I have no legs (4/?)

The last few weeks have been boring. More of the same boring days. The one positive thing I have to say is about a video I found in the hospital reference room. It's entitled "The Young Strays: A Collection of Youth on the Rise".

I'd heard about the Young Strays Organization (YSO) before I found this video, but I didn't know much about it. The organization is not far from my hospital. The building is located just off the coast. It's about a 30 minute drive away.

The video was sort of interesting. It's narrated by this pretty middle aged woman. At the start of the video, she gives the viewers a tour of the building and describes what the organization does. The organization's goal is to "improve the lives of the youths in our program by guiding them into seeking career opportunities while also helping them realize the benefits of being a part of a community."

The video trudged on. The woman did a lot of explaining and I was losing interest, but towards the end I finally got to see the kids and hear a few of them talk. The woman interviewed one 15 year old boy, Andrew, who was so obviously giving scripted answers to the camera. I got the idea that he wanted it to overly appear that way too. His responses were exaggerated in such an obvious way. It was as if he was thinking in his head, "Yeah, here is my scripted response!" The woman interviewing him didn't seem to tell the difference, she was loving his answers. In response to being asked about how the young strays organization had influenced his life, the boy said "The young strays have really helped me see career goals that are going to be a benefit to me in the future. The young strays organization is helping me realize that I can succeed!" 

The fucking smile on this kids face after he finished speaking was so fake! He probably went and laughed it up with his friends after the video. I'd like to hang out with these kids and see what they are actually interested in. 

I asked Barbara the other day to take me to the young strays next week. She said she'd get back to me about it. Barbara always keeps her word, so we'll see what happens. 

I have no legs (3/?)

Today was an interesting day. I get a descent amount of mail I guess, most of which I don't give a shit about. That makes me just like everyone else right? My parents insist on having the youth ministry at the church they belong to send me these 'get well soon' smiley cards, gift boxes, and various other stuff. The people that send me this crap I've never met, or maybe just once or twice at the most, so why am I getting it? They ought to go give their mom or someone that they actually know a gift, not someone they only know of.

I got a package in the mail from my cousin Dana today. She mailed me three seasons of the show Jackass on DVD. She's cool. I enjoy getting to see her although it's not very often. She knows I like Jackass, so it's a good gift and it made me feel good to know she was thinking about me. She definitely likes her style. If you've ever played the computer game Backyard Baseball, Dana looks like Keisha Phillips.

She's fucking good at everything too, just like Keisha. She played volleyball at the University of Hawaii and now she coaches at a high school. She and her friend come visit me when they are in town which isn't very often. When they visit me, they are so up. It's like they're on crack or something. I can't figure out whether she and her friend are just super pepped up or are trying to pretend to be excited to see me. It's weird. Her friend is funny. I can never remember her name, but she always acts out this same routine when she sees me. She'll be abnormally quiet at first and let Dana do all the talking and then she'll randomly start acting just like Dana. It's odd, and seems like they are putting on a show for me. It's entertaining. I swear man, crack or something.

Johnny Knoxville. What a cool dude. His crew is so cool. They all go out in public and fuck around. What makes that show funny to me is not what they do. The makeup, strange outfits, and the crazy stunts they pull aren't the reasons why I like the show. I like the show and watch it just so I can see the reactions of some of the people they perform jokes on. A lot of the time, the jokes don't even get in the way and aren't initially directed at the pedestrians. The pedestrians are the ones who make the show funny.

In this one episode, Johnny acts just like Forest, a patient on my floor with a form of low functioning mental retardation. In this one episode of Jackass, the pedestrian who sees Johnny on the street gets really upset, and all Johnny is doing is dancing like I imagine Forest might in the area close to the guy. So fucking funny. Why did the pedestrian, some 40 year old dude walking by himself, give a fuck? The pedestrian goes up to Johnny and tells him to act right and all this shit. It amazed me to see that guy get all worked up over nothing.

I've known Forest for awhile, well I mean I've seen him for awhile now. He doesn't know what the fuck is going on. He's just there. Get what I'm saying? He doesn't feel emotion like you or me. He has a mental handicap. If the nurses prepared Forest a meal of steamy corn infested shit, and I literally mean shit, I'm positive he would not be able to tell the difference.

I have no legs (2/?)

It's whatever. Don't get me wrong, I like the idea of physical advancements improving everyday life. I like my wheelchair, like the elevation controls on my hospital bed, and my fucking toothbrush. That stuff doesn't bother me.

What bothers me is my longing for a good friend. You would think someone in my situation is given plenty of attention and can participate in plenty of games with a lot of people. You would be right to think that. Most of that stuff is complete shit though. I hate being just given attention, the more I am, the more fake it appears to me and it's depressing. Part of me is angry at the world, not because I have no legs and am physically different than others, but because my disability seems to bring out the bullshit in people. My ability to meet a good friend has got nothing to do with my legs, but to so many people, it seems to have everything to do with it.

You may wonder why it is that a 19 year old lives in a hospital. I am living in a hospital by choice now. After teenage rehabilitation, you can of course go find living for yourself. I don't want to go back to my parents house. I've spent plenty of time there troubling them.

I have more opportunities to meet people inside and outside the hospital by living there. I am active in this hospital program with other physically handicapped people where we all go to rec centers, arcades, and other common places like that.

Here's what I wish wouldn't happen. I wish the hospital staff wouldn't structure the environment so much when we go out. There are a lot of girls and guys that volunteer with my hospital so that they can get the hours they need for whatever organization they are apart of. These people, often about my age, staff the events. I really wish most of them would fuck off. Although they mean well, as I've come to try and convince myself to believe, they are inadvertently preventing me from getting to interact with the public in a normal way, which pisses me off. If you were at the place I was at in public, I'm sure you would realize the handicapped people are in a controlled environment. Fuck that so much. Also, I am certain that these volunteers would act differently in public if they weren't with handicapped people. That thought irritates me. The volunteers are usually different each time though, so I try and have hope that I'll meet one that just talks to me instead of doing pretty much nothing for a whole afternoon.

I would prefer it more if I was just dropped off somewhere in public for a few hours rather than being in a controlled public environment. I swear I would embrace the experience more if something bad happened to me. Like if I was taken advantage of somehow by people or made fun of for having no legs. I'd inwardly smile if I saw a group of young people pointing at me or concealing laughter about my physical handicap. "Look at you hotshot, way to put me down for nothing. Your environment has really fucked you up good hasn't it?". If only those fuckers could know that I wouldn't trade places with them for the world. Despite the bullshit from these people, it'd make for a more enjoyable experience for me than to be met with fake conversation in public. But in the heads of my volunteers and Barbara, the hospital event coordinator, being made fun of would be the absolute worst thing that could happen for a handicapped person.

I need the attention, damnit, but not in the way the staff thinks. That's what pisses me off. Whenever I go around the rec center in my wheel chair, I try and meet people. I'm not the best conversationalist and wish I was more quick with my words, but I know how I am. I'm a real person and present myself as such.

That's what separates me from so many people. I don't want to say I'm above them, but to me, I am. I don't know how I can think otherwise. People are just so full of shit. A big part of maturity is being content with yourself and your abilities, and to me, a friendship starts with possessing the ability to recognize a person's difference, but not changing anything about yourself when you meet them. My lack of legs have pretty much nothing to do with it.

I have no legs (1/?)

It's been that way as long as I can remember. Oh wait, yeah, that's because I was born with this shit. It's a genetic disease, my doctor has always said. The disease is called Phocomelia. I was born without legs. In most cases this disease is hereditary, meaning someone in my family has had it. This was the case with me. My grandmother on my mother's side was born without a left leg. Unfortunately, be it by genetics or by God's decision to physically smite me, I was born without both.

You should see my arms.. I've got the strongest arms ever. Want to arm wrestle me? Forget it. It's over, I'd win. I just turned 19 and I don't have prosthetic limbs and I don't plan on getting any. Depending on what kind of medical coverage you have, you may or may not be covered to get prosthetic limbs. I've seen amputees and have talked to a few of them that talk very highly of their prosthetic limbs. Some of them are very pushy about it. They tell me about how much their worth getting and all that. About how much more normal they feel now. I hate their way of thinking and talking. To me, they now talk to me just like the people who have had legs their whole lives and consider me worthy of their misplaced sympathy.

Fuck that shit. The people that come and greet me that have, and have always had, both arms and legs I have gotten accustomed to giving a pass to. When I say I give them a pass, I mean I pretend to get the same experience out of seeing them  I feel the opposite of what most people would think. I feel sorry for them. I feel sorry for the fact that they are so low of human being that they look and talk to me as though I have a disease. Not every person is like this, but the vast majority of people are. They want to be good people, in their own weird sense, but to me they are bad company and are fucked up. These people are so quick to offer their condolences and tears. Man! I envy them! I want to feel that way. I can notice within about the first 30 seconds of seeing you if you are going to talk to or look at me as someone that has no legs. I'm 19, but when it comes to people, I swear I've seen it all. 

Anyway, I got off track. "Normal people" or the ones I grant my sympathy to, I can handle. I've seen plenty of them and I know how to act. It's these guys with their new prosthetics man. These guys that come in and talk to me about how great their new prosthetic legs are. About how it has really changed their entire outlook on life. I really get upset at hearing shit like that from these people. One guy who I talked the most with went through rehab with me. I considered him a very good friend. We motivated each other to get stronger.

We did too. We both excelled in rehab and became strong. Both mentally and physically. We built each other up when we were feeling low about our situation. We fed off of each other's energy, I think. Looking back, this is because of the attitude we had towards each other. We both were born with Phocomelia and without both legs, and when younger, neither of us had any tolerance towards someone else feeling bad about themselves. After completing our teenage rehabilitation, I thought he was just like me.

Despite the show that he put on to me about his prosthetics last week, I know what he went through. I know how hard we worked out together. I saw him struggle and he saw me struggle. We stayed at the same hospital for nearly 2 years and saw each other just about every day. 

He walked into my room last week and it was as if he was a completely different person. I swear he wasn't the same guy. To tell you the truth, I'm most scared of getting prosthetic limbs because of him, not the Iraq war vets that I'll sometimes visit with. 

I know this guy and his name is Sam. Everything about him changed when he got his prosthetic limbs. It was as if his life had been reborn. That's how he was seemingly describing it. It was a new life that I wasn't privileged to be a part of, or that I had to change to be. Such a fucking hypocrite. When we were younger we both talked, and eventually joked, about how we hated having people come and talk down to us. He was doing this now and it made me sick to my stomach to see from him.

Sam agreed to some hotshot filmmakers to do a documentary about his life before and after his prosthetic limbs for money. Now he's got some sponsorships and shit like that going for him so he can make money from his situation. Bunch of bullshit if you ask me. He wears clothes other people tell him to wear and shit like that, you know. 

I didn't have the tolerance for Sam when he came into to my room pitching me about how seemingly great it now is to be him. He used to be someone who didn't like the attention, who would embrace and challenge himself just because of how it made him feel. Maybe I'm wrong about Sam though. I mean obviously he didn't feel the same about our rehabilitation as I did. I felt good. Committing to rehabilitation had nothing to do with whatever benefits I received from it. We, or at least I, didn't commit to finishing rehabilitation 3 months before expected because we wanted to impress anyone or to get physically stronger. Sam and I committed and worked hard throughout our rehab because fuck it, that was a challenge we, as humans, decided to embrace together. And we fucking did it. When you turn 15 and have Phocomelia, you're supposed to go through teenage rehabilitation in 16 months. Sam and I did it in 13 months just for the fuck of it.

Do so

"Don't worry about the things you can't control. We can leave tomorrow. You understand don't you?" She told me, full of confidence.

"I don't feel okay about this," I said back. "You know we're leaving here eventually. We both don't like it here, but lets not just get up and go. We need to think this through."

"What if I said I didn't care if you kept drinking? You know I don't care about that. You would drink anyway, wouldn't you? If that makes you love me then that's fine. I've always loved you. Don't you fucking get that? I want you with me. If we leave it's not going to be me, it's going to be us."

"Just listen to yourself. You know I love you. What would you have me do? I'm finally away from my parents and I have my own place. I love that you are staying with me and I wouldn't have it any other way. We can't leave all of the sudden. Where are we gonna go? It would be different if we knew people in Seattle, but we don't. What will your parents and sister think if we just left?"

"Yours wouldn't give a fuck if you left would they!" She enjoyed saying that. "We aren't best here, you and me. There's more to life than the people we see here everyday. You belong with me and we belong somewhere else."

_________________________________________________________________________________

In the end it didn't matter. She was right. She was right all the fucking time goddamnit. Maybe I let her be right. Fuck it, what's the difference? The real truth is that I would have drank myself to dysfunction had it not been for her, but that isn't what she thought of my drinking. A long story shortened is that she saved me. She didn't realize that my drinking was a supplement to my wellness, not a crutch for me to love her. I loved her and still do.

And you know what happened? We fucking went, that's what fucking happened! No plans, no nothing. Just a little bit of money and a lot of wishful thinking. We had each other and that was enough, right? Wrong. Not enough. Why couldn't it be enough!

She said one thing in our biggest fight that stuck with me more than anything else. "You were always looking for some kind of meaning when there was none. It irritated me. You made me feel like I wasn't enough."

Let me tell you, out of everything I heard from that dirty fucking mouth of hers I hated that bit most of all. I've always felt a little paranoid. She was the answer though. This was the problem though. Just her being there was the answer. She said a lot of this and a lot of that, but in the end that wasn't what separated us.

What separated us were her reactions to my behavior. She believed I wanted to just get fucked up and write all the time and not spend any time with her, which was a bunch of bullshit. Like she said, she didn't care if I drank. She thought I was making up for something by drinking though, which isn't true. Well maybe it is, but my drinking never had anything to do with my love for her. The truth is, I made time to spend away from writing and whatever else to be with her. She knew that too.

I drank and still do drink. I like to drink and write. Fuck me, right? I made sacrifices for her and stuck to them. It was never enough though, and I guess she figured she would justify my behavior with her actions. She said that my desire to be alone made her love Darren. Fucking bullshit. It's always gotta be someone you know too, doesn't it? Your girl never gets with some random guy. Or maybe they do, what the fuck do I know.

I found an apartment near Capitol Hill, Seattle. The place was cheap and there was a bar within walking distance that we started to go to. We met this Darren fucker at the first bar we went to. It was pretty nondescript. He was a local Seattle guy. I liked him at first. What the fuck was I thinking. He had his lip pierced and had his hair pulled back. Fucking whatever. Who knows what that cocksucker told Katy so he could get in her pants. He knew we were together when we first met. He promised to show us around town.

And yeah, you know, he did all that. Some girl all blacked up and dressed in rags was with him. Real fucking trendy. It was a double date according to Darren. We went to this and that coffee shop and various thrift stores. Katy would later say she loved "the atmosphere.. the way things are here.. the beauty is all around us.." Whatever.

When we were in Seattle and went out, I used to wish that some people in public would yell at Katy. I then imagined myself telling her that they were wrong about whatever it was and then she'd be closer to me. Sometimes when I was with her, I used to get the idea that there were two sides. I was always on hers, mind you, but there was always another side trying to bring her down. To this day, I still believe that part of her liked getting yelled at, I swear. She fell in with that fucker Darren's posse of local people and I have no idea what she's doing now. She doesn't talk to me. It was always up to her though, so now maybe she's living for her. But again, what the fuck do I know.

_________________________________________________________________________________

If you must know, I'm doing alright for myself now. I occasionally struggle with the ending to my writings and I sometimes find myself stylizing things too much, but hey, I'm getting better. Without the style, I'd have nothing.

I live alone, have my own place, and am back where I started. I'm able to sleep with the cute young girl on the occasional lucky night. It works for me and for her. I keep myself with good company and I try not to isolate myself or drink too much, though I firmly believe both are essential to my writing and happiness. I miss Katy. If things were alright with her, it'd be so great for me to hear that from her. That would never happen though. If I heard from her, I have full confidence that it would be negative.

Oh the good times though. As down as you may be, you have to have had some. The good with Katy is what I remember. Her words of encouragement were always something I relished hearing. The good always overshadowed the bad. She was great. The sex was great. She would read something of mine and love it. I loved her so much. I believe that if you love and remember the good from someone, you will always love them.

If you think you have true love and are sharing that with someone, do so. Do so until you can't anymore, then come see me. I'll be around.

A quick runoff

The knife slips in. In and thin. The mirror reflects the bliss you feel and shows you the physical beauty that harbors the storm inside you. You turn and look at me. Those eyes. They're dilated. You look up at me. An unforgettable look. Your black makeup has mixed with your tears to create a new form. Though your screams are real and I'm listening, I'm thinking about the symbolism of the new form. Tears are your sadness and the makeup is the hate. The terrible truth is that you love it. You love and live inside the hate. I don't, which, maybe unconsciously, is why you have chosen me to reveal yourself to.

You're no secret to me anymore. I believed you were my sunshine, but now you're weak. I have been misled. 

Hate fills you up and you continue to spit it out at me. I'm not holding back a feeling that I don't have. Maybe, if I felt bad, I could somehow live in a sort of solace with you. Your world of inner hatred could become ours. Unfortunately though, I know I'm not really helping you, but enabling you.

You're laying down now, visibly uncomfortable. You just screamed at me not to look at you. Screaming at me because you think I believe you to be a freak. I don't believe you're a freak. I'm comfortable with how I am and I am here to help you.

For so long, I thought you were just as freaky as me. It was all a game unfortunately. All the sex and drugs in the world could not change this game. A game based almost entirely on your feelings. 

You continue to scream and cry and I start thinking about my friends and their girlfriends, all of whom you have seen. These friends of mine continue to fight with their girls that have similar problems to yours, but you don't really know any of the girls. Their real problems are ridiculously similar to yours, but you'd never know because of how dishonest and inwardly hateful you are towards them. Your feelings are like a special fucked up power you think is distinct to you, but, in actuality, it's what makes you weak and isolates you from everyone else. 

Too much dreaming

What makes two people connect? God, if only I could know! Is a connection something that occurs over a certain period of time? Do you reach a point where your soul and another intertwine?

I like to think in the following way. When I am honest about myself and am happy, I project the best of me. I am the best of me. I can't offer anyone else anything more and I am in a position where I shouldn't expect anyone else to offer any more or less than what's best in them. If you present yourself in the purest of ways, you should only expect and be prepared to receive the same. I'm so in love with people. I see the way in which they are untrue. I know that I cannot be them. I see their petty struggles, but I am not a part of them. It's so fucking sad. I want to remedy everyone's bullshit. 

Then what? Will they be on my level. Or wait, will I be on theirs? Will the tears in casual conversation stop flowing? Will I somehow be free? I want to be free of all the misplaced insecurity.

Maybe I want something that can't be obtained? Too much dreaming and not enough living will isolate you.

Reminders of what I miss

I miss the dreams I used to have in grade school. I miss driving around in my car listening and singing along to music. I miss living in the world I had created. I miss the stories I would write and never finish. I miss the old music I would listen to over and over again. Sometimes when I get drunk enough, I'll somehow remember an old favorite song. I'll quickly listen to it and remember the exact feelings I felt while listening to it when I was younger. Those memories don't stay though. They come and quickly go.

I miss how great it felt to be alone, to not have to share myself with anyone. I miss running up and down the stairs in my parent's house without feeling pain in my knees. I miss playing basketball alone. I had created a way to love myself in a way that didn't involve anyone else.

Most of all, I miss the innocence. There was no more pure a time for me than when I was innocent. I played basketball by myself today and there was a young asian boy playing basketball on the other side of the court by himself. He was maybe 9 years old or so. I abruptly stopped playing and started to watch him.

His back was facing me and I evaluated his play. It seemed to me that nobody was teaching him how to play, and he wasn't naturally gifted. He was shooting the ball with great form and was trying to keep the ball low on his dribbles. I could tell he was intentionally doing these things. I could tell it wasn't comfortable for him. To me, he just didn't have the look of a boy receiving coaching. I guessed he was copying the basketball form of someone he had seen play. He was trying really hard. I could tell he wanted to get better. I wanted to go over there and show him a thing or two, but I didn't. His mother was watching him intently from the bench. She was so excited whenever he made a shot. She was so happy. She came onto the court and gave him a big hug when he was finished playing. He looked embarrassed when his mom hugged him with that smile of hers. After some obvious irritation, he let his mom hold his hand. Like any kid, I'm sure he would have wanted to avoid the attention in public from his mother. But I saw this smile come onto his face. He let his mom hold his hand and gave her this smile. They walked off the court together with his mom sort of leading him out.

When the boy was walking out of the gym with his mother, I pretended not to look at them. But I was. I was taking shots on one side of the court purposely so I could watch them. After they left, I about emotionally lost it, but you'd never know it. I had already been in the gym for about an hour and a half and was exhausted as hell from playing, but I decided to play extremely hard for the next 10 minutes. I wrapped my headphones tighter around my ears, selected my favorite Paul Keeley song on my phone, and played hard. I preformed quick crossover dribbles followed by quickly released jump shots. Despite the increasing pain in my knees, I decided I would jump higher on all of my shots. My concentration level became extremely high, and a certain desire was fueling my play. I made almost every shot. Something like 23 out of 25 shots. I would run around to the top of the three point line, take the shot, then quickly hustle to the basket to retrieve my made shot. I wanted to get myself as tired as possible and still make everything. I wasn't thinking about basketball at all, I realized. I was trying to prove something to myself. I was thinking about the joy that little boy must have been feeling after showcasing his basketball skill to his mother.

After about 10 minutes had gone by and I was physically exhausted, I paused to think about what I had just done. My shots had been pure. Ridiculously pure. I was shooting the ball with complete ease. After finishing, I noticed the 7 people who had stopped and sat down on the benches to watch me. While looking around, I could feel the looks from the people above me running laps on the track. I then became sad, as I realized what I was trying to do. I was trying to emulate the feelings of that boy and his mother who weren't there. In a way, I was playing as that boy. That boy had given me strength. He had somehow fueled my desire to play harder.

I became angry with myself. What weird feelings I was making up in my head. What did it matter if they were there, anyway? It wouldn't have mattered. I was trying to prove something. "But what am I trying to prove?" I thought to myself in disgust. I pounded the ball onto the hardwood floor in anger and then left. The people watching me must have been so confused.

Just another night

For one of the first times in my life, I'm drunk and wouldn't rather be anywhere else or with anyone. I'm happy now. I'm happy here.

I'm doing two things I never thought I would do. I'm sitting in my dad's recliner and drinking his whiskey. I'm alone. If he woke up and wandered out into the living room, I would pickup on his mindset instantly, assess it, and then him and I would probably shoot the shit. I love my dad.

I hate that sound. I still hear it every day. The sound of the family refrigerator dispensing ice into my dad's whiskey glass. It's an unmistakable and unforgettable sound.

Tonight I made that sound. Tonight I mixed the Jack and Coke. Tonight I'm sitting in the recliner. I'm not speaking or lamenting though, I'm writing.

I'm sitting in this recliner, drunk, and wondering what it feels like to be my dad. I'm imagining what goes on in his head. I just looked over at the empty couch and pretended a young 10 year old version of me was sitting there. I can imagine what I would be doing. I wouldn't be sitting still. I'd be cheering for the Lakers on TV probably. I wonder what my dad thought of me then.

I was at a bar near my house earlier tonight and I chatted it up with the 30 something bartender that I know works the weekday shifts. She's a cutie. My dad hit on her the only time I went up there with him. He was drunk. She remembered me when I first started coming in to the bar to see her.

I also met the barback tonight. His name is Fleet. I talked to him for about 20 minutes. I couldn't believe what he said he used to do for a living before working at this bar. He used to play poker. Go fucking figure. I couldn't believe it. I could tell he really played, too. He knew his shit. Although there were other things about poker we talked about, we mainly discussed the differences between online and live game play. He told me about the money he lost on FullTilt when the site went under two April's ago. He's in the process of trying to become a bartender and said he'd been working at this bar for 3 months as a barback. Best of luck to that guy.

One of the waitresses walked up to the bar and took a seat near me. She looked tired as hell. She had just gotten off her shift and ordered a gin and tonic from the bartender. She had great tits and pretty smile. I was thinking about her when she looked over at me. She made a slight smile, then casually looked away. I smiled back then looked down at my drink. After, I imagined myself ripping the button down shirt off her. Next, I saw myself pulling her tight jean shorts and panties down then picking her up and fucking her really hard on the counter in the men's bathroom. I imagined her yelling. Yelling at me for more, but also yelling at something else. She must have been yelling at the thing all men would love to understand, I thought to myself. I kept envisioning myself grabbing her thighs tightly and thrusting my dick in and out of her.

As if almost on cue, the bartender interrupted my thoughts and brought me my tab and said "We're closing sweetie, see you next time." I tipped, said goodbye to the few people there, and drove home. Now I'm here.

Work and Porn

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When you're true to yourself

What happens when you act like you don't give a fuck? I'll tell you. You bring out the gay in everyone. The true actions of people. Days of work go by. I'll get ignored by people and continually disrespected by my coworkers and managers and I don't give a fuck. If you want to tell me to act differently in order to make you feel comfortable, let me know. Say one thing, do another. That's the way you operate. If you want to take me in the back and rape me, then do it.

Think I want that? You're wrong. Think I care if you do it? Not really. Sexual repression is man's most prominent problem. There's just so much gay. Gay gay gay gay. And maybe I'm wrong. I'd love to be wrong. Tears will flow down your face in casual conversation. Concealed homosexuality? If that's just the way you are, I'm going to know. If you're real about it, I'm not going to give you a hard time. If you pretend I know what the hell you're talking about or know your true feelings, you're wrong. Stop trying to cover up how you are. If you're real, people are going to know and you're going to be respected.

I admire some men. I can sense the pain in them, their struggle. These people are true. I'd help them if I could. If you want to see me get off. Then hell ya man, lets fucking do it. Want to have me put a dress on and have me parade around like a girl? Fuck ya, I'm down. Be honest about it though. Be straight with me. It's a fucking crazy world we live in. If you have been wronged, you're in good company with me.

I'll act a certain way. My eye contact will stray, body language will react how I see fit. It's involuntary. I don't care. Neither should you. I'm still listening to you, and in so doing am acknowledging your presence. Whatever feels comfortable to me is what I'm going to do. There's nothing more easy and simple to do than that and there is nothing to understand about people that can't be comfortable when they are talking to you.

There are some men that are infuriating. One simple glance from me. That's all it takes. They can't handle getting looked at. I change it up. I change it up for you I guess. What else am I supposed to do? I know that if I look at you for a long enough time you'll feel pain, like I'm trying to assert myself over you. It's like it doesn't matter that I'm there. Fine by me, but how pathetic are you? I bet you have never been stared down to the point of dismissal. You're a boy. Insecure about your body, kid? Get the fuck out of here. You have created some interesting pain, kid.

Somehow, that's okay with me though. I'm not really sure why that is. Your shit is interesting somehow. I'm just a boy, too. But, I can handle more. Who cares? We are all just kids trying to cling to some kind of happiness. We're all so fucked up.