when words and sleep evade you

Despite my every effort, he still comes to me at night.

Anybody who knows me is aware of my fame as an insomniac. I don’t dislike sleeping – in fact, I enjoy slipping into my mini-comas every now and then, oblivious to phone calls, text messages, fire alarms…yet while most take solace in their slumber, when the Sandman comes and carries me off to Dreamland, far too often a van full of my ghosts comes along for the ride.

One in particular.

And thus, I sleep enough to function, most of the time, as to experience as infrequently as possible the cold reality that he isn’t there when I wake up.

It’s a little terrifying, how so much can change, yet such a great deal cannot be changed. There is no amount of conscious exercise that can force him out of my thoughts, out of my core, and especially out of my dreams. To sleep is to lose control over what one is thinking – and it exposes me to things that I would rather not experience, and would prefer not to relive. But again, I am not the dictator over the nightly performances, and therefore am unable to control the course of the play as I am when awake. At least now, I can push him out temporarily from time to time. I can submerge myself in my work, in a book, or in music, and he will subside for a time. His sunlight may be obscured by a cloud, but he’ll be back before long with a change in the wind.

It’s going on two years now since we last came face to face in a substantial way. We had recently mended things after one of our routine and hardly uncommon ‘big fights’, and thus while no longer screaming obscenities at one another, the tension between our personas was still palpable. Near the end, both of us were (are) rather fiesty, always right, and always with one hand on the lever that would unleash the lions. However, the explosion between us prior to our last evening had been more hurtful than some of the others, and I believe that we both had our doubts as to whether or not the bridge could be mended yet again. We were willing to try, though it remained to be seen whether or not this would actually come to pass.

In retrospect, that final night was unlike any other that we had spent together in the entire duration of our relationship-turned-friendship-turned-relationship, I feel because he and I both knew that we had reached the end of the road with one another. Our little beater-car of love, that had weathered so many storms and had brought us as far as it could, had finally broken down, and now it was time to leave it by the side of the road to rust. What I hadn’t been aware of was the shiny new car that he already had waiting to give him a lift, and that I was to be left to thumb a ride back to civilization with whoever would feel sorry enough for me to stop.

The conversation was empty, bordering on formal courtesy. Our banter and interactions with one another were hollow and polite. We had gone from being so intrinsically intertwined to complete strangers, and it had caught us both off guard. Suddenly, neither of us knew how to act towards or treat one another. It is a pathetic end to our story, not because of the style of its ending, but because we both had allowed and even oversaw its writing. It did us no justice, and without justice, it’s hard to sleep peacefully at night. When I left his place, I knew that there was no need to state that it was over, as we had said it without words. The contact stopped entirely and we haven’t spoken to one another since.

Now I find myself preparing to move half way across the country. I’m leaving my native province behind and looking to start anew, and yet all I can think about is how my last memory of he and I will be sitting together on his bed at a loss for words. I wrote him directly when my departure became official, asking if he could find the time to get together for a coffee or a drive or anything at all before I leave. That was several months ago now, and to date I have not received a response. Truthfully, I don’t think I had been expecting one, but I’ve spent every day since I hit ’send’ hoping for one, with all my heart. He played such a large role in my life here that I know leaving it on such a note will continue to haunt me, no matter where in the world I am residing.

Thus, I am riding out my dwindling days on this island, sleeping very little and counting down to my divorce from a place that has been my home all my life. And while, in one sense, the story of he and I remains painfully incomplete, it is becoming increasingly clear with each passing day, and with each passing hour of the sleepless night, that the chapter is, most definitively, closed.

Farewell and sweet dreams, my Rose. Be it in flesh or in sleep, I’ll be seeing you soon either way.

may i have the envelope, please…

I believe I’m destined to be a sucker for punishment for the remainder of my adult life.

After all, I’m addicted to the stomach flip – that sensation that conquers you from the inside out, when someone you fancy fancies you, too, and shows it for the first time. I’m a junkie for that cool, tingling rush that pulsates through your body when you make that first contact on the dance floor. I crave that giddy excitement created by a returned phone call, or by that glorious initial moment of intimate eye contact. The kind that makes you smile with your eyes before your mouth.

If only there were a way to make all these sentiments survive beyond the start-up phase of a new crush. Over time, that feeling can be lost, and replaced with frustrated contentment and, potentially, emotional entrapment. I was always under the impression that relationships were supposed to strengthen with time. Fan the flames of your love with your familiarity and genuine compassion for one another. However, in my experience, one of us either gets antsy and unsatisfied, or just plain bored, and off we go again into the sunset in search of that lone cowboy who tosses stomachs around all day like a roller coaster.

I’ve burned in the past, and I’ve been burned more often than that. Yet through it all I continue to invest a considerable amount of my time and cognitive energy on my new potential leading men. Perhaps it’s unfair, for both parties, however, it’s how I’m programmed to function, and thus I automatically carry it out time and time again as though it were perfectly normal. I have a horrible habit for projecting these unattainable fantasies, where everything falls into place, and life is lived happily ever after. It usually doesn’t take very long for my nouveau beau to start chipping away at the base of his bronze statue, and before you know it, I end up being squashed by the weight of my own imaginary creation toppling down. Thus, obviously, after years of dating, I have not changed my ways to something more intelligent – like, for example, entering a dating scenario with a mind free of expectations, but rather, I’ve conditioned myself to simply look the other way instead, and hope that the shadow over me doesn’t grow any bigger.

It’s sad, really. I know that I’ve given up hope on many a good guy to date as a result of my own crazy mind working overtime like it’s Madonna’s personal gay shopper. It’s just one of those things that’s hard-wired into my brain, and can be tagged onto the end of the list of things that I would like to change about myself, but cannot. We all have ‘those things’, and therefore I expect you all to feel my frustration surrounding my desire to rectify this naughty habit, yet the changes never amount to anything more than a fleeting thought of ‘well, I’ll just know for next time’, which is dismissed within six seconds of the end of days and condemned to the dungeons of good intentions gone awry. In most people, I enjoy learning about their bad behaviors. I think they can be defining characteristics. Without our flaws, wouldn’t we all just be humans? Our world as we know it is built on the basis of making mistakes, and, in some cases, learning from them – but not all.

And I get so angry when I start falling for the other person faster than they are falling for me, and I can recognize the situation as it is, but am not capable of altering its course. I find it upsetting when I start clearing my schedule to make room in my life for someone who isn’t interested in occupying it. I feel sad when I make the effort to call or message or poke or visit, and yet am never called, messaged, poked, or visited, myself. Essentially, I don’t cope well with rejection, possibly because I’m used to succeeding at attaining whatever I work towards in every other aspect of my life. Even with people I take an interest in, I can always get the number, get the date. Holding onto them afterwards, while still clinging onto that excitement of the new is the part I need to work on.

Then, just when I’m about to give up hope, I’ll get a message. Or a poke. Some little gesture that probably means nothing from the other end, yet to me, completely resets the chess board, and it’s a whole new game all over again, taking it from the top. And I’ll create more drama and imagine situations of the person being ignored by my persistence, and, upon getting a response, the story will be changed from irritation to elation to hear from me, and I continue living in my little fantasy dream world where everything is going just as it should. The cycle continues until eventually we are a couple or we go our separate ways.

I’m addicted to that stomach-flipping, conquering, cool, tingling, rushing, smile-with-your-eyes-before-your-mouth ecstasy that comes with winning the attention of a new possible leading man. And plus, you never know – with all the drama surrounding me at all times, one of them might even eventually win an Oscar.

mr. perfect vs. sexy kitty

The medieval art of jousting may have gone out of style a long, long time ago, but its principles and purpose are still alive and walking among us every day. However, you may better recognize it under its new code name – the relationship.

The belief that all you have to do to be happy in a relationship with another human being is ‘be yourself’ is an urban legend emblazoned into us at an early age. If anything, co-existing with somebody in a partnership is a series of compromises, concessions, and alteration of mind-sets, opinions, and other fundamental things that constitute ‘who you are’, and modifying them to fit the mold laid out before you in the form of your chosen partner. Some cause us to do this more than others, but if you’ve ever had to bite your tongue or say one thing and mean another where your lover is concerned, then you’re just as guilty as all the rest of us. And should you be the wise guy to tell me that you’ve never once done that – well, I’m just going to outright call your bluff.

The struggle is never-ending – be it for intellectual or financial supremacy, personal space limitations, paint colour selection, or an ample amount of bedsheets. One thing after another, after even a relatively small amount of time, they begin to pile up until eventually, the straw that breaks the relationship’s back is an unwanted pickle on a cheeseburger. Suddenly, the lover’s blissful paradise becomes the River of Styx, and all parties involved are in for one hell of a ride.

The tricky part in all of this, is navigating the waters, and determining exactly when negotiation gives way to, frankly, incompatibility. Nobody is ever going to be on the EXACT same page as you in all facets of your life. In my own personal experience, it would seem that your beloved will always be reading at least one paragraph ahead or behind you. And which is more unbearable?

In my previous relationship, I was permanently the one playing catchup. He certainly kept me on my toes – challenging me not only emotionally, but also intellectually. We could have in-depth and involved conversations about socially relevant topics, whereby I wasn’t always the one who came out the debate victorious – which, I will admit, was something that I was previously unaccustomed to. We differed on a number of topics – style and fashion, mostly – and our outlooks on the world varied a little from day to day. However, on the fundamentals, we always seemed to agree. We were both educated, and in the process of furthering it. We had bona fide career and short-term goals that were achievable, and did what we could to motivate one another to the point of attainment. Ultimately, his eye wandered away from the page and into a completely different book, and that chapter closed. Abruptly.

Compare that, to now. I live with somebody who is considerably my senior, and yet I have more formal education. He hasn’t finished high school, has never voted in an election on any level, and sets goals that reach as far as the end of next week and quickly expire. I am forced to feel unintentional guilt on occasion for my ambition and accomplishments, and the debates I used to enjoy so much have eroded into tutorial sessions, with me as the tutor. I am always acclaimed the clear-cut winner due to a unanimous inability for the other part to respond – and I like that even less.

And yet, when it comes to his love for me, there cannot be any questioning it. I’m told regularly, verbally, through the phone or with a bouquet of flowers, everywhere I turn his unrequited love is smeared in my face like a whipped cream pie, and I feel like the worst person alive when the thoughts creep into my mind about how maybe, this isn’t working out. Maybe, I’m not happy, unsatisfied, and longing for something more. What that ’something’ is, I’m still not certain, but while me may still be reading the same book, he’s still stuck on the introduction, while I’m entering the final chapter.

Still, there has yet to be that definitive moment where I find it easy to walk away. Generally, some kind of drastic act is committed that paves the bridge to emotional relocation. A boyfriend cheats on you in your hotel room while on vacation. A boyfriend announces that he’s leaving the province for school. A boyfriend runs off and becomes a Furry, to fulfill his life-long fantasy of being a horny Japanese Akita being spanked by a pre-pubescent sexy kitty. Etcetera.

But no, such an event has yet to come to pass, and in the meantime, I’m trapped in this insomniac’s purgatory, out of reach of both heaven and hell, and rather, just existing in the meantime.

Women (and some men) dream of the day when Mr. Perfect waltzes into their lives in the most perfect of ways, sweeps you off your feet, and you elope to live happily ever after, ‘just being yourselves’. Everything is exactly as it should be, all is right in the world, and from day one, you could die happy just from having met the man. Well kids, I don’t believe that Mr. Perfect is out there. Never will the day come when you don’t have a laundry list of things you need to alter in order to ‘be yourself’ and be ‘happy’. People will tell you that true love is possible. And it probably is. But what they don’t tell you, is the rarity of the occurrence, and the amount of work involved when it does come along.

Save yourselves all the trouble of looking for the happily ever after. Get yourself a cat and call it a day.

Just make sure first that the kitty ‘aint sexy, or else everyone’s getting spanked.

tic-tac-tOH!

The green ones to the gay community have a bad habit of giving themselves away far too early. They may be able to trick you for a little while, but there are always tell-tale signs that expose them for what they truly are – inexperienced, sex-charged ultimate virgin 9000’s.

Contrary to popular belief, kiddies – being of the same sexual orientation as another individual, doesn’t exactly spell out your storybook ending. Personally, I’ve encountered hundreds of other gay men, and I’m still waiting for that sure-fire Prince Charming and my happily ever after. I’m sorry if it crushes your dreams to learn that you probably won’t find your husband at the tender age of sixteen – that’s just how it is, folks.

I wish somebody would explain to me the logic behind these people who mentally construct a future with someone upon introduction, based on common-ground in which gender you prefer to copulate with. I’d understand if us queers were an endangered species, and finding one carried with it the same excitement and rarity as a winning lottery ticket – but boys, seriously, look around – there are plenty, and believe me, most of them you will have no desire to erect anything with, let alone a white picket fence.

When I was sixteen, I participated in a regional high school drama festival (note for the desperately alone: CRAWLING with fags), and it was there that I encountered an individual whom I’ll call Devon. We met in a workshop and were introduced by a mutual friend, and we shared a number of common interests – obviously we both enjoyed the stage, we were both abnormally tall, and we were both gay. However, as far as I was concerned, that was that – you can never know too many people.

That particular year I was struggling with high school math. Funny, to this day I still can’t find ‘x’, but I never seem to have any trouble finding ‘O’, which to me is FAR more relevant. Devon happened to be a strong math student, and offered to help me out prior to an exam – which, I accepted. Fast-forward a couple hours later, and we’re sitting on his couch, and he’s staring longing into my eyes with his hand on my leg, leaning in for that magical first kiss. Except, there was nothing magical about me packing up my books, running out the door and self-teaching myself in place of the imminent rape I managed to avoid.

From that point on, I learned to view forwardness and directness in a completely different light. If someone you barely know seems far too eager to help you out with something, chances are they are needy and desperate and rife with ulterior motives. Where this ‘I’m gay, you’re gay, let’s go out!’ mentality originates is unknown to me. Perhaps it’s personal insecurity, or a prolonged history of repeated rejection – which, I can’t help but think could be avoided if they’d just simmer the fuck down and slow up at the yellow light.

The laws of attraction still apply, and, like any relationship, compatibility is a far more complex equation than simply finding ‘x’. They are multi-faceted and complicated problems that simply can’t be solved by looking them in the eye – it requires a little more work than that. If not, why wouldn’t we just pool all the gay people together, pick a number, and ta-da! No more singles, no more dating, you’ve found ‘the one’. But where would the fun be in that?

Picture a happenin’ downtown club, filled with all kinds of guys and gals – when, out on the dancefloor, an eligible bachelor approaches a pretty girl, and says ‘are you straight?’. She says yes, and he replies with ‘me too, let’s get married and have a vanload of kids!’. Rather than planting a kiss, she’d plant her foot in his groin and serve him with a restraining order faster than a Peregrine falcon. Yet, comparable scenarios take place on a daily basis on the gay scene, and it perplexes me as to why.

I’ve throughly enjoyed the time I’ve spent testing the waters in search of someone right for me. I’ve found a few solid candidates, but for one reason or another, they’ve fallen off the radar. At the moment, I have one in the running, but even in the middle of a full-blown relationship, when we are living together and spending nearly every waking moment in each other’s presence, I still don’t know if he’s got what it takes to love someone like me ’til death do us part. Ultimately, it’s impossible to tell for sure, but you decide to go with the best possible choice. And for me, such a title doesn’t, and never will, come easily – and neither should it for you.

Of course, don’t you all set off in search of that perfect, dreamy mathematician to live out the rest of your days with. I don’t necessarily care if you can’t find my ‘x’ right off the bat – find my O first, and then we’ll talk.

too many steps in the gay direction.

Last weekend, probably three dozen queers gathered to march through the downtown, the grand finale to our Pride week – of course, the parade. Which, in a city this size, attracts fewer people than the pay phone at one end of the route, and the port-a-potty at the other. Despite being an active advocate for gay rights, I was not among the select few pounding the pavement, or even watching from the sidelines – Pride week came and went, and the only activity you would have seen me partaking in was a drink at our one and only gay bar – but truthfully, it was in the neighborhood, and the festivities were not the draw that led me in the front door.

I guess my stance is one that us gays aren’t ’supposed’ to take, but to this day, I’m still uncertain as to whether extravagant and flamboyant Pride parades help or hinder the advancement of gay equality, on any level – be it here in this city, this province, or even this country. We have the liberty of living in a laid-back, socially-oriented country, where there is very little that we collectively frown upon. Us gays can live together, be open about our sexuality, and even get married, all without the fear of prosecution or execution. Our country is the house on the block that always throws the big parties, and everyone is invited, regardless of their walk of life.

Which leads me to question why these marches and demonstrations are still necessary. Why have they lived on when all of the reasons for them to take place have been satisfied? There is virtually nothing in our institution as a nation that is no longer accessible to us because we are homosexuals – we have, more or less, reached parity with our heterosexual brothers and sisters, so why is it required that we continue to smear it like shit across their faces, and bleed via television into the living rooms of those who still hold on to the more conservative end of the values spectrum?

It is my belief that no one in the history of humanity was persuaded into thinking that us gays are just like every other human being, because we paraded down the street dressed like women, or wearing little to no clothes at all to draw attention to our cause? We have a reputation for going over the top, perhaps, but literally licking the faces off of each other, while waving a rainbow flag like it’s some kind of revolutionary symbol of victory only fanned the flames of the obstacles we have faced on the journey to recognition. Basically, we rebelled, and the government of our country played the part of the conceding parents, who essentially said ‘okay, you can have what you want’. And that was that. The end. We had won.

So, then, for what do these members of the gay community continue to march? Is it an appeal to our final few critics to just accept that we’re here to stay? Is it an attempt to instigate something new to fight over, since the abrupt arrival of our deus ex machina? Or is it simply an opportunity to prance around like a fairy and make a complete ass of yourself? The grand irony of it all is that, for years, our defense against discriminatory attacks was ‘we’re just like you – we are no different, we are entitled to the same rights’. Yet the message of pride parades and celebrations is ‘I’m so fucking excessively proud of the fact that I’m different! We are fundamentally different than the rest of the population and therefore I shall wave this flag!’. At one point does pride become hubris? At what point do we decide what to do with our cake now that we have it?

What would happen if, a couple months from now, a heterosexual pride parade were to take place somewhere in the country. There would be war! These same members of the gay community would cry wolf about prejudice, discrimination, straight supremacy, and everything else under the sun. Therefore, why is it okay for us to do it, but not them? When we do it, it’s a celebration of our rights – but if they were to do it, it would be an attempt to suppress them?

While ultimate equality maybe isn’t quite reached – we can still be called fags without consequence, screened out from a job selection process for being ‘too’ gay, and get glaring looks from the four thousand year-olds on the street – but these are the kinds of discrimination that everybody, regardless of their sexual orientation or background, will always face from members of our own genus family. There are some mentalities that we will simply never be able to persuade, and no amount of appeals or debates or parades will make a shred of difference. We can pound the pavement through to China, and not change one mind. Well, if we drilled through the earth with our bare feet, I hope we would snag at least ONE from the fence – but you get the idea.

Before I ever step foot in a pride parade, I will need to be convinced that they still have an important role to play in our ever-changing society. I don’t need to remind the world around me that I’m gay, or that gay rights deserve attention – these are statements that I make every day that I wake up, simply by leading my lifestyle that just so happens to be a queer one. Until then, I’ll avoid the procession altogether, and question why some of my brothers and sisters just don’t know when to shut up.

Far too much work and sacrifice, over too many years, went into baking this cake to overindulge and keep eating long after we’ve reached our fill.

phantom relationship syndrome.

I’ve always hated the term ‘emotional baggage’. For me, it invokes mental image of, literally, a hideous, ugly suitcase, that predates bacteria and has stood the test of time, wear and tear, and possibly even a nuclear holocaust. How someone carries it around with them is beyond me, as the ratty looking, blood-stained thing doesn’t even have a handle.

However, no matter what your walk of life, no matter how gruff your exterior or how emotionally seasoned you may be, every one of us carries that memory of our first significant relationship that went south. Some wounds are fresher than others. Some get better with time, and some don’t – it truly varies from person to person. Though for me, despite my feisty nature and no-bullshit attitude, I’m still trying to learn exactly what it takes to truly flush somebody out of your system.

The strange thing is that I’ve been in a very healthy and happy relationship for half a year, now – it’s truly been a refreshing and, sadly, new thing for me, as my previous one was about as far from perfect as you can possibly get. Over the course of two rounds, the emotional abuse, lying, cheating – you name it, and I endured it. Yet I thirsted for, craved, and yearned for him, over and over, time after time.

In retrospect, be it a coping mechanism or just an observation, I view the entire ordeal as an addiction. He was a drug that I was pathetically hooked on, and was willing to endure practically anything to get another fix. When the going was good, it was really good – and it was those memories that kept me coming back, and are the same memories that haunt me on occasion, even today.

The simplest triggers – a certain song, a particular place or part of town, a specific stretch of highway, and I am overcome with this tidal wave of recollection that sweeps me off of my sanity horse and into this downward whirlpool of reminiscence. And though 90% of what our love became was heartache, stress, and pain, none of that is what comes back to me. It’s the happiest times that return – a late night drive where he fell asleep while holding my hand. Cuddling up with a movie during the first night of our reunion. Our first time. That first moment of spiritual intimacy and just that feeling of being so close and comfortable with somebody that you never want to let them go.

And, unfortunately, we only get one opportunity to feel that for the first time, and the person whom you share it with will forever be etched into your mind. They will walk with you until the day you die, whether you want them to, or not. These phantoms of relationships past are not something you can simply exorcise, or will away. They have minds of their own, which, even in ghost mode, have an odd tendency to be stronger than your own, living, real-time version. In this life, it is not the things we can help that stay with us the longest. You can selectively pick and choose what episodes you remember, but then there are those that slip through the cracks, drill their way into your heart and mind, and run wild, impossible to pinpoint, track down, and remove.

Why is that? I take pride in the fact that I’m a rather intellectual being, and I get so angry with myself when I get irrationally upset over a relationship that is long, long dead. We’ve both moved on, we have our separate lives, and have spoken maybe twice since the final altercation that brought about the end of an era. Yet I still think of him often, I still wonder how he’s doing, if he’s happy, and I worry to an extent that rivals when we were actually together. But instead of being persistent, like a dull headache, it’s more intensely concentrated these days – a sharp, pang to remind me that I’m alive and that I once loved somebody who I no longer ‘love’.

Should I feel unfaithful to my current partner for feeling these things? He doesn’t really talk about his former flames, and therefore, neither do I – though I get the distinct impression that he doesn’t dwell on them quite the way I do. Does that make me weaker than him emotionally? I don’t think so – maybe I just feel things deeper than he does, or perhaps I’m just too green in this department, and he has a greater wealth of experience to draw from. Possibly, for him, this life chapter is filed away somewhere within his library, untouched and collecting dust like an outdated atlas, whereas mine is still last year’s phone book – a little outdated, perhaps, but still relevant and usable.

Is my feeling these things an indication of trouble in my live-action relationship? No. Am I unsatisfied, or yearning for what I once had? No. Despite it all, I would never ‘trade’ my current situation to get my old one back. As much as I could, I learned from my ex-amour, took my lemons, and made them into something I’m unsure of. Though, I grew at the end of the harsh winter – of that there is no denying, and there is no right or wrong direction for growth – there is only growth. I learn something new every day with my boyfriend, and it’s the kind of knowledge that’s attained in a friendly, laid-back environment. Classroom learning vs. trench warfare. Organization vs. the loss of entire limbs.

I pray that, one day, I am heart-savvy enough to finally put this in my past and keep it there, like a junior high yearbook, or a home movie of a kindergarten class play. The things that are so traumatic to relive, that they should never see the light of day. And while I will always have the memory of the cravings, I’ll seek my fix elsewhere, and fill the void in other ways.

I pray for his happiness, and I pray for my own. And that, one day, I can dispose of this suitcase, and buy a whole new, prettier set.

recreationally banging (the war drum).

I can reliably say that, in the maternal/paternal instinct department, I am a complete and total disappointment to the species. I’m of the opinion that, quite frankly, procreation was never an intended element of my niche in the world. Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoy kids – when I can be around them for an hour or two, pump them up full of sugar and Gwen Stefani, and then hand them back to their sleep-deprived parents. At the restaurant, I am known to occasionally groan audibly at the sight of a new table entering with children in tow – it may mean a slightly inflated tip due to dad’s guilt for bringing his offspring somewhere that he shouldn’t have, but all in all, I’d prefer no kids at all, to kids and a few extra bucks.

Within my mother’s side of the family, this was the only real soft spot that was prodded upon the realization of my sexuality. My grandparents only had two children – my mother, and my uncle, and to date, I am the only grandchild yielded from them. Essentially, the continuation of our family name was a burden placed on me like acne – I had no say in the matter, and certainly no yearning to bear it. My mother’s desperation drove her to casually bring up the possibility of in vitro, but to no avail – as I said, the whole propagating the species thing just isn’t for me.

Which got me to thinking.

There are those out there who believe that the meaning or purpose of life, is to perpetuate it – that it is our animal instinct to create mini little versions of ourselves to carry on and eat things after we die. These people hit a major snag in their theory, when they encounter homosexuals. Humans and dolphins are species known to have recreational sex – and for gays, the purpose of our sexual endeavors will permanently be pleasure-seeking. We aren’t ‘trying to get pregnant’ or fertilize our eggs by any other means. In a nutshell, we’re sexual, just because we want to be.

Not long ago, I read an article by an evangelist leader, who argued that it says in the bible that humans are to ‘go forth and multiply’, and therefore, homosexual men and women are a letdown to the human race (and, of course, doomed for all eternity, etc), which is something I think even straight people can get offended over. Apparently, our entire function is to pump out babies, and any other contributions made to the world are not relevant? If you’re barren, gay, had a vasectomy, or by any other means are no longer able to fuse half of your genes with those of another, you are useless and insignificant?

I certainly believe that ruling out the deposit of self-replicas does leave a lot of questions for gays. It’s sort of our own little twist on the ‘what’s the meaning of life’ subject that everybody must touch on at one point or another in their lives. It’s important to remember that the things we contribute to the world around us are not so simplistic – I witnessed first-hand in high school that literally everyone is capable of making a baby – there is no IQ test or questionnaire required to be eligible, and I refuse to believe that the contributions that those same people have made to society surpass those that will come from gays, which aren’t babies. Alan Turing, the father of modern computer science, would agree that his inventions were far more important than a one-way ticket to social assistance. Leonardo da Vinci would roll in his grave at the thought of a broken condom trumping his Mona Lisa in the significance column. We could assemble the scariest army of queers you ever saw, including everyone from Oscar Wilde and Edward Albee, to Elton John and Ru Paul, and close in on these closed-minded people like a swarm of queeny bees. And a mini-documentary covering the entire thing would be aired shortly thereafter on Ellen.

The thought that something as selfish as replicating yourself for years to come is the height of human achievement, is misguided, and quite frankly, incorrect – a mere distraction for those who accomplished little to feel accomplished. As for me, I have far more important trails to blaze, and seeing as how my presence on earth is a permanent limited-time offer, my ultimate aim is live on through my contributions to the world, rather than through the DNA of another human being.

In the meantime, I’ll still dread the sight of that hungry family, waiting at the crosswalk on the other side of the road. Eyes locked in, ready to feast. But it’ll be bearable, for the simple fact that I know in my heart, that the pinnacle of my success won’t ever need to sit down and eat a meal in an overcrowded restaurant.

reaching to the back of the closet.

Even in a day and age where gay culture is largely front and centre, and a song about a lesbian kiss is one of the biggest in the world (not without its own mini melodrama, mind you), there are still members of the big gay family who walk among us in disguise. Homosexuality is no longer classified as a mental illness, and we aren’t burned at the stake anymore, and yet everybody knows that one person, whom you KNOW to be gay, and yet it isn’t verbalized or confirmed by the one in question. This is a special breed of gays I like to refer to as the ‘everybody-knows-he’s-gay-but-he-isn’t-gay-yet friend’.

We all have them. We all went to high school with them. The only difference between gay relations with this friend, and heterosexual relations with this friend are that us queers are able to identify them immediately, if not sooner. Our homo-sense tingles with their mere presence, and upon eye contact, the culprit knows that he’s busted.

In most cases, the old saying proves true – if it walks like a duck, sounds like a duck, and in this case, acts like a duck, it’s the natural conclusion that it is, in fact, a duck. They wear gay clothes, sound gayer than most gay men when they open their mouthes, and yet they still go out in public with ‘girlfriends’ as though they’re some kind of accessory. The closet equivalent of Paris Hilton’s chihuahua, purse and all. Sorry – ‘messenger bag’.

Once, and only once, I dated one of these for a very brief period of time. He was so far in the closet that you had to sift through everything else in it before you even found him, and so why he was attracted to me, of all people, is a question that will likely never be answered. Better yet, why I was attracted to him remains a complete mystery, as I always said that I would never be comfortable dating somebody who wasn’t comfortable with themselves. In retrospect, the best explanation is that I viewed him as my own little project – and I intended to try and lure him out from the shadows, and into the unsheltered gay world.

Except, my plan proved difficult to set into motion when we could never go out anywhere overly public – movies were out of the question, restaurants frowned upon unless there were others along as well, and definitely not the gay bar. All of these places afforded an opportunity to be caught in the act – like I was some kind of recreational drug that he was doing on the side, that no one was to know about.

I reached my limit one night while I was at a party that he was hosting, during which, right in front of me, he vehemently denied being attracted to men – one of his other male friends brought it up casually, which turned into a joke, which progressed into an accusation. Then and there, I set my drink down, grabbed my coat and left – I was astonished at how somebody could be so afraid of rejection by his ‘friends’ that he would blatantly lie about what he was. I felt silly for believing that I could coax him into an openly gay lifestyle, but during the reflection phase that follows any kind of situation like that, I realized that it wasn’t my responsibility, or place, to do such a thing. I very easily could have spilled the beans at his little party, and turned his life upside down – but he wasn’t ready for that yet, and I forever would have been that asshole who ‘outed’ him in the worst possible way.

I always wondered what story he conjured up to explain my presence in his life. After all, somebody who surrounds themselves with homophobic friends isn’t likely to just one day become acquainted with an obviously gay man. He hid me from his parents, and so he was spared the necessity of creating that portion of the program, but I was curious as to what role I played – how my existence was satisfactorily justified. Then again, anybody that’s still in the stone age enough to want to stone gays probably wouldn’t require an elaborate answer. I was probably his cousin or something lame. Foolish of me to expect a Hollywood-calibre part!

Of course, these days, he’s gay as gay can be – flirting about the gay bar like a teenage girl in junior high who has just recently discovered that she has grown breasts. Not long ago, we had a very brief conversation while waiting for drinks, and I was happy to hear that he was feeling 100% better about himself and his life – and that his old friends were no longer his current ones. My old student had finally passed his test, and was now well on his way to bigger and better things.

Ultimately, the life-long closeted gay man is something I don’t think I’ll ever understand. Life is meant to be lived, and whether you’re a Jehovah’s Witness, or just afraid of how those around you will react, at the end of the day, I feel sorry for those who go through their lives without fully embracing themselves for who they are. When I’m on my death bed, I don’t want to have any regrets – I don’t want to look at a wife who I don’t truly love, or look back on my time on this earth and view it as incomplete or lacking. That’s not fair to anybody, and everybody is cheated out of something.

It may be a while before you see your ‘everybody-knows-he’s-gay-but-he-isn’t-gay-yet friend’ bypassing the line-up to The Dark Night to go see Mamma Mia! in capri jeans. But when you do, don’t chastise or judge him – feel happy for him, and that he managed to emerge from insecurity and get to that point at all – with or without an experienced tutor to guide him.

the taming of an independent soul.

I am proud to say that I have a history of being an independent creature of habit. I have lived, more or less, on my own since I was eighteen, but even since childhood I have always enjoyed, and appreciated, being able to flex my individual muscle in whatever way I so choose. In my mind, this has always been a positive trait of mine – I learned very young how to ’stand on my own two feet’ and have never needed to know otherwise. Suddenly, I have found myself in a situation where being accustomed to being alone can be a bad thing – when you’re in a relationship, and your beloved has just moved in.

Many people view the merging of living arrangements as the ultimate test for a couple – there is no other physical object that the two of you will ever share that is more intimate than a roof – which is, in essence, true. When you spend enough time with one another that you hardly ever stay in your own place, obviously the elimination of one of these residences is the next step in the natural progression. However, this can also carry with it a whole other set of new challenges.

1. Fiscal matters

Of course, money and finances top the list. It becomes extremely difficult, if not impossible, to keep your funds separate after the residential join. After all, gas, groceries, and bills will all need to be paid for, and are not discriminate over whose money it is that actually pays for them. What becomes the real issue is when one (or both) parties purchase items outside the necessity while money is tight. For example, I had no idea that there was a pressing need for new lampshades in this house – but apparently, there was. If he were anybody else, such as a random roommate or my mother, chances are I would have said something immediately. However, when he comes home, with that proud look on his face of his new purchase, I find myself somehow unable to open my mouth. I have no desire to erase his happiness, in whatever form it may be, and thus, if his materialistic nature makes him at all happy, it isn’t easy for me to take that away. In the end, it’s paramount that expenses become clear and priorities are definitely set for you both, before you run out and buy that $500 worth of laminate flooring, with your house being repossessed while you’re out.

2. Personal space

This is not my first long-term intimate relationship, however it is the first time that my boyfriend has moved in. And, I will be the first to admit that it is foreign to me – I am currently sailing in uncharted waters, in which I am never quite sure how to navigate. Typically I am surrounded by landmarks and guidelines that keep me on track, but this is a whole new ballgame. When my ex-boyfriend pissed me off, I’d just go home – end of situation. I’d unwind and calm down, and then call (from a safe distance) and things would work out. I am so used to having my house act as a sanctuary, that I feel like I’ve run ashore now that my home no longer offers me that same solitude. There is always somebody else home now – I can’t sing like I’m insane at 5 am, make a pan of dirty, greasy nachos and eat them entirely by myself, go out somewhere without anybody asking me where I’m going, or even have an unnecessarily long sleep-in – all of which were activities I used to partake in (and thoroughly enjoy) regularly. Now when there’s an issue that arises, the option no longer exists for me to take the adult approach, and completely ignore it. Overnight, I now have to deal with problems in my relationship immediately and effectively, and let’s face it, human nature dictates that we avoid the unpleasant things for as long as we can. However, this isn’t an entirely bad point – upfront confrontation and resolution of those little underlying conflicts has resulted in a much closer (and happier) home life for me – and I like that, a lot.

3. Artistic vision

When it comes to home decor, I, personally, have a tendency to air on the side of the basics – excellent paint colour choices, meaningful or important artwork and photos on the walls, and the handful of plants I haven’t managed to kill yet.

Mike, on the other hand, lives for home decor – and his vision for my our house involves using every available space to cram in every idea he’s ever had for other people’s houses – a ridiculous number of plants, framed photos of waterfalls and flowers from floor to ceiling, even vases full of fake grass and bamboo – if you could put it in a house as a decoration, chances are, Mike wants it. And, quite frankly, I started to feel a little claustrophobic after I woke up to find a fig tree in my living room. Again, I refrained from speaking out about it, and slowly I watched as the sunlight was obscured by plants, dragon sculptures were placed on new shelves in my bedroom, and a wood carving of a scary native man watched me urinate. It became too much, and one night I watched in horror as I had an out-of-body experience and let my frustrations pour out – I was so concerned for his comfort and happiness that I found myself in a house that I no longer recognized – that was no longer reflective of me, and my tastes, and I didn’t like it. Of course, I wanted him to feel at home in our new shared residence, but somewhere along the way, I was the one who had just moved in.

In the end, we agreed to a compromise – the walls would be afforded a little barrenness, and there would be no new members to our rainforest family – but the native man (who was carved by his grandfather) still watches me pee.

Ultimately, there are few things trickier that one will encounter than the combination of two individuals into one house. In origami, one wrong fold can re-shape your paper crane into a an angry bee, ready to sting, even if it dies as a result. But at night, when you can crawl into bed at whatever hour, and snuggle into the one you love, you can realize that through all the folding, you definitely ended up with a beautiful swan.

the book of glamnesia, 3:16

Once upon a time, there was a little gay waiter, whom, in his tiny place of employment, discovered to his horror that there is, in fact, extra-terrestrial life walking among us. He had just finished serving a meal to two seemingly normal elderly folk, and after they had departed and Little Gay Riding Hood was clearing their table, what should he find in place of the gratuity treasure he sought? A small, mustard-coloured bible – right next to the real mustard.

Yes folks, the Gideons have arrived in our fair city for their annual evangelical conference. You may know them as those people who stalk you from hotel room to hotel room, leaving the word of God in your dresser drawer for a little recreational reading. I have come to know them as the latest addition to my list of people to avoid.

I have no real issue with religion (aside from the fact that’s responsible for about 90% of the world’s problems), and I have a high tolerance for religious people, as I believe that it is your choice to lead your life whichever way you like. I do, however, take exception to those who feel it their duty to shove their opinions and views down the throats of those around them – which is, essentially, the exact mandate of the Gideons. They feel that it is their responsibility to distribute as many heavenly books to as many of us lost heathens as they possibly can.

At first, I studied the cover of their gift to me. On it was a collage of photos of a variety of people – one of each ethnicity, a fireman, a teacher, a farmer – and they were all so incredibly happy! Overly happy, with big beaming smiles that were about to fly off the page like birds that would then proceed to peck my eyes out. These people were dripping with glee concentrate, and they were desperate to inject me with the drug of Jesus. They had found the secret to a wonderful life, without Oprah’s help, and without me – and now it was my turn to join the club.

However, based on their conduct in the restaurant, sadly I’ve lost my will to be that kind of happy. It became incredibly busy all at once, and I accidentally missed an order from one lady at a table of five. When I explained the situation to her, she looked at me almost with disgust, and said (directly to me face):

“Well…I guess I should have known better than to expect a stupid queer to get it right.”

I was dumbfounded. Here I was, standing in the middle of the dining room, and she might as well have pulled out a gun and shot me in the chest. My hands were tied – not only was I working, and my conduct would be reflective of the establishment, but furthermore, I was severely outnumbered. All around me sat people, from the same group, with obviously the same mindsets, and the atmosphere abruptly shifted from bustling café to den of hatred. Even though she was the only one to verbally say anything, I could tell that every single one of them was mentally agreeing, as though their thoughts were on a frequency that only I could hear. Everything around me buzzed like invisible bees and I desperately needed to just get out of the situation.

I was caught off-guard, because in any other situation in my life where I’ve had something like that said to me, I’ve always been free to respond in whatever way I would like – which, typically, would be an all-out counter-attack. But this was a whole other ballgame and I was a foul, foul ball. The uncomfort of the mood drove me into hiding in the kitchen, where I took a stifled, hot-air breather and tried to compose myself to rise above.

The best part, is that I informed the restaurant owner (who works in the kitchen during frantic spurts), and her response was for me to ‘just get over it’. In other words, she didn’t care that who I am as an individual was being assailed ten feet away – there was a dollar to be made for her. I took it a step further and attempted to put into relatable terms exactly what it felt like, but she still failed to understand. I just had to suck it up, and deal with it.

In the end, I served a restaurant full of these people, knowing that my every move was being watched – the people who wanted to intravenously enlighten me were carefully ensuring that I wasn’t the one injecting them with something much worse – the gay – and all viewing me as the scum of the earth. I watched as no tips came in from the tables I served, questions asked went ignored, and and anything above the bare minimum of waiter-customer interaction was strictly prohibited.

Somewhere along the way, it occurred to me that I was, in fact, the bigger person in the scenario. That I don’t need a thousand year-old book telling me how to live my life, and that I didn’t need to waste my youth away searching for the secret to happiness, when I already know what it is. I pass each day unafraid of being myself, or of being an individual – that my opinions and my core beliefs are unshakable to outside forces, and I accept individuals around me who try and do the same.

In the end, I actually felt bad for the poor Gideons. They’ve come to our city to meet and discuss what may, possibly, be the way to live their lives – and they’re all old. Every single one of them is at least fifty and very bitter and afraid. Their end is approaching faster than they would like, and they still are unsure of how they should be living.

If I had my time back, I would tell that woman that I may have taken her order wrong, but that this stupid queer definitely has everything that matters, right.

And also, that I wouldn’t be accepting a mustard-coloured bible as a tip.