Sunday, July 31, 2011

So This Is How It Feels Like.

For the first time in my life, I am now the one being pursued. I don't know what this punk sees in me, but he makes me feel like a goddamn girl. Stolen kisses, displays of affection in front of his friends, displays of affection in front of my friends, hands held until they swell, surprise visits, his arms, thin and wrapped around me in front of his friends and mine. I can get used to this. No, I'm not in love. I don't think that will happen. I'm just milking this situation for all the icky goodness that it's worth. Maybe we'll get there. Maybe we won't. My money's on the latter, but I don't believe I care. I'm living the moment, seizing the day, and now I know how it feels like to be the one being pursued. That's something to tell, if anything.

Here's to this wonderful goddamn feeling!

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Were You Bullied as a Gay Kid?

I skipped school for two weeks when I was in Grade Four. And that wasn't because I was bullied. Oh hell no. Far from it. And I'm not being defensive when I mentioned the bullying shit. It is because I was enrolled in this exclusive all-boys school then, and queer kids like myself are, and this is not a statistic, a curiosity in that knee length pool of testosterone. This was in the Eighties. Gay kids then were loud only amongst themselves. We were never harmed or sneered at because we took to ourselves and our homosexual tendencies weren't as loud or as aggressive or as flamboyant or as eager as the kind you see now. They had no real reason to threaten us because we had manners and bearing and all that exquisite crap.

Sure, we were surrounded by these boys who were built for the bullying business, but I was never punched in the face. I was never kicked in the shins. I always had all of my lunch money to myself. And I never dreaded physical education because, aside from those awful PE shorts that concealed my skinny girly legs, it was physical only for the education and nothing else. Of course, all that catching and throwing and running around and talk of Dr James Naismith was just as useful to me as my male hormones. But I got home in the afternoon unharmed, and I'm satisfied and bruise-free while I'm enjoying shit cartoons with my orange zesto in one hand.

My last name is pronounced as Tool-yaw. And you can well imagine how terribly impressionable young boys get; I was a shellfish all throughout elementary in consequence. I'm telling you, there's just no end to the name calling. It's "Hoy Tulya!" in the morning, where it's at its loudest summit. Hotdogs and star rice, as it turns out, were the breakfast of growing assholes with what can be champion potential. Meanwhile, the name calling simmers down towards the first Angelus, and then it gains momentum during science class whenever Mrs Whatsherface happens to mention that devilish shellfish.

But I wasn't bothered enough to take those insults to heart. Those kids were corny bores. They were a gross sarcasm to the bullying business. They can never be offensive even if they were cross-eyed, worked in groups, and had terrible body odor. Were talking about kids who can only try so hard, but they will never be funny even if they had the advantage of a sfeech depect. These bullies were of very little stock, had zero quality, and were bankrupt of any creativity in the fine art of insults. Why, nobody even though of making faces while they're throwing their lines! There is no mimicry to their punchlines, their jokes were second hand, and they worked with the gullibility of a mob. A stupid, stupid mob. I was surrounded by these lousy, no-talent jerks. And I thanked God for this simple fortune.

A gay person can only be insulted, or buckled, if and only if the punchline is so magnificent that it is beyond a ready comeback. These kids used the same material to its deathbed.

So, was I bullied as a gay kid? No. This is because I knew then, like I knew and validated now, that I am a bigger asshole than most straight guys my age. The only difference is that, this time, I have learned to give the dirty finger with my eyes crossed. Those kids my age were never uninteresting. They just don't get what it takes to tick me off.

I skipped school for two weeks because I have taken this intense liking, this aggressive interest towards cutting classes. Life was sweet. I lived on nothing but doughnuts and coin-operated arcades back then. I should have been learning the intricate processes of photosynthesis and prepositions, but I was mastering the thirty lives trick in Super Contra instead. Of course, I was thoroughly reprimanded when they found me out; I still remember that scene in the principal's office.

She had those motherly, old eyes about her, the sweet and smiling kind, and it is with those eyes that she asked me why I cut classes for two weeks. I said I was bullied too much. And I said it with a straight face. And I even said it softly, for theatric effect, with the voice of the oppressed, haha. I even named names. That episode gave me one of the most practical lessons that I use to this day: I learned that the most effective way to tell a lie is to do it quick and with conviction. Now I admit, I'm a jerk; I could barely look at those kids as they were hauled into the principal's office for an explanation. But I was relieved because I got to cut classes at other people's expense. I was a cautionary tale, but it was for the wrong, unsincere reasons.

Somehow, when I look back at that delinquent fit, something tells me that I chose the right kind of waywardness. Because I am now a gay punk.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Write a Love Story for LitWit 6.4!

**I have elected to disable comments for my LitWit promotions. I suppose its better if you can check the site out yourself and then comment. This episode is about writing a Fantasy Love Story, and I have full confidence in the capacities of some you as far as this genre goes. After all, we are just all too human in this city.

Non sequitur? Think again, love. Meanwhile, my next post will be this Wednesday. I'm still deciding between the Faggot Medication post or the Turning Atheist post. Or the Leviticus post. Or the Reading Group post. It will be this Wednesday though, Third World Time, which isn't almost always on time. And you wonder why they call us that. I will try to be punctual, though.

Click Here to go to LitWit 6.4!
Click Here for Instructions!

Wednesday, July 06, 2011

Life Lessons at 30. Who Knew?

**I will be 31 next month, and I feel like documenting what maturity has developed in my bullshit person. This list pretty much covers just about everything that I have learned so far. This may not apply to you, but that's alright. It's your life, and you have your own lessons. But I believe in learning something as you go along. Otherwise, what the hell's the damn point?

**What makes this ironic is that I was half-drunk when I was writing most of this. And that was longhand. I looked back at this in the afternoon following the hangover, and I was expecting to read some slurred ramble, but I sounded sober as I was reading this back.

1. Shit Happens. Get over it.

2. The friends you've had for these five, ten years approaching your thirtieth will be the same set of darling assholes you're stuck with for the next five, ten, fifteen years of your life. Appreciate them, and acknowledge their influence. You chose to stick with them in the first place, right?

3. The scope of support that the family you are born with will never cease to amaze you. Find time to do something together.

4. The earlier you move out of your mother's house, the better. Independence builds character. And, by the same token, I would like to say this one related thing, and I say this with the sincerity of a medical diagnosis -- Life lessons (from people who still live with their parents) are a mighty empty mess. I'm not buying it. Put a lid on your second hand hearsay. They have the strength of a superstition.

Yeah, if you can support yourself at the age of five, then go for it. Fucken smart ass.

5. Looking for the love of your life is a thoroughly unproductive pursuit. He finds you, instead. I know the cheesy is just over the top. I know. I'm getting a piece of rope and a monoblock chair to stand on and kick later.

6. Find time to do the things that make you feel alive. Read a good book. Smell the coffee and then drink it warm. Laugh out loud. Hang out. Play pool. Get tattooed. Sing in the shower. Do it loud. Dance alone. Masturbate. Get drunk. Get laid. Do it again.

7. Nothing else takes up more of your time than regret. What do you propose to do about it?

8. Okay, age is just a number. But, believe it or not, it shows on your face. Moisturize.

9. If, in consequence, you don't have to pay bail for it, or it doesn't get you confined, then, by all means, get it done.

10. Don't get so worked up over stupid opinions. I mean, why?

11. Never think you're prettier. Or better. Somebody's bound to steal your thunder, by and by.

12. Allow me to quote Mark Twain -- "Jealousy is a property of small minds." Be real good at something, work at it and practice, until you get to the point of over-qualification.

13. Be good at something, even if its in the fine, delicate arts of foulmouthing or masturbation. It doesn't matter what. But make sure you excel at it.

14. You are bigger than your blog.

15. You should have more of an identity than your Facebook page or status.

That's Lewis Black. Genius, isn't he? Meanwhile, here are some of my Facebook-specific posts:
1. Blog Soup #11: Your Facebook Status Sucks, Breaking the Three Month Rule, and Hooray for Smelly Third World Shit!
2. The Seven Annoying Facebook Posters
Truly, Facebook Brings Out the Attention Whore in Each of Us.

16. You should have an offline life. It's becoming uncommon these days.

17. One should be comfortable with his or her sexual orientation by the age of thirty. Or at least be honest about it. You had thirty years to figure that out.

18. Some people are just unwashed assholes by default, and that can't be helped. You just have to be an asshole in return. Be a bigger dick, though. That's the only way it works.

1. How to be Rude
How to Be Rude: Burgers

19. Life is about living. Live long. That being said, it will be in your finest interest if you could just stay away from that faggot Jim Girl. He will frustrate you to an early grave.

If you have to hate something, then hate with a passion.
1. Fuck You Jim Girl, Here's Your One Thousand Words
2. What, No Career Yet? -- A Follow Up on Jimgirl's Epic Fail

20. An advice for couples who have moved in together -- In no way should you allow him to feel left out. Never, ever, let this happen. Defend this cause with everything in your artillery. I know this is the kind of default wisdom that goes well without saying, and I could be a fool for stating the obvious. But for the most part, we overlook the obvious, and fail in its consideration, when one of you starts sleeping in the sofa. And you do this for weeks on end, because you claim it's suddenly much more comfortable to sleep in the living room.

21. You know what they say, "It's not the size that counts, it's the performance." People who say this have needles for dicks, don't get hard enough, cum early, have massive penis envy, and they wouldn't know foreplay from a hole in the ground. Size does matter. We remember the girth more. Get over it. Get enlarged and, in consequence, a penis to match your ego.

22. I can probably outdrink some of you now.

Taken from the Post: Cheers to Drinking Advice!


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