Fall in love.
Drive drunk.
Drink.
Spit at policemen.
Things I shouldn't do, but do
Fall in love.
Smoke pot.
Things I Want to do
Everything I'm not doing.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Michael Pt. 2
Things I do poorly these days whilst stoned: Play the Piano, Act, Spell, Function. I'm counting on my wizard psychiatrist/drug dealer to have an answer to this, but Lord knows he won't. I don't believe in a solution to my insanity. And you know what they say about believing in fairies. If you don't, they die.
When Michael took my anal virginity, that movie in which Natalie Portman shaves her head was on. When he put his shnitzle in my pooper I almost cried it hurt so bad. I thought I was gonna throw up. So I let him do me in the face. He pounded my head like a ferret breeding with his mate. I gagged on the stench of his balls. I came back the next night for more, making the foolish assumption that sex got better with practice. It still hurt like bloody Satan. After he was done humping my mouth for a second time I got up, gathered my things and announced my permanent departure. The next day was my first day at a new job, being a cashier at a Target in Colma, CA and I waddled tellingly for the length of it.
Did you know that there are more dead people in Colma, CA. It's true, they exhumed all the graves in the neighboring towns and put them in Colma. You can see a cemetery from almost every intersection.
I met the next Michael at a straight bar in San Fransisco. I was there with a lonely girl I had met on Craigslist. Michael was so drunk he had trouble standing. When I went up to dance with him (knowing he was gay), Michael put his tongue in my mouth and his hand down my pants. The straight people around us clapped.
We had sex that night, more crying on my part. Those who told me anal sex was fun...wait, no one told me that.
The next morning we cuddled while he nursed his hangover. I showed him my collection of poetry, we wrote together. His breath was so bad it lingered in the room for 30 minutes after his departure. I loved him and we started dating. The next time he came to my place, I cooked him spaghetti and then we made out in a bath tub. I put opera on the boombox and lit a candle. It was hot.
Michael and I became inseparable. I had, after all, moved to San Francisco on a crazed impulse with the sole objective to quit being single. I was 20 and I had never dated a soul.
Michael and I spent 30 magical days together where we challenged the meaning of a 'toxic relationship'. One time he abandoned me at a house party in Berkley after I discovered he was a cocaine addict. He had been snorting in the bathroom all along. I managed to get back across the bay with the help of a telephoned friend and Mapquest.
We did mushrooms one night and he told me I smelled bad. I chastised his hypocrisy by calling attention to his epic bad breath on the night of our meeting. To this day, it is the most romantic relationship I've ever been in. Where are you Michael? I love you.
When Michael took my anal virginity, that movie in which Natalie Portman shaves her head was on. When he put his shnitzle in my pooper I almost cried it hurt so bad. I thought I was gonna throw up. So I let him do me in the face. He pounded my head like a ferret breeding with his mate. I gagged on the stench of his balls. I came back the next night for more, making the foolish assumption that sex got better with practice. It still hurt like bloody Satan. After he was done humping my mouth for a second time I got up, gathered my things and announced my permanent departure. The next day was my first day at a new job, being a cashier at a Target in Colma, CA and I waddled tellingly for the length of it.
Did you know that there are more dead people in Colma, CA. It's true, they exhumed all the graves in the neighboring towns and put them in Colma. You can see a cemetery from almost every intersection.
I met the next Michael at a straight bar in San Fransisco. I was there with a lonely girl I had met on Craigslist. Michael was so drunk he had trouble standing. When I went up to dance with him (knowing he was gay), Michael put his tongue in my mouth and his hand down my pants. The straight people around us clapped.
We had sex that night, more crying on my part. Those who told me anal sex was fun...wait, no one told me that.
The next morning we cuddled while he nursed his hangover. I showed him my collection of poetry, we wrote together. His breath was so bad it lingered in the room for 30 minutes after his departure. I loved him and we started dating. The next time he came to my place, I cooked him spaghetti and then we made out in a bath tub. I put opera on the boombox and lit a candle. It was hot.
Michael and I became inseparable. I had, after all, moved to San Francisco on a crazed impulse with the sole objective to quit being single. I was 20 and I had never dated a soul.
Michael and I spent 30 magical days together where we challenged the meaning of a 'toxic relationship'. One time he abandoned me at a house party in Berkley after I discovered he was a cocaine addict. He had been snorting in the bathroom all along. I managed to get back across the bay with the help of a telephoned friend and Mapquest.
We did mushrooms one night and he told me I smelled bad. I chastised his hypocrisy by calling attention to his epic bad breath on the night of our meeting. To this day, it is the most romantic relationship I've ever been in. Where are you Michael? I love you.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Friday.
I have to take life in steps. These are my current steps.
Get a meeting with my psychiatrist. He's the only older man I would totally bang.
Convince him I have moderate to severe bipolar disorder. Cause I fucking do.
Get properly medicated.
Smoke less pot.
Work my new job for one month.
Work it one more.
Try not to lose my fuckkin. mind.
Get a meeting with my psychiatrist. He's the only older man I would totally bang.
Convince him I have moderate to severe bipolar disorder. Cause I fucking do.
Get properly medicated.
Smoke less pot.
Work my new job for one month.
Work it one more.
Try not to lose my fuckkin. mind.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Mormonstermobile
I am sitting in The Mormonstermobile wearing a gigantic coat because it's freezing cold and snowy outside. The Mormonstermobile is my car, a purple mini-van my parents gave to me a year and a half ago.
Why am I in my car when it's freezing cold outside? Something to do with parents and marijuana. Marijuana purchased legally at a Dispensary cause I live in Denver. Michael has his medical marijuana card which he abuses frequently. He got me four joints for 17 dollars. Medical grade. Which means, as of this writing, I'm fucking baked. And it's not even noon.
My mental illness is climate controlled, meaning it's controlled by the climate. When it's sunny outside, all I wanna do is lay in the sun and forget my troubles. When it's cold, I become suicidal. That's probably bi-polar but tell that to my psychiatrist who is a doctor and that we pay $200 a month for (down from $800 awhile ago). He hasn't mentioned it more than once. I let him do the thinking in our relationship but chances are I'm more emotionally aware than he is. Oui, mes amies.
Everyone in Denver is bipolar, I swear to the heavens. I watched a weatherman, yesterday before the storm, whisper in dulcet calming tones, "Now, folks, it's not gonna be too bad. Maybe I'm wrong, but it's going to snow a little bit." As if he, the weatherman, were responsible for the upcoming April storm. Folks, I've lived in Denver my whole life okay? It's gonna snow until May, calm the fuck down, that's what Denver is like. But we all lose our minds every year and then forget it ever happened in the summer.
Guess what happened yesterday in Denver? A woman got raped, in public, by a Marine at the International Airport on the concourse and no one did anything for several minutes. She was on her way to join a nunnery. No joke. : )
A woman put her kids in a car and rolled them off a bridge.
We Denverites are crazy motherfuckers. Just like our weather.
So be glad I haven't had a drop of alcohol in 5 months and counting, Denver. Because if I still consumed liquor, today would be a day I would unleash my Mormon fire upon you in dramatic and devastating flame. I would wash the land angry with my power. And the angels would weep for all I touched.
Why am I in my car when it's freezing cold outside? Something to do with parents and marijuana. Marijuana purchased legally at a Dispensary cause I live in Denver. Michael has his medical marijuana card which he abuses frequently. He got me four joints for 17 dollars. Medical grade. Which means, as of this writing, I'm fucking baked. And it's not even noon.
My mental illness is climate controlled, meaning it's controlled by the climate. When it's sunny outside, all I wanna do is lay in the sun and forget my troubles. When it's cold, I become suicidal. That's probably bi-polar but tell that to my psychiatrist who is a doctor and that we pay $200 a month for (down from $800 awhile ago). He hasn't mentioned it more than once. I let him do the thinking in our relationship but chances are I'm more emotionally aware than he is. Oui, mes amies.
Everyone in Denver is bipolar, I swear to the heavens. I watched a weatherman, yesterday before the storm, whisper in dulcet calming tones, "Now, folks, it's not gonna be too bad. Maybe I'm wrong, but it's going to snow a little bit." As if he, the weatherman, were responsible for the upcoming April storm. Folks, I've lived in Denver my whole life okay? It's gonna snow until May, calm the fuck down, that's what Denver is like. But we all lose our minds every year and then forget it ever happened in the summer.
Guess what happened yesterday in Denver? A woman got raped, in public, by a Marine at the International Airport on the concourse and no one did anything for several minutes. She was on her way to join a nunnery. No joke. : )
A woman put her kids in a car and rolled them off a bridge.
We Denverites are crazy motherfuckers. Just like our weather.
So be glad I haven't had a drop of alcohol in 5 months and counting, Denver. Because if I still consumed liquor, today would be a day I would unleash my Mormon fire upon you in dramatic and devastating flame. I would wash the land angry with my power. And the angels would weep for all I touched.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Rapunzel in His Tower
Or, Finger Fucking Done Right.
I need to buy spaghetti and a shovel and some candles and a tablecloth and a colander and brownies and an electric meat cutter and a chicken and rubber adhesive for the bottom of my shower. I wonder if they have that here.
They do.
I’m at the cashier’s now. She is wearing her apron inside out. She is cute, nearly edible. As I look at her, worms come out of her nose. Not earthworms, small ones, like maggots. She smiles at me and asks if I found everything alright.
“It took me awhile to find the candles,” I say. “I was looking in the wrong section. Tools, I was looking in seasonal. It was in home and garden.”
“Having a party?” she asks. The little bitch.
“No, just dinner,” I say.
“Well I hope you are having guests. Candlelit dinners are always best with company.” What a nosey little bitch this one is. A shame she is so damn delectable. Worms crawl up her face into her curly blonde hair.
She puts everything into bags and I pay with my mother’s credit card. She does not ask to see my ID.
“Have a good evening sir!” she exclaims, her small face nearly devoured by a smile.
“I will,” I say. “You’ve got worms on your face.” Then I go out to the parking lot. There’s lots to do and not nearly enough time.
On the drive home I think about that time in Disneyland when the crows pooped on our heads. We were waiting for the parade, my mother and I, and the only place to sit was beneath a towering Jacaranda tree. Before Mickey and the gang even had a chance to prance to our spot, an entire flock of crows landed in the leaves above us and began to shit all over our heads. Mother and I were resilient, however, and refused to move from our spot. We wisely used the park map to cover our hair and in the end our perseverance paid off. We had the best seats in the house. There was crow poop all over our legs, but that just washes right off.
I don’t know why I thought about that just now. Sometimes my mind wanders terribly. Like at the store, with the worms. I knew there weren’t any worms but my imagination insisted upon it. I can’t always keep my imagination at bay. That’s what comes from being brought up on Disney movies I suppose. And the Sound of Music. Mom loves the Sound of Music, both the film and the actual sound of music. Yanni. She fucking loves Yanni.
I read in an article once that people my age are called the “Beauty and the Beast Generation” . It refers to young adults whose childhood coincided with the early 1990s when the best movies of all time were being released. The Little Mermaid, Aladdin, The Lion King, and of course, Beauty and the Fucking Beast. That is my favorite movie of all time. After seeing it in the theaters, my mother purchased the VHS and I watched it until the tape ripped. I am really a lot like the beast if you think about it. I don’t go outside much and I’m fairly hairy. And all I want from life is to fall in love. That’s what Disney has taught me. Love conquers all. Even if you’re fairly hairy.
I’m home. I step over the pile of VHS tapes in the middle of the room and put my bags down on the counter. My mother refused to convert any of her collection to DVD. Even when her tapes got old and needed replacing. I begged her to keep up with the times and tried to elaborate on the benefits of DVD but her heart was closed. That’s something I’ll need to clean up before Veronica arrives. I can’t have her thinking that I live in the past. Besides, none of them have cases. The pile in the middle of our floor looks like a bunch of enlarged dominos. Or Hershey’s bars.
I season the chicken and put it in the oven. I arrange the tablecloth and set out our best flatware. After cleaning up the pile of VHS tapes, I change the kitty litter. Our cat is named Cat after the one in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn is probably my favorite person, alive or dead. Though I do like Bob Hope a great deal.
I have thirty more minutes until Veronica arrives. I met her at our Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. Technically we’re not supposed to date anybody in the group, but I’ve never been one to follow rules and regulations. I’m a rebel, wild and free like the California breeze. I’m like Thelma and Louise if it was possible to combine them into one person, to put Thelma and Louise into a blender and woosh it all up and then pour the goo into a mold and let it harden. Then we could have cupcakes.
I liked Veronica from the very start. She didn’t talk much, which I appreciate. Living with mother, who talks almost constantly, I have developed an appreciation for people who are content with silence. But I could tell there was more to Veronica than meets the eye. Everytime anybody mentions sex, her eyebrows pop up. Mine do that too. I love sex. Well, I love the word ‘sex’. It’s harsh, like ‘conk’ or ‘faggot’. Harsh words that make you wrinkle your nose like a rabbit are my favorite.
I’ve never had sex but I imagine I will like it. We get Animal Planet.
Some may say I’m old to be a virgin, but I wanted to take my time and know for certain that she was the right one. Most girls don’t understand me. They can’t see past the fact that I wear glasses or that I have a little extra weight around my tummy. Or that I have a pony tail. One girl asked me if my hair was long for religious purposes. I met her on Match.com. I never had much luck with online dating. Girls who date online tend to be vaguely retarded.
Veronica, however, could be the one. She’s blonde and short, both admirable traits in a woman. And she is pensive, always thinking. She probably has a wild imagination. We could share stories of the things we dream up, the places that we want to go. I want adventure in the great wide somewhere. I want it more than I can stand. And for once it might be grand, to have someone understand, I want so much more than they’ve got planned.
With the chicken in the oven and the living room cleaned I’m almost ready for her arrival. Now I just have to make sure that mother is out of the house before she shows up. I can’t have her finding out that I live with my mother. The embarrassment would make me piss myself.
***********
Veronica arrived at 6:50. She had spent 23 minutes getting ready. She felt a little guilty about agreeing to go on a date with Paul. After all, group members were strictly prohibited from forging romantic attachments to one another. And she wasn’t terribly attracted to Paul. But he seemed so sweet and she could tell how nervous he had been asking her out. They had been standing by the cookies, sipping their hot cocoa, discussing their weeks when suddenly he had started to whisper. She couldn’t quite catch what he had asked and when she asked him to repeat himself, Paul blushed furiously.
“I was wondering,” he repeated, only slightly louder, “if perhaps you would like to have dinner with me sometime.”
Veronica said yes without hesitation, not because she was excited about the potential date, but because she felt obligated to ease Paul’s visible case of nerves.
And what did they talk about, the two love birds? Hot Topic (the clothing store as a cultural statement).
“I just think that t-shirts with Care Bears on them are a political statement.” This was from Veronica.
“I respect that opinion, but there is nothing political about a Care Bear.”
They gazed into each other’s eyes and Veronica realized she had never really given Paul a proper chance. He wasn’t much in the looks department, but they had been talking nonstop for almost two hours. They had talked about Virginia Woolf and Star Wars and Children vs. Puppies and Puppies vs. Kittens vs. Cats. And they had discussed Surrealism and the Highway of Souls beneath the Death River. And they talked about Angels vs. Demons vs. Vampires vs. Zombies. They had talked about so many things. And Veronica decided right before she got up for a drink of water that she loved Paul.
“Do you have a water filter?” she half-yelled, opening the door to the refrigerator with her foot, and balancing the empty glass in her left hand. It was a question that she could answer herself seconds later, a needless question.
No, he did not have a water filter. But for some odd reason, he had a fake finger. Some people would have been weirded out by this, but to Veronica, who was newly in love, it seemed quaint. Almost aristocratic in its neurosis. She picked it up and brought it to the table. Dinner had been delicious. Poached eggs with fish, fried in butter and cilantro. Just dripping with butter.
“Why the fuck do you have a fake finger in your fridge,” she said between laughs and throwing it at Paul’s face. “Fucking gross.”
He blushed and explained that it was for a college assignment. He was getting a degree in Creative Writing and he was studying Edgar Allen Poe.
“Well still. It’s weird. But I like Weird.” Veronica did like Weird, she very much did.
**************
I want Veronica to sit on my face. That’s all I want is for Veronica to sit on my face. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since she threw the finger at me. Since that awkward finger moment. It gave me a boner the finger moment. Perhaps I should tell her that. No, I will wait until another time. Now is too soon.
She helps me with the dishes. We watch a movie. The Nightmare Before Christmas. Her closeness is toxic, dripping with heat. We cuddle and I show her how to fuck with your fingers.
A person doesn’t have to have sex in order to have a good time. I take my time with a lady. To me, holding hands is foreplay. We wrangle our fingers together like spider webs. I play music on her knuckles. I listen to her breathe.
She roles over in the middle of the movie and says something I do not expect to hear.
“I want you to fuck me with this,” she nearly whispers. “Wouldn’t that be hysterical.”
It would be hysterical.
I’m free at last.
I’m in love.
No worms come out of her face. No worms come out of her face. No worms come out of her face. No worms come out of her face. No worms come out of her face. No worms come out of her face.
I need to buy spaghetti and a shovel and some candles and a tablecloth and a colander and brownies and an electric meat cutter and a chicken and rubber adhesive for the bottom of my shower. I wonder if they have that here.
They do.
I’m at the cashier’s now. She is wearing her apron inside out. She is cute, nearly edible. As I look at her, worms come out of her nose. Not earthworms, small ones, like maggots. She smiles at me and asks if I found everything alright.
“It took me awhile to find the candles,” I say. “I was looking in the wrong section. Tools, I was looking in seasonal. It was in home and garden.”
“Having a party?” she asks. The little bitch.
“No, just dinner,” I say.
“Well I hope you are having guests. Candlelit dinners are always best with company.” What a nosey little bitch this one is. A shame she is so damn delectable. Worms crawl up her face into her curly blonde hair.
She puts everything into bags and I pay with my mother’s credit card. She does not ask to see my ID.
“Have a good evening sir!” she exclaims, her small face nearly devoured by a smile.
“I will,” I say. “You’ve got worms on your face.” Then I go out to the parking lot. There’s lots to do and not nearly enough time.
On the drive home I think about that time in Disneyland when the crows pooped on our heads. We were waiting for the parade, my mother and I, and the only place to sit was beneath a towering Jacaranda tree. Before Mickey and the gang even had a chance to prance to our spot, an entire flock of crows landed in the leaves above us and began to shit all over our heads. Mother and I were resilient, however, and refused to move from our spot. We wisely used the park map to cover our hair and in the end our perseverance paid off. We had the best seats in the house. There was crow poop all over our legs, but that just washes right off.
I don’t know why I thought about that just now. Sometimes my mind wanders terribly. Like at the store, with the worms. I knew there weren’t any worms but my imagination insisted upon it. I can’t always keep my imagination at bay. That’s what comes from being brought up on Disney movies I suppose. And the Sound of Music. Mom loves the Sound of Music, both the film and the actual sound of music. Yanni. She fucking loves Yanni.
I read in an article once that people my age are called the “Beauty and the Beast Generation” . It refers to young adults whose childhood coincided with the early 1990s when the best movies of all time were being released. The Little Mermaid, Aladdin, The Lion King, and of course, Beauty and the Fucking Beast. That is my favorite movie of all time. After seeing it in the theaters, my mother purchased the VHS and I watched it until the tape ripped. I am really a lot like the beast if you think about it. I don’t go outside much and I’m fairly hairy. And all I want from life is to fall in love. That’s what Disney has taught me. Love conquers all. Even if you’re fairly hairy.
I’m home. I step over the pile of VHS tapes in the middle of the room and put my bags down on the counter. My mother refused to convert any of her collection to DVD. Even when her tapes got old and needed replacing. I begged her to keep up with the times and tried to elaborate on the benefits of DVD but her heart was closed. That’s something I’ll need to clean up before Veronica arrives. I can’t have her thinking that I live in the past. Besides, none of them have cases. The pile in the middle of our floor looks like a bunch of enlarged dominos. Or Hershey’s bars.
I season the chicken and put it in the oven. I arrange the tablecloth and set out our best flatware. After cleaning up the pile of VHS tapes, I change the kitty litter. Our cat is named Cat after the one in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn is probably my favorite person, alive or dead. Though I do like Bob Hope a great deal.
I have thirty more minutes until Veronica arrives. I met her at our Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. Technically we’re not supposed to date anybody in the group, but I’ve never been one to follow rules and regulations. I’m a rebel, wild and free like the California breeze. I’m like Thelma and Louise if it was possible to combine them into one person, to put Thelma and Louise into a blender and woosh it all up and then pour the goo into a mold and let it harden. Then we could have cupcakes.
I liked Veronica from the very start. She didn’t talk much, which I appreciate. Living with mother, who talks almost constantly, I have developed an appreciation for people who are content with silence. But I could tell there was more to Veronica than meets the eye. Everytime anybody mentions sex, her eyebrows pop up. Mine do that too. I love sex. Well, I love the word ‘sex’. It’s harsh, like ‘conk’ or ‘faggot’. Harsh words that make you wrinkle your nose like a rabbit are my favorite.
I’ve never had sex but I imagine I will like it. We get Animal Planet.
Some may say I’m old to be a virgin, but I wanted to take my time and know for certain that she was the right one. Most girls don’t understand me. They can’t see past the fact that I wear glasses or that I have a little extra weight around my tummy. Or that I have a pony tail. One girl asked me if my hair was long for religious purposes. I met her on Match.com. I never had much luck with online dating. Girls who date online tend to be vaguely retarded.
Veronica, however, could be the one. She’s blonde and short, both admirable traits in a woman. And she is pensive, always thinking. She probably has a wild imagination. We could share stories of the things we dream up, the places that we want to go. I want adventure in the great wide somewhere. I want it more than I can stand. And for once it might be grand, to have someone understand, I want so much more than they’ve got planned.
With the chicken in the oven and the living room cleaned I’m almost ready for her arrival. Now I just have to make sure that mother is out of the house before she shows up. I can’t have her finding out that I live with my mother. The embarrassment would make me piss myself.
***********
Veronica arrived at 6:50. She had spent 23 minutes getting ready. She felt a little guilty about agreeing to go on a date with Paul. After all, group members were strictly prohibited from forging romantic attachments to one another. And she wasn’t terribly attracted to Paul. But he seemed so sweet and she could tell how nervous he had been asking her out. They had been standing by the cookies, sipping their hot cocoa, discussing their weeks when suddenly he had started to whisper. She couldn’t quite catch what he had asked and when she asked him to repeat himself, Paul blushed furiously.
“I was wondering,” he repeated, only slightly louder, “if perhaps you would like to have dinner with me sometime.”
Veronica said yes without hesitation, not because she was excited about the potential date, but because she felt obligated to ease Paul’s visible case of nerves.
And what did they talk about, the two love birds? Hot Topic (the clothing store as a cultural statement).
“I just think that t-shirts with Care Bears on them are a political statement.” This was from Veronica.
“I respect that opinion, but there is nothing political about a Care Bear.”
They gazed into each other’s eyes and Veronica realized she had never really given Paul a proper chance. He wasn’t much in the looks department, but they had been talking nonstop for almost two hours. They had talked about Virginia Woolf and Star Wars and Children vs. Puppies and Puppies vs. Kittens vs. Cats. And they had discussed Surrealism and the Highway of Souls beneath the Death River. And they talked about Angels vs. Demons vs. Vampires vs. Zombies. They had talked about so many things. And Veronica decided right before she got up for a drink of water that she loved Paul.
“Do you have a water filter?” she half-yelled, opening the door to the refrigerator with her foot, and balancing the empty glass in her left hand. It was a question that she could answer herself seconds later, a needless question.
No, he did not have a water filter. But for some odd reason, he had a fake finger. Some people would have been weirded out by this, but to Veronica, who was newly in love, it seemed quaint. Almost aristocratic in its neurosis. She picked it up and brought it to the table. Dinner had been delicious. Poached eggs with fish, fried in butter and cilantro. Just dripping with butter.
“Why the fuck do you have a fake finger in your fridge,” she said between laughs and throwing it at Paul’s face. “Fucking gross.”
He blushed and explained that it was for a college assignment. He was getting a degree in Creative Writing and he was studying Edgar Allen Poe.
“Well still. It’s weird. But I like Weird.” Veronica did like Weird, she very much did.
**************
I want Veronica to sit on my face. That’s all I want is for Veronica to sit on my face. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since she threw the finger at me. Since that awkward finger moment. It gave me a boner the finger moment. Perhaps I should tell her that. No, I will wait until another time. Now is too soon.
She helps me with the dishes. We watch a movie. The Nightmare Before Christmas. Her closeness is toxic, dripping with heat. We cuddle and I show her how to fuck with your fingers.
A person doesn’t have to have sex in order to have a good time. I take my time with a lady. To me, holding hands is foreplay. We wrangle our fingers together like spider webs. I play music on her knuckles. I listen to her breathe.
She roles over in the middle of the movie and says something I do not expect to hear.
“I want you to fuck me with this,” she nearly whispers. “Wouldn’t that be hysterical.”
It would be hysterical.
I’m free at last.
I’m in love.
No worms come out of her face. No worms come out of her face. No worms come out of her face. No worms come out of her face. No worms come out of her face. No worms come out of her face.
An Introduction to Myself
Hello. I am the Gay Mormon. Now I know that there are other Gay Mormons out there trying to win your affection. I am not the only one. But as far as demographics go, we're fairly endangered because most of us end up killing ourselves or doing lots of meth. I, somewhat thankfully, have done neither of those. But I've done my share of fucked. Up. Shit.
I was born. I shot from my mother's vagina in 1985. I am a product of the 80s. I love movies. And I also love a really good male asshole. Ripened just for me.
But that's because I'm the Gay Mormon. And you're fucking not. So if you have a problem with me talking about asshole, move right along, this blog is not for you.
What does it mean to be a living Gay Mormon? It means I have been forged in steel.
We are a crazy bunch we Mormons. And the gays? Don't even get me started. We are fucking insane. Put together I'd say you're asking for a rather high level of toxicity. Well brothers and sisters, I am insane. Even more so than my mother.
When I was a freshman my mother went insane. It's a stereotype to say that Mormon housewives are crazy, but like all stereotypes, sometimes they are true. She became obsessed with The Wizard of Oz, threw out all my black clothing, crawled around on the ground while imitating a pig, thought it was her job to save Africa, and told me to go to sleep wearing gym clothes so that I could become the God I was meant to be. Because I was a man in heaven, a great, muscular man.
I am skinny as shit, always have been, probably always will be. I hate sports, won't watch them even if there's nothing else on. Never, ever participate. Ever. But that didn't stop her from buying me a baseball, a soccer ball, a volleyball, a football, and a basket ball. She bought me everything but a hockey puck, probably assuming that my bow legged inability to skate would put a damper on that one. Real madness makes room for logic after all.
She thought my father was the devil and one spring morning her hysterical screaming woke the neighbors at 5 AM. She was possessed by demons.
I started masturbating when I was 13. It filled me with so much guilt (I was expressly forbidden by my father, never to masturbate. Ever.) that I contemplated suicide for the first time. Every time I orgasmed I said a prayer to help me stop. My addictive personality was forged by masturbation guilt, an extremely hot fire indeed, which explains why at various times I've been addicted to alcohol, marijuana, cigarettes, and men. The first three are simple. The last one is complicated.
I would do anything for a man. Because all my Mormon little boy heart wants to do is get married. My Gay little boy heart wants to be drop dead gorgeous. I think they are both impossible goals. I'm fairly attractive, not drop dead gorgeous, I have a great smile. And I'm fucking insane. More insane than my mother. And we already went though how that situation went.
She's fine now, she didn't kill herself, but she was hospitalized for several months. I was forced to sing in the Mother's Day choir during church and my best friend turned to me and said, "Why are you even singing? You're mother isn't here." I walked off the stand, into the parking lot, down the road, around the block before my father caught up with me in his truck and took me home. I was planning on walking ten miles. I wanted to get away from that little fucker so fucking much.
I didn't start saying the word fuck until I was 18. I met a boy who liked to strangle himself with his friends as a party game for middle schoolers. I didn't have my first kiss, from a woman until I was 16. A man, 18. I came out at 16 to the first woman I ever kissed. I've kissed women since but only when I was wickedass drunk.
Things I've been: Valedictorian, a full-frontal stripper, an honored film major, a convict, an alcoholic, a recovered alcoholic, a potential HIV candidate, a creative writing major (graduated), a smoothie maker, a ward of the state (TWICE), a 25-year-old man who can't keep a job, who can't get sober, and why is this? I don't know, I don't have all the answers.
Because I really want to be something. I was nominated for being the Best Supporting Comedic Actor in the Denver Metro Area last year by the Denver Post. I'm an Eagle Scout. I have the ability to do great things. I might get a job at a bank. I might get cast in a local production of Bent. This is who I am now, this is what I do. I had so much potential. Which is why I take to blogging. If you like my blog. Let. Me. Know. I love hearing from people who like my work. It gives me self confidence, which I need.
I have a short story to write. If you want to learn anything specific about me. Let Me Know. I want to do film reviews, and cooking reviews, and potentially post new fictional works. But I'm always up for suggestions. Much love. Yours ever truly. Adieu, my loves.
-The Gay Mormon
I was born. I shot from my mother's vagina in 1985. I am a product of the 80s. I love movies. And I also love a really good male asshole. Ripened just for me.
But that's because I'm the Gay Mormon. And you're fucking not. So if you have a problem with me talking about asshole, move right along, this blog is not for you.
What does it mean to be a living Gay Mormon? It means I have been forged in steel.
We are a crazy bunch we Mormons. And the gays? Don't even get me started. We are fucking insane. Put together I'd say you're asking for a rather high level of toxicity. Well brothers and sisters, I am insane. Even more so than my mother.
When I was a freshman my mother went insane. It's a stereotype to say that Mormon housewives are crazy, but like all stereotypes, sometimes they are true. She became obsessed with The Wizard of Oz, threw out all my black clothing, crawled around on the ground while imitating a pig, thought it was her job to save Africa, and told me to go to sleep wearing gym clothes so that I could become the God I was meant to be. Because I was a man in heaven, a great, muscular man.
I am skinny as shit, always have been, probably always will be. I hate sports, won't watch them even if there's nothing else on. Never, ever participate. Ever. But that didn't stop her from buying me a baseball, a soccer ball, a volleyball, a football, and a basket ball. She bought me everything but a hockey puck, probably assuming that my bow legged inability to skate would put a damper on that one. Real madness makes room for logic after all.
She thought my father was the devil and one spring morning her hysterical screaming woke the neighbors at 5 AM. She was possessed by demons.
I started masturbating when I was 13. It filled me with so much guilt (I was expressly forbidden by my father, never to masturbate. Ever.) that I contemplated suicide for the first time. Every time I orgasmed I said a prayer to help me stop. My addictive personality was forged by masturbation guilt, an extremely hot fire indeed, which explains why at various times I've been addicted to alcohol, marijuana, cigarettes, and men. The first three are simple. The last one is complicated.
I would do anything for a man. Because all my Mormon little boy heart wants to do is get married. My Gay little boy heart wants to be drop dead gorgeous. I think they are both impossible goals. I'm fairly attractive, not drop dead gorgeous, I have a great smile. And I'm fucking insane. More insane than my mother. And we already went though how that situation went.
She's fine now, she didn't kill herself, but she was hospitalized for several months. I was forced to sing in the Mother's Day choir during church and my best friend turned to me and said, "Why are you even singing? You're mother isn't here." I walked off the stand, into the parking lot, down the road, around the block before my father caught up with me in his truck and took me home. I was planning on walking ten miles. I wanted to get away from that little fucker so fucking much.
I didn't start saying the word fuck until I was 18. I met a boy who liked to strangle himself with his friends as a party game for middle schoolers. I didn't have my first kiss, from a woman until I was 16. A man, 18. I came out at 16 to the first woman I ever kissed. I've kissed women since but only when I was wickedass drunk.
Things I've been: Valedictorian, a full-frontal stripper, an honored film major, a convict, an alcoholic, a recovered alcoholic, a potential HIV candidate, a creative writing major (graduated), a smoothie maker, a ward of the state (TWICE), a 25-year-old man who can't keep a job, who can't get sober, and why is this? I don't know, I don't have all the answers.
Because I really want to be something. I was nominated for being the Best Supporting Comedic Actor in the Denver Metro Area last year by the Denver Post. I'm an Eagle Scout. I have the ability to do great things. I might get a job at a bank. I might get cast in a local production of Bent. This is who I am now, this is what I do. I had so much potential. Which is why I take to blogging. If you like my blog. Let. Me. Know. I love hearing from people who like my work. It gives me self confidence, which I need.
I have a short story to write. If you want to learn anything specific about me. Let Me Know. I want to do film reviews, and cooking reviews, and potentially post new fictional works. But I'm always up for suggestions. Much love. Yours ever truly. Adieu, my loves.
-The Gay Mormon
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