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Seething Cakes of Hatred

Making pancakes, as I learned at AP's birthday bash at the beach this weekend, is an unbelievably tedious chore. I don't know why I...

Wednesday, June 23, 2004


Today I have decided not to think about what I'm writing. I'm not going to try to impress anybody. I'm not even going to try to make you laugh. I'm not going to attempt to make you think or make you cry. I'm just going to write. Today's blog truly is for me, not for you. I know it's selfish, but that's just the way it is.

Lately I've seen some of my favorite bloggers claiming they have nothing interesting to say. This morning I walked into the office and thought, "what the hell am I going to write about?"

Is this affliction some sort of blog virus? Are we infecting each other with insecurity or boredom? Or is life just incredibly mundane lately? Last night I was drunk before 8pm. I didn't even get drunk at PRIDE this weekend, so maybe I was making up for it. Or maybe Tuesday is just such a boring day that I needed to party.

I feel like I am on the brink of so much change, and I'm a bit scared to move forward. That is rare for me. I have never been one to fear the future. I remember a particular night in July 1995 when I secretly packed my car up with as many of my belongings as I could and fleeing a certain cult in the middle of the night. I drove for three days from Annapolis, Maryland to McKinney, Texas. I had no idea if my car would make it, and I had no solid plans beyond pulling into my parents' driveway. Yet, I didn't feel fearful. I felt exhilarated. I blasted my radio and smoked cigarettes. I stopped off for some porn and checked into a crummy hotel where I drank liquor and masturbated and tried to forget about all the "sins" I was simultaneously committing. Then I walked to a payphone and called to leave a message for my four roommates from the church.

"I'm not coming back. Keep or sell anything I left behind. I will send one last rent check. Don't try to contact me."

That was a big change, and I wasn't afraid. Shortly after that I came out of the closet, whored myself (for free, of course...I'm so bad at seeing opportunities to make money!) for five months, passed out on the street in downtown Dallas and lost nearly every bit of my self respect. Then I met CT, who was not "Cheater Thief" at the time. He was my beloved and my hero, and he saved me from my self-destructive behavior. We shacked up together and decided to leave Texas and move to Portland, Oregon, which we randomly picked as our new home. I had never been to Oregon, and he had only spent a day or two in Portland a few years earlier.

It was not so hard to run away this time. Instead of loading a tiny car with whatever would fit, we had movers come and take our furniture away. Instead of checking into lonely hotel rooms and getting drunk, I had my new family with me (CT and our two dogs). I was excited about our future in Oregon even though I didn't know anybody there, and I didn't have any employment lined up.

I have fearlessly made so many big changes in my life. The upcoming changes are so small compared to what I have been through. And yet, I feel afraid. I thought that we were supposed to become braver as we got older?

Last night I was thinking out loud and said to Apollo, "I always seem to fall for men who are unavailable. They are thousands of miles away or already partnered or straight." He suggested I might be afraid of commitment, which seems ridiculous to me. I consider myself such a romantic. I am frequently told that I am in love with love. The Handsome Prince calls me "Charlotte" because I act so much like Kristin Davis' character on Sex and the City. So how could I be afraid of commitment?

I don't have an answer to that right now. But it is food for thought. Or food for blogging.

I told you I didn't have anything to say. But it was fun writing about nothing today. I'll have to indulge in saying nothing more often.

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