The truth is, I haven't in a while because I felt like I might make a wrong step. I might stumble, and then it would be on display. But, Fuck that emotion. It is no longer applicable to the current situation.

I can't stop listening to Goodbye Horses by Q. Lazzarus1. It's one of those nights, those nights when you stick you hands up to the elbow in the gore, and the line between theraputic and cruel gets very blurry. Is it really itching, or am I just scratching because I don't know what else to do?

I don't know. I don't know. I have NO answers for you faggots.

Myles and I broke up. Myles is that person, that person who thinks on your level and understands all of your humor. He is the first person you feel really connected to, but in a really smug way, 'cause you're both post-idealistic and smart-alecky. Not the first guy that makes you scream when you cum, and not the first guy you kiss behind the curtain in the auditorium, during theatre practice. You say love to him, and you mean it.

I'm using the word Love here. About Myles.

Needless to say, we have in jokes and are completely compatible. Excuse the picture, my brush is really big right now, I can't do shading terribly well. I'm too close to it.

We didn't break up tonight, we broke up a few weeks ago. Neither of us knew what that meant at the time, because he still called me all the time, and I still let him. I didn't date anyone, and neither did he. Considering the situation, it wouldn't have been hard to keep it a secret. Oh, did I mention?

Myles is from California.








I live in Texas

Yes, I know. Other people have it much worse. Fuck you.

But, we agreed to stop talking as much tonight. Because it is to painful for him. And it never occurs to me to think about what I want, just what makes him happy.

Back up. Backstory: Myles and I started out on Xanga, leaving little messages on each others blogs, nothing major. Then on to instant messanger. Then, the first fuck up: he called me on Christmas day. We talked for seven hours. He got all of my jokes. My Ron Popeil references. When I made reference to having children as a patriotic duty, he quipped "Just lie back and think of England." I've been saying that for years.

So, less than a month goes by, and he buys a plane ticket and commits fuck-up number two in the mangled parade of fuckupery we are now mired in. I won't insult the weekend we had together by trying to describe it. We clicked. Hard. Like two gears that are made for one another. Like an enzyme and it's substrate, with all the proper molecular geometry and ionic sites and shit. Then I recited our poem to him, and put him on a plane out of my life.

Tonight, after a breakup more confusing than the final scene of Blue Velvet, I get a message from Randy, wanting to know what I'm up to, wanting to see me. Randy only calls me for one reason. Not to be crass, but Randy has a large cock and knows how to use it. And any other day I would have jumped at the chance.

Normally that would be enough. But not today.

Myles makes it all okay. He makes it okay that I never really had any ambition, that I frittered away my intellect at a shitty university, that I still don't ever get anything done on time. But, most importantly, he makes it okay for me to be a faggot. Not like the first counselor, or your fag hag in high school. Not a "You're still a good person, we love you anyway" situation, or that first time you wear a pin on your bag and feel brave. This is what I am supposed to be doing. I am a faggot because I was supposed to be his.

I know that seems indelicate, but I'm not queer, and I'm not gay, and I'm certainly not a homosexual. I am a goddamn, pole-smoking, butt-loving Fagolicious Homoqueer, and that is the best thing to be.

Because that is what he is.

1. This is the song that plays while Buffalo Bill is dancing in The Silence of the Lambs. I listen to it only when life is bending out of plane.

Spring is springing here.

It is beautiful.

Deep green blades of grass more ambitious than their still-dead, still-yellow colleagues begin to pop up everywhere. I don't have to mow you yet. Yet. Just wait until they join you. Tell them not to be in a rush, though.

For some reason the songs of some of the birds keep reminding me of waking up in the spring or summer mornings at my grandmother's after staying over. Maybe the same birds hang out in my town that hang out in hers or something. I heard plenty of birds down at my mom's house, the house where I grew up, but maybe they were different kinds.

That's the definitive sign of spring for me. Those birds. I need somebody who knows a lot more about birds to tell me which species they are.

Oh and it's warmer. But you knew that.

That's all.

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