One Man Guy

How come whenever someone potentially awesome enters your life, there's another one to make things confusing? I've been running on a dry spell every since the rehab romance fiasco/psychotic break. I've had lots of time to reflect on how I should have paid attention to all the warning signs that this guy was damaged beyond my means of being able to help, and really the only thing I can come up with in terms of an answer is that if I had just gone back to using moderately instead of daily, none of that would have happened in the first place. But we all know that's bullshit. He was cute, I was horny, newly sober and not thinking with a normal brain. End of story.
So I've got this date tomorrow with a guy who seems perfect on paper and text. Who knows, maybe we'll hate each other in real life, but I'm pretty psyched. But there's also this other guy, someone from my past who I always thought was "the one who got away" because we have been violently ripped apart twice now over the past thirteen years. Things feel calmer now and I think we're both on the precipice of change - wanting something more out of life, being aware of our age. But I'm scared of him. I don't think I could handle a third meltdown with him. Plus, maybe I'm just old-fashioned at heart, but I don't feel comfortable dating two guys at once, even if it is casual. It feels dishonest. I think that's my real aversion to reality dating shows. It has nothing to do with eating a pig's vagina, it's that if you are kissing person A, you really shouldn't also be kissing person B.
Oh my god. I am a SECRET PRUDE!!!!

Tweaker

Damn it, I just met the one guy I would actually consider sleeping with on Fire Island (besides my secret crush), but after three seconds I realized his tiny spasms, which at first had an endearing nervous tic quality to them, were most likely meth itches.
Rats. He even had Thundercats tattoos.
But who cares, because I've got a real, legitimate date Friday night! With someone who seems ridiculously out of my league but fuck it, so far he seems cute and funny. Class issues don't have the same resonance with me as they once did. I like to think it's called GROWING UP.

Ils

Anna came out to the island with me for the day and made me watch this French movie called Ils (Them, in English). And GUESS WHAT! That movie The Strangers is a total rip off of this. Same plot, same spooky kids, same couple hanging out in a house in the middle of nowhere. Weak!!!! I don't think I have to tell you that the French version was miles better. Netflix this shit, and make sure to watch the trailer for The Manson Family. Good gory stuff.

The Necessary Tools

I went to see a bunch of Mexican death metal bands last night at a place that was rumored to be Matthew Barney's studio space but I think might have just been some sort of a Deitch gallery extension. But part of me hopes it really was Matthew's working space, because among all the meticulously organized boxes of miscellaneous tools like packing tape and rods was a box marked "metal nipples."

Outside a large pig was being roasted for pork sandwiches, and later the head got severed off and used as the headpiece of a staff brandished by one of the lead singers. During the next band someone got hold of it and the boar's cranium went flying everywhere until it landed smack on the inside of my leg. If I was a real dude I would have caught it between my knees, but I was too pissed off about the thought of having to wash my favorite jeans to react in time.

The bands themselves were just OK, except for the last one. They ruled. The crowd was a weird mix - lots of aging metal heads, fashion girls with Chanel bags, and tall, skinny fags. Good eye contact with a few of them, but no dice. Which sucks because finally, FINALLY my libido has returned. But I'm scared to do anything about it out on Fire Island. A walk on the beach there is enough to give you herpes.

Old Gays, New Gays, Fat Gays, Baby Gays

There was a recent time in my life when my response to this article would have been a 2,000 word rant on how it exemplifies every reason why I started this blog in the first place. Instead, I'll just let tears of blood flow silently down my face while giving thanks to the fact that I no longer work for magazines.

Cartoon Characters I Want to Bone

These two guys are my dream men. Bad asses with hearts of gold, guitars and guns. I've yet to meet their human equivalent. Except for one guy who reminded me of Snake, but he was a meth addict and I just can't stand that shit. Even I have my limits. Although I am posting about fictional characters I want to have sex with, so maybe my judgment is admittedly slightly impaired. But I swear I get a boner whenever they show Toki without a shirt on in Metalocalypse.

Move over, Cranberry Sierra Mist

There's a new favorite soda in town.

Thanks, Jo

Jo just sent me this. It's a claymation Satan that looks like he was designed by Bread & Puppet. He is the original fag who hates god. Also, Mark Twain looks like he wants to kill himself by the end.

Oh lord I can't stop

Another creepy lollipop song. wtf?

Lick a Lolly

If child molestation in the late 1970s had a theme song, this would have been it.

Movie Night

Drugstore Cowboy isn't helping.

Scourge

Does anyone else find it incredibly apt that whenever you read Page 6 online, a legion of cockroaches from the Bronx Zoo Madagascar exhibit ad swarms all over your computer screen?

SWF

Living it.

Excuses

It's been a week since I've been to a meeting, but I don't think I'll be able to go to one until Tuesday. Unless I make it back out to Fire Island in time for the 6PM tomorrow night. My sister agreed to pay me back a small bit of the 25k she borrowed so hopefully I'll be OK until this damn check arrives.
I don't know how I feel about meetings lately. The only thing they've felt good for so far is making me feel better about my life because I don't think I'm as fucked up as most of those people. I'd rather use the time to work or read or play fetch with my cat. Those things keep me off drugs a lot better then listening to people whine.
Jo keeps asking me if I keep any drugs hidden in the house and I always say no. She makes me swear on my cock and balls and I lie anyway. But last night she asked me again and asked me to swear on my cat, and I couldn't do that. So I came clean about the small stash I have left. It's nothing major but I feel somehow safer knowing it's around. I know this is a typical addict excuse and it just makes it easier for me to relapse if it ever gets to that point, but I physically can't bring myself to throw them out. The stuff I have left is too precious, too hard to come by to simply flush them. In my mind it would be the emotional equivalent of tossing a family heirloom into the Grand Canyon.
Pathetic.

Broke, Busted

Agggghhh the check from my publisher still hasn't come and now I'm trapped in the city with no food, $1.73 in my checking account, a maxed out credit card and a very hungry cat. I wish I was still young and dumb enough to not realize how soul sucking prostitution is.

Fawn & Lesbian Mom

Back out on Fire Island. I brought best friend #2 with me, I will call her Emily. On the ferry ride over she kept ranting about this Republican girl we know and her "psychotic vaginal whims," which didn't go over well with lesbians sitting behind us.
We spent the day on the beach. Tried to go swimming but got knocked down hard by wave after wave. Dumb bully ocean. After dark we talked about parenting in the 80s and Emily decided that the reason everyone in our generation was molested is because we were all latchkey kids. Then she told me that the first and only time she ever saw her dad's penis it was this giant, tangled mass lurching towards her out of the shower. We wandered into town and on the way got to pet a deer on the head.
Best friend #3, who I will call Jo (because she's a dyke, get it?) is on her way out to join us. Full house! God I want a beer.

Art Thief

Kara Walker's entire career is a rip off of Echo & the Bunnymen's video for "Bring on the Dancing Horses."

I Wanna Be Adored

The guy I broke up with this week while he was still in rehab just found out his mother is pressing charges against him for fraud because he racked up over 3k on her credit card while he was staying with me.
When I had found out he had his mom's credit card number written down on a piece of paper, I confiscated it from him. But apparently he had it written down somewhere else as well. The thing that kills me is that a good $500 was spent on flowers he bought for me on my birthday. The entire day the doorbell kept ringing and more and more flowers and balloons were brought into the apartment because he had been so messed up that he kept forgetting what he had already bought me and kept ordering more.
I think I should pay for those. He is having a horrible week and I feel totally responsible. I never should have told him he could come stay with me.

Dreams

Ever since I was a little kid I've had dreams that came true. Usually it's banal stuff, like I'll dream that someone I haven't seen in awhile walks up to me carrying a stack of brown dinner plates, and the next day that person will walk up to me out of nowhere carrying a stack of brown dinner plates. But sometimes it's bigger stuff. Thursday night I dreamt I was back in Minnesota, where I went to rehab, and I saw a massive tornado funneling down from the sky. It followed me everywhere I went. Last night I got an email from a guy I was in rehab with who lives in Minnesota. On Friday, a tornado touched down on him. The email read: "We owned the trailer home that the woman with 2 children were in when it basically disengrated around them.... I was actually out in the shed with the cows when the roof was ripped off over me, I really should be dead. But I am fine, just had to pull out about an inch of metal out of my foot that I stepped on."

I've noticed that these dreams are always clearer and more prevalent when I'm sober. I guess it's another reason to stay off the drugs, but there is no way to put them to any use. The guy who ran the cult my Dad joined when he left us told him that I was destined to be a prophet. I know that was just his way of keeping my Dad immersed in the organization, but maybe he was on to something!
Juuuuuust kidding, I'm not that delusional. Despite what some of you must think.

LCD

I wouldn't trade one stupid decision for another five years of life.

Usually I'd live by that lyric, but I'm about to go to a party where I'm required to take off my pants at the door. This kind of stuff was fun in the early 2000's when Avenue D was doing it, but now I feel like I'm in a bad remake of The Last American Virgin. With the original cast of Cocoon. I hate to be a dick about it, but Cherry Grove is not populated by pretty people. Then again, I hope I feel that free when I'm in my sixties. If I make it that far.

It's Time

In thirty minutes I will break-up with someone over the phone while he is still in rehab. It has been over ever since I sent him back, he just doesn't know it yet. I figured it was better to get him back inside first. I will now prepare to shut down emotionally to make this easier. After it's done I will walk down this pathway, go down to the beach, lay on my stomach under the sun and bury my face in the sand for awhile. Maybe I'll get a soda later.

Waves

Moved out to Fire Island last night, I'll only be in the city one or two days a week for the rest of the summer. It's dead quiet and empty here right now, exactly what I need. I watched Into the Wild last night for the first time, and I am terrified that is how my little sister is going to end up. She has already done everything he did in that movie, except on a global scale. She's either incredibly lucky or has better survival instincts. I think it's the latter. There was a line in the movie that keeps echoing through my head, something about how the ocean's power is to knock you down, and to sometimes make you feel strong. I'm going to go feel strong now.

Jezegate & Date Rape

I've been thinking a lot about the whole Jezebel VS Liz Winstead debacle (if you don't know what I'm talking about, read this and then this). I'm not going to weigh in on the whole 2nd wave feminists ranting against 3rd and 4th wave feminists thing because this isn't the place to do it. Plus, my opinions about what happened are utterly unformed, mainly because the event was called Thinking & Drinking, which is just a dumb idea and probably why the divorce rate is so high. You can't take what anyone says seriously when they are drunk. I spent all night Friday telling anyone who would listen that I boned the hot tall guy from Fanny Pack on America's Best Dance Crew. Totally not true, and I have no idea where it came from. I was drunk and just blurted it out and decided to keep rolling with it, because it made me laugh inside my head.
Anyway, the one argument that was raised in the whole Jez spat that I do want to write about is Moe talking about how she didn't feel like turning in her date rapist (full disclosure: I know both Moe and Slut Machine on a casual social level, but I'm pretty sure they don't even know this blog exists). Anyway, I empathize COMPLETELY with Moe on this matter. I am a little iffy on how to categorize what happened to me, but the short story is that when I was 18 I got wasted at a club and let a 39 year-old man take me home. When we got to his place I told him no anal because I was a virgin in that regard. He pinned me down with one forearm over my windpipe, did it anyway, and threw me out of the house. Is that date rape? Or regular rape? Or was I asking for it for being so dumb? When I told my little sister what had happened she spray painted "D----- S---- is a rapist" all over town, but I still wasn't truly convinced.

I didn't turn him in because at the time I felt I had no real categorization for what happened. I was a dumb, uninformed teenager and I didn't think guys could get raped. It just seemed like a rite of passage every young gay guy had to go through at some point or another. Also, he scared the shit out of me.
I know a ton of fags who have a story exactly like mine, including two guys who had it done to them by the same guy who choked & poked me. When I found out about them I felt terrible, because I went into the whole mind spiral of "If only I'd said something these guys would be OK." But I didn't, and then they got raped, and probably a bunch of other young guys did too and maybe it's even still happening today. But the statute of limitations has long since passed that I could ever press any charges now and it's thoughts like these that send me straight to the drug dealer. Even worse, I think the real reason I never turned him in is because I just flat out hate the idea of being a narc.

I know a pedophile that I could name right now. He admitted it to me one night when we were really fucked up at a packed bar on Avenue A a few years ago. We'd been making out and talking and I was telling him about a story I was working on for a magazine about a very specific, very messed up subculture of sexual fetishists. I told him about how I felt sorry for a lot of the people I had been interviewing, because while they had this particular sexual fantasy, they knew they could never act on it because they knew how horribly, morally wrong it was. The guy got really quiet and then said, "I'm a pedophile."

I said something like "Oh, really?," thinking he was making a stupid joke. But he was dead serious. He told me that what he really wanted more than anything was to have sex with REALLY young boys, like 8,9 and 10 year-olds. But that he, like the subjects I'd been interviewing, would never act on it because he knew how evil it was. I think he expected me to think this was OK because I'd just been talking about my sympathy for hardcore sexual deviants, but child molestation is where I draw the line. The conversation just sort of fizzled out after that and I excused myself to get a beer and I didn't see him again until a couple of years later, when he showed up as a recurring "challenge photographer" on America's Next Top Model. I hope to god or whatever that he has still never acted on his impulses. All I have are his pathetic drunken ramblings to go on, so there is zero case against him. If there was, I wouldn't hesitate to narc on his ass.

Gay AA (GAAAY?)

I have to stop going to gay-centric AA meetings. I just sit there and imagine what it would be like to have a sober boyfriend. I'm thinking pretty fucking boring, based on the guys I have to listen to.

Sorry, I don't mean that. I'm just hot and cranky and really want to get high and go to an air conditioned movie theater and eat Sour Skittles. It's weird to think that three months ago I could have done that and felt no guilt.

Name Calling

The "ex" who carried me home drunk on Thursday just wrote me to say he'd prefer to be thought of as a "friend I once dated." He thinks since we never actually said we were boyfriends it doesn't count. I think if you bone more than ten times and then break-up, it's OK to call them an ex, but I will honor his wishes. So from now on he will be referred to as FIOD.
BTW FIOD, semantics are totally gay.

Wagon Wheels

I'm back on the wagon. I had a three day bender, starting with Thursday night's birth of the bloodstain face. What I didn't mention is that I had to be carried home by an ex, who later told me that after he put me to bed I kept whispering, "What would you do if we were in Alabama?" Right after he left the next morning, another ex called me up and told me he wanted to sleep away our hangovers together, so he came over and we ended up having sex even though he is dating a guy who works in porn and I told myself I wouldn't ever sleep with him again because I'm terrified of STDs.
Friday was the Fourth, so I went a BBQ hosted by yet another ex, this one from my teenage years. He is gay engaged (engayged?) to a ridiculously hot, young Ivy League professor and I'm filled with such jealousy over their perfect, loving relationship that every time I go to a function at their house I have to do tons of blow to keep myself from crying.
So Saturday I woke up with a crippling, death-is-around-every-corner cocaine hangover, and that meant the perfect excuse to do my Drug of Choice, because it eradicates every ounce of horror you feel about the world.
I couldn't sleep Saturday night. I was still high and scared to take any Klonopin to help me sleep because it interacts badly with my Drug so I stayed awake until 7:30 and watched the sun come up. That afternoon I went to my first meeting since I got back from rehab two weeks ago. We'll see how long I last this time. I hope longer.
Today I went to a secret, deserted beach about an hour outside of the city with Anna and the ex I slept with on Friday morning. Got some good sun but was a little too freaked out to swim because the shoreline was covered with about ten million jellyfish, and I didn't feel like getting peed on today.

Bloodstain Face

I got so drunk Thursday night that I fell and cut my leg and just crawled into bed and passed out. The next morning I woke up to this bloodstain face on my blanket, sticking its tongue out at me.
I stuck my tongue right back out at it.

Pronoun Deficiency

Anna just brought up a really good point. She wanted to know if someone needs to unite with a minority group that they belong to, in an effort to better their political and social standing. My gut reaction to any type of question like this is No, it's a matter of free will. But it's a confusing issue for me. I will always fight for gay rights, I just don't really like most of the people I have to fight alongside with. Anytime I hear a guy refer to another guy as "girl" my skin crawls. Is every single gay man out there pronoun deficient?!
But then I look at the type of guys I usually date. It's always a closeted straight guy or a really out there character. Not flamboyant, just someone you'd notice in a room, either through a magnetic personality or their sheer insanity. Maybe it's because I secretly want to be that outgoing person. But I KNOW that I don't! Whenever I'm dating someone who is "animated," I want to keep them to myself, in my house, in my bed. I find myself getting angry and annoyed with them in public. I know this makes me a dick, but I'm trying to change, which is why I'm writing about all this in the first place.
Anyway, back to Anna's question. I'm willing to bet that the overriding answer, from a moral standpoint, is Yes. And I understand all the reasons why. But then you get all the infighting. Gays who are pro marriage and those who don't give a shit, and feel annoyed about being hassled by their friends about it. I empathize with both sides. In any minority group (or group, period) there is going to be infighting on which specific issues are most important. And it's all that policy talk and getting nowhere that just makes my heart sink and want to walk away.
That said, Yay California! At least something has gone right recently.

The Halloween Ass

And here it is. I can't believe this used to get me off as a kid. On VHS it was much grainier. Maybe that added to the mystery of it all since I could never really get a good, clear shot. Except for over my shoulder and onto the couch!
Heh. Sorry, friends who know I am. That was kinda gross. As is this photo.

Picket the Picketers

Just a heads up -- the psychos at God Hates Fags are now focusing their wrath on the war in Iraq. Except they believe all US soldiers are fags and are now picketing the funerals of deceased armed services members. GHF's new mantra is "We've turned America over to fags; Now they're coming home in body bags."
Check godhatesfags.com for a list of their picketing schedule. If you see that one is happening near you, get some friends together and see if you can keep them as far away from the funeral services as possible. I'm not advocating violence here or anything, maybe just a human shield or something. Do protesters even do those anymore? I feel like I haven't seen a good, solid human shield in the media since the advent of AIDS. Then again, maybe I'm too busy watching Gossip Girl to check out CNN.
So gay!!!! Jesus.

Halloween II

I was looking through a bargain bin of DVDs today and came across Halloween II. When I was thirteen this was the closest thing I had to porn. Not in some sick Dahmer way -- I'd rent the movie over and over again and always pause on the scene where the ambulance driver gets out of the hydrotherapy tub in the basement of the hospital. There was a split second before he gets killed where you could see his bare ass. My other favorite bare ass pauses were Christian Slater in The Name of the Rose and Billy Zane in Dead Calm. Our video store back then was located in a tiny section of the Key Foods grocery store, near the check-out lines. After about six months of renting these movies whenever I could, the scenes would always fuzz out if you watched them regularly because they'd spent so much time in still life, with me jerking off as fast as I could in the living room before anyone came home. I never got busted.
I didn't buy the Halloween DVD because I already own it. I watched the hot tub scene again today, playing it frame by frame and I got a much clearer picture. I felt bad for my thirteen year-old self, there are much better asses out there in the world. But this might have something to do with why I'm so attracted to burly working class types. The problem is that the ambulance driver was also a sexist, sex starved asshole. He knew what he wanted and how to get it -- by acting like a total dick. Maybe I learned more from him as a kid besides just realizing that I'm a top. I hope not. I don't want to be that person. But Fuck and Run has always been my mantra. It's just that I like to fuck for a few weeks first, and then run.

Flashback, '93

I came out when I was still in high school, in the early 90s. I took my boyfriend to the senior prom. (He was a 24 year-old senior at the local Ivy League University...It seemed hot at the time but looking back, it's just totally creepy). At the time I was out and proud. I attended local Act Up rallies. I joined a Queer Youth group. I wore those rainbow colored freedom rings around my neck when they first came out, for fuck's sake, back when you could buy them at Urban Outfitters. I went to more AIDS rallies than I could ever count. So there were never any issues for me at that age. I think maybe the gay shame stuff started when I got to college. It was a super liberal artsy place and seemed perfect for me, but everyone was SO liberal and political and in your face about gay issues that I got kind of turned off. Before, I'd been this sort of lone teenage warrior fighting the good fight on my own. But suddenly it felt like these causes didn't need me. These people were smarter than me, could speak better than me and were the biggest queens I'd ever met. Most gay guys I'd known up until that point had been sort of hippies or grungy guys with long hair, like me. Stoners and slackers with hearts of gold. This new group of political warriors were from the rave scene, did scary designer drugs and had highlights. I withdrew into myself and began an affair with my suite mate, a closeted jock from the school's almost non-existent basketball team. For some reason, having closeted sex with this male archetype seemed to be a an even bigger political statement than the rallies I'd used to attend. It was my silent "fuck you" to the uber gays who had made me feel like a dumb kid, because now I was boning the kind of guy they lusted after but thought they could never have. I used sex to make me feel better about not being smart enough for them. The affair ended badly, with the jock trying to kill me one night after we had broken up. I'd picked up a cute guy from the health food store on campus and was rolling around naked in bed with him when the jock busted in and punched three holes in the wall. He threw the health food guy off me, who then grabbed his clothes and fled. I ran into the living room to call campus security but the jock ripped the phone out of the wall. I still had the receiver in my hand so I clocked him in the face with it, knocking out two of his teeth. It gave me enough time to run out of there.
As fucked up as that was, I was secretly happy it had happened. It showed that the jock really loved me, and was man enough to prove it. None of those guys with highlights would ever tear down a door to get at me in a jealous rage. It was raw, male emotion at its strongest and scariest, and I was hooked from that point on. Watching gay rallies, which used to hold so much power for me, now meant nothing. I suddenly understood that the real fight was going on behind closed doors.

Blackout

Maybe I should lay off the Klonopin, or just start taking halfsies. I don't remember writing that last post at all. Go maple leaves? Wtf? From now on Klonis are for sleep problems only.

One More Color

Just got home from seeing a movie, The Happening. When did Zooey Deschanel become such a terrible actress? I used to love her. I remember flying on the same flight as her to Sundance a few years ago, right when she was just starting to get big. The security guards chose her for a random luggage inspection at the gate. They butchered her name over the loudspeaker and I remember we grinned at each other about how bad the mispronunciation was. It came out as Zooey sounding like "gooey" and Deschanel came out as "desk canela." They made her stand with her arms outstretched at the gate while they went though her luggage again. She looked only a little mortified but was actually pretty game for the whole thing.
It's hard for me to watch movies sober. The first film I went to sober after I decided to try and get my addiction shit together ended up having an entire subplot specifically about my Drug of Choice. I went home immediately after and dug some out of its special hiding place. This is what treatment calls a Trigger. My life is full of them, but they serve a useful function. If a party is boring me to death I can turn to the host or hostess and quietly plead my trigger case and there is no awkward moment about me sneaking out early. Granted, I usually end up at a bar getting nicely buzzed by myself on beer. Or if I am feeling particularly overwhelmed, I just go home and take a Klonopin (I have a prescription, nothing illegal there) and relax in bed with magazines and books.
I rented a place on Fire Island for all of July and August. I'm going to be spending a lot of time out there and I'm hoping it will help me deal with some of my gay issues. It's probably a mistake to immerse myself so fully into the gayest of gaywad islands ever, but maybe I will learn tolerance and acceptance for my fellow queers and their creepy gym bodies and plucked eyebrows and waxed chests. SICK!!!!! Ok, that's not fair, these are weak minded people who feel like they need a homogeneous identity to latch onto because they have none of their own to fall back on, and I guess I should really pity them. But I'm more scared of them. I'm not very quick with the acid tongued one liner. I'd prefer to just lay on the beach the whole time and read books by Tom Spanbauer.
Canada Day is officially over. I listened to the soundtrack to Atom Egoyan's film version of The Sweet Hereafter all day in honor of the occasion. Go maple leaves or whatever else it is you guys have up there. Oh yeah, universal health care. Hey - Don McKellar! Sexiest Canadian actor ever! Want to get married? My Cobra is going to run out soon.

Swimming Horses

My latest roommate just got stoned on the couch next to me and the video for Cities in the Dust by Siouxsie & the Banshees is playing on VH1 Classics. It's just like college, except now the word "classics" is attached to the songs I grew up with. I feel old but for once I don't feel like using. Oh wait, the video just ended and they're playing Closer to Fine by the Indigo Girls. Now I feel like using. But I won't.
I went and got a pedicure today with my best friend who I will now rename Anna. That's a pretty gay thing for a guy to do but for some reason it didn't bother me at all because it felt so fucking good to have my feet rubbed. For some reason this justification made the event less gay than getting a manicure. I don't really give a shit how my hands look, or my feet for that matter, but since I got something extra that felt awesome out of the pedicure, I can override any embarrassment about sitting on a vibrating chair and having a Korean woman dig dirt out from underneath my toenails for me.
Speaking of feet, I also make sure to always put my right sock on first because I'm scared my right foot will get mad at my left foot if I treat it any better than him. It's not as bad as that kid from The Shining, where he had a little man living inside his finger, but I feel like something terribly bad will happen if I do it backwards. I should mention this to my shrink.

Hello Tomorrow

I don't really hate god. I don't even know what it is. But I am a fag, have been ever since I can remember. I like to think I don't act like one though, and I'm told that makes me homophobic against myself. Well, that's what all the counselors in rehab said. I think it's less that I hate other gay people than it is that I hate loud people. And a lot of gays are really loud.
My rehab stint was recent and cut short once my insurance ran out. I suppose I could blame my few relapses since I got out on that fact, but I'll man up and take responsibility. My Drug of Choice is a bit harder to come by than most drugs so that makes not using easier, but when I put my mind to it I can always hunt it down. I still let myself drink and don't feel guilty about that because I know I'm not an alcoholic. A few pitchers shared with friends on a Sunday afternoon doesn't make me a lush. And beer doesn't turn into a "gateway" experience either. I don't like using my Drug of Choice when I'm drunk, it just ruins the effect.
I'm starting this blog for a couple of reasons. One is that it's my hope that whenever someone does a Google search for Godhatesfags.com they come across this instead. The other reason is that I've lapsed on keeping a journal lately and I hope that because this seems somehow more official (since it's in a public forum) I'll be more inspired to write for myself rather than just the magazines I already work for. I'm choosing to stay anonymous because of the small chance that this record is ever discovered by Fred Phelps and I become a target of his. I'm not scared of standing up to him, I just hate the idea of suddenly dropping dead from a drug overdose or a car accident and having him and his minions show up at my funeral to picket. I personally wouldn't mind, but if that ever happened I know that my sister would probably attack them with the knife that she always keeps on her, and I'd like to keep her from going back to jail. Even in death.
So, welcome. Hopefully I'll be writing a lot because I've got some things I want to get off my chest, mainly dealing with my weird gay shame issues, my drug addiction and my inability to hold down a relationship with anyone. All things that Mr. Phelps would probably use to his advantage in his argument that god hates fags. But I'm hoping there are more people out there in the world who can relate to at least one of my issues, than there are who relate to his. Please, prove me right.