arm into the sleeve of a black leather jacket. I've got my keys on the ignition. If I had hair, I'd throw it back.

It's time to get gone.

The world better watch out for me this weekend. I'm ready to ride. It's hard to explain what this feels like. But while roaming the internet for something other than porn, I believe I found a YouTube clip that captures the sheer cheese-tastic brilliance of this moment. That speaks, in what it doesn't say, of how bright, cocksure, over-done and gloriously pompous you feel after having climbed the fuck back out of a dark, destructive hole. It's a clip from one of the gayest movies I've ever seen:



That's right, ladies and gentlemen. I am going to be the most popular girl! I've got my frilly skirt on! Just look at how tight my perm curls stay! I'm fucking fabulous! You know you wanna dance in front of the mirror next to me while applying makeup. Don't fucking lie. I'm the shit. OMG! Are you applauding my outfit!? Of course you are! I'm fucking fabulous. So popular, am I. Ok, cue me flipping my hair around in front of the camera like this shit is a Pantene commercial. Oh I'm so fabulous. And all those boys following me down the hall and driving up beside me in their convertables--oh yeah, they wanna tap this ass. And who wouldn't? I'm so confident and perfect and look how my curls stay so tight! And my bangle bracelets put vintage '80s Madonna to pasture. She wishes she could touch my level of fabulousness.

Because my period of bullshit introspection is over. No, it's bigger than over. It's so over, it's "ova". Like, get ova it.

And if anyone has a problem with my newfound swagger, or my brooding confidence, or my desire to get out of my head and onto the streets, I've got something to tell them too.



That's right! Top that! And I don't mean sexually. Unless you're hot. Then you can fuck yourself and fuck me after. Or fuck me first and then go fuck yourself. I hate sloppy seconds. "I'm hot and you're not. But if you wanna get with me I'll give you one shot." You got a problem with me? "Big deal, I'm real. I don't give ___ about trying to stop that so top that."

Because this is more than just a feeling, this is a reinvention. This is a movement. A much-needed, and anticipated re-direction. Remember what I said about death and destruction. It's not always a bad thing. Because re-birth is the blossom of beauty second-fold. Looking in the mirror at the unchanged face of quiet, internal inquisitiveness, I feel I've aged 20 years in 2 weeks. Because I've taken all those eggs out of the same basket. I've lined the dominos up in a neat, compulsory row. Does this sound like braggadocio? Shall I lay back down into complacence, wake up and try this day again minus the '80s teased hair, the frilly skirts and "topping that" in high-top sneakers and too-short wife beaters?

Hell no. Do you know why? I've got a good feeling.



Except I don't need no witchcraft. And neither did Louise. See, I'm glad I had to go through all of that tripping up and dissecting, tinkering (and a little bit of unchecked alcoholism), adjusting and regurgitating every aspect of who I am and what I think and how I value myself. Because, all Louise had to do was believe in herself. I know, it sounds so Degrassi, but it's one of the corniest realities of life. You can be the most popular girl. Or get the guy. You can even wear way too much denim and some ugly big ass necklace straight out of Star Trek and pull it off. It's never just about convincing other people of your value, or of what you can do, or of who you can be. It will always only be the domain of the inner you: your only critic to win over is yourself. It's all in how you sell and market yourself, not just to the world at large, but in your own eyes.



That's right, Louise. You don't need no hideous leprechaun green solid shoehorn on a string wrapped around your neck to get what you want. Look! You even got your own slow entrance and choreographed dance sequence! Fuck witchcraft. You just keep on twirlin' and staring that hot piece of coolsville man-meat in the face. The world is yours, if you just believe you can take it. And I can. And I don't need no ugly green shoe horn either.

Because I'm the most popular girl. Bitch.

I always felt that nice people truly did suck. Not because of the presumption that people would walk all over you, per se, but more likely because being intrinsically nice made you the perpetual odd guy out, like having a third nipple or a penchant for bringing liver and onions to elementary school for lunch. From others, niceness was treated as an curable disease, a force of being to eventually outgrow, like a tendency to chew your nails or to wake up early for Saturday morning cartoons. Yes, niceness was a characterstic to be gazed down upon with unwelcoming eyes. By teen years, "nice" had become a category all its own: he wasn't ugly, stupid, plain or simply "not the guy for me," he was "nice." But these people all had nice pegged wrong. Nice people, if you think about it, actually rock. It's the root of niceness that really sucks. For at the root of nice are the pillars of inopportune, unwarranted and oft-threatening behaviours: the good intentions.

Let me introduce myself. I am the king of good intentions. Unfortunately, for the rest of humanity, I may just also be the world's biggest arbiter of bad execution. When "it made more sense to me in my head" and "I thought I was doing something good" become synonymous with "I'm sorry," and on a near daily basis, you know you've got a problem. Except I didn't know I had a problem. To me, trying to keep everyone and everything around me harmonious and happy and peaceful was a natural goal. Who wouldn't want to keep drama to a minimum? As it turns out, alot of people. Because those good intentions can easily become interferences, which easily become "who the fuck do you think you are?" and "why don't you mind your business?"

He was going to break her heart. I knew that he was. Everyone who came within a five-foot radius of my friend Emily and her new beau Rob senior year could tell that her investment in him was on a one-way road to Tearsville. Yet, no one said anything. "Well," I said to them, "Maybe that's the kind of friends you are, but I can't just sit here and watch her get hurt."

"Stay out of it," they urged.
"B-B-But we can't just sit here!" The mere idea of it, how appalling.
"Of course we can. It's her life."

I stared at them with wide, confused eyes. I couldn't comprehend allowing someone to get hurt when you have the opportunity to intervene.

So, naturally, I intervened.

"He's going to hurt you."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Just be careful, is all I'm saying. I care about you."

No, this isn't a TV sitcom. She didn't yell at me and call me jealous or a spoiled brat. She didn't stomp out and slam any doors. But when I approached Rob and asked him politely to "lay off leading her on" she came over my house and I opened the front door to be greeted by eyes so red I thought I'd combust right then and there.

"You can't be everyone's mama." A friend scolded me at a bar years later after I'd told our mutual friend to stop flirting with other guys in front of another friend of ours who had a not-so-secret crush on him and was looking visibly upset. "By getting involved, you are introducing yourself to their drama. Let them soak in their own shit."

Again, appalled. "What are you talking about?" I begged, "You mean just sit around and watch him make sad faces and be all upset 'cause Jay is flirting with other guys?"
"Yes. It's not like they're dating. And it's between them, you aren't involved."
"I guess," I conceded, "But I want everyone to be happy."
"Uh huh, and I'd like to win the lottery. What's your point?"

"You're so judgmental!" I was recently scolded. "Who told you to even get involved and pass a judgment on the situation!?"
"Well, no one I-I-I was just trying to help." And I was in this case of a virtual repeat of Emily and Rob, except the gay version.
"No, you were interfering."
"I didn't want you to get hurt."
"Who asked you to be that person for me?"
"W-well, no one..."
"So what the fuck!?"

Yes, so what the fuck?
"You know," a friend recently counselled, "if you put as much effort into keeping yourself happy as you did in making sure everyone around you was happy, you'd be in a much better place."
"What do you mean?"
"You can't be everyone's momma."
"I've heard that before." I sighed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed and ashamed.
"Look," he put his left hand on my shoulder, "You're a good person. And these days, finding even one good person is like, amazing. I mean, you care about people. That's like....foreign. But you're so full of good intentions. You can't be everyone's band-aid."
"I guess..."
"Look, just how many of these people do you think would do the same for you? They see you upset and turn their heads, why not you do the same?"
"That sounds so jaded though." I said, tryng to erase the despondency from my face.
"Besides," he added, his smile coercing an equal reaction from me, "When you get involved in other peoples' shit, you become part of that shit. And who wants to be shit?"

Which brings to the table a good point of how nice people tend to think of others before they think of themselves. So perhaps the adage is incorrect? The road to hell isn't really paved with good intentions, but instead with misappropriated ones. There's nothing wrong with being nice, but what if that's all that you bring to the table? What if, by being nice, you are constantly over-extending yourself? Constantly adopting other peoples' issues, pain and drama? Constantly inserting yourself into conflicts that otherwise don't involve you. The road to hell is paved with people who cannot differentiate between being nice and being a chump.

So when another self-destructive friend recently expressed dissatisfaction with an aspect of his life, I did something I haven't done in a very long time: nothing. I listened. No commenting. No advice. No judgment calls. No getting in between him and said problem. Does this mean I've finally been embittered? Jaded? Destroyed? Made callous? I don't know.

But it makes life a hell of a lot easier.

For a large chunk of my childhood, I didn't cry. This probably surprises, well, everyone. Thinking about it, I'm shocked as well. Growing up, my mother would always scold "only little girls cry." Naturally defiant, I cried either way, but as teenage years dawned upon me, that changed. I mention this because I remember strangers constantly commenting to me "What's wrong? You look troubled." I mean, I couldn't cry! I held all that shit in! I was like the New Orleans levees the day after Katrina. This I have been, ironically, hearing alot lately. I wish that I had an answer. "You must be going through alot right now," a friend commented with ample empathy. "No, not really," I wanted to answer. "Not like that." Because I don't necessarily feel like I want to run away, or cry with pity for myself or drink or over-eat myself into a sinful oblivion. But yes, I am going through something right now. And, yes, this is the hardest experience I've ever had survive through. Yet when friends ask me, I have no words to use for this. I can't explain it.

With. Every. Heartbeat.

At the expense of sounding New Age-y and hokey, I'll say that I think I am beginning to understand that there truly is love to be found in everything. Because right now all that I feel is death. Like a test that never ends, I'm being forced to face the fact that there is love, even in death. Because I can honestly say that I am dying, or, perhaps less "faux poetic," a part of me is dying. This, rather surprisingly to a security/familiarity-clinching mofo like myself, is what life should be. A constant birth and death, a re-birth followed by a tinkering, constant adjustment via an uncanny attention to details, building and re-building. Realizing when to succumb and when to fight. I'm no longer fighting. By no choice of my own. I pondered these themes one day on one of my random strolls through the semi-suburbanized streets of brownstone Brooklyn. It was the first time I had heard this song since downloading the entire CD onto my iPod.

Stil. I'm. Dying. With. Every. Step. I. Take.

The sweeping electronics. The pattern of percussion like footsteps. Suddenly I found myself transported somewhere new and there was something of a transcendant clarity there, in my mind, and words I could not locate to describe my feelings adjusted themselves into melody and emotion, of keyboards and percussion, into soft, delicate vocals and string orchestrations that cradle the ear. Nobody likes death. No one wants to die. But I have no choice.

verse:
Maybe we can make it alright
we can make it better some time
maybe we can make it happen baby
we keep trying but

things will never change

I'm passing, in between scattered pedestrians, parked cars and stoic trees breaking free from their cemented imprisonment, memories long kept, some for a purpose, others just because I could and some whose existence I had not yet recognized. My gait is quickening. I'm not noticing this consciously, but yes, I'm walking faster still. There are no tears, but with every step I'm taking there lies behind me a definate sense of past, of don't-look-back, heaviness and burden, of memories. Because the memories, the feelings, the lifelong sentiments of abandonement, judgment, guilt and self-reprobation, they are not simply passing me by, but instead falling behind me. I'm at a crosswalk. The traffic directional advises me not to cross, but I do so anyway. I don't look anyway but forward.

Chorus:
so I don't look back
still I'm dying with every step I take
so I don't look back
still I'm dying with every step I take

In six months I have lost the love of my life, my job, my sense of who I am, what I stand for and what matters to me, and the roof over my head. Yet I have this feeling like I don't have any time to stop and feel the repercussions of these things anymore. Because there is love to be found in death. I'm dying. Shedding. Becoming. And this is hard for someone, as you, readers know, of my emotional disposition to come to terms with. Every day I get out of my new shower in my new apartment and I look myself in the mirror and I don't know who the fuck I'm looking at.

Bridge:
and it hurts with every heartbeat
and it hurts with every heartbeat
and it hurts with every heartbeat

If I could have a conversation with myself at those moments, in the morning mirror...

Verse 2:
just a little bit better
good enough to waste some time
tell me would it make you happy baby
we could keep trying but

things will never change

I could resist all of this. I could go back to clinging onto what I hold most. Because the one thing I do recognize in that mirror is a physical embodiment of what I was and am. Flaws that I will never lose. Flaws that have already died. Flaws that I need to learn to love. And value. Because it boils down to values. Personal values. Not family values or social values or collective values. What is important to me? Is it "good enough to waste some time?" To make me happy? Who am I looking at in that mirror? At this point, fear is not my enemy, but my companion. Love is my guide. Death is the journey. Rebirth the destination.

This is not to say that this does not hurt. My heart hurts. This is what I want to tell these people when they ask me "whats wrong?" or "you must be going through something, huh?" Yes. I am.

But I don't look back.
Still I'm dying with every step I take.
But I don't look back

My heart hurts. I don't want to do this alone. But I have to. My heart hurts. But I'm determined. And I know that I can do this. From something tarnished, bruised, battered and ugly can be borne an object of true beauty. I know this now. I'm not afraid. From a heightened awareness of what is being put to eternal sleep in and around me every day I smile. Yes, I smile. I smile while through the torment. Because beneath the pain in my heart, lies undisturbed, innocent excitement.

And it hurts with every heartbeat.

p.s. This video is in my profile.

Sometimes I feel as if I am chasing a clarity that will never be mine. I often wonder if that "something more" is, because I have a strong sense of him, like he's smiling and his face is so radiant and people cannot be in his vicinity without feeling drawn to him and, wow how his presence affects the balance of things around him. And better yet, and how lucky for him, it's alot easier for him because never is he bogged down in the emotional bullshit, the second-guessing, the self-sabotage...the fear. I can look back at moments in my life, like movie stills on a wall near to me, and I can watch myself running. Chasing. I've been chasing this person like an echo in my head. I would give up on him, if not that he allowed himself to be held in my grasp, to tease me but please those around me. And, yes, they all love him and his presence and, wow, how he lights up and illuminates the room. But like a thief creeping back out of the window of my world, he's gone and I'm collapses, begging the truth if he ever will be mine.

"That's ridiculous," a friend scolded, "you're a great person. We all can see that. You just refuse to see that."

There are, and have always been, atleast three reasons why I have refused to accept or admit to the complimentary things people say to me:

1. I might believe them. Like, really believe them. And then my ego will explode!
2. What if they are lies?
3. Will I somehow lose the grasp on myself that intense self-scrutiny allows?

"That's stupid."
"Why?"
"Beleiving you're a good person will not give you an ego."
"I'm totally self-indulgent. You know that."
"So..."
"So if I can stuff my face on food, drink liquor to excess and over-indulge my emotions, who's to say I won't totally bathe myself in ego?"
"Um, ok again. Retarded. Maybe you should just try to not over-think every single thing."

Ok, that's impossible for three reasons:

1. If I don't over-think I won't think about anything at all. I'm totally "all or nothing."
2. Over-thinking is way better than under-thinking.
3. I actually don't have a third, but I mean I can't just stop at two.

I've been noticing lately alot of attention coming my way from both the female and male persuasions.

"So, you've been noticing you've been getting checked out alot?"
"Yeah...I guess..."
"You can say yes if you have."
"No way!"
"Why not?" I always talk about when I get cruised."
"I can't openly address those things."
"Why the hell not?"

Well, I've got three reasons:

"Oh, Jesus Christ!"
"Last one--promise!"

1. Admitting all these people checking me out is like, admitting I think I'm hot shit.
2. Openly recognizing people being attracted to me is like me trying to force myself to admit that I might be attractive.
3. I really should stop doing these number things, huh.

"You know what you should stop doing?"
"Picking my nails?"
"No."
"Going back for seconds and thirds?"
"No."
"Going back for fourths and fifths?"
"Jesus! Yes! But no! You should stop ruining your own life."
"What do you mean?"
"You make it that much harder for yourself with all this emotinality and second-guessing. Just fucking go up to these people who are checking you out and talk to them."
"What? I so can't do that."
"Why not?"

Three reasons. Last one! I swear! Seriously:

1. I'm too shy.
2. I'm too shy.
3. Did I mention how shy I am?

"Whatever."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Shyness is just a nice way to cop out of being a pussy with no courage or self-esteem."
"I have self-esteem!"
"Yeah, if by having self-esteem you mean that's a nickname you've given all your Madonna CDs."
"Um, hel-lo I'm not that gay to nickname my fucking CDs."
"Um..."
"Ok, I so am. But I have self-esteem. And I don't over-think things! I....well.... And I don't think being shy is a cop-out! It's...um...well...."

OK, so I'm totally done with this for three reasons:

1. I'm selling myself short.
2. I'm hiding behind a wall of my own mental and emotional blockades because they grant me some odd, ironic and silly sense of security.
3. I'm getting too old for that shit.

"Just think of it this way, if you didn't perpetually get off on torturing yourself, or if you weren't as emotionally high strung as a fucking troupe of pregnant women, or if you didn't over-think every last thing, well what would you write about?"

And I guess he's right. Fine. I'll admit it. I'm a perpetual whiner. Most people can totally look at a situation and put 'A' and 'B' together and come up with 'C.' Me, I'm more like "OMG! What if 'A' means this and 'B' means that and, OMG what if 'C' is bad and hurts!?"

"You're a little bitch."
"Yeah, I think I am."
"But whatever it's who you are. It definately makes you different."

And it does. And I'm kinda thinking, like, wow I see things differently than other people. Why should I feel wierd or ashamed of that? And if I can see that whole 'A + B' equation differently than 99% of the population, why not entertain the thought that maybe that 99% would like to hear how I see it? Not to quote Janet Jackson, but I will because I am gay and I fucking love her, but perhaps it's all about control. I shouldn't be controlled by this, but control it. Because maybe I'm not really chasing anything or anyone? Maybe 'that guy' really is me? Maybe he's chasing me (oh! now it's getting confusing!), trying to pull me out of the emotional muck? Maybe he's that reminder "you're better than that."

"I'm a good person!" I yelled, throwing my arms back.
"Wow, it's like...fucking, Disney World now."
"I can control my emotions!"
"Alert the presses, notably the really gay ones."
"I am kinda sad though."
"What? Why? I thought you just had an epiphany?"
"Well, I just had another."
"What?"
"I missed the cut-off time for the lunch specials at the Chinese restaraunt."
"Oh, God..."

There was so much running through my head today as I showered: I wonder if it will rain? Maybe I should buy an electric shaver? OMG! Today is the last day of 28! Tomorrow I shall enter the last year of my 20s!!

Then I washed behind my ears.

The remainder of the morning, I had memories of past birthdays on total recall. It's not that I was washing myself in bittersweet symphonies of youth and reckless abandon, however. I mean, I even cracked a few random smiles on the subway, prompting a few "what the fuck are you so smiley for?" glares. I find it ironic that, upon turning 22, I griped to anyone with an ear about how "old I was getting." And how, with every subsequent year after, my age-innappropriate birthday whine became near ritual. "I can't believe I'm 25!" "Eww! I'm 26! I'm soooo old!" Yet crunched into a standing room only subway train this morning, I felt, at the dawn of 29, younger than I've felt in years. And then there I was beaming, smiling again. I clearly remember complaining for days to my roomates in college about turning 22. Twenty-fucking-two!? Because they were 19 and I was 22. My roomates thought I was nuts. Granted, I tend to overblow virtually everything ("OMG! I can't believe there's an extra 2 minutes of commercials on American Idol today!! What the fuuuuuck!?"), but there's a plus side to being so hyper-emotionally intuitive: exceptional memory recall (when it works), and as the train pulled itself into Manhattan, I went on a little trip of my own into birthdays past, both good and bad.

"Don't you think this is hard for me?" I pleaded with earnest from the passenger seat of her 1994 blue Nissan Sentra parked in a distant corner of the parking lot at the neighborhood park "I haven't felt like this for someone in a long time."
"We're friends," She emphasized, "I don't want to kinda, jeopardize that."
"But," I turned in my seat towards her. She was reclining back, her long slender legs propped up with her feet on the top of the dashboard, "I love you."
"Derrick..." She pushed her long wavy black hair back behind her ear, "It's your birthday! Don't you want to talk about some happy stuff!?"
"I didn't think this would work out. It never works out." I sighed, slumping back into my seat.
"Oh, come on!" She laughed, "Get off your cross, man!"
"What? What cross?" I looked behind me and around the rear of the car. "What?"
"It's an expression. It means you keep victimizing yourself."
"I do not!" I shot back, "just because I said this sucks!?"
"Yeah." She smiled, trying to both change the subject and cheer me up, "Oh, poor you."
"That's terrible! Don't you understand the fragile state I'm in!? I'm damaged, here!"
"You're doing it again."
"That's not fair. Everything sucks!"
"Still doing it."
"Everybody's always picking on me!"
"Yeah, so lower yourself from the cross one leg at a time."
"Ok, why are you so picking on me?" I laughed, giving in to her.
"Victim."
"Dammit!"
"Look, it's your birthday. How about we go to McDonald's? My treat. You can order a few value meals."
"Oh, so now I'm a fat pig? Is that why you don't want me?" I teased, taking the joke for my own.
"Oh my God." She smiled back, righting herself and starting the car. "I've created a monster."
"Oh, so not only am I a fat pig, I'm a friggin' monster now too? Some friend you are."
"I am your friend," her tone was suddenly serious, "Happy 17th birthday, Derrick."
"Thanks."
Our eyes met for a minute and she pulled out of the parking lot.

"Dude, where are you going?" My roomate Dave asked as I pulled on my spring jacket.
"Um, I'm going to go meet a friend." Of course I was lying. I had met a guy online and he said he wanted to hang out. Which I foolishly believed was true, despite it having been 8:30pm on a Saturday and him having a screen name something like "UncutLatin4Fun."
"Well, don't be late coming back!" He responded in that stoner-cum-fratboy tone of voice he had perfected, "We're totally throwing a party for your birthday tonight!"
"Really?" I stopped in my tracks at the foot of the door into our dorm room.
"Yeah. Dude, you're like my mulatto little brother or some shit." There he flashed that shit eating grin he was famous for, "I'm totally throwing you a party. 19 is a big year! I got so fucked up on my 19th."
I almost didn't wanna go but I had told Jon from Astoria that I'd meet him already.
"I'll be back by 11," I think I was more trying to assure myself than him, but I walked out the door burning 11pm into my brain.
Jon was only the fourth guy I met offline. In my naivate I wasn't aware of the protocol. When he, instead of his online offer to go play pool, instead coerced me into "seeing his room," I genuinely thought he wanted me to see his place. Even when I was obviously in over my head, I still maintained my glass-half-full mentality.
"Do you mind if I take my shirt off?" Jon asked, his blonde hair lit up under the light and his blue eyes sparkling before he lifted his shirt off over his head. "It's hot in here, don't you think?"
"I guess. It's your house though. You can take off whatever you want." I shrugged, turning away from him as he undressed.
"Really?" He asked, mistaking my words for invitation, "What about you?"
"I'm not that hot, thanks." I replied graciously, "Hey, can we watch TV?"
"Sure. You like Latino porn?"
"I've never seen any kind of porn before." I turned back towards him, puzzled at his choice of porn over 'The Golden Girls.'
"How about you let me fuck you."
It was like someone had just thrown a knife at my head. The words hit my face like six large bricks. I was shocked, appalled and frightened at the same time. "Actually," I started, "I have to go soon. It's my birthday."
"More reason to let me fuck you." He pulled in closer to me, wrapping his arms around my torso, "It's the gift that keeps on giving."
"Um, I've never done that before...."
"You'll love it. I'll be gentle. I promise."
"No."
"How about a birthday blow job?"
"What?"
"Dude, you came all the way out to Queens just to watch TV?"
"I thought I was making a new friend for my birthday..."
"Well, your new friend has a fucking raging hardon."
"I'm actually really new to this stuff," I pulled from his grip and moved to the opposite end of his bed, "I don't know what's going on."
"Fine, will you atleast make out and jerk off with me?"
I stared at him, suddenly feeling like an ant caught underneath an upside down drinking glass.
"C'mon, it's your birthday. Don't you want to get off?"
And so I did. He actually did the jerking off. First me, then him. Then we showered. I liked the showering part. He ran his loofah all over my body. It almost felt like it was more than just a hookup. Almost.
"I'm really tired." This he says nearly immediately after I'd dressed. I was still putting my shoes on. "You should probably head out." He feigned sleepiness, dropping his eyelids unconvincingly over his blue eyes.
"Um, ok..." I had a party to get to anyways.
"IM me tomorrow."
He actually didn't mean this because he blocked me the next day, but whatever. I had a party to get to.
Except I never got to it. Somehow, I got lost on the NYC subway system.
"Excuse me sir, " I asked a fellow straphanger on an unfamiliar platform also awaiting the next train at my transfer station, "Is The Bronx a part of Queens? Wait, why are you laughing? Sir, wait, where are you going?!"
I slumped down on a waiting chair. "It's my birthday..." I sighed, knowing full well it was definately past 11pm and I had no idea how far away from lower Manhattan that I was.
"Dude! Where the hell have you been?!" My roomate exclaimed upon his and a group of about 15 friends catching me coming down the block towards the dorm finally, at about 3am, "You totally missed your party. Was kinda pointless to keep it going without you."
"I-I got lost on the subway." I fought the urge to cry.
"We kicked the keg and then went bar hopping."
"Sounds awesome."
"We sang 'Happy Birthday' for you in absentia." He laughed drunkenly and, putting his arm around me, "but you still owe me a drink." He added, lifting his arm and displaying a six-pack of Rolling Rock.
"I went from Astoria to some place called Jamaica. I didn't even know there was a Jamaice in NY! Then I ended up in The Bronx!"
"Shit man you took a tour of the city."
I looked away, embarrassed.
"Just think of how funny that story will be by about your 25th birthday."
I smiled.
"Happy birthday, bro."

"I didn't know what to get you," my exboyfriend Dan admitted, "I spent literally all week looking everywhere."
I sat down slowly on his bed. My excitement barely contained. He handed me a card. His eyes were warm, his touch was endearing and his smile assuring. I took the card and opened it with a slow hand.
"What do you get for the guy who has everything?" That was the opening line. He had written about a paragraph in this card, which I loved. Because anyone who's ever received a card from me knows, I tend to fill up both sides of the card with words. it means alot to me to do so and to receive a card filled up the same, well it means alot to me as well. I smiled at him, then continued reading. "I wanted to impress you for your birthday. To give you something you would cherish forever. Because you deserve the best. For your birthday I want you to feel what I feel with you, because everyday is a present since I have met you. I hope that this gift makes you as happy as you have made me. I love you always."
The voices of his family on the other side of the door served as backdrop to a moment I'd never thought I'd ever have. I closed my eyes for what felt to me was a millennium. I wanted to take it all in.
"Are you alright?" He asked, breaking into me.
"Y-Y-Yeah. That was beautiful. Thank you." I leaned in and kissed him. He handed me the gift. I tore into the small wrapped box without restraint, stopping to behold its contents when exposed.
"It's an antique rosary." He offered, "I saw it in the window of this antique shop and immediately I felt like it was the one thing I could give you for your birthday."
I loved it, but I knew I wasn't going to let him know. Not how I would want to. I felt ashamed by this because, knowing full well I did not know how to receive love, how could I show him my true graciousness?
"Do you like it?" He asked, his demeanor suddenly remeniscent of a child seeking the loving approval of his mother.
"I love it. Thank you so much." I leaned in and wrapped him a long, tight hug. "It's beautiful. I love you."
"Happy 23rd birthday, baby."
He got up and started making plans for dinner as he picked out his outfit. I suddenly felt a sinking feeling, as if being swallowed slowly by his bed. I excused myself and, after locking the door behind me in the bathroom, proceeded to cry. It was one of the first moments of my life where I was given the opportunity to differentiate between happy and sad tears.

The room was dark. Thunder crackled outside the walls and I was occasionally interrupted by the flash of relentless lightning from across the parking lot outside the glass balcony doors. My head in my hands, collapsed on the floor of my living room. I was crying, hard. Alone.

My 20th birthday was a rough one.

Mrs. Rosenauer was interrupted from her spelling lesson by a loud knocking on the window. As the entire 1st grade classed re-focused their attention to those side windows looking out onto the main driveway to the elementary school, I suddenly became paralyzed with fear at discovering the source of the interruption: it was my mother.
"Hi," My mother cheerily rushed, "I'm Derrick's mom. It's his birthday today and, well I've gotta get to work, but I wanted to drop some things off."
Mrs. Rosenauer tried hard not to let her facial expression read the bewilderment she felt. "Oh, um sure." She then cranked open the window after my mother signaled to her to do so by raising up a gallon bottle of whole milk.
"He loves milk." My mother assured, passing two more gallons to Mrs. Rosenauer through the window.
"Oh, well alright." Mrs. Rosenauer obliged, still masking her true emotions.
"And here's some Hi-C."
I sunk into my chair a bit when a few classmates turned to gawk at me with "what the hell is your mom doing?" facial expressions.
"And he loves watermelon..."
I sunk all the way down in my chair at that point as Mrs. Rosenauer braced herself and was handed a whole watermelon through the window. The class laughed, on cue.
"Oh, and of course," mother finished, "the cupcakes."
"Well, uh, you do know we only have about 20 students in class?" Mrs. Rosenauer had to say something to stifle the laughter barrelling up her esophagus. "This will most likely be too much food."
"Oh, honey my Derrick loves to eat! You won't have any leftovers!"
Mrs. Rosenauer shrugged politely and I was so low in my chair at this point that my head hit its lower back support.
"Oh!" Mother said frightening Mrs. Rosenauer as she laid 4 boxes of 45 cupcakes slowly on her desk, "Do you need a knife?" She held up a sharp steakknife straight out of Norman Bates' hand.
To this, the class gasped and burst into tiny pockets of laughter. And I officially sunk so low in my chair that I completely fell off of it.
"How old are you today, Derrick?" Mrs. Rosenauer asked after declining the knife and bidding my mother good day.
"Eight." I replied, deadpan, from the floor.
"Well, class what do we say?"
"Happy Birthday, Derrick!" They replied in unison.
"Thaaaanks."
That floor was cold.

"Do you know what today is!!!?" I could barely contain my excitement as I jumped up onto the sofa, interrupting my brothers during their TV time.
"Um, yeah, it's Saturday and if you think I can see 'Pro Stars' through you, you're sadly mistaken."
"No!" I protested, "I mean, yes! But it's not just Saturday."
"No kidding," my brother hushed, "they're giving three 'Saved By The Bell' episodes back-to-back and then two 'California Dreams.'"
Defeated I dragged my excitement behind me off of the sofa and into my mom's bedroom.
"Mommy! Guess what today is!"
"What is it, Derrick?"
"You mean, you don't know?"
"It's Saturday. Are you quizzing me, baby?"
"No..."
"Well..."
"You don't know what today is?"
"Did I promise you something to do for today?" She turned to me, concerned, "Because mommy has to go into work."
"No...nevermind."
I couldn't believe they had forgotten. My 11th birthday. I went up to my room, pulled out my Bible and started to meditate on scripture. I was told in church study to do this whenever I felt stressed. It didn't help. "Dear God: Jesus fucking Christ how the fuck did those motherfuckers forget my goddamned birthday! Oh, and in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen"
I waited the rest of the day before finally just telling them it was my birthday at some point in the afternoon. Then, I revelled in their self-punishing guilt.
"It's Derrick's birthday and we all forgot." My mother said after work, "So he doesn't have to do any of his chores today."
"What!?" My brothers protested.
"You boys split his."
"Double what!?"
"It's his birthday." She cooed, pulling me into her waist with a warm hug. "Happy birthday, Derrick."

I wonder what will happen tomorrow. I stepped off the subway, my smile fading. Yep, I've had alot of birthdays. Both good and bad. My 29th, probably not gonna be so bad. And I promise, I will go the whole day without griping once about getting old. Ok, fine no more than 3 times. 4 at the most. Happy Birthday, me.