Feelings in the World

There is no feeling in the world quite like the attention paid to me by an attractive boy who makes sassy comments while I am intoxicated. It doesn't matter if it goes anywhere, but those fleeting moments when he plays to me as an audience are unbelievable.

Accordingly, there is no feeling in the world quite as sobering and dishearting as when that boy leaves the party early because he is tired or bored, and the attention paid sublimates into something nonexistent.

Déjà Vu Déjà Vu

So basically everything that happened three days ago (and five days ago): ditto.

Except it wasn't a meal, it was on the way to work, so it wasn't on a surface street: it was the ten. And instead of having friends, I faced it alone, so nothing needed to be said.

A rogue tow truck picked me up as I was calling my insurance company. The University Auto Center found the "real problem" this time. Keep your fingers crossed, kids, and feel free to firebomb Pep Boys on Washington.

I've only had my car back for a matter of hours, but every nuance in the road provokes sheer terror. Whenever I see the speed drop, I know its dying, I know its dying, even if its only because I've taken my foot off the gas.

I take deep breaths to try to relax, but it only reminds me how toxic the air is here.

I'm this close to cuddling into a fetal position and never leaving my room.

Weapons of Mass Distraction

Well, it's about time they found those WMDs.

All I Want is a terrible movie...

But I am embarrassed to admit I watched the whole thing—and only because doughy-eyed Elijah Wood slays me. Maybe that's the real reason I can't stand you-know-what, because Peter Jackson did his damndest to make the boy look ugly. (And it must have taken quite some work, let me tell you: those baby blues never stop glistening.)

Before the movie started, I commented that Elijah might just be the Jodie Foster of our generation. The rare child star who actually continues to have a career, whose early works are relegated to forgotten studio closets when he one day makes off-beat, indie flicks that are surprisingly delightful.

Ten minutes into it, this argument held no ground. The fact that Mandy Moore co-stars in this film should have scared me away from the get-go. But this is not simply a bad B-movie to laugh about over alcohol. It is dreadful. Wood and Moore must have been utterly stoned (or very keen to bed each other) when opting to take on this project.

Not too long ago, I made a list of various people I would like to date. (Scooby Doo was surprisingly high on the list, his personhood aside—c'mon, wouldn't it be cool to date Scooby Doo?) But after this, Elijah, I'm sorry, you've been demoted to a one night stand.

News

Finally, someone is listening.

You may think I'm being ironic, but...

I can’t stand to fly
I’m not that naive
I’m just out to find
The better part of me

I’m more than a bird, I’m more than a plane
More than some pretty face beside a train
It’s not easy to be me

Wish that I could cry
Fall upon my knees
Find a way to lie
About a home I’ll never see

It may sound absurd, but don’t be naive
Even Heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed, but won’t you concede
Even Heroes have the right to dream
It’s not easy to be me

Men weren’t meant to ride
With clouds between their knees

I’m only a man in a silly red sheet
Digging for kryptonite on this one way street
Only a man in a funny red sheet
Looking for special things inside of me

It’s not easy to be me.

Déjà Vu

So basically everything that happened two nights ago: ditto.

Except it wasn't desert, it was dinner (and it was at Buddha's Belly, which was delish), and we actually made it (so that's some progress, I suppose). And instead of a random assortment of burn-outs, it was Ryan and his friend Jenny. It was on the way back to that place which shall remain unnamed. So it wasn't Vermont, it was Santa Monica.

And instead of someone asking me a question, I said, "Oh crap, not again." The tow truck came in a healthy twenty minutes.

Those Pep Stooges will pay.

Yeah, it is a bitch, kid

We lay on the bed there
Kissing just for practice
Could we please be objective?
Cause the other boys are queuing up behind us

If I remain passive and you just want to cuddle
Then we should be okay, and we won't get into trouble
Cause we're seeing other people
At least that's what we say we are doing

I don't think you can be dealing
With the situation very well
You take a lover for a dirty weekend, that's okay
But when it's over
You are looking at the working week in the eyes of a gigolo

You can't understand why all the other boys are going for the
New, tall, elegant rich kids
You can bet it is a bitch, kid
But if they don't see the quality then it is apparent that
You're going to have to change
Or you're going to have to go with girls
You might be better off
At least they know where to put it

Note to the Universe:

There is a reason I don't talk about art, why I avoid conversations like, "What makes an artist?" And it's not (only) because I am superficial. They always end up far too fraught, too angry, too tense. Because I do have strong opinions, but they are nihilistic in the most utopian way possible.

"Only the shallow know themselves." —Oscar Wilde

Truer Words

When will you realise that it never pays
To be smarter than teachers
Smarter than most boys?
Shut your mouth, start kicking the football
Bang on the teeth, you’re off for a week boy

something so zen

about calling the shop to ask about my car and being transferred to the service department where the phone rings into infinity.

CarF*ckers

I wanted desert, so I gathered together a random assortment of friends who were glum and tired, coming down after the ecstacy they took at a rave last night. We wanted not merely pie, but a House of Pies, so we drove up Vermont. I hit a pothole and saw my speedometer drop from forty to zero. I'm still moving, I thought, but slowing down.

"Why are you going so slowly?" Jessi asks.

I put on my blinker and pulled onto the next side street, and she just lay down and died. The tow truck came in a record-setting five minutes. The driver looked at it and told me that gas wasn't getting to the engine, so she needed to be taken to the shop. I smiled and nodded—he's the one driving that truck.

So she was dropped off in the deserted Pep Boys parking lot, just waiting to be vandalized. And the four of us shuffled away as nonchalant as when we'd entered the car. Somehow it just seemed so blasé, so we got some coffee and waddled home.

Bad Credit

Thanks to the Patriot Act, I cannot receive a credit card at my school address. Stupid Terrorists.

epiphany

As I lay in bed two nights ago, I asked myself what I wanted to do when I grow up (in less than two months). Publishing? True, it has been my devout goal for the past eight months, but salaries are low, and do I really want a job with homework? Teaching? Kids—ugh. Writing? I'd rather be watching television. Lawyer, Social Worker, Professor? I shudder at the thought of going to another class, ever. I never thought I would identify with the sentiment expressed in Office Space—that if I had a billion dollars, I would want to do nothing—but I do, I really do. If you need any proof, simply ask my friend Jessi who saved the three-page conversation I had with her away message on Instant Messenger last night.

So I rephrased the question: What job would I hate the least upon graduation? Something utterly nonacademic, something hands-on. Something retail maybe? Then, it hit me: a chef! I would love to be a chef! Just working with food all day long, trying to come up with ways to reinvent the chicken. It would be awesome.

I've started looking into it, and there are a few drawbacks: another four years at school, plus years of apprenticeships. Not to mention the hours: 4 pm to 2 am, hmmm.

So what does this tell me? Just how dire a toll academia has taken on my psyche. My mental acuity has been shattered to the point that cooking sounds like my calling. (And maybe it is, maybe it is, but there's no way to know right now.)

On the inside

there's a West Hollywood boi scrambling to break free. No, really.

Comprehensive List of Boys I Have Kissed

1. Nelson. Of course. Being the only two gay boys at our conservative, little prep school, it was inevitable.
2. That documentary filmmaker harassing people in line for the bleachers at the Oscars. He kept going up to girls, asking if they would make out with him. They all said no, and so did I. But when my friends offered me money for ten seconds of work, it was the easiest twenty dollars I ever made.
3. Alex. The last experience taught me that selling myself was quite my talent, so it was the talent I performed at the annual Mr. GroundZero pageant. I auctioned myself, and Alex won with a $20 bid. I promised him ten percent of my winnings. I came in second, I won fifty bucks, he got five.
4. Some guy at some club in Edinburgh. I thought people were whispering about me, but then I convinced myself I was just being paranoid. Then he approached me, "I don't mean to be rude, but do you mind if I snog you?" I was drunk and thrilled, so we made out for a few minutes until he said, "thank you," and disappeared into the crowd.
5. Louis. I met him at Jesse's party, but with a lip ring and beret, he was way too hot to be in my league. But he kept bringing me drinks and forcing conversation, so the question, "Do you want to go out to my car?" just seemed the natural follow-up.
6. Paul. At the Halloween party, he was dressed as a mermaid, and Peter Pan managed to land this one within two minutes of arrival.
7. Ryan. Same night, same party. As the game of spin the bottle wound down, he whined that he wanted to make out with someone. Peter Pan said, "I'll make out with you, Ryan." "Wait," he said, "what's your na--? Never mind." He was a senior in high school. Scandalous.
8. Terie. Valentines Day. I get, "Hey, haven't I seen you somewhere before?" all the time. But this time, it actually was a line. It was a tequila Valentine's. It didn't take much.

Yes, still single digits. And note, none of them are boys I liked beforehand.

Wisdom [Edited]

What we learned here is love tastes bitter when it's gone
Funny how it comes to pass, that all the good slips away
And there’s no one around you can remember being good to you
Shame, shouldn’t try you, couldn’t step by you and open up more shame
What we lost here is something better left alone
Second steps have been forgotten, will you tell me how they go
Set yourself, situate, like a fool try again
There’s no one around you can remember being good for you
But there’s no one around who can tell us what we’re here for
Funny in a certain light, how we all look the same
And there’s no one in life who can remember ever stood for you

Poststructural Analysis: Say what you will about clichés and the demise of artistic integrity in popular music, but may lightning strike me dead if these words don't ring exceptionally true right now. I've never been wiser than I was when I was thirteen.

Extra credit goes to those who know the source.

I Will Destroy You Something Beautiful

The Vagina Monologues ended around one o'clock in the morning last night, and as I walked outside of the theater, I saw an eight-year-old boy standing outside waiting for me. "Oh shit." I remembered he had approached me earlier in the evening to tell me that he was lost, and I had offered to help him find his parents. Instead, I had gone to see the play and forgotten about him completely, so he had waited for me outside for the duration of the two-and-a-half hour show. I asked him where he lived and he told me, "East L.A." We climbed into my car and I started taking surface streets east eventually only to hit a dead end. At that point, I had to turn around to find another street east, and it suddenly struck me how creepy it was—and compromising even—to drive a little boy I didn't know home at one-thirty in the morning.

Pop Jungian Interpretation: The boy must be my inner child, not the effusive, jubilant one, but the needy one who nurses drawn-out, draining and improbable crushes. And even though I am in control—I am driving, after all—I am playing to his whimsy. And it is creepy that despite knowing better, I still head east: a vague destination that can only lead to dead ends.

Quiet Life of Desperation

Story of my life, kids. I'm frantic.