All's Well That Ends (Part 1: Unfucking August)
When I say I'm rubbing off on my friends, I'm not being dirty. While many of my friends are my friends because they have the Snark Chromosome, several of them reserve it for times when we're in a private setting, or else they keep their voice low when it happens. I'm thrilled when one of my friends breaks out of that zone and into The Public Snark. When Emily met JBob, the discussion of me not falling into Gay Stereotypes came up, and, with a little whiskey courage, she said loudly in a room full of people who either knew me really well, or not really at all "Well, he doesn't have most of the stereotypes, but he does fuck a lot of guys he meets on Craigslist."
And a few weeks ago, during one of the more excruciating slams I've ever half-sat through, I said fairly loudly while a poet was on stage, "Someone needs to buy that guy an editor." To which Mazarine replied "Fuck that. Someone needs to buy that guy an eraser."
I am hereby erasing my August pasts.
Unfuck Elvis. Unfuck stupid boys with initially names. Unfuck when Ben and Sora disappeared on me, because they're both back now, and that's ok. Unfuck Jennifer's treacherous pregnancy, and completely selfish use of my family background to make her feel better. Unfuck dead boyfriends, and insane landlords and landladies. Unfuck razor bladed vagina hos with the depth of a refrigerator magnet. Unfuck poor poetic decisions, and even worse romantic decisions. August, I forgive you.
Madison Wisconsin has changed almost nothingly in the ten years since I last stepped foot there. Apart from the construction on State Street, most of the stores seemed to be where I remembered them being. And on our first day there, a group of Worcesterites and I headed to the same Noodle Factory where unHarry and I had our first real conversation. Every time I walked out to State street I expected to see Beckee Krackow flaunting down the street with her Doc Martens, and amazing colored hair.
Luckily, that didn't happen.
But I did get an e-mail from an amazingly haired LJ stalker, "Heard you're in Madison this week. Any interest in getting together for a couple of hours, and writing an oldschool style Insafemode entry about me?"
And who could say no to the pure gonads he was showing (both in the picture, and by writing such a brash e-mail)? And who could say no to his amazingly colored hair? And who could say no to the spectacularly classy ass shot he sent me? Not me, my friends. Not me.
And a few weeks ago, during one of the more excruciating slams I've ever half-sat through, I said fairly loudly while a poet was on stage, "Someone needs to buy that guy an editor." To which Mazarine replied "Fuck that. Someone needs to buy that guy an eraser."
I am hereby erasing my August pasts.
Unfuck Elvis. Unfuck stupid boys with initially names. Unfuck when Ben and Sora disappeared on me, because they're both back now, and that's ok. Unfuck Jennifer's treacherous pregnancy, and completely selfish use of my family background to make her feel better. Unfuck dead boyfriends, and insane landlords and landladies. Unfuck razor bladed vagina hos with the depth of a refrigerator magnet. Unfuck poor poetic decisions, and even worse romantic decisions. August, I forgive you.
Madison Wisconsin has changed almost nothingly in the ten years since I last stepped foot there. Apart from the construction on State Street, most of the stores seemed to be where I remembered them being. And on our first day there, a group of Worcesterites and I headed to the same Noodle Factory where unHarry and I had our first real conversation. Every time I walked out to State street I expected to see Beckee Krackow flaunting down the street with her Doc Martens, and amazing colored hair.
Luckily, that didn't happen.
But I did get an e-mail from an amazingly haired LJ stalker, "Heard you're in Madison this week. Any interest in getting together for a couple of hours, and writing an oldschool style Insafemode entry about me?"
And who could say no to the pure gonads he was showing (both in the picture, and by writing such a brash e-mail)? And who could say no to his amazingly colored hair? And who could say no to the spectacularly classy ass shot he sent me? Not me, my friends. Not me.