I never thought that my psychiatrist would be like this. But that is him to a tee. He runs through his notes on me, and has me refresh his memory on things like why I see him. We end up talking about things that have nothing to do with what led me to him in the first place. He mumbles under his breath sometimes. He keeps his eye locked on the clock.
Today we were "doing great" with time, so he asks me about my plans for the future. I tell him that I'm terrified that I will be an administrative assistant for the rest of my life. He tells me that if I am, it is by my own choice. I tell him I want to go into a Master's program, but I'm interested a little bit in everything but not enough in anything to want to devote the rest of my life to it. He tells me that I have to find what I want to do and that I can always change what that is, even after I've started.
He's very to the point. His solutions are simple and--I don't like to admit--right on.
I told him I was bad this weekend. That I did extacy and got wild for my friend's birthday. He quized me on extacy with clinical interest.
I told him I want to be a writer. That I've always wanted to be a writer, but that lack of confidence and perhaps laziness has held me back. He asks if I've submitted anything anywhere.
"Well, I've had a couple letters to the editor published."
And he laughed a riotous laugh. That hurt because I'm very proud of my 125 published words. Then he tells me to bring him something to read. I agreed, but now I have to find something that he won't think is garbage.
Somehow, though, he makes me feel better. Seeing him is like my own version of confession. In confession, I understand that people sometimes hold things back. I hold back from him, but something in me wants to let him know it all. Of course, I let too many people know too much anyway--at least between him and me we have doctor/patient confidentiality. I am a very private person, and my ailments, history, and life of scandal is locked away in a vault inside my brain. I don't remember when I started giving away the key to that vault.
Yes, I wanted to wind up with a shrink like Anne Sexton's, who saw through the dark-side of her into the bright light of her talent and passion. A shrink who saw that through the desperation there was a hope and a will to live life and create.
I wanted Anne's Dr. Y who begged her to write for therapy, and encouraged her--who was there as at least one human who looked upon her as a worthwhile slice of humanity, rather than a possibly salvageable heap of nuerons.
Of course, Anne slept with her shrink. Suffice it to say that my therapy will not encompass that...depth of feeling.
It is a small thing, to rage in your own bowl.
Maybe you love him.
Maybe he's cute.
But if he won't wear a ______________
then give him the boot.
Now, of course you are supposed to fill in the blank with "condom". However, on the N train someone wrote in "strap-on". I must be immature, because I thought it was hilarious.
There was a new face, today. She got on at the first stop in Manhattan. I don't pay much attention to people on a bus, but this woman was wearing a bra. I mean, just a bra. She had some little sheer top thrown over it, but her enormous breasts (with headlights on full blast mind you) were right there. It was a sports-bra, white with blue trim, but it was a BRA nonetheless. I asked myself, is she confident, stupid, or just plain gross? Maybe a combination of the three.
What kills me though, is this woman is OBESE. Rolls and rolls of her nasty flesh poured over the top of her pants. Furthermore, she was the obnoxious, loud, "EXCUSE ME" type as she shoved her fat ass through the aisle. Truly disgusting.
When Destiny's Child sings "Nasty Put Some Clothes On" I am almost certain they are singing it to her.
Early release today...more later, maybe. Why not give me a Clix?
She has told me this a total of four times now.
She always ends with, "I'll have to bring him up here one day so you two can meet."
From years of experience with this type of thing, I can tell that this person is probably nothing at all like me, but is simply an obvious homosexual. In the world that L.B. lives in, I'm sure all homosexuals want to meet each other. In my world, however, my feelings on meeting this "twin" are demonstrated clearly by silence and blank expression in response to her enthusiasm about knowing two apparant yet undisclosed fags, both of whom are probably tired of her hidden match-maker agenda.
I'm really interested in all things "seedy" and "underground" and "secret". I'm like the cat that curiosity is said to have killed.
I have fallen in love with this woman's blog, and with her True Porn Clerk Stories. They are highly entertaining, absorbing, intriguing, and on and on.
It's not that I don't want her to, quite the opposite. I love my family dearly, and of course they are always welcome. And I would enjoy the chance to play tour guide for the Southern Belle sweetheart. But my apartment is very small. I have a kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom. That's it. I fear there may be uncomfortable "getting ready" moments. There's no privacy, basically.
Furthermore, my house keeping skills leave a little to be desired.
I told her not to expect much in the way of accomodations.
I talked to my parents about this, my mother being the cleanest person I know. I would eat off the floors in her house. Somehow those two work full time jobs, and still manage to never have dirty laundry or a floor left to mop.
My dad emailed me today and told me to get over it. To just deal. He reminded me that I have a long time to prepare for this and that I should have the apartment spic-and-span, and lots of energy saved up to give her a memorable trip to the Big City.
In this email, he referred to her as "plain as an old shoe", meaning that she is a nice girl who will not judge me because of my poverty. While he meant this as a compliment, I will have to have a talk with him about throwing "old shoe" similies around with regards to people. He may not realize that even though it doesn't mean something bad, it's a wee bit...well...well no one wants to share anything in common with a shoe, especially and old shoe.
~
Today at work the teeth of the tape dispenser tore flesh out of my pointer finger. I thought that I was going to bleed to death. Then I kept banging my knees into shit.
In the previous entry I mentioned ailments including my gluteus maximus--aka butt cheeks--being sore. After talking to my homeboy, who disclosed he had the same soreness, we deduced that the only out of the ordinary thing we did this weekend was play ping-pong. So it must have been caused by all those squats to pick up out-of-play balls.
Hasta la luna.
In other news, my gluteus maximus is sore, and I can't figure out for the life of me what I've been doing that would cause this condition. Additionally, I have a sty on my right eye, severe fatigue, and some back pain to boot.
"Is my sickness my own, or do we all suffer?"
Tonight, for the season premier of Sex And The City, I kicked it on over to the Upper East Side to pretend that I am Sarah Jessica Parker. I have been known to pull inspiration out of some strange places, but usually I deem SATC just light entertainment with some good fashion and sassy characters. However, tonight, I really, really felt what Carrie Bradshaw (Sarah Jessica Parker) was saying. She was telling the girls that she has a new relationship and she thinks it's getting serious; that she thinks she's even in love. That relationship is with New York City. My UES homeboy Kevondrala and I agreed that we should start viewing City life that way.
Share The Road. (from a common road sign)
What you basin' that on? (from a friend's co worker)
If, in this life, you don't like what you are, you have a right to be whatever you want to be. (from a transexual on Taxi Cab confessions)
I think the last one is epitomized by the amazing Cindy Jackson.
Not a lot of time to write lately, nor much to write about, so here are some fun links from yours truly.
I'm just a little bit obsessed with Paranormal Death Match. If you sign up and start playing, join my clan. It's called: BORG.
Of course, I'm still climbing the charts at The Rock Star Game, and I've gotten pretty good at Flinging The Cow.
Read some works from my "lesser period" (haha) at Thought Cafe.
Or, read some good material on everything under the sun at a new favorite website of mine, T Rex's Guide To Life. I aspire to have a simple, elegant, and informative website, but alas, I'm just a mere online diarist.
And you can vote for me and propel me to online diary fame by clicking here and voting for me at Clix.
Sadly, these links don't open in a new window because I don't know how to do that yet. But to remain here and check them all, to the "right click trick" and select "open link in a new window".
That's it for now...
When we were shopping, my friend reminded me that I am that person when you wonder "Who buys this shit?" I pride myself on seeing right through advertising and living a lifestyle of minimalism. But sometimes I find myself lusting after little trinkets and dust-collectors.
My real spending problem is for things that are gone after you use them. For example, I'm sure I spend at least $20,000 per year on coffee alone. When you throw in the occasional ice cream sandwich and take-out order, it's a wonder I can even pay my rent on time. Oh, wait, I can't pay my rent on time, hahahaha.
~
Word around the office is that I'm not one of the newly soon-to-be laid off.
Speaking thereof, I left the office at noon today for a doctor's appointment. I don't know what it is about me, but any time I go to the doctor with any sort of mild affliction, they have to call the whole fucking staff in to check me out. I become like some freaky side-show in the carnival of all of their days. At my doctors' offices they are notoriously humorless on top of everything. So the whole time I'm making self-depricating jokes and trying to lighten the situation, they're all noting what I'm saying, and jotting it down on their little pads or punching it into the computer.
Someone close to me swallowed a bottle of pills recently which simply knocked her out for 30 hours rather than the desired effect of putting herself back in they cycle. She commented that she must be indestructable. (I'm monitoring her and she is going to be ok, or I will do the job myself.)
But no one is indestructable. People get lucky. However, myself, I know the feeling of invincibility. I have been on the brink of destruction, and self-destruction, but risen from it. This 50+ neurotic musician at work--I'll tell the story of M.M. some other day--referred to me as "Lazurus" randomly today.
I am here, and alive, and I have to start acting like We The Living rather than the woman, who told Ayn Rand upon her departure from Soviet Russia, to "tell them that Russia is a cemetery and everyone is dying."
I don't want to start feeling that way about New York. And I won't.
That is so genius I can't even stand it.
More later...just being an insomniac.
Update: The link doesn't work anymore. It was a story about Chinese Snakefish--available for $9/lb in Chinatown, that got into a pond somewhere and are now wrecking the ecosystem. They can walk on their fucking fins and they eat anything. Pretty creepy.
Update: I politely asked him to step into the hall.
I have to disagree. As a loyal Madonna lover (note pictures throughout the website) I do not think that If I Were A Video that I would be Justify. While I do love Justify, and I do have qualities of said video, I think if I had to be one of her many, many videos that I would be either Bedtime Story, Vogue, Drowned World, Ray Of Light, What It Feels Like For A Girl, Dear Jessie, or Like A Prayer.
You know. I think I'm a little bit of every single one from her entire videography.
Just got in from a friends birthday dinner, got the landlord and his posse coming to fix the collapsing ceiling tomorrow, and, yes, this is what's on my mind.
Hasta la luna.
I wonder where some people get any idea that they are an authority. I happen to find very beautiful something they call ugly because of it's color scheme. But when is this color right here ever acceptable? Puke green is not so far removed from puke blue. Just add yellow, I guess.
For the record, it used to be this: 
In other news, Rupaul emailed me back, and it was the highlight of my morning.
More later.
Tonight I went over to my cousin's for a bit, dropped some knowledge, gained some myself, and came back to the luxury of life here in the Chambers.
Speaking of the Glamorous Life, I called my landlord today regarding the pending structural collapse of my apartment, and left a very polite yet firm message for him to come fix that shit. He called me back, arranged very definately that "the guys" would come by after 6:30.
I waited for three hours.
This evasion must stop. I have conferred with others about possibly calling the Channel 12 "Problem Solvers".
I feel like I live in a fucking slum sometimes.
In other news, my cousin--who did not attend the 4th of July festivities at my mom's house by the way--emailed me, stating that she will be up here next week for a client or some shit like that, and would like to see me, see the sights, etc for a couple days.
I wrote back about how exciting that would be and told her to call me.
Then I reread the email, and start to think that she means she wants to stay with me.
Suffice it to say that Cousin T--or any kinfolk other than Cousin M--will ever see this apartment in its current slum-poverty state.
So I have to get out of that somehow.
Tomorrow everyone at work will be in a meeting. I will use that opportunity to address the corporate-collapse, the War on Terrorism, the state of mankind, and the decline of Western Civilization. Or maybe I will just balance my checkbook.
So much changes in a half-year's time. Yet, everything remains the same. Coming off the expressway into town, I saw a little boy riding the lawn mower, pulling his sister behind him in a little wagon. It was almost enough to make me tear up--reminiscing on the way my life used to be and how a few different turns could have made things in the here-and-now so different.
I arrived to the ENTIRE family (we're talking extended as in family-reunion style) in my mom and dad's front yard, sitting in lawn chairs drinking iced tea and waiting to have a feat on hamburgers, hot dogs, and some select side items. I can't shake the wierd feeling I get around my family, because they really have no idea who I am anymore. I'm sure there's speculation, but there are so many facts of the life of a gay man in New York City that I have to keep from them.
My cousin informed me, as if she were providing a service, that my "favorite brother" was not there. They all know that we just do not get along. My homegirl says this is because we are polar opposites--Aries vs. Libra. I say it's because we have a twisted past were I was basically envied and abused for being something different. Something delicate even.
I gorged on food, hugged my mom, my grandma, my aunts, my uncles, my cousins, and sat out waiting for it to get dark and for the fireworks to start. The Town Hall is right up the road from their house, and they have a big bash up there complete with live country music! But everyone comes to Mom and Dad's because, well, there's a good view over the field (once set ablaze by my brother and I) of the fireworks, and avoidance of the huge crowd.
The scandal is that they tricked us this year! The fireworks exploded in a different spot in the sky. We all got a good down-home laugh out of this curve-ball.
If my grandmother were a race horse, her name would be THE NUCLEAR WARRIOR, because she is strong and seemingly invincible as she approaches 80 years old. However, she continuously plays the "I could lay here dead for two weeks and no one would know" card, which saddens me. I have to call her more often.
In other grandma news, my long hair was a big hit with both her and Mother. Surprise, surprise. I figured my mom would be chasing me with trimming shears...
I visited Charlotte, got blazed, and drove my ass back North. Saturday night I stayed in a hotel, as I had to have the car back at FOUR THIRTY IN THE MORNING, and couldn't manage the thirty minute drive. I have an obsession with staying in hotels. I've been known to do it in places where I have an apartment. Maybe it's the luxury. Although, the Greensboro Inn is anything but luxurious...the window in my room was strait up fallen out of the frame.
On flights with many seats open, the flight attendents always suggest that I might like to sit in the Emergency Exit row, as I will have more leg room (I am a walking lightening rod). Of course, sitting in the Emergency Exit row entails the responsibility of helping others in the event of an emergency. Being the selfless person that I am, I gladly accept the suggestion, and put my life in peril to save others', all for a little bit of leg room.
I took the day off work today. I am so jacked on iced coffee at the moment that I just can't stand it!
There's so much more, but as Madonna put into the cannon via song: "Words are useless."
When I got back here, rushing in frantic and sweaty with food and drink in-hand, the first person I saw was The Big Boss, and she wanted me to find her this document in my "files". Ha ha ha ha ha ha, I don't file. Since I had no idea where this mystery document might be, I paniced. I told her to just give me a minute, and made a call to ask someone to fax it to me.
The, lo and behold, I found it. I handed it over, and said, "Sorry about that, I use the chaos filing system," which got a giggle out of her, but what a dumb ass I am. I'm sure she's made a mental note of that.
The real horror will be if it ever comes up between The Big Boss and the lady that faxed it to me, that I asked her to fax it. Because it will be null and void that I did find it myself, I still asked someone to do some unnecessary faxing and...and...it's just ugly all over any way you look at it.
Why can't I just be Barbie? She has it so together. She would never be working in an office, and if she were, she'd be running that bitch. Barbie RULES. My obsession with her goes back to childhood, I'm sure, when my parents of course would not provide me with any Barbie's. So I had to play with the neighborhood girls', and reitterate the whole time that, no, I do not want to be Ken.
They woudn't get me Jem and the Holograms for Christmas, either, even though I circled it in the JC Penny's catalog.
This is only part of the reason I'm full of misery and pain. But I digress.
Anyway, the temp agency paid me 10 hours for six hours of work, even though most of it was training, and I left "sick" and never returned. Go ME!
On a final note, this best selling book about math kind of makes me happy, for strange reasons.
There have been random instances of this on occasion ever since. Two in the past two days. I was emptying my tray into the trash in the cafeteria, and I heard that name--Tom Green--come from a table where a bunch of girls were sitting. They were looking at me. I knew what they were saying. It caused me great pain. I just looked at the girl who had initiated the discussion of my similarity to Mr. Green, and told her, "I hate that." This has become my standard response.
Then this morning the grill-cooks were talking while I was filling my iced-coffee, and I heard that name again--Tom Green. (It is a little known fact that, despite my physical lackings, I have super-power hearing and vision.) I looked at him, and he looked at me with that "you know I'm talking about you don't you?" look that I'm very familiar with.
"I hate that."
I loathe Tom Green. It is typical of my life that I would have to look like him.
In other news, I get to live forever if everyone clicks this:
Tomorrow I will be in New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and North Carolina all in one day.
The Beautiful People seem to love me when my heart is pounding, my entire being covered with sweat, and my speech slurred.
I have been eating an insane amount of pork (the other white meat) lately.
Random question: Is it possible to overdose on multi-vitamins?
I took the day off work today to pull some things together before my July Fourth adventure through the sky to North Carolina. Honestly, I'm scared to fly, not only because I am eight feet tall and suffer the whole time, but also because of terrorism and non-terror related plane accidents. I know the whole "you're more likely to die in a car than a plane" bit. But somehow I think of cab drivers as invincible, and myself for that matter when I have a rare moment of being behind the wheel.
I cleaned this pit of despair up about 89%. I must nap before finishing the other 11%.