Common Disbelief in Mankind

There’s so much that one person could do to satisfy their own animal urges to feel the justification of being an ass.  Absurd as it may be, being a bitch is the therapeutic absence of any conscience whatsoever.  That doesn’t mean, however, that people are bad; it’s the stress of living in an ever exploding world.   Everything one commits themselves to ends up becoming a paradox of priorities.  Do this or do that, it all blows up in your face.  That’s probably why humankind has made eschatological reason, in order to alleviate what we do in life.  Once the world ends, there’s nothing much more to do but live in an afterlife and maybe not even that.  Suspended in space and time forever and ever, ignorant of the life led before and prophetic of the life yet to be lead, sudden destruction has taken place.  With every outlet available to us in the form of internet, satellite television, spellcheck, etc… all these things create their own et cetera, that which culminates in feverish claims of being sons of god or sexual liberation.  How mortal we are, now more than ever.

Matters of doomsday truly do deter from the matter at hand.   If the world doesn’t ever end, what cultural insignificance do we have as coprolites of the twenty first century? Why has everything grown so cold, so metallic? Perhaps it’s not that it’s grown artificial but that it wasn’t ever genuine to begin with.   Standing outside, smoking a cigarette, in your own little way you contribute to growing global concerns about the weather.  Whether or not you drive or indeed smoke, the gases you emit into the air are nothing but uniform.  There are many different kinds of devices one uses to inevitably conquer all.  Love doesn’t exist anymore, only experimentation, and that’s besides a growing number of interest and curiosity for other sexual persuasions.  Perhaps orientation should be changed to persuasion, as it is just simpler to go on with life without the slightest bit of prudence in matters of this sort.  Again, we deter from the true problem of this all.  The planet itself is dying and perhaps it’s the lack of recognition of the earth as a planet.  When on land, one looks out onto the horizon, and if one lives in the plains such as I, the country horizon stretches for what seems to be infinity, from an urban perspective.  The earth is suspended in its own orbit in space, floating three planets away from the sun, a blue oasis of cloud, water and terrain that exists in the universe.   Perhaps the reason people are so bitchy is because of the fact that life may not exist anywhere else but here.  We are alone (most likely).

That said, being alone in the universe translates to being alone in the world.   That fear of not being able to pull out from a true waste of resources and not being able to survive on anywhere else starts to stress people out.  We are endangering ourselves, but is there such a thing as being able to extinct emotion? Fear of the coming apocalypse which we, not any deity, have succumbed unto ourselves is the biggest realization and foot in mouth.   Relationships with people are governed by their own level of comfort with the entirety of the human race.  Sexism, racism, ageism and homophobia all factor in on who we choose to associate with.  Misanthropy of any kind falls into one of two categories: fear and hatred.  To associate the word phobia is to suggest a fear of a certain group, object, place, nouns most of all.  To associate the suffix -ism creates, not necessarily a hatred, far from it, but a preference for that which is always opposite to whatever -ism is in question.  This accounts solely on nurture, not nature.  One is not born with dislike as standard factory installation although, I deign to believe I did, for myself.   Aside from misanthropy directly correlated unto yourself, one can hate a certain group that they are a part of.  Being gay, I sincerely dislike every type of gay, from butch to femme and all colors in between.   The fact is, this hatred, not necessarily of oneself but of one’s associative prowess, creates the need to express such dislike which in turn follows in a cycle where other groups seem more unfavorable than before.

What song comes to mind is “Across the Universe,” and the reason it comes up so vividly in the plain of emotion is because of its lack to apologize for monotony in one’s own life.  Nothing would change one’s world, because your world is composed of images, sounds, tastes and textures that are never concrete but when they are create a type of catalyst that enables one to examine his or herself to a point where the face you see in the mirror is not one of observation but of haughtiness.   No one is ever completely satisfied with oneself because what is self but the different things, immediately around you? However, it’s trite to try and blame those things on whatever because self has chosen to expose said variable to such states, such philosophies.   Besides being extremely ugly or extremely beautiful, those in the middle become either manic depressives or delusional narcissists.  Same goes for those in other extremes.  Is the earth the reason behind insecurity? Is gravity and other spatial phenomena the reason behind such internal chaos? Perhaps it’s just a matter of perfection, the desire for it and the ultimate realization that nothing really matters but the weather.  We might all be bitches, jerks, assholes and so on, but living in such a fragile state isn’t always all of our own fault. There are so many things that I can’t contend to, that I dislike, that I appreciate and that I damn. But there are so many things.

Paradigm of the Zodiac

Language is as vague yet colorful as the people drawn to obey it.  Whoever you are, wherever you are and in whatever context it occurs, language becomes of us all a brooding delinquency.  It is the worst of inconveniences and the safest of defenses.  It is met at our physical harbor with arms wide shut and eyes opened tightly; what a drama communication has become.  Verbs tell us what to do and tell them what we’re doing.  Nouns say who we are and describe what we choose.  Adverbs just act and react.  All of these tiny characters, at different degrees, define what has been made of us all: sad fragments in the wind, once full of pollen now breached with leaf, have disappeared in the orange glow of autumnal traffic and environmental cause.

And about those leaves, falling in the distance way out in front of us in the looming September.  They perfectly resolve and conclude all of our conflicts and stories that had unraveled in pure serendipity, a season ago.  It is with that departure of short shorts and wet foreheads that we welcome a new breed of intoxication; that of warmth, desired.

Vulgar Misconceptions

Whatever sex and the concept behind the orgasm meant to me before is completely different to what it means to me now. It’s the fast paced structure of the music that we listen too, the books we don’t read and the shows that apparently people of our age group do not watch, at least not on television.  It’s become an all too dramatic disposition and conundrum we’ve inherited from the liberal nineties and the restrictive and puritanical decade.  Sex for the young adult has been increasingly titillating, with people up for newer things and starving for the next big thing to sexually define the decade. But who knows what could become of sex.  During the formative stages of glistening adolescence, I saw sex as a way to express myself non verbally.  Good date, bad sex was met with controlled disappointment.  Bad date and even worse sex would be met at the barrel of a gun or the end of a pack of cigarettes.   But once I’d get that once in a million good date, great sex combo, I‘d grow suspicious.  The thought had donned on me that even though dates were dates and that it was only puberty and that they were basically just infomercials to sell me the concept of them getting into my pants, it made no sense to beat myself up about it.  Indeed it was just pubescent plunders, and as I bed more men, I began to long for a true relationship.  The relationships I had were with crazy sex driven men without a cent of class or ingenuity.  There was the guy who used to steal from my condom stash, the freak who like to roleplay Leopold and Loeb, the seemingly normal prospective yuppie with a rim job fixation, among others.  All of these strange, wild, crazy creeps totally turned me off on the concept that there were any reasonable gay men left out there.  I even tried to at least have sex with a woman: unpleasent.  It’s amazing to even look back and think how desperate, naïve and willing I was.  Nowadays, if a guy even tries to hit on me at a party I’d either retort with, “I’m a dude” or, “gosh, this rash is itching me.”  I’m so choosy now and I’ve come to the conclusion that I can’t settle,  I won’t.  He’s out there, I know he is, but you’ve got to think, I’ve been doing this dating thing for a while.  With a history of bad dates and affairs to forget that could fill up a whole wing at Fort Knox (information that should stay there I might add), it’s enough to just give up on the whole deal.  But I won’t, for two reasons: 1) I’m sick of being single.  I’m at a point in my life where it feels really sad not to have a man who cares for me.  Sure I have my guy friends, but they’re my friends and they’re animals.  I love them and I suspect they feel the same but it’s completely platonic: yellow roses.  I need to find a man who won’t just hold my hair while I’m throwing up, but one who’d kiss me afterward. That’s love: red roses.

The second reason I won’t give up on my search is that I truly believe that I’m worth it.  I’m worth having a guy, nay, a man who appreciates me, who loves me, who above all things takes care of me while letting me make decisions on my own.  That’s almost impossible to find in any sort of dating scene.  Try finding a nice, safe guy in the gay community.  There is no romance, no disguised requests for approval.  It’s all very shallow, out-there and unforgiving and the guys who could actually hold up an intellectual conversation are, for lack of a better term, ugly.  I haven’t met one decent looking guy who I can discuss and debate on a serious issue without him trying to make a move, agree with me mercilessly or not have a damned clue about whatever the hell I was talking about.  Which leads me to believe that I might be ugly, then.  I try not to think about it, which is actually a lie because the mere mention of attractive people walking by and I begin to cover my face, stomach and thighs in shame.  I might be cute in that metropolitan, brainy kind of way but emo good looks will only get you so far as a backstage pass and I hate side bangs.  I mustn’t be as attractive as I suspected I might have been.  One must remember though, confidence is glory and I try to exude that whenever an interesting prospect comes around.  It’s been so long since said Disney prince/Cartoon pilot’s been round that I’m starting to think I might freeze down there or it might be wilt for men.  I’ve had sex but I haven’t had more than sex, at least i’m not sure if suitor felt the same.  That moment when you sleep with someone and you look into their eyes and you see their satisfaction almost makes me believe in that stupid superstition concerning how much better giving is than receiving.  I’ve seen satisfaction, it’s just been allover a bedspread.  Hell, try car interiors or pavement.  Even if I’m not willing to settle for something less than exact, I can’t think of even how i will come to attaining it.  Perhaps things would be better if I were like all the other gay men in their earliest of twenties.  Rainbow beaded bracelets, pink A&F polos, skinny jeans and all.  If I were that, It would be so much easier.  However, if ever I’m summoned to become that, you the reader should find me and shoot me.  Twice in the stomach and just let me die slowly for I should suffer the sin of conforming to the unconformably queer and vacant style.  What is it going to take for a man to sweep me off of my feet who isn’t a total loser, swinger or short.  There are very few intellectuals left; or perhaps they’ve been avoiding me.  It’s always the guy I’ve already had and/or don’t want that undyingly would prefer me.  What about me screams stupid whore? Is it the hair? Because the volume just elongates the face.  Forget what you heard about big hair.  The higher the hair, the bigger the hole is a vulgar misconception that I take to the deepest elbows of offense.

So, what gives? Am I destined to a life of either going to bed alone or not going to bed at all? I assume so.  I’m never getting married, I know that for a fact.  I assume so at least, if congress and the voting American public have anything to shit about it and  I don’t give a shit if it’s never going to be legalized, that’s not what this is about.  Sadly, I know no one would ever (seriously) propose to me and I could never do that.  I’d rather have all of the hair shaved off of me and swung vertically down a slip-n-slide.  It’s not like I believe in marriage anyway.  It would feel so nice to not end up alone.  I fear that, I really do.  It’s not something to be taken lightly and it’s not just some stupidly trivial or emotionally driven fear exposed to me during my extreme youth at the hands of shows concering thirty something year old white people and their two ethnic friends. It’s no impulse; if I could find a man to love me and take care of me, I would more than reciprocate.  I don’t live to cater, but if the right man came along I’d be grateful.  I wouldn’t even expect you-know-what back.  And that’s not an advertisement, it’s a fact.  I assume that I’m still a bit immature and idealistic but if I’m anything, I’m angry, bitchy and fed up.  Where the hell are you, you selfish bastard? Do you even exist? And if you do, what’s taking you so fucking long? I guess my biggest fear is that we’ve already met and I either blew you or blew you off.  In any case, I’m here.  I’ve been here.  Even when I was with man, I’ve been here.  I’m not necessarily waiting, but I’m available.  And for that matter fuck marriage, straight up.  Just because I can’t be happy, doesn’t mean I can’t have fun.  But, I guess my anger lies in the fact that, I’ve just had about enough fun as it is.