When I Was 20, I Lived in a Living Room

And I wrote about all my present events as if they were in my past. It's a strange thing to do, but at the time it made sense.

See,

I felt bulletproof for a little while.

And then I realized I was wrong, but it only made me feel bulletproven, validated.

As in,

"No, I am not bulletproof, but here -

look at all this bullet-proof.

I have the wounds to show you.

I'll lift up my shirt;

you will see

I am riddled.

come, occupy my negative space."

And so,

we acted like happiness was a score to be settled

- a dual.

Pointed earned and lost through laughs and smiles, or...something like that.

- touche.

Score tied, zero-zero.

Sometimes they call that "love."

But in actuality, there is no winning or losing. There is only luck

, and inertia.

Keeping the planets lined up (in just the right way),

Keeping the stars saying yes (or no, sometimes),

Guaranteeing - at the very least - that any part of the dust in my lungs might find its way into yours

, or vice-versa.

And now, instead:

stick

tick

click

b o o mstayawhile

s t i c k a r o u n d.

(putmymouthonyours, the rest is easy [or so they say])

i'm just saying,

if you stayed in my living room,

i'd let you keep your clothes in my garage.

I Was Going to Google It, But I Thought We'd Have a Conversation Instead

I WANTED to document 30 minutes of an amphetamine crash.

5:04 a.m.
These are the most unproductive moments of my life. My heart has never beat so fast, and my eyes have never moved so slow. I'm darting. I'm shaking. I'm drafting notes.

Is this a panic attack?

The sun doesn't rise until 6:38 a.m., did you know that? The fuck is that about? Did you know I'm a little more than a mile from campus, and there's thunder and lightning and rain, and that might make it dark for a little longer? I think it will, and I don't have an umbrella or a hood or an excuse.

No, really, is it?
Hours ago my heart felt like it would swell until it exploded. MY BODY WAS ALL CAPS. I was so excited. I love(d) you all, I want(ed) you to know it. My arms tingled. My thoughts chased after my words, which tumbled carelessly and endlessly out of my mouth, my eyes were bright. I laughed into your collarbone, I told you all how much you meant. Now, alone at 5:09 a.m., an amphetamine rush is only panic. My mouth is dry. I don't want water. I want water. I have to get up for water. No water. Where is my love now, where are my thoughts? I have no more words; the insomnia stole my words. Where are all those whom I've neglected for fear of missing? Where are all those whom I've avoided because they kept calling, unknowingly waiting for my anxiety to subside? Where is everyone now that my hands are shaking and the sun's still hiding and the clock moves two minutes forward only to fall one minute back?
-
I think I have effectively broken every basic rule my parents have ever given me. All at once.
I think I look like an asshole when I try to dance like a hipster. I think everyone looks like assholes when they try to dance like hipsters. But I think I do it wrong, so the asshole-ness is extra. Like, I get a gold sticker.
-
By the way,

Sorry I stole the sheets from your bed.
Sorry I didn't let you know what was going on. I didn't mean to, or not to.
Sorry I was drunk when you saw me. Sorry I'll be drunk next time you see me. I'm actually only a little sorry, but I know I should be more sorry, so here's my apology.
Sorry I did exactly what I begged you not to months ago. Sorry I cried then. I cry easily; it's a little stupid and a lot embarrassing.
-
What if we made fewer confessions and told more truths?
-
Sometimes there are nights that disappear into haze. Maybe you forgot what you were on.
Sometimes you wonder where you were all night, and then you wonder where you should have been, and you wonder if you should have been the source of the noise. If you should have been making the floorboards creak and wail with your jumping, if if the walls would have been happier to echo your voice. Entire portions of night disappear. Where did they go? More importantly, where did I go? I think that I stopped existing for just a little. I think I got lost in an alcove; it was pretty dark, y'know?
-
I think that I live far away from home, though I don't really know what that means.
Hometown nostalgia tricked me in those last few days, made me think it was real. Made me desperate to be seen before I disappeared. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be wearing skinny jeans and plaid, I wanted all of you to see how the band of my boxer briefs peeked out the top of my pants. I'M GAY, I wanted you to know. I'M GAY, and I was gay when you knew me, but now I'm not sorry, and no one needs to tell me it's okay and that I'm okay and that high school doesn't really matter, because I always knew those things. It's just that now I believe them.

Leaving was sad. Leaving was final.
They said you'd go to college, and you'd come back, but you'd never come back. I think I'm going a little farther this time.

About that thing, about my parents, about how we fucked it up. We just fucked it up, this thing. That they always saw their lives, secure and prosperous, without lesbian daughters or heartbreaking arguments or silent stalemates. We should have been sad to see each other go; instead, I think we're relieved. How does that thing happen? That thing where your life wasn't what you wanted or expected or believed? Does it happen to our unhappy, middle-aged parents? Or does it happen to us all?
-
But hey, what am I scared for? Hey Brandon, didn't we realize today that everything, every moment has already happened at some point in time? All of this has already happened; somewhere it's done. It's just a matter of getting there. I'm worried about 6:38 a.m., but that's okay, because by 7:38, I'll know. It's just a matter of getting to 7:30. Life will just happen until then; we'll get there. We'll know.
-
5:33 a.m.
Street lights still glowing orange. Can't tell if it's raining, can't see through the blinds. Weather.com says it's raining. Guess I'll have to trust that. I wonder if, when I get outside in an hour, I'll be trapped between places, locked out of one apartment, a mile away from the next. It's going to be raining, which is too bad, because I wanted to walk along to the sunrise. Maybe I should memorize these directions, just in case the newly inked napkin melts through my fingers on the way.

I Have a Chronic Need to Explain Myself

1. Tonight is my last night in the Philippines. I will miss Biblical flooding and laying on the bed being too hot to move and being too shy to speak too much in public and getting drunk in my grandma's house after she insists that I eat lasagna.
2. Last night was my second to last night in the Philippines, and it was wonderful, and it reminded me feel that I have a lot to come back for.
3. There are gays here. As a general statement, they're cute and always willing to talk to my drunk ass.
4. Have you received your postcard yet? Well that's because I didn't send it. Here's a preview!

For anyone who doesn't know about Katrina 'Asian' Casino Postcard Project 2009, here's a brief explanation.

A couple of days before I left, I collected addresses of people who wanted postcards (this part is relatively straightforward). Now, I was going to write you all personalized rap songs, but as I have a tendency to always insist on being embarrassingly honest, I decided to put a spin on it (the postcard project, not the rap songs. That could come later though). I collected the names, and drawing them at random, assigned the recipients to one another. I also threw in some extra people who I haven't been talking to/didn't ask for a postcard. Just for funsies. And because I didn't have any dark secrets to reveal to some people. Everyone who's receiving a postcard is receiving a confession, secret, or general pointless rambling/crazytalk to another person. Just something I've never told them because I'm too awkward or shy or lazy or I have social tact or something (this is a lie, I have no social tact). Each postcard begins with "You don't know this, but" and then continues on to whatever one-sided conversation I wanted to have. I feel like this post is going to turn into some absurd Filipino post-secret ripoff, but sometimes that's just how it is.















Also I tried to get the tackiest postcards available.
Also I'm a really poor planner, and these will probably be mailed from New York.

So without further ado, I bring you a series of really serious statements followed by really hilarious pictures.

---------------------------------------------
You don't know this, but...

Sometimes I get a little scared that we'll never be who we were on that first night.

You're one of my favorites, but I'll never admit this to you because I'll always be too afraid to hear I'm not one of yours.

Everyone knows it's always been about you.

And I don't know if you'll ever believe it, but I'm fine.
(The rice paddies that my ancestors slaved on so that I'd never have to wear sunscreen in the summers)

Once I was lurking your Facebook page, and I accidentally liked one of your wall posts, then freaked out because I was way too high to figure out that I could unlike it.
(Alternatively: Meeting you was like meeting myself.)
(Fuck yeah, tigers!)

You and I both need to calm the fuck down.

I'm fully aware that all I really do is break promises to you.

You're the reason I question anything at all.
(Am I the only one who finds proud eagles of all nationalities to be hilarious?)

You're the reason for the flowers in my hair.

Every action that has defined our relationship has also perfectly and explicitly conveyed my deepest personality flaws in a way that I never could have anticipated or expressed.

When I was younger and thought that I wanted to get married and thought that I wanted to get married to a man, that man I pictured was just like you.
(Mabuhay a las Filipinas! We sell slippers, brooms, fans, and...wedding cakes made out of beads?)

Sometimes I find you to be so unbelievably plain that I can't help but find you irresistibly attractive.
(Hello, favorite.)

Though you probably do, I should have kissed you right when I had you.

I love you...not like that, not really, anyway.
(I don't know if I just haven't been paying attention, but I have never fucking seen one of these.)

I'm really sorry we didn't get to talk in the brief time we were together, that time we existed in 3D.
(I have no idea why I don't own one of these hats yet.)

I wasn't even really sure if I liked you until recently.

I think you're really beautiful.

You should stick around.
(Hi, drag show this year plz?)

You're a little boring, but you're so so sincere, and I guess that's okay.

You might well be the reason I don't regret coming home this summer.

(I ran out of photos/postcards, so here's a picture of me getting attacked by a crab at my grandma's house.)

This postcard was discarded because I couldn't verify its truth:

I'D LIKE TO KNOW what you think of this. What you think of that, that thing I just said. I'd like to know if you knew, and if you knew then when you knew and why you haven't said anything, and come to think of it, why I haven't said anything either, but I suppose that's not for you to answer. I'd like a lot of things. I'd like hot nights with rolled down windows and loud music. I want to sing along. I'd like questions without answers and open ends and true belief in possibility. I'd like the fifty-yard line. I'd like a deluge, a rainstorm, silencing the world outside my car; I'd like to drive with no headlights. I'd like to know the corner of your jawline and what it feels like to thread my fingers through your beltloops. I'd like the rooftop where I learned to smoke and sneak and eventually not get caught. I'd like my hometown nostalgia. Fuck, I'd like any nostalgia.

And I don't know if you know this, but when I'm gone, I miss you the most.

What Am I, a Bicycle?

Or, The World Clock on My Phone Means Nothing
Or, There Are Motherfucking Cats Fighting on the Roof, and I Think I Just Heard One Fall Off

I was going to do a pretty dry, straightforward post about what's been going on the past week, but that got difficult as I have too many feelings, and I still can't properly structure any of my thoughts. I go between feeling elated then lonely then listless then frustrated. I can't quite figure out what I'm doing here yet. I think I'm on vacation. I don't know what that means.

Anyway, since I'm obviously going crazy, I've just compiled a couple of stream-of-consciousness deals I've written over the past few days. Sometimes I'm almost coherent, but it's not something I'd like to get used to.

---------------------------------------------------
IF A TRAIN LEAVES from Montreal at 8:30 am on July 23, and a plane leaves from Manila at 11 am on July 24 but also at 11 pm on July 23, at what point will the difference in time zones start to make sense? When will I understand what day it is? What will it feel like when I’m hurtling through time in the body of an aircraft, a time machine cleverly disguised as a plane? What will it feel like when the world unfreezes, again engaging in its perpetual motion, and I am awakened from this listless existence where I am haunted by the shuffling feet of lethargy and ennui? Will my days still blend together? Will they continue to lie before me, stretching out into infinity as if in a perspective study, their only end an early night’s sleep? What day is it now? It wouldn’t make a difference.
-
I think that, if I stared hard enough, I could make myself into you.
I think that maybe I’ve been studying without knowing, tracing dotted lines and cutting out patterns. But no matter how hard I try or how closely I look, I will always be only the paper doll version, cardboard clothes falling off at their poorly bent creases.

Maybe what I really want is to turn you into me, because maybe the only person I’ll truly love is myself. The only person who won’t ever leave is me, and even that’s a little questionable. If I turned you into me, would you leave? Or would I decide that I didn’t like myself and abandon you in your paper doll clothes? Probably. I’d let you turn to pulp in the rain, and I would know that you couldn't chase me.
-
THERE SHE GOES again disrupting the poetry of her collarbone.
A flash of red is a plea that you’ll remember her face, because she won’t tell you her name.
Her walk is brutal, her hips, her skinny, swaggering boy hips, unforgiving.
I’ll always think she hates me.
-
Sometimes
When I am drunk
My thoughts
Move vertically.

This also happens
When I am talking crazy.
-
I wonder sometimes if I made you up, or if it was the other way around. I wonder if you made me into you. Maybe that’s why you left.
-
Last night I meant to write a series of drunk emails.
Instead I threw up in my grandma’s bathroom.
And knocked over a picture of the Pope.
My cousin passed out on the couch.
And our grandma found her at 4am with all the lights on.
Today a really wide truck tried to get through a narrow street where our car was.
My aunt rolled down the window.
Translated, she yelled,
“What is this? What’s going on? What am I, a bicycle?”

I’m staying here an extra nine days.

There's Blood In My Mouth 'Cause I've Been Biting My Tongue

My parents know this: I came out on January 3, 2009.
My parents do not know this: I was scared, but I was not sorry. I waited a long fucking time after I was ready to come out to actually come out. While I was waiting, I did everything I could to prepare myself for the process. This ranged from pamphlets and other forms of literature to talking to friends about their own experiences and watching every damn Logo special on it. Also watching and memorizing that episode of The L Word where Bette tells her dad that God made her just as she was (I'm not sorry to say that I paraphrased her in my coming out conversation). I was ready for any argument they had to throw at me.

They don't know that it was the most empowering night of my life because it was at that moment that I realized that, with or without their approval, I was finally completely and totally unashamed and unapologetic about who I was. And I was happy. I was living it like I wanted. And I had a support system. And the sky was clearer than I had ever seen it, and it told me to just drive.

Six months later, after not mentioning it at all since that one Really Bad Conversation that finally caused me to run away to Rachel's house, a dinner table confrontation occurred.

It was pretty much the same old patronizing/denial deal about how they don't think I'm really gay because you can't know if you're gay if you've never tried not being gay and also if you're gay you can't have weddings or have children because you're gaygaygaygaygay.

In addition to this, my mother (oh also, my dad, while he doesn't approve of my "choices" or "lifestyle" is very rational and has promised to love me no matter what, should I eventually come to the conclusion that I am, in fact, gay) lamented over the fact that she had no idea how I, being raised in her household, could possibly have taken on such a set of values that allowed me to be like this. To be accepting and open and happy with who I am (I asked this)? She claimed that she was not prejudiced. I said it was okay if she was because everyone has their own prejudices and both my parents happen to come from an extremely conservative Catholic country, and whatever, that kind of wack shit happens there anyway. And then she finally admitted that no, she does not hate gay people, BUT she has worked hard and sacrificed so much so that she could one day see me get married and have kids.

1. WHAT.
2. Gay peeps are on the way to doing that now, don't'chaknow?
3. WHAT.
4. Listen. I'm sorry. But even if I were straight, being someone's Wife and having their kids would never ever be the measure of my success in life. It's just never been my dream. And I don't really appreciate my mother basing my value on whether or not I can attain this goal that I don't even want to pursue. I respect anyone who really, truly wants this, I do. But fact of the matter is that I don't. We've all got our own aspirations, and this just isn't one of them for me. Never has been. That's that.

They also said I couldn't possibly be happy like this, and that I was being way too closed-minded about the whole situation. As if it had never occurred to me to date men. Well yeah, I had never though of that, thanks for the suggestion, brb, being straight now! But no, really. I can pretty confidently say that I am one of the most sexually open-minded people I know to accept the label "lesbian." I'm not going to go into details about this, but you can ask Rachel because she gets all the phonecalls in the aftermath. Also claiming that I am not happy is just ludicrous. Because fuck, I am happy. I am like lay-spread-out-on-the-floor-and-stare-up-at-the-ceiling-and-just-sigh-because-I'm-so-happy happy. I said it before. I'm living it like I wanted.

But wait, there's more!
You see, I'm aspiring to be a professional gay, and I happen to be having the most mindblowing interning experience at a website that's allowing me to pursue this (I'd drop the name here, but I feel like this is kind of a negative context, so I'll sit and think about that, plus I've probably talked about it a shit ton to anyone who's reading anyway). Like fucking wow. Never before have I had the honor of being around such confident, intelligent, witty, (and coughsuperattractivecough) and self-assured queer women who are out simply unapologetic about their sexuality. It's what I've been working to be, even before I ever realized I was doing it.

My parents wanted to know why I insisted on living this lifestyle and told me that it was a choice. And yeah, sure, being out is a choice. But it's a choice to be honest and happy and just plain satisfied with my life. And in that sense, it's not really a choice at all.

The reason that one of my great goals in life is to create visibility for queer women is because shit like this, shit that happens with my parents, happens all the time for girls who are coming out. And they shouldn't have to feel ashamed about it. And they should have role models. And they shouldn't be afraid or feel alone, even if they can only get that reassurance through the Interwebz (I'm also a big believer in this).

ANYWAY.
This was supposed to be a big gay weekend for me. My Montreal buddy, Emily, is coming down tomorrow for Pride festivities, and the whole intern team is going to spend a big gay weekend together etc etc. Clearly my parents aren't going for this.

The plan is that, in about an hour (when we're both all tired and honest), I'm going to go talk to my dad and basically ask him permission to peace the fuck out this weekend. If it's a no, then I'm doing it on my own, runaway urban backpacking style. My life's been so fucking ridiculous lately. These past 6 months have proved not only that I am strong enough, but that I am just plain lucky enough to dodge and bob and weave through all the tight situations that I've encountered (this is saying A LOT).

This weekend is going to be a most excellent adventure, and goddamn, I can't wait.

This Is a List of the Things I Learned

Christ, is the "a" in that title supposed to be capitalized? Whatever, I don't know.

The past week or so has been filled with a series of what I'd like to fancy as interesting and introspective posts, but (and I think I've used this line on you before), my personal life's been getting a little too personal lately and I say inappropriate things in my head, and so all the contents of those posts will hopefully soon be relegated to paper in my pretentious hipster Moleskine journal. Aw yeah.

I'm embracing the hipster because lately I've been hanging out in Williamsburg so often that it would just be insulting to try to deny it any further. That being said, I'll defend myself once again: I'm not a hipster, I'm just a lesbian. Really. I'm thinking about writing an article about passing as straight only by passing as a hipster. I'll start it once I come up with a really clever, obscure title that I can use to judge people who don't understand it.

Anyway, now that I've clearly established that I'm in a psychotic state of mind (to Nina: "I love face tattoos because I hate having to wonder if someone is a psychopath."), the point of this post is basically just to have a post because I get a little bummed out when I go a long time without updating. So in going with the whole I'm-sequestered-away-from-my-people-but-I'm-stupidly-optimistic deal that's been taking over my brain this past semester, I present (in list form!) things the summer has taught me so far. Not all positive. Mostly in a weird middle ground, once again proving that I'm crazy.

This actually is probably going to end up looking like a series of mini posts compiled into one big post, and maybe one day I will actually end up turning some of these into their very own entries.

Hokay, let's begin!
In no particular order:

1. The most interesting people I know are all addicts.
We've all got addictive, hungry personalities, and we are all fucking crazy. Some of us are addicted to substance. Some of us are addicted to workworkwork or the internet or drama or the notion of glamour. Glamour the British way, obviously. We chase these things and cannot get enough and one addiction feeds the other, and goddammit, we're just all trying to get our fix of whatever and trying to figure out why we need it.

2. No, I would not like a receipt.
I don't check my ATM receipts. Ever. This is probably why I'm broke all the time/why my bank account sometimes ends up pretty far into the negatives. Or I think I'm broke. I wouldn't know, I don't check my ATM receipts. I'm not a compulsive shopper, but I pretty compulsively do not give a shit about what I'm buying. I don't even know what I've been buying. I think it's been food, because I certainly don't have anything to show for it. Also transportation costs FAR too much. Also you should really be allowed to withdraw less than $20 from ATMs. I was in line behind this guy, and dear lord, that thing just shot 20's at him. He doesn't just have $20 in his bank account, he has multiples of it. That's why he was in a suit.

3. I now have a favorite time of day, and that is 4-5 a.m.
This only counts if I've been up until this point, not if I'm waking up then. Making it to 4 a.m. means that you've been up entirely too late, probably doing something stupid or having the longest, most intense conversation of your life, or having the time of your life, OR everything you've put into your body has made your body angry, and now it won't let you sleep and, consequently, you are completing one of the above listed activities. Making it to 5 means you're officially nuts because now real people with real responsibilities are waking up to go to their real jobs, and there you are, still awake and fucked up from the night before. I love staying up through the night and day and then throwing yourself out into the streets at 11 a.m. where all the normal people are running around looking normal and stressed, and I'm just standing there all crazy-eyed with a RedBull in hand and a long letter to write.

I like buying RedBulls at 11 a.m. because it means that something weird happened. I feel liek people either buy them in the morning to get themselves going or at night to do the same (but with alcohol). If it's 11 a.m., you've already gotten yourself out of bed and to work/school. The hardest part is over. Why are you standing there looking crazy?

4. I've deemed this one to be inappropriate for interwebz.
Just know that I'm going through a detox, and my brain is like "what's serotonin?" and the subsequent crashing has pretty much led to the seemingly hopeless life-reevaluation that's been going on the past few days.

5. We don't give a damn, we don't give a fuck.
I actually, legitimately care about very little as of late. Not in the whole life-is-meaningless-I'm-16-and-wear-a-lot-of-eyeliner sort of way, but in the way that I realized that getting stressed and throwing fits over things just...doesn't matter. Oh, also we don't get in trouble for anything, and we don't get hit by cars. My friends and I shamelessly and flamboyantly throw caution into the wind and run through fountains and guess our way through traffic. Basically, I survived my week in DC, and that is a miracle.

Also, last night, while taking off a sweatshirt, I accidentally removed my entire shirt in front of a group of people that I really didn't know at all. It looks exactly like you're imagining it in your head. And actually, I'm fine with that.

6. Something I did not learn.
How to pronounce "creuller." Wow those donuts look great. I keep wanting to fucking order one whenever I go into Dunkin' Donuts, but I never. can. because I cannot pronounce it and am to shy and weird to try. So someone, please, either give me a phoenetic spelling or tell me that they taste like shit and not to waste my time. Thanks!

7. I still look really awkward flirting with girls.
Despite claiming this as one of my only few marketable skills, I'm still fucking weird. Great evidence of this is when, post-Santigold, a few friends and I were standing outside of DC9 smoking when I found a cute girl on the other side of some glass making eyes at me. I returned a shy smile, tried to be cute, then accidentally dropped my cigarette and chased it into the street like a small child chasing a ball. I did not see her inside.

8. Wow, I'm boring.
Last week I was at a used book store with Rachel, and after sifting through aisles and aisles of books filled with history, social commentary, and theory, I finally settled on this purchase:
I can't be certain, but I think it makes Rachel hate me.
It also makes me look at really tacky wall decorations like this and say stupid sarcastic things like, "Oh hey, I really like the way that size 18 Times New Roman font looks. Good job double spacing, really creative."

Sidenote: this really is the most horrifying thing I've ever seen. In addition to the really unrealstic waving that happens, it's basically a really awful poem about imperialism. Needless to say, I'm stealing it and putting it in my room next year.

9. I'm literate!
...or am I?
No, really, I've been reading, and it's exciting (this obviously only serves as an extension of #8)!
I like non-fiction (I wasn't kidding)!
I'm too lazy for descriptions, but check these out! (Descriptions will come eventually. I love parentheses).

Non-fiction:
Resist!: Essays Against a Homophobic Culture (Mona Oikawa, Dionne Falconer, Ann Decter, Rosamund Elwin)
The Purity Myth: How America's Obsession With Virginity Is Hurting Young Women (Jessica Valenti)
Nobody Passes: Rejecting the Rules of Gender and Conformity (Matilda)

Fiction:
Call Me By Your Name (Andre Aciman)

QWAC is starting a book club this year, get pumped!

That's it for now. It's a list of 9, yeah. I'll have something interesting to say soon.