To Have Pride

Earlier today, I found out that Pride is this weekend. The only reason I found out about it is because a friend of mine asked my if I was going. My natural and expected response was that I had no idea it was even happening. Though, I remember it being around this time of year, last year, when I was asked then if I was going. The answer has always been no, I haven’t been to one, I don’t plan on going.

Of course, as I lay in bed thinking about it, I found myself wondering why I haven’t gone to Pride. Why I never plan on it. One reason: because I simply never know when it is until right when it’s happening. And my safe excuse has always been to fall back on work. That’s the easiest one to use in pretty much any case. But now I don’t work the weekends as much, if ever, so I can use that excuse but I’d be lying if I did. The truth is, I’m not sure I would feel comfortable going.

This isn’t to say that I don’t feel comfortable with who I am. I’ve long since accepted my bisexuality as a real thing. I’m so comfortable with it I tell my mother the unnecessary details of my sex life, with men specifically. She never enjoys it; the woman can’t handle two men kissing on television. But that’s a tale for another time. The point is that I’m almost too comfortable with who I am. So it has to be something else?

I don’t consider myself to be the most masculine of bisexual guys, but I’m definitely not feminine. What surrounds me has led me to believe stereotypes of what Pride might be–a way too colorful, probably glittering display of only half of show I am. And, while I love sharing things about myself, if warranted or not, how can I take time to celebrate only half of who I am? This isn’t to say that by celebrating it I’m attempting to mask my hetero side but more to say that I don’t understand why any of it needs to be celebrated? If humans could just be humans, minus all the differences, minus the intricate details that should really only matter to ourselves and our loved ones, would it really be necessary to celebrate on a given weekend, once a year. (Is Pride once a year? I really have no idea)

Can’t I just have pride in who I am every day? Can I list details about myself, big or small, and be happy with all of them? Can I celebrate them all? Can I be Adam, the customer service training supervisor for Crocs, a mid-twenty hoping to one day make it big in the writing scene with novels and TV shows, who publishes articles monthly on http://www.laartsonline.com and can draw really well but doesn’t find himself motivated to do it that often? Can I have superhero fantasies and hopes of making it out of my hometown without feeling like I’ve deserted the two most important people to me–my mother and sister? Can I just be content with whoever I’m attracted to when I’m attracted to them, without having to spend a weekend celebrating only the times I’m attracted to men?

Okay. I got a little carried away with words, commas, and questions marks, but I suppose that’s what’s on my mind. By no means do I mean to make Pride out to be anything specific, because I’m not sure what it is to those who attend it. Part of me knows I need to, at least at some point, let myself experience Pride, just so I know what it is. But the other part of me doesn’t feel comfortable seeing dudes walk around in ass-less chaps, solely to display who they are as a person.

I guess, in short, I’m probably not as comfortable with myself as I think.

Deeds

I am a nice guy. I didn’t play any April Fools jokes on anyone today. Instead, I did a friend and coworker a favor.

One of my reps locked his keys in his car but had no money for a locksmith. So I offered to cover the cost until he could pay for it. No problem. When the guy showed up, my rep and I went outside to let him know what was needed and that I would pay for it. The man completed the job and ran my card, charging me $1200 instead of $120, the amount of the job.

Now, the man told me he refunded me the $1200, but he proceeded to charge me the $120 in addition to his mistake. Regardless of the refund, there is no way he should have charged me again until I got my money back. Once I realized this happened, I called my bank to dispute both charges, then I had to call my landlord to ask them to hold my rent check until this was sorted out, then I called the parent company for this locksmith. After that I received a call from the dude’s supervisor saying I would be refunded the $1200, but I requested the $120 back. I work in customer service; I treat these people as politely as possible. But $1320 is nothing to fuck around about. 

The guy who got locked out of his car felt so bad, and I couldn’t even fathom blaming him. Do I regret helping my rep? Hell no. He’s a good dude, and there is no way he is at fault for any of this. I did file a BBB complaint for the sheer fact that I wasn’t given any empathy or professionalism from these people. It is hard for me to do that, solely because that is a serious matter. But I will get my money back. No. Matter. What.

In the end, it’s April, and there were plenty of fools to deal with.

Monotonous

Yesterday, a Sunday, realized everything was monotonous. Everything is, I mean. My drive to work is easy, one I don’t have to think about, at all. It’s so easy: speed up here, brake here, turns, music. The same music.

That made me feel like my job was monotonous, too. And, you know, sometimes it could be, but it really isn’t. Every day is different. Some days we’re busy, some days we’re slow. Some days I get a lot of work done, and some days I just can’t. Today, in fact, I spent the whole day revamping the training manual, something I love doing. It combines my love for both presentation and writing. I can’t say many of my college grad friends are doing everything they studied at their job. But I am. I get to run classes and compose manuals. Who even loves that? Nobody but me, that’s for sure.

I do a lot of the same things, day-to-day, though. I wake up and write or play Pokémon on my 3DS. Then I go to work. On my days off I catch up on my shows and do a little more writing, if I can motivate myself. I mostly can. I want to write and write more and tell all the stories. I’m working on it. But I’m working on doing different things to spice up my life. I shouldn’t use the word spice, unless it’s about food. My life could be spicy. How would we ever know?

I’m trying to make sure I hang out with my friends, all of them, and go out and do things. I’m so bad at doing things. So bad. It’s actually pretty terrible. I wish I was someone who would hike or whatever. Though, once summer comes, it’s Water World biweekly, or else. And the drive-in. So many fun things are going to occur, but I need some new hobbies. Or more wine to drink.

I think of how monotonous things can be. But hell, I went to the ER last month because my stomach was stabbing me to death. Morphine and Percocet. Maybe I’m not focusing on the right things. I win tickets to concert from the radio, so many times, on my way to urgent care after a three car pile up. Who does that? I am for sure not focusing on the right things. And I think I’m going to try to post some stream of thoughts as often as possible. Or as often as I have thoughts to post. This will be the start.

2014

This is almost as obligatory as a ‘new year, new me’ status on Facebook, so here we are: a post to kick off the new year or say goodbye to the old one. Who knows?

It’s all about resolutions, right? What am I going to do to make this year better than the last? Well, if we’re being realistic, 2013 was a great year. I:

• Graduated
• Got a solid few promotions at work
• Get paid to do things I studied in college (the dream, right?)
• Moved in with one of my best friends
• Finished the first draft of my novel
• I still don’t get hangovers

In retrospect, a lot more happened, but those are probably the highlights. The only thing I really need to do is continue existing because things are great. But here are some ideas on what to do this year:

• Watch more TV shows (some I’ve been waiting on, some I just say I don’t have time for, etc.)
• Write more, write often, finish things. (My novel, specifically)
• Work on a portfolio for grad school
• Draw more (I just don’t do it enough and I should because I’m good)

Yep. I think that covers it. I’d like to add traveling to that list, but that’s not really a resolution. It’s more something I’d just like to do. Anyway, I’m looking forward to this year and all the new things it’ll bring. Oh, and all the new pokemon I’m going to catch.

 

I’m an Adult, Right?

I recently read a tweet, screen-capped on Tumblr, that touched on the topic of expecting eighteen-year-olds to make serious adult decisions just months after they aren’t able to use the bathroom without permission. I don’t think I’ve ever read anything more accurate than that statement in my entire life. But, then again, I’m often surprised at the accuracy of random tweets, Facebook statuses, Tumblr posts, songs, what have you.

I’m twenty-five. Newly, still, but twenty-five all the same. I am, for all intents and purposes, an adult. I want to say I look like an adult, but sometimes I can probably still get away with being twenty if I’m clean shaven. But I’m an adult. Right? Sure. I’m an adult with a salary job that has exploited, thankfully, both my major and minor from college. Who gets that lucky? Not many from what I hear. I think my insides think I’m a bit older than I really am. When I was younger, I could eat whatever I wanted, no consequence. Now, I can eat mostly what I want but only if I take a probiotic, some papaya enzymes and now I’m trying these Melissa leaves pills that are supposed to help calm my overly active digestive system. I’d say my insides are about eighty-five. I don’t think I know what form of an adult I’m supposed to be.

On the flip side, my bedroom wall is filling with drawings, all of which seem rather juvenile but are bordered with black card stock, so they look pretty cool, I guess. Another wall, near my bedroom door, has Nintendo posters in a checkered grid from floor to ceiling. What’s even less adult-y are my wall cubes that hold my menial toy collection. Pokemon toys, to be exact. I’m still playing those games religiously, by the way. I have bright-colored shoes, which were free, that I wear because I feel like I’m still cool enough to pull them off. This isn’t to say I don’t think I’m cool enough, though. I’m the coolest.

In two paragraphs I’ve briefly summed up how I’m partially an adult and partially still a child. I’m strictly jeans and T-shirts, but I have sweaters and button ups and even cardigans now. I pretty much know exactly who I am, yet sometimes I’m still slightly embarrassed by some of the things I own or like. I feel the need to keep certain aspects of my life less noticeable because I think they’re only for me and who I want to share them with. But when some of these things are brought up, I feel really awkward, because I wasn’t the one who got to bring them up. If I’m so comfortable and know myself so well, shouldn’t I be fine with whatever parts of me come to light?

I mean, fuck. I have gray hairs in the mix of my more numerous dark brown hairs. I’ve been able to maintain scruff to keep my poor somewhat baby-face from being too baby, but I have the same exact body I had in high school–skinny and skinnier. But when I was in high school I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, and now I do. I’m work much harder now than I used to for the things I want. I pay all my own bills. But I could never feel prepared to be on my own completely. I hold my poor mother and sister close like we’re chained together because I can’t even fathom taking my car in to get work by myself. That damn anxiety makes me think I can’t do half the things I could if I would just take a deep breath. Of course, after the six minutes of freaking out, I realize I am being stupid and need to calm down. I still can’t seem to skip over the freak out part, though. Sigh.

I still don’t feel like I can make a decision without my mother’s two cents, but I like to say I’m independent and do what I want. I sometimes wonder what’s kept me from taking that step into true independence, true adulthood. Should I get rid of my toys? Should I stop taking my 3DS to the bathroom to play video games while I sit on the toilet? Should I trade that in for a newspaper that’ll educate me on the world around me? I should honestly probably start doing that, actually.

But honestly, at what point do I have to choose? Do I actually have to choose? Can I be a sixty-year-old man with Pokemon toys and an obsession with teen dramas geared specifically at girls? I guess today I feel like more of a child rather than an adult. But I’m still an adult, right? Sometimes I think so. Other times I just want to color.

Maybe It’s Not a Big Deal…

I should start by saying I shouldn’t be putting this in a mass of words. I’m going to come off as either depressed or spoiled as fuck. The key here is that I’m not depressed. This is the most important fact.

For as long as I can remember I have spent my birthday with my mother and sister. We always go out to dinner, somewhere of my choosing, of course, and I silently hope that we make it through that without some form of argument starting. For as long as I cam remember the only reason we’ve ever gone out to dinner on my birthday is because I’ve spent the entire month broadcasting that it’s coming up and making sure that we are doing something. And so we always do something.

Over time I’ve realized that I am also that way about their birthdays–always making sure we are planning something and that we will actually be doing something. But for my birthday I have to do that for myself, too. My next birthday, the big twenty-five, is coming up this Thursday, and things have been a little different. Have I broadcasted that my birthday is coming up? Yes, but not nearly as much as I have in the past. My oldest friend asked me a few weeks ago what I wanted to do for my birthday. And I’m almost positive that this is the first time I’ve been asked that in my entire life. (That might be over dramatic but it’s at least from what I can remember)

So instead of just telling my mom and sister what we were doing for my birthday, I decided to have dinner with my friend because, for once, someone had actually taken an interest instead of me having to oblige them to. This stems from the year no one in my family called me to wish me a happy birthday–citing too busy or not knowing if I could take the call, as if those are excuses–as the reasons for me having to call them on my birthday. I guess I just want to feel like someone wants to celebrate my birthday with me rather than having to celebrate my birthday with me.

It made my family upset that I made plans with someone else because we always do whatever I want to do for my birthday. Is it wrong that I just enjoyed someone else taking on that responsibility for once? Is it wrong that I don’t feel like I should have to do all the work? I guess or I guess not. All of that is beside the point.

The point is: I’m turning twenty-five on Thursday and I’ve already been in three arguments with my mother or sister regarding my birthday, its lack of importance, or that I wasn’t going to be available for them on my birthday. Either way, I’m definitely a spoiled brat.

From a Writer’s Prospective

This post can also be titled: Why I Hate Fandoms.

I am a serious watcher of television–drama, specifically. Up until recently, I had shows borderline every night. (Many have ended/been canceled, sigh) I am also very into reading certain books and other things like that. I’ve grown to love fictional characters more than I love real people–I know many of you understand. But I’ve also grown to hate fellow fans.

It started when I first got a Tumblr account nearly four years ago. It’s always innocent at first, getting a Tumblr account. You post hoping for followers and friends you have things in common with. One of the most common things you can have in common with someone on Tumblr is a fandom: television, movie, book, video game, etc. And great! You’ve made a new friend. Now you have someone to discuss the show with.

I once made a friend over the show 90210, which declined horribly after season three in my general opinion. I don’t remember the kid’s name if I’m being honest, but he’d get so heated about character storylines and certain directions of the show. And while I get that change is hard for some people–new couples, trying obstacles, etc.–from a writer’s standpoint: show’s need to be creative to keep things interesting.

Sure, it’s hard to see a good couple break up or someone do something utterly stupid, but isn’t that what makes a story good? Something unexpected or something that makes you passionate–good or bad–makes it worth it, right?

Creating a good story is hard, especially in writing fiction. Characters, like people, have to make mistakes; they can’t be perfect. They have to do stupid things in order to learn, and they have to change in order to become who they’re going to be, regardless of whether or not it makes the crowd happy. It’s about the story as a whole, and things have to happen to move the story and change the pace. It can’t be all sunshine and roses all the time. Nobody wants to read that. (You may say you do, but you’ll get bored)

Nothing is better than a story that makes you angry while simultaneously making you want more. If it was easy, it’d have happened in two minutes, ten pages, or in the blink of an eye. Complaining about it isn’t going to change it. You have the right to be mad, but don’t blame the writers for ruining your desires. It’s not about you; it’s about the story.

They Say It’s Hard

I’d like to preface this post by stating it’s going to be somewhat of a rant. I’ll do my best to keep it to the point.

As a writer I’ve been able to surround myself with some of the greatest up and coming writers I’ve ever had the privilege to know, work with, and learn from. It’s nice to have a group of twenty-somethings who understand what you’re doing, what you want, and what it takes. I hosted a writer’s workshop for my communication capstone with my closest writing friends this last Spring and had them read over the first chapter of the first draft of my novel. Their feedback was invaluable, and I just finished the last chapter (chapter twenty) of that first draft earlier today. Go me!

Many months have passed since I’ve been with my writing friends or in a functional writing class, so it’s been hard from me to really abide by a routine. They say you have to write and read daily to really hone your craft, and I’m sure that’s true. While I’m doing my best to do both those things everyday, it’s hard to mix it in with having a social life, working, relaxing, and whatever else one wants to do with his or her day. But I’m giving it my best shot.

Through my classes I’ve learned that it really takes a lot to be a writer. I’ve also learned that I just want to tell stories. I write because it’s the only way to get these people and events out of my head and into something concrete. Would I like to be published one day? Sure. Would I like to generate a mass fandom of overly dramatic boys and girls who form too many opinions on how things really are? Well – yes, but parts of that are debatable. But I don’t need to be published. I just don’t.

Just because it’s something I’m working toward doesn’t mean I’m going to be upset if it never happens. I can still tell my stories and share them with the people who matter and flip the bird to anyone who tells me it’s hard along the way. I’m not naive; I know it’s going to take work. But I think it’d be real nice if people—especially those who aren’t writers and are not hoping to get published one day—would just shut the hell up and let me work toward my dreams in peace.

Lavender Fairy

The other day I remembered this old fairy that I once created when I was a kid. Seeing as I’m better at arts now I decided to draw her again. I wish I was better at coloring, but I think she came out pretty well.

The Post-Grad Life

It’s been a little over four weeks since I graduated from college. Nineteen years, as I previously mentioned, of school is hard to move on from. And yet it doesn’t feel like I’m out of school. People keep asking me how it feels to be graduated, and the truth is I just don’t know yet. It’s not the fall. I haven’t not gone back to school yet. So I don’t know what it feels like. I just know that I’m going to feel really weird come the end of August.

I keep trying to decide what I want to do. I have a family reunion at the beginning of July where my mother’s entire family is going to ask me what I’m doing with my life over and over again. I’ve toyed with telling them each something different–a high-end male escort to a drug lord. Sadly I’m neither, but God would that really knock them on their asses. I’ve also considered making a drinking game out of it: a shot every time I get asked. But I would most definitely die if that happened. Really, though, the idea begs the question. What am I doing with my life?

Currently I am living in my sister’s vacant apartment until the end of the month when I’ll move in with my mother again. I am writing, but I’m always writing. I keep talking to people about things, and now I wonder if I could get into the freelance writing side of life. Just to make a little extra cash, keep my organization fresh, learn some new things. Someone told me I should get into it. Or try, at least. And while I do that I’ll continue to write the novel I’m working on. One day that’ll be something. And if it’s not I’ll write something else.

The real question is: how do people know what they want to do when they graduated? Some people get jobs because of internships and stuff. But what if you don’t know? I sure don’t know. The other real question is: why am I not just a famous reality TV star?