My Sudafed expired 4 months ago!

Breathing is highly overrated.

I can say this now, because since Sunday, I haven't been doing too much breathing. It seems that EVERYBODY in Naptown is sick AGAIN. This time, I've joined the ranks of the unclean at the appropriate time instead of doing my usual "I'm just going to be tired and grumpy instead of being sick" thing.

Bleh! I'm NEVER kissing boys again! NEVER!!! (Okay, maybe cute ones)

That was probably part of my problem, because when I went out last Friday, I kinda swapped spit with a couple boys on the dance floor, but you knew that already by reading the previous entry. I'm convinced that my hedonistic decadence was to blame for my illness of the last week. Oh well. I'm on the mend, and besides, I had fun.

I've been reading Todd's three-part mini-series of his relationship with a boy named Theo. All along, there was a question whether Theo would read the account and flip out, hate Todd forever, etc. Turns out that Theo did read it, and (sorta) typed out a rebuttal which wasn't surprising.

Relationships always have this "He said, She said" thing going on, no matter how close you are, or how fantabulous your communication might be. Theo had a different perspective of how things happened because he didn't occupy Todd's skin. Perfectly natural, say I. It makes us individuals, and makes for pithy conversations.

But that's not what I was thinking about.

A while back, I wrote about relationships. I was blathering on about my "Perfect boyfriend" and how he would use obscure words in ordinary conversation. I also introduced a concept that works much like my little red Sudafed pills (by the way, were you aware that you can't just stroll into a store and buy Sudafed anymore? Pisses me off!) Expiration dates. My Sudafed expired in 10/04. Conventional wisdom says that I shouldn't be popping these pills into my mouth after 11/1/04, but screw that. I can't breathe. I'm willing to risk disfigurement to not be a walking snot factory for a few hours.

I digress. The just of that entry was that relationships have expirations. When they are over, they're over. Some have long dates of play (the Rolling Stones of the relationships, if you will) and others are more Manilli Vanilli hot weekends. (You know what I mean--we've all hooked up at one time or another)

The problem is being able to be the OmniOmni and look at the box on the first date. If you can see that this thing aint going to last more than 6 months, maybe the split-up would be easier knowing that it was supposed to be a fling. Unfortunately, we don't get the chance to see the date until we eat one, and know from that certain queazy feeling that it's a little past it's prime....

I just re-read this, and couldn't help but think of what a fatalistic approach it is. It's a fun theory to bounce around, though. Besides, I need something to think about in bed tonight.

Be well.

Statuesque

What a Thursday we had!

I've come to the conclusion that I'm rapidly becoming a barfly. Perhaps it's my genetic makeup that provides a propensity to drink--as far as I can recall back, there was alcohol available in my family, starting with a particularly memorable party spent in a here when I was just a wee thing. It's one of my most vivid memories, because I ordered a grasshopper. I got this instead.

Good times. Anyway, back to Thursday.

It started off easy enough. I was playing around on the computer, and chatting with various people, including a fellow what I occasionally have random sex with. Apparently, he was already engaged, because he asked how I felt about 3-somes. Truthfully, they haven't been a popular thing, because of the odd number. In my not so vast experience, someone gets bored early (usually me) and retreats. I'll stop there in the interest of avoiding an 'overshare.'

I began a conversation with this other fellow, whom I'll call FA. One thing in particular impressed me about FA-he said "I'm horny, but I can carry on a non-sexual conversation." Lotsa points for that!

We continued to chat about this and that, and time came for the usual Thursday night drinking fest with the gay.com group (effete bastards that we are.) Normally, there's quite a crowd, which is odd, given that Thursday is technically a 'school night' This Thursday was not typical.

Nobody was there.

I take that back, there were a couple chums there, and I socialized and made proper introductions when I remembered to. The balance of the evening was spent in polite conversation, with occasional bouts of "white boy on the dance floor." But that's not what made this evening so noteworthy.

Early on in the evening, I noticed a tall, dark, mysterious yummy-looking drink of water leaning on a wall. At first, I thought he was someone else, but his stare confirmed that he was indeed a stranger. Well, Dark Mysterious Cute Boy (DMCB) sauntered over and held up a corner of wall a bit closer. I felt like a freak, because every time I looked up, there he was, staring. I checked behind me to see if there was some broad flashing her titties behind me, but none. We made a lap of the bar, and continued conversation, when I noticed that *poof* he was there again.

This chase continued, and for the bulk of the evening, provided some uneasy amusement. Later, it dawned on me--why do I only see hot interested boys when I'm with someone else? Bizarre. Granted, FA and I weren't more than casual acquaintances, having known each other for just a handful of hours. Still yet, ditching your date in a bar is just rude, especially when you provided his ride.

Every time I turned around, DMCB was there. On the dance floor, shaking his ass (well, I might add) so I kept looking. Now, to my credit, I did look cute. I had a new outfit on (so much easier than doing laundry) along with my awesome new glasses which I'm REALLY liking more and more. (DMCB also had cute glasses--more points) At one point, DMCB was very close, and I'm sure he was close enough to overhear our conversation, because that's when he departed for quite a while. I was nearly tempted to talk with DMCB, but for aforementioned reason (being out with FA) it might have seemed odd. Besides, experience tells us not to talk to boys who have exhibited stalker-like behaviour. Reference the entry on my cell-phone "Psycho Stalker Bitch."

Time passes, and DMCB saunters off, being replaced by a fellow standing under the balcony where Peron and I stand to judge people unfairly. To say he was playing pocket pool would have been an understatement. My thought was that he didn't actually have pockets in his trousers, and was in fact masturbating.

Ucky tuh!

If that wasn't enough to top off an evening's entertainment, there was a terribly dramatic exchange involving pushing and some girly punches. I was tempted to run over and tell the girls to go get some fighting lessons and try again, but resisted. The girly twink-y boy was pulled of the frumpy twink-wannabe boy, and words were exchanged. Suffice to say, Girly twink-y boy was soon seen curled up on the floor in the fetal position sobbing uncontrollably. Oh to be young and drunk at 21. Pretty tragic. It hails back to the days at the old Abbey, where drama was served up with your latte.

The balance of the evening was pretty low key. I called it quits and was home by 2am, and for the record, FA and I exchanged only the briefest of kisses. We made up for that on Friday, when all of the effete wankers from gay.com were out in force. Out on the dance floor, and quite swept up in the happiness of it all, FA and I enjoyed a major liplock. Whee!

I was incredibly random that night, and for some reason wasn't able to focus on one individual, so I just kept trading people off, dragging various people on the dance floor (and no, the music wasn't all that good) DMCB was there, but he wasn't attentive at all. I guess I wasn't as stalkable as he had thought.

I wasn't even drunk, as my darts score reflected. Again, we left at 2am for breakfast at Canary beneath the fluorescent lights. Nobody looks good in fluorescent lighting. Not even DMCB, I'm sure, but by the same token he would have looked mighty hot over eggs and toast Actually, FA would have looked good too--he's got the cute thing tied up. Then again, black men fare better in fluorescence than we pasty white boys do.

Home alone, and slept alone in my bed. I know that sounds kind of tragic, but I'm really growing fond of it. Being single is really an awesome thing, I've decided. Of course, I'll probably change opinions in a few months, but for the time, I enjoy the solitude and the ability to stretch out over my whole bed and curl up with my bankie without fear of freezing out another soul.

...but it is still nice to curl up in the arms of another in the middle of the night, feeling his warmth on my back and his arm on my chest, and his breath needing a tic-tac on my neck. Yes the dog-breath thing may sound cruel, but just remember these words:

In the middle of the night, everyone needs a Tic-Tac.

Grey days

It's a grey day today. I'm not being bored, but I am being uninspired, so I updated my gay.com profile.


Whee! Don't I rock? (don't answer that.)

In which we speak of being contrite.

With the previous post, I mentioned penance. Dear reader #3 (aka Craigers) inquired about that wacky Catholic habit of confessing one's sins. I'll tackle it now, and hopefully in a way that is understandable, and at the same time will make you aware of why I really don't have a need for organized religion.

First, what people think. The popular conception is that you can kill a busload of nuns and orphans, go around kicking puppies and get off the hook by walking into a phone booth and uttering those infamous words, "Bless me Father, for I have sinned." Not exactly how things work. First, the words of Father MacGuire, the child molester that wrote the catechism that everybody seemed to have. (Catholics, remember the clothbound green books? Yeah!) He came up with a clever way of illustrating sin, and it's effect on your immortal soul.

The milk bottle.

When we are born, our milk bottle is empty, thanks to original sin. It's true that God is like my friend Riley--he's a grudger. This one is over that Eve chick using her ability to make independent decisions. Proof that God (and organized religion in general) is full of bosh. If God had really wanted the Adam and Eve thing to work out, he would have whipped up a bunch of Stepford Wives and not free thinking people like he did. (and yes, God is a guy.)

So we have all these stillborn babies in limbo because their milk bottles are empty, and devoid of God's grace. Baptism is the first sacrament we are exposed to, and it's the one that seals us. It is also only a "one time good deal," and it doesn't make a difference into which church you are baptized, because you are made a disciple of Christ, and last time I checked all Christian churches followed that same dude.

But I digress. To be a REAL catholic, you need to join that Holy Roman and Apostolic thing. *shrug*

Anyway, we have a full bottle of milk at baptism. Then, we go through life having fun and draining our bottle of milk. Little transgressions, such as stubbing your toe and saying "FUCK!" are probably a teensy sip on the straw(venial sin). Murdering a busload of nuns and orphans will pretty much up-end your bottle(Mortal sin). Obviously, you can have a whole shitlad of venial sins, and you'll probably get into heaven eventually, but you'll have to sit in the waiting room first (purgatory.) While in purgatory, people can pray for you (kind of a Sally Struthers thing) and with each prayer, a little squirt gets popped back in your milk bottle.

That's where confession, and another sacrament, Extreme Unction, come into play. These are mechanisms for running to the dairy for a nice quart of 2%. The process is really pretty simple, but a lot of people don't really understand it fully. Confession (and to a great extent, Extreme Unction) is highly individual. The key to being forgiven for your sin is being contrite. Only if you are really sorry for having sinned will they be erased. God is no dummy. If he knows you're just kneeling there jerking him around, your milk bottle is going to have a big gulp taken out of it, because you pissed him off again.

The actual confession part of the process is like the first step in a 12-step program. "Admit you have a problem." That, for most is actually the hardest part, and the one that takes the most effort. Thus, for the sinner, admitting to another person that they have boinked their best friend's wife, shame is created, and hopefully, they realize that they really have fucked up, and they really are sorry for having done whatever they have done.

That's when God removes your sin, and fills up your milk bottle again. "Only God forgives sins" (Mark 2:7) This brings us to penance.

Many sins wrong our neighbor. One must do what is possible in order
to repair the harm (e.g., return stolen goods, restore the reputation of someone
slandered, pay compensation for injuries). Simple justice requires as
much. But sin also injures and weakens the sinner himself, as well as his
relationships with God and neighobur. Absolution takes away sin, but does
not remedy all the disorders that sin has caused. Raised up from sin, the
sinner must still recover his full spiritual health by doing more to make amends
for his sin: He must "make satisfaction for" or "expiate" his sins.
This satisfaction is also called "penance."
Catechism of the Catholic Church, Sec. 1459, 1994

Enough! Although it is a grey Sunday morning (not to mention the first Sunday of Lent) I've rattled off enough church doctrine for one sitting.

Obviously, I don't agree with many of the church's standpoints on various processes, but I don't poop on the beliefs of others. SBC attends church weekly, and I have no doubt that he was present in that bug buff building outside of my window (Cathedral of Ss Peter and Paul.)

Now to matters of myself. Have I mentioned how much I love my little friend Peron? He's that guy that I go out with on rare occasions, dance with, and sit up on the balcony of OP's and talk smack about people with. That's what we did a couple weeks ago, and a good time was had by all. There was breakfast at my favorite dumpy place for breakfast at 3am, Canary Cafe where we had a lovely civil conversation without the hazard of bad techno music. Yeah, I like him, but for various reasons which don't bear discussion (read: boyfriend) he's not datable. He's going to stay comfortably in the realm of good friend.

That's ok--I like him there ;-)

The other thing that has marked this week is the misery of various colds floating around. Everyone I know has been ill this week, which is the reason I'm sucking on a zinc lozenge and eating something called L-argenine, which is an amino acid which is supposed to pump out white blood cells and make one superimmune.

That means I can go out and swap spit with someone! If only...any takers?

Penance

The subject is penance.

We all have to pay the piper in the end. It's inevitable. For instance, I stayed out a little later than I should have last night, so I'm TIRED now. I had a couple beers with the girls, and even saw that cute skinny boy that doesn't have a nickname. I need to work on that.

Maybe I'll just call him cute skinny boy. He certainly has the flattest tummy I've ever seen. I mean it's like KANSAS!

Growing up Catholic taught me all about the concept of penance, and what a purifying effect it has on the soul. For me, the concept is simple, and downright karmic. You fuck up, you pay for it. You don't feed the parking meter, you get a $12 love note from the City of Naptown. You don't show up at work, you get canned. You take it up the butt with out a rubber, you get the clap. It's really very simple.

penance is humbling by it's nature. Of course it's irritating when you begin the process, because you're mad at the various elements that placed you into this bad situation. someone narcing on you, then eventually kicking yourself for placing yourself in the path of badness. That's the goal, ultimately. You realize that it was YOU that screwed up, and you'll do a little thinking about what YOU will do to not deviate in the future.

This is a short post, and one that's a bit overdue. I'll write of adventures recently in more detail later, but now, sleep beckons.

Coming soon:

• An adventure with Peron
• The dangers of swapping spit
• Yo, Vito!

Be well, my friends, including those I have yet to meet.