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Stories from a man who fails to meet media expectations of what it means to be gay:
white, frivolous, over sexed yet sexless, shrill, single, stylish, a clown, unimportant, et al.
Thursday 04/10/2003
When the spittle flies, make sure to turn away
I was sick earlier this week. A cough which was accompanied by a sore throat which was dominated by a general malaise and a lack of vitality, that kind of crap. I used my illness as an excuse to take a sick day from work. Hmm, strange notion that being sick is not an actual valid reason for time off from work, but rather an excuse. Begh, whatever.
So I spent a day home from work and slept. Then I slept some more. Then I got up and watched a couple of flicks, then used that exhausting activity as an excuse to take another nap.
Normally, this lack of chores and errands on my part would be enough to induce massive guilt. Not this time though. I refused to feel guilty for resting and trying to get better. Every time guilt started to rear it's head, I told my mind to F*CK OFF and ate a jelly belly. For some irrational reason, a more indulgent side of my personality had decided that juicy jellybeans were just the thing to improve my health.
I ended up eating a lot of sugar that day, which perhaps says something about me and guilt, or maybe it just says that I have no self-restraint.
Unfortunately, that self-indulgent irrational part of my mind now finds itself somehow at fault for one of the retaining walls in the back yard deciding to partially collapse. Leave it to me to attempt to work out a direct correlation between my staying home and property damage.
Lingering illness, or perhaps the inherent insanity of my mind may be at fault for the oddness of my dreams lately. A few nights ago, there was one were the bit I can remember involved an angry, shiny-red leisure suit wearing man standing barefoot on the beach (Hermosa beach?) yelling at me. Spittle flew out of his mouth, as he called me vile, stupid, ugly, dumb, and an idiot.
He was yelling in Spanish, which for whatever dream reason, I no longer understood, so I spent the entire time ignoring him. I stood there looking around at the waves and sand thinking about a book I had been reading, something about a woman who went from an unknown PFLAG mom to highly paid motivational speaker after making a deal with the devil.
As far as I know, there is no such book. From what I can recall the jest of the story was that the woman never got over her son's death from AIDS. I also think that maybe it wasn't the devil per say that she was seeing everywhere, but rather some random demon thing, or possibly just a figment of her imagination. The author was purposely vague on that point, never quite letting you know if these odd things happening in her life were real, or her cracking up from grief, or maybe even both, since loosing your grip on reality may just possibly be the most logical reaction to finding out that devils that look like men made out of little wadded up bits of hate and anger are real.
If any of you out there wants to write such a thing, go right on ahead. I'd be curious to find out how the story ends.
more later,
nico
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