update
Been a long time. Quick rundown. Went to prom with 5’1” Indian rendition of Webster. Boring. Fashion. Stupid. Techno music fan. Ugly. Basically, my date in a nutshell. He and his friends roped me back into high school drama. I laughed.
After prom at a seedy motel, where the 16 year old sister of one of the members of my prom group stumbles into our room, having just downed her 7th Smirnoff Ice. She takes a few hits off of a blunt and then returns to her own room in Motel Scuz where four twenty (weed) something gentlemen awaited her return. I reminded her of a similar situation involving Elizabeth Shue and four frat boys, and how dear sweet Lizzie could not sit down for a week after their hotel room romp/rape. “What……?” was her hazy, I-am-about-to-get-gang-raped response. Whatever.
Bonnie’s family graduation party. BSJ and I got drunk on the train ride up (or, at least tipsy) while listening to some thirty-something dissect the philosophy of the Matrix. He had long hair, glasses, and was preaching to a man and a woman who must have been his parents (only because they would entertain such drivel).
Smoked weed and drove around Conneticunt, which is always a treat. Bonnie can’t drive. David can not drive to “trippy” music. Why can’t everyone have been born in the Motor City?
Awakened at 10 a.m. to Bonnie and her delusional mother screaming at one another because David and I were sleeping and thus did not fit into Mrs. Gang’s mold of the perfect boyfriend for her daughter. Yes, she knows that we are both queer. If nothing else, the weekend gave me a lot of insight to Bonners and her often peculiar interaction with the opposite sex. In her case, I truly believe that blame must be placed upon her deranged maternal figure. Eventually, we woke, quite frustrated. Champagne. Weed. Klonopin. ZONK! David and I needed a mid-party nap.
Motherfucker that evening. Got far too inebriated. Jamie took care of me, cradling me in his arms as I slowly became “that guy” on the L train, completely stretched out on the bench, unconscious. I am an alcoholic.
Returned to Chicago. Free martinis. Fun family relations. Free martinis.
Little sister’s graduation. Ran into and old close friend. Still adorable. Still sweet. Still hetero. Blast it all! Anyway, so the head of my alma mater approached us, greeted Kyle (he was the class VP) and stared at me blankly, trying to piece together who I am.
“It’s Ok,” I say. “Besides, my family does not possess enough socio-economic value for me to be considered important by this fascist institution and its leader.” Bright smiles for Ry Ry. I turn and walk away. Fabulous exit, no? My fierceness surprises even me sometimes. The graduation ceremony. Bah! The salutatorian and valedictorian’s speeches. Blather. Contrived. Go America (why here?), love to you all, adam sandler quote, “bags are packed and we’re ready to go.” Idiots.
Grad party at posh country club for suburban bourgeois elitists. I donned a faux southern accent, much to the dismay of my dear sweet mother. The party consisted of our family and the families of five of my sisters’ closest bitches. Oh, and free martinis.
“So, martini, eh? Is that what all of the hip New Yorkers are drinking?”
At first, I entertained this inane question, revealing the genesis of my love for gin martinis. After the 4th adult asked me the same question, I became frustrated and socially anxious. Uh oh.
“So, martini, eh? Is that what all of the hip New Yorkers are drinking?”
Dead serious face. “No, I’m an alcoholic.” This was of course received by blank stares, darting eyes, the occasional “uh…”, and a general air of discomfort. Big smiles.
Grandmother still alive, sitting in a chair at an old folks home, watching soaps. Due to memory loss, she’s in the crazy ward, so she has nobody to interact with. She’s miserable. She’s in pain. She misses her husband (he died two years ago). She;s lonely. She cries a lot. She does not want to live anymore. But, of course, we cannot perform the humane action of just letting her go. No No! We must sit and watch her miserably rot away. Older cultures understood my grandmother’s pain, and would have thrown her off of a cliff or administered a poisonous draught, letting her die with honor. But, of course, the Christian dogma that infests most of the world prevents such a commonsense notion. Euthanasia is not murder. It is allowing our loved ones to be released from life with a certain dignity, not with tubes running in and out of their bodies and the stench of shit emanating from their soiled underpants.
Currently, I’m working at the fag film festival. Surprisingly, I am having a splendid time there, admiring the array of queers that NYC has to offer. Fags are quite bitchy though, often forcing me to speak to them like children. Such is life. Went to work on opening night while under the influence of mushrooms. So much fun. Proceeded to the gala, got drunk, went to David’s graduation party, where I smoked lots of weed, drank more, and started parading through the party, offering the party-goers mushrooms. I am an alcoholic.
After prom at a seedy motel, where the 16 year old sister of one of the members of my prom group stumbles into our room, having just downed her 7th Smirnoff Ice. She takes a few hits off of a blunt and then returns to her own room in Motel Scuz where four twenty (weed) something gentlemen awaited her return. I reminded her of a similar situation involving Elizabeth Shue and four frat boys, and how dear sweet Lizzie could not sit down for a week after their hotel room romp/rape. “What……?” was her hazy, I-am-about-to-get-gang-raped response. Whatever.
Bonnie’s family graduation party. BSJ and I got drunk on the train ride up (or, at least tipsy) while listening to some thirty-something dissect the philosophy of the Matrix. He had long hair, glasses, and was preaching to a man and a woman who must have been his parents (only because they would entertain such drivel).
Smoked weed and drove around Conneticunt, which is always a treat. Bonnie can’t drive. David can not drive to “trippy” music. Why can’t everyone have been born in the Motor City?
Awakened at 10 a.m. to Bonnie and her delusional mother screaming at one another because David and I were sleeping and thus did not fit into Mrs. Gang’s mold of the perfect boyfriend for her daughter. Yes, she knows that we are both queer. If nothing else, the weekend gave me a lot of insight to Bonners and her often peculiar interaction with the opposite sex. In her case, I truly believe that blame must be placed upon her deranged maternal figure. Eventually, we woke, quite frustrated. Champagne. Weed. Klonopin. ZONK! David and I needed a mid-party nap.
Motherfucker that evening. Got far too inebriated. Jamie took care of me, cradling me in his arms as I slowly became “that guy” on the L train, completely stretched out on the bench, unconscious. I am an alcoholic.
Returned to Chicago. Free martinis. Fun family relations. Free martinis.
Little sister’s graduation. Ran into and old close friend. Still adorable. Still sweet. Still hetero. Blast it all! Anyway, so the head of my alma mater approached us, greeted Kyle (he was the class VP) and stared at me blankly, trying to piece together who I am.
“It’s Ok,” I say. “Besides, my family does not possess enough socio-economic value for me to be considered important by this fascist institution and its leader.” Bright smiles for Ry Ry. I turn and walk away. Fabulous exit, no? My fierceness surprises even me sometimes. The graduation ceremony. Bah! The salutatorian and valedictorian’s speeches. Blather. Contrived. Go America (why here?), love to you all, adam sandler quote, “bags are packed and we’re ready to go.” Idiots.
Grad party at posh country club for suburban bourgeois elitists. I donned a faux southern accent, much to the dismay of my dear sweet mother. The party consisted of our family and the families of five of my sisters’ closest bitches. Oh, and free martinis.
“So, martini, eh? Is that what all of the hip New Yorkers are drinking?”
At first, I entertained this inane question, revealing the genesis of my love for gin martinis. After the 4th adult asked me the same question, I became frustrated and socially anxious. Uh oh.
“So, martini, eh? Is that what all of the hip New Yorkers are drinking?”
Dead serious face. “No, I’m an alcoholic.” This was of course received by blank stares, darting eyes, the occasional “uh…”, and a general air of discomfort. Big smiles.
Grandmother still alive, sitting in a chair at an old folks home, watching soaps. Due to memory loss, she’s in the crazy ward, so she has nobody to interact with. She’s miserable. She’s in pain. She misses her husband (he died two years ago). She;s lonely. She cries a lot. She does not want to live anymore. But, of course, we cannot perform the humane action of just letting her go. No No! We must sit and watch her miserably rot away. Older cultures understood my grandmother’s pain, and would have thrown her off of a cliff or administered a poisonous draught, letting her die with honor. But, of course, the Christian dogma that infests most of the world prevents such a commonsense notion. Euthanasia is not murder. It is allowing our loved ones to be released from life with a certain dignity, not with tubes running in and out of their bodies and the stench of shit emanating from their soiled underpants.
Currently, I’m working at the fag film festival. Surprisingly, I am having a splendid time there, admiring the array of queers that NYC has to offer. Fags are quite bitchy though, often forcing me to speak to them like children. Such is life. Went to work on opening night while under the influence of mushrooms. So much fun. Proceeded to the gala, got drunk, went to David’s graduation party, where I smoked lots of weed, drank more, and started parading through the party, offering the party-goers mushrooms. I am an alcoholic.