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Indeed, verily, e’ery post e’er made.

An Ex texts, “Marry me?”

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An Ex texts, “Marry me?”

I say “You must be reading my blog.” She says no. She says she’s serious. Phrases include, “Clearly soul mates”, “White picket fence”, and “Multiracial adopted kids”.

How the hell does someone respond to that? After sufficient bewilderment, I settle on: “No thanks. Not really interested”. Later, I add, “But I suppose I appreciate the sentiment”.

After an hour of confusion, including texting a mutual friend to ask if Ex is okay, Ex tells me it was a joke. She has, in fact, been reading my blog. A joke, you say? Ha…

Ha…

I guess.

I suppose I deserve this. And I did ask for more pranks. It’s also eye-opening: this must be what friendship with me is like.

Ode to a keychain

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Keychain,

Tiny desire for identity

In a cookie-cutter world.

 

But this one’s “so you,”

Just like thousands

Have thought before.

 

Original–truly novel–

Frightens the close-minded…

And we’re all close-minded.

So we stick to

The same safe deviance

As everyone else.

 

But it brings you joy.

What more do you seek?

What more is there?

It’s only two dollars.

Just buy it already.

Touch more: a manifesto

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Starting at puberty, it becomes socially unacceptable to exchange touch with anyone but romantic partners. This is bad. Touch is calming. It’s connecting. It’s fundamental to proper growth and development. Touch should happen more. 

On a road trip with a friend, I hadn’t touched another person in a week. That’s a long fucking time. A week without touch is a cruel punishment that I wouldn’t subject on any animal. It’s not even a sexual thing – I just wanted physical contact. I asked if I could lie on my buddy’s lap. He said sure, so I did. Our conversation continued. I felt human. It was great.

Why does our society suppress touch? I understand the moratorium across gender and the requirements that touch be consensual. But why is it weird (or labeled “gay”) for guys hanging out to touch each other? We’re primates. Primates touch. Even gorillas – the biggest and strongest among us – pick nits out of each other’s fur.

I’m not sure why, but I don’t like it. I also can’t see a good reason against it, so I’m going to touch more.

When is it okay to avoid the world?

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At 9:11am, the morning’s not-funniest time, I slipped 50mg of caffeine past the tape on my mouth before crawling back into the safety of my dreams. Another hour-and-a-quarter passed before my bunkmate awoke, only after which did I first leave my bed. How much of this time was spent avoiding the world?

I’m coming off a cold. Perhaps that’s why I’ve been sleeping so much. I’ve also been emotionally exhausted, overcoming a childhood trauma and rebuilding after a breakup.

My bed is warm. My bed feels safe. In it, the world feels far away. My mind moseys, wisting aimlessly from place to place. I like that safety. I like that oblivion. I live for that vacuum between conscious and gone.

I understand hypochondriacs.

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I struggled through five doctors over ten years before one correctly diagnosed me with obstructive sleep apnea.

It’s subjectively difficult to tell if something’s wrong with you because corroboration requires a doctor’s agreement. If they don’t see a problem, perhaps nothing’s wrong. Then again, perhaps they’re incompetent, or perhaps you didn’t communicate it clearly. Most doctors see a lot of patients, and communicating a subjective experience to a second party is very difficult. And even if you can’t get second-party confirmation, it’s still really your experience.

I pee frequently. Frequently enough that my friends comment on it. This causes me concern. I don’t know that there’s a problem, but I suspect something’s up. I could see a urologist, but that’s a minimum of two visits at inconvenient times to someone who I’ll probably conclude is incompetent.

Some doctors are great. Most are god-awful. It’s hard to know before seeing them. I’m delaying, which isn’t the logical choice, but it’s easier than calling medical offices. I’m solving my sleep now—one issue at a time. I hope I don’t come to regret waiting.

Fasting isn’t difficult, but it is trying. 

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(Context: I haven’t eaten food in the last 72 hours.)

Fasting isn’t difficult, but it is trying:

  • It’s trying to get something to eat and then not.
  • It’s trying and failing to fill the void inside you that food usually patches over.
  • It’s trying to slow down and succeeding and enjoying that success.
  • It’s trying to speak French with the Uber driver from Ethiopia and not minding the embarrassment when he sticks to English.
  • It’s dancing with the devil and winning for a step or two.
  • It’s trying to wrench up gunk from within your soul but, digging deep, not even finding a soul.
  • It’s trying to find God in the man with the megaphone and instead just achieving an intense, god-like focus.
  • It’s molding yourself like a wet ball of clay.
  • It’s trying to define a self while also trying to change it.
  • It’s trying—and succeeding—to sleep peacefully, because nothing else matters when you’re hungry.

I don’t believe in “Character Alignment.”

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After five years of wanting, I played my first D&D game today. Upon creating my character—Pimbleton the Great and Powerful and Mighty and Strong, a three-foot-tall gnome who rode into the world on a lightning bolt thrown by Zeus and spent twenty years enslaved by a cereal company who forced him to be their mascot before rising to monarch of a race of undersea people—I was asked what his “alignment” is. This refers to a 3×3 grid, with axes of “Lawful vs Chaotic?” and “Good vs Evil?”

  • Is he lawful-good, like Superman?
  • Chaotic-good, like Robin Hood?
  • Lawful-evil, like Senator Joseph McCarthy?
  • Chaotic-evil, like The Joker?

DD-Alignment-Chart-2.jpg

I disliked this question. It feels wrong-directional. We can describe an action as one of these, but they don’t describe the whole person.

  • What about a lawful-good character whose father was killed by an orc and therefore has developed deep-seated racism against them? If she’s lawful-good in every other instance, must she also be lawful-good toward orcs?
  • Or a chaotic-evil character with a soft spot for small, furry animals? Must he suffocate every bunny he meets, simply because he beheads every human in his way?

Actions should come from who someone is, not the easiest way to classify them. There’s no such thing as acting “out of alignment.” There’s only acting in character or not.

After a month or two or three or four, I’ll finally admit I wanted you more

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When we dated, I hated the Satan we created,

But being dumped has lumped those bumps into the rough, tough suffering of a motherfucker.

After a month or two or three or four, I’ll finally admit I wanted you more

Than I was willing—how thrilling and chilling,

But I was the villain, or maybe I still am.

 

The fast past we lasted unmasked a part of my heart; it started smarting.

That caressing mess tested this repressed hesitant lesser

Who now piles miles of style on humble, tumbling mumbles to crumble your wall, crawling his all

To your mind-wracking shack, where a taxing hacks dances without pants, hands landing in bands on yours, the shores of sores that hastened mace to our faces, disgracing us apace,

Then the end, when I bended to mend but you send us friends, me in tender shreds.

 

I’m sad and mad for a lad’s behavior, but you’re no savior.

It’s unfair, but sharing care would tear at you more, so formerly yours will be sore for the pair.

When you miss kissing me, sissy, I’ll be listening, glistening with desire, no liar—

Just a failed male who paled in your presence, too hesitant.

I’m told more bold would leave me cold but I’m old enough to scoff.

It’s rough to be cuffed to a shelf of hell. Who can tell when I’ll fell

For another lover who recovers my suffering.

Just empty space—dear Lord, what a waste! This place doesn’t taste of your scent so I’m bent with pent up emotion, an ocean of notions.

 

No lies, just a tired writer’s inspired cries,

Pining in lines to know you’re trying too—

It’s hard for you. You miss me and list me as a risk to stop kissing.

 

Now shown, I bemoan roaming the loneliest road,

No shores of your pores that tore at my core.

So hey, Lady grey, I’d pay you today: explain pain in a way

That tames this crew, say you I matter too.

It never mattered why

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The chicken crossed the road. The road’s mom called the chicken’s mom.

“You can’t go crossing other people,” the chicken’s mom told her daughter.

A week later, the road crossed the chicken.

“No need to cause a fuss,” the chicken’s mom told her daughter.

“But she’s an asphalt!”

“Don’t use that language! And be the bigger person.”

While the road continued walking all over other people, the chicken never again crossed a road.

The road became a successful hedge fund manager. The chicken never amounted to much. She was too… chicken.

It never mattered why.