It’s a fun story.

I find myself alone, yet again, dumped. I’ve been dumped more times than I care to count. It’s funny, because I’m sitting here reading my old journals, and I supposed I should have seen it coming, but it surprised me nonetheless. I haven’t had a moment to grieve, though. Grieve for my dead relationship. Hopefully it isn’t so bad, when it comes to pass.

I really should write this paper.

"A man takes a wife and possesses her. If she fails to please him
because he finds something obnoxious about her, and he writes her
a bill of divorcement, hands it to her, and sends her away from his
house" (Deuteronomy 24:1).

So, that’s what marriage is all about, huh? You know, someone ought to tell my fellow homos that maybe we don’t really want that after all. I mean, apparently, we have to marry a woman. And she becomes our property. I mean, I like women as much as the next ‘mo, but I certainly don’t need to own one. Although, if she’s too obnoxious, then we can send her away. That sounds kind of cool.

Oh, wait, marriage has nothing to do with the fucking Bible.

I mean, if that’s true, then married women of the world, know that you are property. You are your husband’s possession. That must suck.

So, Illinois is poised to become the fifth state that allows two people of any gender to enter into a civil union, granting them the same legal benefits that any heterosexual couple would have, ranging from inheritence to health insurance. Left out, is that whole property bit. I’ve had this discussion with a lot of fellow “queer folks” as one of my professors referred to us. The conversation that sticks out is one between Loverboy and I. He said, “We’ll never be able to get married, we’ll be civilly unionized; That doesn’t sounds as nice.” And he’s right, it doesn’t sound as nice. But if marriage entails me becoming his property that he can throw away when I become too obnoxious for him to handle, then I don’t think I want to be married. I’ll stick to being civilly unionized.

The other day I took an exam with my favorite teacher ever. Completely aced it, by the by. I got to the end, and I was like –wait, it’s over? So, that’s good. Anydrama, I finished the exam and decided I’d wait to rendezvous with the Mistress to grab something to eat. Cut to me three hours later, writhing in starvation on the floor of my room. It was horrible. Susan Sarandon was about to do a commercial on my behalf. (For just thirteen cents a day you can feed starving children like Mykal.) After I finally caught up with her, we embarked upon Green Street to find something to eat. Green is like the nexus of campustown life. The majority of the bars are situated on or just off of it, as are most of the restaurants and shops. It’s like a small slice of urban life in the middle of an unending rural landscape. What was my point? Oh, yeah, okay, I’m getting there. Anyway, after waiting three hours for the Mistress, I had to spend another hour walking up and down Green, trying to find something to eat. Everything worth eating was either closed or a little too grimy. Speaking of which, there’s a new restaurant on campus called “Fat Sandwhich Company” and it’s the most ridiculous thing ever. I’m conflicted by the raging curiosity and unending disgust that I simultaneously hold for this place. Let me give you an example of their offerings: A “Fat F” is a sandwich consisting of cheese steak, chicken fingers, mozarella sticks, mayo, ketchup, and french fries all crammed into an 8″ amoroso roll. I’ve had one friend describe it as “boy food” which I feel is apt. Heinous gluttony aside, I want to try one just for adventure’s sake, and I was up for it that night, until I saw the guy cooking my food. He looked like he sweats Bud Light. It was revolting. We finally settled on a kitschy Mexican restaurant named “La Bamba” which claims to not only stay open late to accommodate, but that they’ll make burritos as big as your head. Something which I wasn’t inclined to believe, but then again I have a fairly large head. So as I’m sitting there, eating my Torta, watching the Mistress eat her tacos at a pace a turtle would envy, she looks up and randomly asks me, “Do you still like [the Boy?]”

The question took me a by suprise because he isn’t something that I’ve been allowing myself to think about lately. By some higher being’s good graces, I’ve found myself actually content with my life. Classes are going well, I’ve managed to surround myself with people that don’t suck, I’m reading more (which I adore, but for the past year or so haven’t had as much time to), Dragon Lady and I are getting along so well, and true miracle of miracles I have someone who, for some unexplicable reason, calls me his boyfriend. I shouldn’t complain. For the most post part, I think I don’t. But there’s always this quiet voice in the corner of head that’s like, “You know, your grades should be better. You shouldn’t have gotten an A minus, you should have gotten an A plus. What? Did you get a B?! Off with your head! Speaking of your head, have you seen your hair? Yeah, let’s fix that, oh and the Red Cross is collecting donations to get you a new wardrobe. By the way, your Mother needs your help at home, and you’re here at school. SELFISH. Oh, and you thought you could forget about that boy you work with? You know, the one you were all in love with and shit? You keep trying to push out of your mind, but it isn’t going to happen.  SORRY. NOPE. HE’S STILL THERE, LOOKING ALL KINDS OF STUNNING. DON’T FORGET. NOOOOOOOOOO.”

So maybe the voice isn’t so quiet; But you get the point.

I was just reading this book, and the author was talking about gays having amplified crushes later in life, because we aren’t allowed to have them like normal people in school. It was like he was writing about me. Later that evening, the Mistress and I were on the bus back to our hall, and she made some motion in reference to the Boy that looked a lot like holding the back of someone’s head whilst they give you head. I told her that motion meant something different to me, and she replied, “He’s taken. He’s fucking someone else’s face.”

Which is true. the Boy has a girlfriend, a really nice girlfriend, the kind you can’t hate – not even a little bit. Whether or not he fucks her face is up for debate but I’d wager no. Anyway, it was weird, because even thought I know all of these things about him, that doesn’t deter my unending interest in him. Nor does my person, my Loverboy. And I feel so very helpless, like a prisoner of my own emotions. Then, I feel so over dramatic and silly. He’s just a person. A collection of molecules, what makes him so special? Besides he’ll never look at you that way. You could coiffe yourself to death, it’ll never turn him crooked.

The whole point, is that it’s time to crush this crush. (Cute, I know) The funny thing is, I thought I had a handle on this, that these feelings have evaporated, but ever since that conversation between the Mistress and I, they’ve been roaring loudly inside me, aching to be expressed, throbbing for acknowledgment. And I’m sick of feeling like those feelings control me or define me in some way. I don’t know how you go about eliminating a feeling, an emotion. Maybe I’ll conjure up some Eternal Sunshine-type shit. Who knows. But, I’m not going to do this anymore, I’m not going to risk my relationship pining over someone else. It’s not right.

Oh, read Dry by Augesten Burroughs. Read Augusten Burroughs.

(17 Mar: Update: It’s funny. I have no conclusive evidence, but I have a sneaking suspicion that this very post caused the crumble of the relationship I wrote about saving. Lulz.)

Before I begin can I tell you how absolutely, irrevocably, maddeningly, deeply, truly, painstakingly, adoringly, sickeningly in love I am with Taylor Swift? I bought her song “Love Story” on Thursday night and it has not stopped playing since. I love her. Please, please don’t tell Mariah.

The other day I was sitting in the dining hall with a group of friends (a group of other resident advisors, actually. It’s weird, when you become a resident advisor, suddenly all of your friends are RAs) and one of them was talking about her love life, and lamenting about being alone. Somehow the conversation turned to me and I mentioned Loverboy. She asked me, “You have a boo?” I stuttered for a moment, and said, “Yeah, I do.” Her reply? “Eff you” Then the Mistress chimed in, “What is your reluctance to claim him?” I didn’t have an answer for her then, but it’s been on my mind a lot.

Truth is, I am very reluctant to stake my claim. I recognize him as my person. (Person being my preferred term) And we do all the things that people in relationships do. Stupid phone calls that end in, “You hang up. No, you hang up!” But, I’m not wont to claim him. And it isn’t as if I haven’t been in relationships before. I’ve written a bit about the Ex. And I’ve had two other serious relationships. I don’t consider it a bad record; Four serious relationships within the three years I’ve been out. But somehow this one seems different. I once wrote about Loverboy in a note to the Mistress, and described him as “…perfect. The man I want to marry and adopt my Chinese kids with.” I wrote it offhandedly at the time. I think. I’m very exaggerated, always. But the words I wrote have stuck with me, for one reason or another. Committing to Loverboy in a permanent and real way would mean committing to what I consider my first adult relationship. He isn’t apt to play the “games” that I’m used to men (boys, really) playing. He’s very forward with not only what he expects out of me as a partner, but what I should expect out of him. It’s weird. He’s just so grown up. I know I’ve written about my (god, how cliche) fear of commitment, but it’s not the way you think. It’s not that I’m afraid to love him, or to commit. It’s that I’m afraid I’m moving too fast. In moving too quickly, I don’t want to artificially accelerate feelings that may not have developed naturally. Does that make any kind of sense?

I’ve been surrounded, my whole life, by family and friends that were so quick to jump from “I like him/her” to “I am in love with him/her” within the span of seven days. To me, love is something that unfurls naturally over a course of time. I guess you could say I don’t believe in love at first sight. It seems silly to me. Love is about more than that initial reaction, love is about the deepest kind of caring and compassion for every facet of another human being. It means embracing not only their dazzling smile, but their inability to put down the toilet seat. It’s everything, all at once.

I had a lot of friends in high school, and a great deal of the ones I’m referring to were GLBT ironically, that were so quick to declare their undying love for a person they’ve known for half a semester. And that seemed so weird to me. Didn’t they know? Didn’t they know they had to wait? Didn’t they know that you needed to date someone first, peel off that first layer, and then you get to the love part? How silly of them. Puppy love seemed revolting to me; It all seemed foreign to me. And that really hasn’t changed much. Lately, I’ve started to wonder why. Why do I feel like, as Mariah says, Love Takes Time. Would it really be so bad to be in love after a few short weeks? Is that even possible? Who’s permission am I waiting for?

I’ve been writing and editing this post for a while. The publish date is 7 Feb, but it’s really going up 11 Feb. On the 9th, I received a package from Loverboy here at school. It was Taylor Swift’s CD and a pack of cigarettes. He despises that I enjoy both. Enclosed was a note that said, “Your happiness is my world.” Fuck the wait.

WHICH pathetic blogger walked into the dining hall this afternoon and then promptly walked out (without eating) upon seeing a boy that our blogger may have a gigantic crush on?

*major kudos to you if you get the pic.

It’s funny how much your life can change it fourteen days. Two little weeks. Half a month.

Two weeks ago, I couldn’t have been happier. I had a boy that wanted me. I was going home, I love home! Thanksgiving was coming. Food! And with it brought Black Friday. One of my favorite days of the year.

What happened?

In fourteen days, I simultaneously rekindled and ruined my relationship with the Ex. My mom stopped talking to me. I started smoking. I slept with a man that I hate, and hurt the one person who’s ever been really in love with me.

In fourteen days, I ruined everything.

Weeks ago, I called the Ex. Our communication up until that point had been non-existent since our last failed attempt and a relationship. I called him as a result of a small fight I had with the Mistress. I called him out of desperation and slowly our friendship rebuilt itself. It was nice, having him in my life again. It thrills me, how happy he is to see me. It’s like not right for anyone to be that happy to see me. Me! But he always happy to see me. And our friendship again blossomed into something more. But I didn’t want to commit to him. I didn’t want that full-blown, hand-holding, spooning at night, no you have the last piece of pizza deal. I didn’t. I don’t know why. I just wanted him. Not the other stuff. In retrospect, I should have considered myself lucky that he wanted me in that way. (Me!) And so when I went home for break, and when he told me he wanted me “officially” I couldn’t do it. And he got mad. Said just the right things to hurt me the most. A horrible disadvantage of letting people in: They know how to hurt you all the more.

So I ran. I left his North-Side home to the closest man I could find. the Evil One. The man that not even month ago was still painfully stringing me along. Toying with my emotions because he was bored. I knocked on his door, and though he was surprised, he was also happy to see me. (Me!) And we did what grown gay men do best.

No, we didn’t open an antique store or decorate a house, ahole.

Afterwards, I felt so horrible. It was something similar to what I imagine a prostitute must feel. I couldn’t even look at myself. (And I love to look at myself.) What was I doing? Sleeping with a man I hated. I left his house with the promise of having Thanksgiving dinner with him. Friday, when I saw the Ex, I had every intention of commiting and giving myself to him, the way he wanted. But when I saw him, all I could remember were the cruel words he spat at me, and the ease with which he did it. And I couldn’t contain my anger. It was like burning in my throat, and I wanted to hurt him like he hurt me. So I told him, in great detail, how I’d fucked the Evil One. And how much better it was with the Evil One. (Not exactly a lie, but information he didn’t need to know, nonetheless.) And I did hurt him. I saw it in his eyes. Like he had hurt me so many times before, I finally had this chance to hurt him. And even though it had been three years since he’d first cheated on me, even though it had been two years since he hid his heroin addiction from me, even though it had been a year since he cheated on me the second time, each wound still burned hot. I got to do the hurting now. Me.

But as I stood there, looking at him, looking at me like a monster. I felt like shit. It wasn’t gratifying or rewarding. It made me feel worse. Yay, I hurt him. Go me. It didn’t make me feel any better. About anything. So, as sat her there, trying to wrap his head around this I left. And we haven’t talked since.

I had dinner with the Evil One on Thanksgiving. Lunch, really. I hated him for … being him. I hated him for thinking this was fun. We fucked again. We haven’t talked since.

On the drive home, I found a pack of cigarettes in my car, no doubt left by its true owner (the Dragon Lady’s fiancee), and I just started smoking. It was fanfuckingtastic. I concentrated on that small white stick, and puffed all my problems away.

So here I am. A young adult, who’s mother has all but disowned him. A gay man in love with a hetero. A man not able to commit to the one person that has ever been in love with him.

I’m going to stop, before I get all melodramatic and start babbling how I don’t recognize my own face in the mirror.

I’m praying that the next fourteen days bring about as much change as the last.

the Boy. How do I even begin to describe the Boy? My taste in men is very . . . traditional. Yeah, traditional. Let’s run with that. Slender but toned. Healthy, you could say. In high school I wanted the quarterback; talk about unoriginality for sobbing out loud.

But the Boy’s different. It isn’t rooted in the physical. A first for me. That makes me shallow, yes. But let’s be honest, we gays have our stereotypes for a reason.

Anyway the physical isn’t as important. It’s there — Lord knows it is. But it’s not important this time and I don’t know why. It’s driving me crazy. His presence is intoxicating, one conversation with him elates me, brings my whole day up. And I have no idea why. It’s maddening. Devolving into a 12 year old girl every time he walks by.

[Not to knock 12 year old girls -- My cousin is about to turn 13, and she's been in more long-term relationships than I have]

It sucks that I can’t keep my composure around him. It sucks even more not knowing why. So I approach the entire situation with the following philosophy:

Don’t Feed The Animals

When you go to the zoo, they have these signs that are all like, ‘Hey don’t feed the animals.’ And they say that because they have the animals all trained and on a schedule. And you come in, with your zoo books looking-ass, all wanting to throw your gummi bears at the lions, and for all you know, lions could be allergic to gummi bears. You don’t know. Overall, it’s just a bad idea to feed the animals. Right?

That’s the kind of thinking that runs through my mind when it comes to the Boy. I know at certain times I will I see the Boy, and I don’t try to fuck with the schedule. I don’t feel like I should encourage or nurture this ‘crush.’ I hate the word ‘crush.’ But I feel like forcing interaction with him would be a lot like feeding the animals. Don’t try to forge something that shouldn’t happen. Oh, spaz is me. Have I forgotten to mention the boy is of the hetero persuasion? Much like the quarterback in high school. But alas, I don’t want to feed the animals. I don’t.

He loves me not.

The Mistress says I’m on my man period. I guess I can’t fault her for accusing me. I have been on edge for the past . . . year. But it’s been particularly worse these past three weeks. See, there’s the Evil One. We dated for seven weeks, and since then he’s made my life nothing but a bleak and dreary place of anguish. Look at me trying to be all English Major about it. Anyway, point is the Evil One has this incredible knack for calling me and ruining my life. Take Halloween weekend. He calls to tell me that he’s moving in with some guy named Pedro.

Wait a minute.

Wasn’t he just telling me the week before that things weren’t exactly over? Or when he called just this past weekend to tell me that moving in with Perdo probably wasn’t a good idea. Why am I his go to person? Why do I have to be the one that he calls for life advice.

Is that fair? He said some of the most hurtful things anyone ever has. That’s why he’s called the Evil One. And I hate him for it. My mom always said hate was powerful word, and to use it sparingly, but I think it applies. He’s made me doubt who I am, and how I fit into the world. I get it, I fell for the Boy, my heart went elsewhere. That’s fine. I accept my part in our breakup, but I think ‘shameless whore’ took it one level too far, don’t you think?

So, yeah I guess I am on my man period.

I’m blessed that my life is populated with such wonderful characters. But damned be the Evil One.