"hi, friend!"

walking into the apartment, i thought for a moment that a cult had offed itself in the living room. sprawled figures in the most mild form of rest twitched and groaned... the couch was loaded to capacity... and my antique mirror from Ireland had become an impromptu mission control centre laying on it's back.
stepping between some legs i reached down for it to take a close look. no scratches other than what it already came with. good. and amusingly enough, there was about $80 of magic still sitting on it. not one to waste i took out my wallet to find a card to scrape it up. i left no more than 3 toots in the baggie that was crumped on top of the mirror and deftly scooped up the bulk of it into my empty dime bag. a refill! how convenient.
i looked around as the baggy snapped shut in my fingers. this was pure devastation and destruction all 'round. you know it's bad when no one wakes up as the coke gets stolen. even in my most blank of blackouts i would have roused and gone bonkers. something tells me these kids don't need any more.
down the hall my bedroom door was open and i felt the twitching start. oh no. oh god. oh please no... tell me there weren't dirty-pawed twinkies running through my room. i pulled my gordie howe hockey stick off the wall mount as I got closer to the and used it to thud the door fully open. Brad was passed out length-wise on my bed in what could only be described as a failed effort to put clothing on before he blacked out. he got a shirt on and that was about it. a big part of me wanted to take a picture. a bigger part of me wanted to spear his ass with the hockey stick and haul him off the bed like a strip of bacon. but i loved that stick and i couldn't live with myself knowing it'd always smell tangy. it'd be like fingering someone with a religious relic. might not bother some people but i couldn't live with myself.
but i did want to sleep... and the thought of having to wake up in a couple hours to a full house of rumblings didn't appeal to me much. i wondered if i had enough money to go to a hotel... then remembered that i spent it all partying for 4 days in a row. to be fair, it was work-related so i wasn't being frivolous.
hopping on the bed i realized my options were to push Brad off and potentially give him a concussion hitting the floor or attempting to share the bed with him. Both were sketchy. after a solid two days up raging and partying i was on that silky cusp of being calm or weeping like a lost child.
I grabbed a towel off the floor and tucked it around brad's bare ass before dragging his legs around to gain more real estate on the bed. thank god i have a king sized bed.
turning him around i tried to remember how you prop someone up so they don't choke on puke. i fussed for a few seconds before giving up and settling down onto the mattress.
finally, life emits from within. a groan. brad lifted his head up for a moment and it thudded back down. gone as fast as it arrived.
i propped up the hockey stick beside my bed and began rooting around in my drawer. lube, a different kid of lube, that lube for jerking off, the other lube so you can whack off for a long time... poppers? that's where that bottle went. that buttplug i really like... a vibrator... condoms. probably expired. boys that i lure in here usually bring their own anyway. more lube?? good god, for someone who gets laid once a month this sure is a drawer of hope springs eternal. note to self: don't buy more lube until the current stock is depleted.
pills! surely to god i have something in here. ativan? come on. there has to be some. i had successfully run up 4 separate prescriptions for it so there has to be a bottle kicking around. or my sleeping meds? no where to be seen. ugh. there's the anti depressants i never started taking. that's useless. advil... no too far gone for that. perkasets? huhhhhhhhhhhhh no. not with all the liquor and lack of food in me. i was on the verge of having a screaming fit ripping the drawer out and smashing it against the wall. what kind of horror movie plot would that be? "old fag monster attacks!"
wait. THERE YOU ARE! rascal. smarty pants me stuck the rainbow of sleepy/tweeking out meds into a tiny case. all in one super smart spot. fuck i amaze myself sometimes.
One ativan and pray that the glass of water beside my bed isn't too terribly old.
ahhhhh. there. now i just have to sit here patiently for 30 minutes for it to filter me down into sleep.
i dug my phone out and started clicking through it as Brad rolled over.
"huhwuh? why are you in my bed?"
"sorry, are you playing the part of me in the matinee production of "We're a Fucking Disaster"?"
"what?"
"you're in my room turkey."
"do i have pants on?"
"that would be a negatory. you have a towel tho. forgive me for not checking to see if it's jizz-free."
"what?! I don't feel good... what time is it?"
"11am. I just got in from Vegas a couple of hours ago."
"whu... what? you said you wouldn't be back until Monday!"
"no i go back to work on Monday. I come home Sunday so i can sleep."
"is everyone gone?"
"no i'd say everyone is actually still here. they're all passed out in the living room. you might have broken the record for most people in the apartment."
"how many are out there?"
"18... 20?"
he tried to sit up and failed miserably.
"no... oh god where did they all come from?"
"you don't even KNOW who they are?!" i hauled my leg up and hoofed brad off the bed with a mighty whomp.
he screamed a little as he rolled out of the towel and onto the unforgiving laminate flooring.
"get the FUCK out there and get them OUT of the apartment! if you know them they can stay. and get some fucking panties on. jesus."
"well they're in my room!"
"you want panties?" now i was mad. "i'll give you some fucking panties!" i snatched up the hockey stick and fished a decidedly dirty pair of boxers off the floor and snapped it across the bed.
"put them on and get the god damn twinkies out. daddy is tired and does not NEED THIS!"
he looked understandably disgusted at the option of putting my shorts on but it was better than standing up naked in front of me.
"shut that door behind you. I'm setting my alarm for 6pm so we can talk later."
he was flopping around trying to cover his dick up in boxers that were easily 3 sizes too big for him.
"you always have parties!"
"yeah the difference is you don't wake up to god damn fucking Jonestown after it's over! less talk, more twinky removal. LET'S GO!" i was tempted to crack the stick on the wall to show i mean business, but no, Gordie... I can't do that to Gord.

AVAILABLE: TORONTO ROOMMATE

for those in toronto or know of people in toronto, i'm starting to get down to bidness about looking for places to live. and i'm pretty sure on my own isn't an option right now to keep the cost of living down, so i want to share a place. on the off chance someone sees this:

AVAILABLE: TORONTO ROOMATE FOR SEPTEMBER-ISH
quiet until spoken to nerdy pothead looking for a roommate in September. very laid back, always willing to fix shit instead of being a passive aggressive cunt.

well-trained with dishes, common area clean ups. hard of hearing so can't creep you fucking in the next room & listen to music with headphones 99.73% of the time.

i'm an only child so i thrive in having a room where i can turn it into my fiefdom of awesome. definitely not straight edge, but not the type who stays up until 7am blasting coke and fingering prostitutes on your couch. more like i come home after 2 bottles of wine and the worst thing that happens is i get you cornered in the kitchen and insist on talking about decoupage DIY art projects. [hint: you tell me there's cheese in the fridge and i will immediately ignore you and you can scamper off]

Because i've never lived in the city i have some ill-conceived notion about places i'd like to live so i better not rattle off all my "ideal" locations. suggestions taken freely tho, even if you don't want to live with me.

What says y'all? Pretty much, i want a room and someone to split the rent with who won't terrorize me or be standoffish. a chill person who appreciates chill living spaces. i won't make you feel like i need a babysitter nor will i hijack your plans. god damn, i hate it when people do that.

Bonus Speed Round: comic book fan, will go to damn near any concert with you, will fawn over your art projects willingly, movie buff, owns a sewing machine, closeted amateur makeup and aesthetician, the biggest faggy queer girl you'll ever meet and will make you vegan/veggie dinners if you don't mind me making a steak once a week when you're gone. hell, i can even cook/adhere to kosher standards if that sweetens the deal.

what's poppin' toronto?

ok let's do this

still trying to figure out what i want to do job-wise but i'm feeling like the moment of zen is approaching. like, i feel good even tho things aren't resolved in the slightest. instead of feeling like a hundred plates are mid air and ready to crash, it's more manageable.

i'm notorious for making waves of demands on myself and then overwhelming my senses. brilliant. and horrifyingly counter productive. instead i'm trying to break off some nibbles.

and yes, this is like an extended tweet of baloney bullshit, but hey, you can stop reading at any time. NO! COME BACK! I promise i'll post something good after.

in the meantime:
* jenny lynn necklace - i want to make a new one but need to find a space where fatty dingdong kitty can't get into my crap. i've had 3 aborted attempts. i think fat-body is outside and then she runs in. it's like she knows i don't want her around. god i hate cats so much.

* resume update - OH GOD HELP ME! i do not/am not capable of creating a generic resume. i've been in a bubble for so long and it's entirely worded for applying within the company i'm at now. aka FUCKING USELESS for applying to other places. i know i can look stuff up online but i need someone to slap me around and pull my hair a little to get me in the mood to fix it.

* get my profile posted to monster.ca & other job boards to make sure i'm at least primed and ready to go if there's something i need to apply to ASAP.

all do-able.

Gorillaz - Rhinestone Eyes

1/2 a pack of smokes every day, sometimes more. too much weed: always. buffered by alcohol, assorted recreational drugs and a passion for red meat made me a thick boy. thick and out of shape. but no matter what the state of my body was, present me with a chance to brawl and i will bound into action. it was a thrill to get torqued up and go nuts. something that i didn't get to enjoy often but i was panting softly and warm with my own self-worth as a fighter.

naturally, the first night that Brad allowed himself to go slumming and take me to the bar with him this shit happens. i was a good boy, hanging back and only chatting when engaged. never stepping on his dick if a hot guy wandered past. strictly decoration.

i made sure i was muzzled down with a 1/4 bag of blow. where the average cat can't shut up when they're on it, the same doesn't happen with me. in real time, i never shut up. ever. but flip that up my nose and all i can do is nod and listen. one night when i split an 8 ball with my ex we counted 128 words that i said over the course of 8 hours. i know that it's an easy fix when i don't want to open my trap and embarrass myself.
i slugged back a bottle of water and walked to the bathroom. everything flipping in and out of the lights. arms up dancing, arms around bodies... my arms pushing back my shoulders to give them some purpose instead of diddling the baggie in my jean pocket. i wonder if my eyeliner looks ok still?
springy steps with a small turn up of my lips. happy to get high and happy to be drowning in steamy dance floor funk. oh my wonderful urban life! look! there's a boy grabbing another guys dick! and there's that bartender i submitted a demo tape for! [he couldn't get it up on command]

i caught the look at two boys standing by the hall to the can. as always i assumed it was disgust seeing my fat body walk around with an unheard of confidence. or at least their understanding was that the ugly didn't have any confidence. nothing to me. i was so close that no one would hold my attention for long.

girls washroom is for taking a piss. boys is for fucking and drugging. never mix those things up in a gay bar.

i walked in and heard a thud of someone being pressed up against a stall in use. joyous rapture! there was an empty stall with a buffer between the sweet love that was on the verge of spurting out.
a scooch on the tiles made me turn around. a friendly blond parasite had followed me in with another little bud. i was thrilled that brad would tolerate being in such tight quarters with me, save the addition of a friend.
piling into the stall i made the tag along take the tight spot and i was afforded the luxurious wall with no toilet paper dispenser on the side. key out, dip and whiff.
"it's good..."
nodding vigorously.
"hey are you ok?"
"he's fine. he can't talk when he's on it."
"really?! I can't shut up!"
eyebrow up and nodding.
he looked to brad, "seriously, he won't talk?"
"ugh. you can talk to him he just won't reply unless it's really important."
"oh... my turn!"
doling out the medicine to the babies i had a final one for myself. i pointed to the door to herald our departure.
sniffing and schwacking noises of raped sinuses trumpeting our arrival to the hall. the tag along was giggling and walked a head to go grab another drink at the bar. brad and i checked our phones and walked in tandem. i was in the middle of deciding who i was going to respond to when i saw brad fall behind. i looked back and he had turned around to talk to someone. or at least i thought it was talk. a tanned hand gripped his forearm and applied noticeable pressure. he yanked brad in and said something harsh.
i swell in those moments. saturated in my muscle memory of being beaten or seeing violence looming in a patient when i used to work at a mental hospital. it's that big moment where everything in me expands and i'm king fucking kong coming onto the scene. moving quickly back to brad a hand grabbed my by the shoulder and hauled me roughly.
"where are YOU going? this doesn't concern you."
turning around i looked up at some Slavic cheeks and a mean stare. well, sorry punk-ass. daddy says not tonight.
gripping his wrist i turned the screws on and pinched it. it's a tidal wave of agony to experience. and that's why i was so good at it. the eyes tell everything. and it radioed loudly that it hurt. yanked him down to my face and pushed my fingers down even harder. he was full of panic that he was in over his head and his backup was busy. which reminded me, time to save the baby.
goon trapped in one hand i dragged him over to the other scene.
"let him go. brad..." head gesture of c'mon.
"MAYBE YOU SHOULD LET US TALK!"
"maybe i break his arm?" i hauled up goon two's arm for a look-see and he groaned.
the associate was now squeaking and panting. "let... let... let me go! it's going to break!"
"no, long way off. brad. now."
we were having a standoff. two arms snapped in a rage trap and neither of us willing to let go. normally i'm an eloquent bastard in these situations. talking around someone to diffuse a bomb or being so smarmy that the attention was focused on me. my powder muzzle wouldn't slip off and i couldn't say a word.
"who's this?! who's this guy?!"
"it's my..." his head tipped backwards in reaction to the grip. "my roommate."
"so this roommate and you just like taking off to fuck in the bathroom?"
"no that's not what... we..." deep sucking breath and i know he was in pain.
the hand goes off goon two and i rushed at goon one. this time i went for the throat and plugged my palm over his adams apple and dug an index finger and thumb under his jaw. apply pressure and be ready for hands to grapple your arms. no matter, it just makes me grip harder.
he made a glucking noise and didn't know what to do next. that's when i got the punch to the back of the head. Goon two had made a recovery and pegged me in the back of the head. stunned i let go to turn around and duck a fist and swoop my knee up to blast his crotch. threat down, turn around. in that short time the unnamed goon had started laying punches out but Brad had finally kicked into gear and was fighting back. trying to go back to help i realized we were all getting herded out by security as we clawed and flailed around. who says fags can't fight?
my tenure at Ironwood Bar gave me the luxury of never getting turfed out. they assumed it was me being picked on and i threw my hands up in a silent "woo!" as the goons were pitched down the stairs in a whirl of white shirts and well-made jeans.
Brad was shaking and standing behind me as i turned to a bouncer to try and stammer out some sort of sentence.
Down the stairs the monsters were woozy but coming back to life.
"YOU FAT PIECE OF SHIT! I'LL KILL YOU! YOU DON'T CROSS ME! I KNOW WHERE YOU TWO LIVE, I'LL KILL YOU AND I'LL KILL THAT STUPID DOG I ALWAYS SEE YOU WITH!"
boom.
no, you can call me fat. you can call me a piece of shit. because i am, in fact, a fat piece of shit. but you don't tell me you're going to murder my godchild Maude. not ever.
after the fact, my friend Jason who was out having a smoke recounted my epic fury. there were only 4 steps to the sidewalk but i leaped up like a berserker Wolverine and jumped on them with my fist up. A collective "oh!" came from the smoking section and i dropped my fist into whatever face i could get a hold of. all i remember is being pulled off by three bouncers as the goons were laid out, woozy and winded from 215 pounds taking a flying jump onto them. they took off before i could tell someone to grab them. slobbering in tongues i was delirious with anger and didn't care when i was dropped from waist height onto the neighboring stoop.
typical wimp, after it's all done is when i start to cry. or at least i would have if the coke wasn't still burning through me. i wanted to yell but nothing would come out. just take a minute. catch your breath.
noise noise out of my view and Brad was chucked out and told to not come back. i kept looking up as his shoes padded over to me.
eyes looking down from the sky. "good god, are you all right?"
nodding.
"i've never seen you go off like that."
"i've never seen you get roughed up like that without kicking up a stink."
he plopped down and checked out his hands. blood and rips and smears. we were both biohazzards.
remind me to never go to the bar with you again.
too bad i couldn't actually say it.
out of breath and thinking about puking i laid on the stairs waiting for Brad to say something.
brad slumped over up and patted at his already swollen lip. he didn't look too bad. nothing an icepack couldn't fix. then he dipped his head down low in reflection to sigh.
chills, horror, sickness...
an enormous hank of his hair had gotten yanked out in our small fisticuffs exchange.
there it was. the dimensions of a fist spread out... bare skin with patchy outcroppings of hair in between. something that would be simply impossible to hide.
"oh.... no."
"oh no what? hey, what the hell is wrong with you? you're so pale."
slowly pulling myself up i leaned over to him and put a firm hand on top of his head to turn it sidways. My shakey hands reached up and touched the skant patch of ripped out hair. i was shocked he couldn't feel it throbbing, must be riding high on the chemical joy of brawling.
"wh... what?" his hand darted up to feel. now i really wanted to get sick. that kind of rage has a texture... a feel... and it was pouring out of him.
"brad, wait."
up and steadying for a moment. we were a little punch drunk at this point.
"Brad...i..."
i'm sure the night air zipped over the bald spot making it tangible. he was striding out like john wayne down the street, no doubt trying to catch up with the goons. great, this isn't settled. i was thankful that i didn't have a bloody nose at least.

cardigan love

“no no, it’s the one that’s on the top rack. Yeah. That one. Can you pull one down in my size?”

I watched as my new boyfriend tottered around on a step ladder trying to hook a cardigan for me. He ascended to the tips of his toes making his Converse shoes squeak and whine attempting to hold him up. The best part? I had already come in earlier in the week to do the exact same thing. But he didn’t seem to remember me as vividly as I did him.

My “boyfriend” was some dashingly bright-faced kid working at American Apparel. I was loathe to admit to people that I shopped in there and worse still was me flying off the handle to defend the classic items from there that I bought. It’s not like I was getting kitted out in skinny jeans and some neon abortion trendy shirt. I stuck to simple things like tshirts and v-neck shirts… and my irreplaceable cardigan. On the down low I was a closeted nail polish freak and usually applied something horrible to my feet. It’s not like anyone was around wanting to suck on them so who gives a frig?

Back to the cardigan.

No.

The Cardigan.

It was perfect. it mated well with a shirt/tie combo or draped over a tshirt. It managed to always hang onto my cedar and sandalwood oil cologne regardless of how many times it was cranked through the laundry. In fact, my love affair with the American Apparel Boy was sparked from him gripping my forearm and taking in a deep whiff of the cologne one day when I stopped in.

“What IS that?!” [deep inhale] “oh god… it’s so nice.” [snuffing up and down like a little puppy] “I love this!”

I narrowly avoided letting the boy see my eyes roll back in the throngs of joy. Or how I was starting to lean in to kiss the back of his head. I can’t help it! You don’t just watch a puppy! You LOVE the puppy. Still, in this case I know a metaphor can only extend so long before you get charged with 3rd degree assault sucking on what is more than likely underage ear lobes.

“it’s just a little something I like to whip up…. For… special occasions.” Deep breath and will the boner to die down.

“mmm it’s yummy!”

You’re yummy. I could just lick my two fingers and stuff it right up…

Ahem.

“yeah! Thanks! I could…” no. don’t come up with an excuse to lure him to your house. But you live just around the corner… he could come over for tea and a rim job. I bet he tastes like jellybeans.

Jelly beans?!?

Where the hell did that come from?

“I could write it down for you. Or like…” I felt dizzy. His tight little shirt was rolling up at the side and I wanted to give him a savage hickey.

“like I could just… ahem… clothes. Yes. Yes I need clothes.”
“sure! What’re you looking for?”

American Apparel by definition was well-stocked with useless twits who looked at me wandering around with a mixture of pity and disdain. A few levels away from what one does when a homeless guy wanders in. you don’t want to make eye contact but you want to come up with a way to get the threat hustled out the door as soon as possible. I may be dumpy and unpalatable compared to the demographics they aimed for, but god damn it! I have money that I want to waste on over-priced clothing items too!

For the most part I resisted any help from sales staff because simply, they weren’t helpful. A request to find something was usually akin to asking them to stab a child in the face. Undesirable and unthinkable. It cut into social chatting time which was primarily catty conversations and picking at sparkly tights that were forever creeping up their skinny asses. It became a challenge to impulse shop in there without alerting anyone to my presence. Sure, there were a few people who tracked me down but I would gesture wildly to the items I had already picked up to indicate that no intervention was required. This plan worked well until Twinky Puppy.

Twinky Puppy had that rare mix of youth and an actual understanding of how retail works. That being, you help sell things to customers and in fact, encourage them to purchase more. And that golden rule shines all the more clearly with a good looking soul flush with a passion to help. So my little friend crested out from behind a rack of 80’s styled shirts and avoiding the stereotype of angels calling from the skies, I will just say I was thrilled to see him. And it’s never angels for me. It’s usually a dark filter and purple smoke. I prefer something a little more metal when daydreaming about boys.

Back to the moment and an eager face asking if I need help.
oh yes you can.
“yep, I’m looking for this cardigan in another colour.”
“what colour?”
“all of them.”
“what size?”
“xl I believe.”
“oo, really? I don’t think they make it in xl.”

He boldly grabbed a corner and turned it out to look at the size tag. Wouldn’t you know? It’s a large. Too bad I’ve come in here 4 other times and begged the sales staff to look for an xl and none of them have come to the realization that it doesn’t even exist.

“large! Sure let me go grab some. Hey!”
“ya?”
“how do you feel about double-breasted cardigans?”
“violently opposed to them. Like I need to wear something that accentuates how my body shape is refrigerator-like.”
“I don’t like badmouthing the product…” [swooning with pride that a sales person understands these things] “…but I think they’re super ugly. They only really work on super tall and super skinny. I look like I’m wearing my mom’s sweater… not hot.”
“ah, I’m sure you can get away with it… but they’re certainly a horrifying idea to update the look of something classic like a cardigan.”

He grinned and looked wiggly as he rooted around for a size for me.

Awash in thoughts of him gripping the rack and screaming as I railed him into the ugly neon shirts littered with over-sized graphics….

“here’s one!”

“nice! Well I’ll take this one for now….” And come in obsessively for the next month and buy each colour from you.

That’s not TOO terribly unhealthy. At least it’s not like the boy in the coffee shop that I creeped the hell out of when I offered to give him a ride home on the handlebars of my bike. You learn from those experiences…

"m as in mancy!"

progressive drum and bass thudded in the background as i picked away at some leftover bits of cucumber i had sliced up. this was my wall of productivity... all factors such as alienating music, mincy snack foods and the desire to avoid distractions was powerful. i was in that zone and it was safe to say i wouldn't be coming out for a few hours. fuck i love coming into the office on the weekend. it's not like i got up early to come in. late afternoon, a dead zone that afforded me to turn on music and clutter up a space much larger than what i normally can during the week.
i was multitasking a bunch of windows and pondered if it would be too late to fire the catering company i had signed up with. i didn't even give a shit-ass that it was tacky, they had done nothing but piss me off and i felt like it would be a safe win to clean house and get someone on board who was hungry. someone who would be on point knowing that my shifty face had jettisoned the competition.
no... i probably shouldn't fire them. they do a ton of contract work for pasha and it would make his life miserable. chaffs my ass to know that a friend of his would sandbag a lucrative contract.
next. next. next. it's quite a lot to wrangle all these events and opportunities but for once in my life i was passionate about it. passionate about pornography. go figure. i had no ethical apprehensions about working for a massive porno site. i managed to find a place that could balance my common sense passion for business with the sex industry. i can't believe i didn't think of looking into this sooner. typical, i find a job that i'm thrilled about and i can't talk about it with my family. it's not that i'm ashamed of it per se, just more ashamed that i went from lucrative desk jobs that one can brag about to abstract explanations about what i do for a living. i don't have a problem with smut, but a lot of people do. and that's ok! i get it! but i find myself straddling the line between stone cold lying to someone and flat out saying i moderate 30+ posting boards on porn sites. "oh i make sure there's no lame content or something that's under age. you know. the usual." like people know what the use' is in the porn industry.
for a long time my identity had been wrapped up in my job. i was a secretary for years after university. the sick thing? i was really good at it and enjoyed it. a fucking fag secretary, doling out post-it note messages to VP's... running down a list of appointments and meetings while absently adjusting a tie. they didn't even realize how chokingly GAY it all was and neither did i. i maned a reception desk on an floor full of executives. mostly out of office, always flitting around silently and never bugging me save for one an hour at most. i sat there like an advisor on display. resolute that i wasn't as prized as the men i tended to, but more powerful than other secretaries in the building.
i never lorded over any one. in fact i became the back up bitch for the front desk reception because i was so gosh dahn patient with people on the phone. and for this kind gesture i was seen as The One to consult to. i was king shit of the secretaries but certainly wouldn't talk down to anyone. the man who can talk to the downtrodden. etc.
thriving and making a name for myself [although the president of the company only called me Josh instead of Nathan. whatever.] i felt proud. but there was a nasty pull in my mind. i hesitated when describing what i did. i did communications, presentations, held my own during planning sessions and could be trusted with shit that was more expansive than my britches. sure i could try and layer in all that but when it comes down to it, i was the secretary and there's no point jazzing it up with anything more than that. i got hung up on conversations that i should be doing something more. well more what? i don't have any business training, i'm at a grade 7 level of math... and? can someone tell me what i'm supposed to do when i grow up? because apparently i can't be left to my own decision tree on this shit. i aim too low.
i pushed on... i jammed my foot in the door for project work. then more specialized projects. i was the bottom bitch because i didn't have any designations or schooling around what i was toiling over and it was an acknowledgment of my role in the corporate hamster cage. i didn't like it. to be a whiny, spoiled brat: i didn't like it. i did well at it. i made a ton of money but my heart was so far gone i ceased to remember a morning when i didn't wake up horrified. an existential weight on my chest screaming questions and demanding to know why i was doing something that sucked the life out of me.
because it's a good job! because you don't have to tell people you're the fucking secretary! because you're supposed to hate your job and why resist the feeling? it'll always be there. you're always going to hate your job.
i managed to drag myself into work for months with this hazy anger floating around my head. there was more money given to me. there were always praises. short of fresh cedar shavings to line the bottom of my cage, what more could i ask for?
in whispered conversations with coworkers i talked about leaving. i was hissed at and shut down. you don't walk away from a job like this. not after your resume was so greatly beefed up as the result of being here.
turning to friends outside of work i was shot down again. all jabbed angry fingers into my shoulder. snarly reminders that they had been trying to make a break into my employer. appalled that i would even think about walking away from a holy grail scenario.
after all that, there was nothing left to do but turn inwards. heaping stern lectures on myself that i couldn't possibly do any better, and simply, i'd never be happy anywhere else so what's the problem? wouldn't someone rather take the money than a lesser job that i'll hate just as much?
and every morning i woke up. and it took a little longer to sit up. i felt like a stain laying under the blankets. thinking that if i looked up at the ceiling just a little bit longer i'd get some sort of an answer. not surprisingly, there's not a hell of a whole lot that can be divined from white paint and a solitary light fixture.
i was beefing up on anti anxiety medications to keep a float. i nervously smoked alone to buy myself 15 minutes away from my desk. the time outside made my legs shake contemplating walking back inside and i noticed i stopped eating lunch entirely. which, when you're a hog like me, is a sign that some thing's REALLY off.
my only moments of happiness came when i left the building and when the straight boy next door neighbor invited me over to watch the baseball game. i don't even fucking understand baseball but sure enough it became my focal point. i rushed home from work to make elaborate heterosexual-centric snack foods and scoured the liquor store for fancy beer. but not too faggy fancy. i successfully cleaved off my shitty work days simmering on the couch with Will and a fascinatingly huge television. i would repeat things he said to me in the form of a question. i began doing some initial leg work on the team who was playing to string together a cohesive dialog and deflect from the fact that the first time we met i was wearing only boxers and a bandanna tied around my neck. it's not my fault i had to run out and break up the cat fighting with the neighborhood badass tom.
it worked for us and i didn't even mind when he wiggled down the couch one night and put his head in my lap. literally i had hit the point where baseball went from abstract running around to something i could get involved in. i let him lay his head down and moved my hand to play with his hair. we didn't acknowledge anything and instead yelled at the tv in unison if there was a bad call.
long story short we would up making to the half way point in games before fucking around on the couch for the remainder of the game... and it became needlessly complicated when he complained that i was using him for sex since i showed no interest in calling him up for a date. i had completely blocked out any responsibility to another human... and had utterly spaced on the fact that i had been doling out impromptu blow job workshops on some straight boy who was curious and decided to test things out on the neighbor fag. when he confronted me after we had wanked off and i'm not ashamed to say i had held him tight to look over his shoulder at a smashing home run that wrapped up the game.
"listen, what are we doing here? are you just using me for sex?"
well this isn't sex sex. this is just mucking about.
and let's get real: i was using him for the tv hooked to cable hooked to the MLB package channel that played while i got to sit on a really comfortable couch. compound that with the recent spate of getting some heavy petting sessions i had successfully found a zen spot. i blurred out the crushing hatred of work by running home in the evenings to go home & change before leaving again. i wasn't even thinking about anything that was crashing down around me, just memorizing batting orders and guiding the back of the neighbor boys head down my cock.
poor bill was sitting at the end of the couch going flush waiting for me to reply.
"bill, i'm... i'm so sorry. i should never have made you feel like you were being used. i should... [oooooo nice catch] go."
he followed me to the door and tried to think of something to say. he caught my wrist before i turned out the door and i yanked it away. i felt disgusting for using some poor boy as my xanax replacement and couldn't look him in the eye.
"wait... i didn't mean to make you upset i just wanted to talk about if you... and i could..."
yanking my wrist away i waived my hand to stop him and walked out. i've never coped well with confrontations.
i went home to an empty house and sat down on my bed to collect my thoughts. my phone buzzed off and it was Bill. "oh god, go away..."
"listen bill...."
"just let me come up."
"whatever."
i hung up and waited to hear him pop over. maybe there'd be some american beauty shit and he was coming over to shoot me? always thinking two miserable steps a head.
"nathan?"
"upstairs."
he wasn't crying but looked pale and upset. "can we not call this anything and i just come in here and lay in bed with you for a while?"
"bill, you're a cute boy. you don't need to be hanging out with me for a cuddle."
he looked so dejected and i rolled my eyes and pointed to the bed. he rolled in and folded up neatly into my shoulder. he felt... ugh. warm. i relaxed a little and felt him loosen up as well. this was nice. i think i had spent close to 3 years with my head up my ass with my job. i figured i was so mental trying to keep afloat that i couldn't even imagine inviting someone into my mindspace.
and there i was. this soft straight boy who had lovingly taught me that RBI's had nothing to do with ribs or that there were reasons behind changing the pitcher other than he was an asshole. beyond my better judgment and stern efforts to be unattractive i had caught something in a snare. even if it was just a temporary pit stop it felt warm. and nice. and made me recall something.... that i was allowed to feel happy and it was something i owed to myself. not me being happy about my own fucked up wants, but making other people happy and doing some good instead of being this mental leech on people.
i'll skip all the flooding thoughts and feelings i got holding this pudgy straight boy who had a taste for the cock close to me. his shirt smelled so nice and delicious. and there you have it. i felt so happy and content that it flooded my logic.
i spent another month ramping up the drive to quit and start looking for something else. after all my previous conversations with friends about how miserable i was, there wasn't much need to tell anyone before i left. i gave my notice and let people try to send me email forwards to my work email and see it get bounced back.
just to keep people guessing i took a job in a coffee shop and enthralled ex coworkers who came in with a large smile that they had never seen streaked across my face and gripped my midsection to jiggle and emphasize what weight had fallen off me with no real change in diet.
i schlepped coffee, came home to feed Bill and make out or just read a book while he chewed on the articles in Men's Health. it was grounding and i couldn't believe all the sights and sounds that were available with my head popped out of my ass.
after all that miserable time spent doing something that didn't make me happy i really believe that's when i opened my fucking eyes to see what was out there and that it was a hell of a whole lot more appealing to Pasha to hire a friend who was mentally stable vs one who needed a pill for each major meal of the day to ensure no one died in my presence.
as squeamish as i get about my current job and what it means to other people, i do feel smug that i managed to nail down a career that provides me with rent payment but no urgent desire to die every morning before i commute to the office. what a wonderful shift.