The Zombie Conspiracy

I’m constantly preparing myself for the Zombies to attack. In the past I would keep a bag in my car that had extra clothes, a wooden stake, and an extra credit card in it in case of emergencies. Looking back, the credit card probably wouldn’t have come in handy if Zombies did actually ever attack.

There are different types of Zombies and it all depends on if you’re in the U.S. or not. If you’re in the U.S. the Zombies are going to be stupid and slow, mainly because the people who became these Zombies most likely had horrible health care and were too overweight to ever run at a decent speed in the first place. Another type would be the U.K. Zombies, and depending on where you’re at and if you find the situation comical, they tend to be more vicious and terrorizing. These zombies in the U.K. are pissed off, they’ve been stuck with the Queen of England prancing around like a circus side show and now they have to put up with the royal wedding. Who cares about the Price of England and this fore-head he’s married? If I had it my way, they would have both turned into zombies on their wedding day, but only her at first. I can imagine the Prince leaning in for the kiss; she lifts her veil and presto! ZOMBIE BRIDE! She takes a bite out of his throat and snaps the Priest in two. There’s no end to the madness after that. Once you get to the Queen, the rest of the world is screwed. Their wedding would have been front page news, everywhere you look the news is reminding every man, woman, and child that zombies can get married but gay people can’t legally get married.

Some people make fun, some point fingers, some are just plain rude, but you can’t listen to the names that people call you. Like, “hey you tard!” “Zombies don’t exist!” Who are these people, and where have they been for the last 80 years? Haven’t they heard of WWII or the Cold War? Crazy biological warfare has been invented, and if ants can become zombies it’s not a far cry to think that the government won’t come up with someway to make human zombies for mind control purposes. Once these Zombies are created, you have to protect yourself.

Step one would obviously be to panic. Yes, you need to panic immediately and get it out of your system. If zombies are attacking it will be on YouTube steaming within the first few attacks so you’ll probably be safe for a little while, then take your bedroom and closet doors off the hinges and break the wood up so that you may board up the windows. Water is absolutely the most important necessity you will need to survive. You have a shower or bath tub… fill every container up with water as soon as possible. About 30 gallons of water will fit under a queen size bed. Weapons! Get some! It doesn’t matter what kind, just get some wooden stakes or a gun but be sure to always have some kind of weapon that you won’t run out of. A gun runs out of bullets and then becomes useless; make sure you have some sort of machete or laser gun depending on how far in the future this is. If you’ve read this and the Zombies do attack, come back to my blog. In the beginning the internet will not be lost; I will give directions to my Zombie Fortress. Now let me explain this to you.

In a world full of Zombies, many people will try to go where they feel it is “safe,” to places that have not been contaminated. This is mistake number one, when you travel long distances you put yourself and others at risk. Think about it, there’s always that one dumbass that has got to be in charge, and there are always people on the way that will steal from you and put you in harms way so that they have the upper hand. This is exactly why I am going to have a sustainable home no more than 100 miles outside of Austin. This home will be made out of concrete and steel. It will run on solar energy and have a system where rain water will be collected from the roof into a system that stores and provides an irrigation system for the garden and chickens that will be located in the court yard of this facility. The facility will be monitored by cameras and will have mines set up out side of the complex to kill any roaming zombies and also trip wires that will set alarms off. This is a great idea founded in the movie 28 days later. The balconies of this building will have gun torrents, and the basement will have a safe room that has a small hole one can open to shoot through and also it will have medical aid, non perishable food and access to the water supply along with security camera access.  This would be the ideal spot if Zombies were to attack, at some point these mangy bodies will decay and the zombies will die within time, but until then one must fight them off.

Keep your eyes peeled for more zombie blogs, I could go on for days about this issue. Remember, remember, a real zombie attack is impending, it’s important to be prepared!

Random Shit

So the cleaning lady for the Super 8 I'm staying at obviously didn't notice the DO NOT DISTURB sign on my door. she knocked for a good 3 min. Housekeeping... over and over and over... "surely she'll notice the do not disturb sign" i thought. She opens the door and i'm laying in bed screaming at her! "Do not disturb you stupid bitch!" I think she owes me an apology. :) Never wake a gay man! LOL Oh i just ate two cookies right as I was headed out to the gym. ..

Have you ever thought that the world was actually full of robots? Did you think that you were the only real human and the rest of the world was “in on it?” If you’ve ever thought this same thought than you’re not alone. I’m also a real human and you should find me because all of these robots are really getting on my nerves. Sometimes I think that these robots get programmed every night, with information on how to ruin my life on a daily basis.

As a child I saw a movie where this boy’s parents killed their co-workers, ground their meat up into sausage and fed it to the boy as his dinner. Once the boy found this out he desperately tried to stop his parents but his father, Randy Quade, had become obsessed with human flesh and then decided to kill the boy. I lost a little respect for my dad after seeing that movie, mainly because he would make these hot dogs with German sausage that absolutely hated, and force me to finish my entire plate. I always thought it was human flesh and felt horrible after every meal containing sausage.

I’m part of the calculator generation, forced into a life of computers at a young age and video games. It’s hard trying to remember all these passwords, I could have it worse off though, I could be part of the manual labor and cigarettes’ generation. I played Sonic the Hedge Hog on my Sega video console as a child, let me just say, this was no good for me. My perception of reality was completely off track when I was younger and playing video games didn’t help matters. Every time I was in the back seat of our beat up station wagon, I imagined I was running at the same speed of the car I was traveling in, hopping off of things just like Sonic would do. I’d imagine sometimes that the car had left me behind and I’d have to “wind up,” imagining that I was tucked inside a small ball, spinning like a wind up toy car, then I would magically shoot off with the speed of like and catch up to the car.

I constantly forget things. I can’t hear and I buy in bulk. Sometimes I think I’m either a crack head or an old person. Same difference really. I've never really been a drug user. It's not for me, I've always been high on my own, I don't need drugs to make me more interesting. I'm an old soul, I'm still a gentelman on some occations and I always wish things were as simple as when we didn't have the internet. I also own multiple amounts of deodorant at any given time and enjoy movies with Racheal McAdams. That's why I'm old. Listerine also reminds me of old people.

The Clinic

   

The burning sensation showed no sign of slowing down as I sat parked in front of the RBJ Clinic. A Mexican Man in his early 40’s wearing a rustic blue collared shirt tried frantically to open the doors to the clinic where his STD’s would be treated. I remember the man’s chest hair was white and black, mainly white with the finesse of a mangled shaggy dog. His tan seemed fake from the bronzer in a bottle squeezed excessively onto his body and I chuckled as I noticed one button desperately trying to release itself from the pressure of his enormous belly that pushed against it. He eventually gave up, though it is important to get there early, he got back into his car to go back to sleep. I was almost certain he had an STD just by how nasty, and filthy he appeared.

I had previously gotten angry with an employee at the clinic on a Friday, three days earlier, because when I called at eight in the morning I got an answering machine that said the hours were from eight to five excluding lunch. I continued to get that message til about 8:15. People, there is a time to be persistent and in the event of an STD, a desire to kill the itch is the most important fixation of all. The people that work at these clinics should understand that their patients could be met with a life and death situation. The well-being of my penis was in danger and if there’s anything I will always protect, it’s my penis… and my balls, those are also pretty important. The point is that they should be on time, it’s just so irresponsible not to be. Anyways, I set my appoint that Friday and on Monday showed up early. It came as no surprise to me that the doors would be locked at eight when I got there for my appointment. About ten minutes later a woman in paper thin blue scrubs walked right through a door I hadn’t tried opening. I walked in and noticed two waiting rooms that mirrored each other. A Hispanic lady, most likely a receptionist was sitting in the Limbo of these two rooms stared at me with a wide grin. She motioned for me to come over, yelling “STD?” at me from across the room. “STD’s are on this side of the clinic, you can check in over here.” When I got to her sliding glass window I told her my name was Jordan and that only my really close friends call me STD. She was oblivious to my sarcasm and went into the details about where in the clinic I would travel to along with the map I would need to find my way.

Unlike Frodo from Lord of the rings, I had zero companions to help me on my quest to Mount RBJ CLINIC WAITING ROOM, or more widely known as “Candy Mountain.” After about ten minutes of searching, I started to imagine I was Gandalf, with a large staff and a light at the end of it, headed to my doom. I would fall miles and miles, past a place where fires burn, into nothingness and back again, landing in a cold dank spot called Clinic Waiting room. I sat there in silence, looking around I could see that this place wasn’t meant for me. There were about five or six others in the waiting room. Two sisters, shouting into one phone, at a man they were both upset with. Apparently he had befriended them both in bed and left them with a similar parting gift. They yelled white trash remarks into their pay as go flip phone, minute were running low. I noticed it was quite, I looked their way to see one of the girls texting extremely slow, trying to understand what words mean. There was a young Asian guy dressed in business clothes as if he was headed to an interview afterwards, a Hispanic couple seemed way to flirty to be in a STD clinic, the ugliest black man on earth with whom I’m sure STD’s originate, and a younger Hispanic kid with his mother and 2 little siblings. He must have been about seventeen, and anyone could tell he was completely embarrassed to be at an STD clinic with his mother. His little brother and sister played on the floor for a while than started screaming and fighting over a pamphlet informing youth about Chlamydia.

I was the only person aware or even disgusted about the STD porno the clinic had airing on the television above our heads. It was a complex story about 4 different people, all worried about getting STD’s, the problem was that the content was rated PG13 at best, there were some “R” rated love making sounds for sure. All of these people were smiling at the end of the video, three of the four ended up being fine. The fourth person, the only one who decided not to use a condom got a couple STD’s, got pregnant and ended up with AIDS by the end of the video… even she was smiling at the end. Because when does Chemo-Therapy not make somebody burst with joy?

An older white woman in her fifties with dirty blond hair called me in to get examined. She asked a lot of personal questions, to which I replied “gezz, what are you, my mother!” Immediately I knew I had fucked up. She had me strip down, completely naked, and inserted a long thin Q-Tip down the length of my penis. It stung and I could tell that this was the highlight of her job. I thought we were done after that, I was wrong. She had me bend over and then she stuck a finger up my butt. This is the closest I’ve ever gotten to sex with a woman, and I didn’t enjoy it. I didn’t enjoy it at all! She gave me pills that made me nauseous and sent me on my way; I was going to be ok! I didn’t have anything that couldn’t be cured and the numb feeling from the Q-Tip was supposed to go away within a few days. As I limped up the Mountain, back into reality, I felt a since of control in my life again. I was worried that I may be just another gay guy with an STD, that thought has stuck with me ever since and I hope I never have to visit Mount STD Clinic ever again.

The Other Woman

Sometimes I think back to a four month period of my life and wonder how I made it through the difficult time with absolutely zero drug usage. If it wasn’t for broadcast television and the Chelsea Lately show/ HGTV, I never would have made it! It was a period between about October through January in 2009 to 2010. I remember it well. I was single, living with my best friend and saving up so that I could move away from the world’s most mind-numbing town, San Angelo, TX. Week after week I felt the void of nothingness, getting no where while experiencing the same drag show every weekend where the same fat ass guy in fish net stockings decided to make fun of people while his/her duck tapped penis would start to sweat the adhesive away. Many other people may have a different experience with this town, but that’s mine and I’m sticking to it.

            Late at night, bored and numb after watching 7 straight hours of HGTV, I decided I would check the mail. It was late and as I was walking up to the collection of mail boxes provided by my apartment complex I notice a black cat in the distance. Not an actual cat, but a man whose face first struck me as cat-like. He had the face of a panther, the bulge of a blue whale and personality of a kitten. We locked eyes for a moment as he purposely dropped the stack of mail fumbling in his arms. As I helped him pick up his mail we struck up a conversation. We started hanging out after that, in the beginning I’d get massively drunk and call him when I was horny. It was risky, feelings were involved, he was in the military, my favorite new show on ABC, The Witches of Eastwick, was about to be canceled and also because he was going through a divorce, after a couple months of sex I started to fall for him. It was exciting, sneaking around, I’d never done something like this and it provided that “Lifetime” thrill I had been missing in my life.

               His wife at the time was a ghetto black girl we’ll call Abortioniqua. Abortioniqua was in school for cosmetology and encouraged every stereotype a black woman has ever had. I imagined beautiful, powerful black women like Beyonce, Keri Hilson, Tyra Banks and Monique, ashamed of this woman. She had a job she worked at for 8 hrs a week, and left all of the bills up to “the husband” as she called him. She routinely called her husbands job and made up lies to try and get him fired. She called the police to get him arrested; she got in fights at clubs, and even as I’ve heard it, slept with one of his friends, a woman. Abortioniqua was what made the relationship Mark and I had, interesting, exciting, and tiresome. The constant sneaking around took a toll on me and after a while I demanded that the divorce be finalized. He started pushing divorce more with her, how she didn’t see this coming was beyond anyone at that point. He had been sleeping on the couch for the past six months and said about two words to her on any daily basis. She started checking his emails and following him. We used extra precaution, with him being military, the risks were even higher. He could’ve been kicked out of the military or even worse, being forced to stay married to her for much, much longer. Perhaps he wasn’t as cautious as usual or she just wasn’t as dumb as we thought, after all, we did all live in the same community. Did we really think that she would never notice his car parked over at my apartment everyday?

                 Mark stayed over one evening, which I enjoyed because this was rare considering the amount of discreetness we endured. We made out for 30 minutes then he left. I pranced around in my boxers afterwards, made myself a bowl of cereal and started to watch cartoons. Right as I start to take the first spoonful of delicious Special K, I heard a knock at the door, Mark must have forgotten something. I open the door, boxers on and cereal in hand to be met by a pointing finger and flying questions by Abortioniqua. “Are you Sam?!?” she shouted. My mind raced, “how much could she know?” I wondered. She shouted the entire time, wondering why he was always at my apartment, after a while I could tell she had no clue that I was Marks lover or that he was even gay for that matter. I started to return some the attitude; Mark had been right about her the whole time and any guilt I felt was long gone. The woman was a grade A bitch, with a black belt in psycho! I I was pokerfaced after about 10 seconds of arguing with a gorilla faced, ghetto girl from bad girls club. I closed the door with a “yes, uhhuhh, yep, oh yeah, sure, ughuhh, yeah I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” She replied by pounding on my door and demanding that I get my pussy ass out there and bring the “white bitch” with me. Little did she know that I was the “white bitch” and I certainly didn’t feel like getting jumped that early in the morning. I watched out of the window as another, much prettier black woman held her back from destructing my door any further.

               Mark called to apologize, I moved to another city and we continued our relationship, through the divorce and onward into our own problems. The moral of this story is to keep it simple people, don’t date married dudes. Married dudes!!! Stop sleeping around til after your divorce is FINAL!! Its not fair for anyone!

Telemarketers

Most people have worked at jobs that they can’t stand, hate or decide to kill themselves over. Most of the time it’s telemarketers, mainly because most of them are bat shit crazy. Alas, the point I’m trying to make is that, telemarketers probably deserve it. Who decides to become a telemarketer, that’s the dumbest job on the planet!

So I applied to work as a call service representative (telemarketer) in the summer after my first year at college. My brother Thomas already worked there, I was actually surprised he had a job, these people must hire anybody! He put in a good word for me and I got the job. It was undoubtedly the worst job I’ve ever had. I worked for a company that did trouble shooting for Boost Mobile, a pay as you go phone company. At the time, the best phone they had was the Razor by Motorola. The service for these phones sucked giant walrus balls and the cards you loaded money on for these phones were always crapped out. Now I understand why so many telemarketers kill themselves around Christmas time, its because that’s when cell phone sales are highest.

The only time a customer was ever happy was when they had just bought their phone and called in to activate it. All other phone conversations were a complete mess. To make matters worse, our call center number was almost the same as the number you call for phone sex with women named Candy and Dallas. Once, I picked up to answer a call and all I could hear were people having hardcore sex in the background. I proceeded to ask the guy if he needed help with anything. He continued to just breathe into the phone, after a minute or so I told him that things were getting creepy and I’d have to hang up. Honestly, it had resembled a few dates I’d been on before so I wasn’t so surprised by it. He asked me to do things with my butt that weren’t natural, I would have talked a lot longer with him but they record the phone conversations. Also, I needed another pay check to afford all the alcohol I’d be drinking the next few weeks. I asked the man if I could help him with anything again, to which he replied, “Yeah! you can help me jack off.” I replied, “Sir, I can hang up.” And I did.

Most of the people who buy pay as you go phones are too poor to afford regular cell phones, or they’re just pimps who need a second phone. I’ve had women ask me out on dates, homeless people ask for extra minutes or where I work so they can bum a cigarette, and a guy named Carl piss me off with every ounce of his energy. Carl was a white male in his early sixties who knew absolutely nothing about technology. He was frustrated with his life because his daughters no longer kept in touch with him and I imagine he shit himself on occasion, it’s the only explanation I can come up with to why he was such an asshole. 

As soon as he heard my voice on the phone he demanded to speak to a supervisor, when this happens we put them on hold for two minutes and wait for the person next to us to get off their call. The girl who sat next to me was a nineteen year old who’s soul purpose was to go to raves and meet black guys who spend all their money fixing up their car. When she described guys she was into, she didn’t describe their features, but instead the features of their car, “Oh, I really like this guy!” she would say. “He is really nice and his Pontiac has polished chrome rims, two dvd players and a bad ass sound system.” She would go on about other stuff, but I didn’t follow well because I didn’t know what torch or nausea or what V6 meant. Isn’t that a vegetable drink? I assume she was always on drugs because she would dance in her chair as if she was actually at a rave, twirling her arms in and out til I got dizzy or until she went to the bathroom to vomit.

My friend got on the phone with the man, she told him that she really appreciated him waiting and that I would be more than able to assist him. As she put me back on the phone, I could hear him screaming like a banshee, mid-air as she handed over the head set. He was upset about his phone not having any minutes left on it. I told the man that if you don’t use them within 90 days they expire. The man only had about 20 min left anyways. I offered to fix the problem and give him the 20 min back. That could have been the end. He cussed me out right and left. He called me a faggot, which I only allow in the heat of sexual passion, and usually only black guys. The conversation lasted another hour; we had a cuss word limit of three, which he passed within the first three seconds of the call. I could have hung up but I knew he’d just call back and get me again. I learned about his daughters and his dogs, he had diabetes and he didn’t like Blacks, Hispanics, Gays, short people, young people, and most of all his ex wife for giving him the phone to begin with. I decided that day that I would quit. The girl who sat next to me said we should get hammered drunk before work and take all of our calls anyways. She never showed up after that day, no one knows what ever happened to her. I called into work for the next two weeks, I eventually ran out of money after being gone for a while. I knew if I were to come back I would need a fantastic story. I told them that my mother had recently been diagnosed with cancer and that I was gone for two weeks with her because she had to have someone to drive her to the hospital. I worked half of that day then walked out. Telemarketing can suck my balls! I’d rather be homeless!

God, Ghost, & Aliens - Part Three: God

I realize that religion and spirituality and faith are a part of most people's lives, it's natural to want to believe in something. It makes things easy and at the end of the day a person can look back and say "I've got a pretty shitty life, but at least I've got Jesus!" Immediately after saying this the same person puts the knife down and decides that putting their head in the oven would have been a better choice... thank GOD for electric stoves! The point that I'm trying to make is that, just because I've had some pretty shitty experiences with churches and "religious people," it doesn't force me to say that "ALL" religious people are bad and hypocrites and gossiping idiots... it probably just means that most of them are.

I always had a curiosity with God growing up, it seemed as though every body's family went to church except mine. I was missing out on something! Many times my father would decide that the family needed God in our lives and that he was going to make this happen. One little bit of information you should know about my father is that immediately when he opens his mouth, shit comes out. Him saying he's found Jesus might as well have been him finding a million dollars, the next day all of his money would still be going to Mary Jane. Regardless, I'm sure he had to get everyone interested in Church for one of two reasons. One, it probably looked great when he was getting checked in by his parole officer and two, the church provided an entire afternoon once a week where he didn't have to handle screaming children.

Again, it was one of those periods of months where we were living in a shit-hole. This one was actually pretty embarrassing, even now I have the slightest urge not to open my "fat mouth" as my twin brother Josh would so nicely put it. The place was called Century Lodge and it was an efficiency apartment, back then it was OK to be struggling with living situations because Jewel was popularly cast on the radio and if she could live out of her car, we could live at Century Lodge. Given the extremely disgusting environment, Jewel's car would have actually been a step up. Our apartment complex was so bad that even the Church took pity on us "sinners." Every Sunday a very long red van pulled up right in front of our apartment, all of the kids in our part of hell got on the van to heaven, heaven being around people who at least pretended to care about us. The youth pastor at the local baptist church is the one who picked us up and he would do things like buying our lunch and talking to us about Jesus... blah blah blah. The fun stuff was when we went to the tent revivals, talk about a more fucked up situation than we were in. One would have never thought there were so many Homeless people in Abilene, TX. They were all there for the free food, but also to change something. I've been revived like 12 times, mainly because I didn't know what it was at the time.

There was a guy on a small stage in this tan circus tent asking if people wanted to come up and be saved and every time I went to these revivals I hoped to be one of them. I've always liked the spotlight and even for a few minutes all the homeless people would be so proud that I put aside all my problems and decided to accept the lord, granted, I hadn't been addicted to meth like so many of the homeless in Abilene, TX. Because of this, I was already half way there to accepting God. The church was really just trying to help so many of these people get off drugs and to give them something to believe in, because believing in themselves wasn't the best idea at the time. Second Grade was a positive experience when it comes to Jesus, but like Fernand, Count of Montage once said "it's too bad it can't always be like this Edmond." One Saturday night when we were getting our clothes ready for church the next day, my father walks into the dinning/bedroom and tells us that he doesn't trust the Minister and thinks he's full of shit. We never went back.

Most of my experiences with God can be explained mostly by an astute state of boredom. Growing up in a town with less than 1,600 people provided little opportunity to do anything else but go to church. Baird, TX has five churches. I have been to four of them. The Baptist Church, The Church of God, The Church of Christ, The Methodist Church, and one that I haven't attended, The Presbyterian Church located right next to the court house downtown. I still think that's so the Christians can prepare for future protests against gay marriage. It's all they have left now that prohibition is over and blacks and women can vote. The Church of Christ always seemed a little scary because many of the hard-ass teachers at my school went to that church, also I didn't have a great record after getting caught adding graffiti to many of the inside covers to bibles and hymnal books there. At three years old I had already been banned. Also apparently there was a Catholic Church around somewhere but must have been on the down low for I never once heard of it's location.

When I was thirteen I had my first actual awful first experience with another young teenage boy from a neighboring town. Afterward I felt like I had made a horrible decision and the local Methodist church seemed like my chance for giving away my gay virginity so soon. So after a few years of careful consideration, I opened the doors and walked right in. The fact that I didn't immediately burst into flames put me at ease, also no lightning or walls fell on me, my head didn't spin around and Jesus didn't appear to the many church-goers chanting "FAKE! FAKE! FAKE!" I peered into many of the small rooms where the youth educational services were offered for church members. It seemed like a classroom aside from all the pictures of a bloody man sacrificed on 8 1/2" X 11" Manila construction paper, to be honest I'd never seen so much red, though I've heard it's very similar in the Bronx. The entire facility was covered in red carpet, WHY? Was this to suggest that Jesus had bled all over the carpet and that once a week on a Sunday morning, we the church-people, got to parade around in it? These people needed a design intervention! Despite the alarming need for Martha Stuart, I ultimately decided let this go, obviously if the people didn't scare the gay out of me, the carpet would. After all, this was the point that I was trying to discover, I'd been tired of feeling guilty, most teenagers just want to fit in and I was no different.

A friend of mine, Kaitlyn, convinced me to join a youth meeting at the church. If there were any two major rivals in Baird, TX it was the Baptist Church vs. the Methodist church. The Methodist's seemed a little more understanding, if they found out I was gay than maybe they'd only push me off a cliff or poison me. The Baptist's seem like the punishment might actually resemble something I'd read in the bible, you know, the really look book with all those great stories. You've heard of the prodigal son right? Well in a past life I was the gay son no one ever talked about. When I came back they hid the livestock, threw stones, and drowned me in a lake, but not before I screwed Alexander the Great. Next I was born again as a Hispanic lady, and now I'm me... gay again.

I've always rooted for the underdog, growing up I'd eat vanilla before I'd eat chocolate, I'd want to go to burger king instead of McDonald's, and eventually I chose the Methodist church over the Baptist. The year I attended the Methodist church was the same year the church decided to put on the biggest reenactment of Jesus' birth ever shown. For Baird, TX that means an estimated nine actors would be playing various roles. Instead of tan burlap sacks stack up to make walls, wood paneling was actually used. My friend played Mother Mary in the scene and it was all too much. After seeing what Mother Mary was like during labor I immediately decided to switch to the Baptist church, if that much baby coming out of a virgin seems pretty unrealistic. The baptists had to of had a better grasp on what was pragmatic.

I was late my first Sunday morning so I entered through the back door where common room was. The church had a rather large youth group and many ask for forgiveness for all the partying they had done the night before. I later came to realize that it was a sort of routine for most who attended the church. If the baptist church stood apart in any aspect it would be in the arts. More over, the art of gossip. Sure, I'd talked behind a friend's back before but I'd always felt bad about it. Now I could feel free to gossip and after all the shit-talking was over all I had to do was pray for that person. I'd never vented so well in my life, and all the guilt was added up and Jesus did the subtracting. I'm not an accountant but I think I only owe 23 dollars to the IRS for profits made from gossiping in the year of 2005. One thing I did notice about this church was that the carpet was completely red. Did some atheist come through town and think it was funny to put red carpet in all the churches? Eventually I had to leave the church because of all the "you're gay and going to hell" stuff. Whatever, my "lifestyle choice" is to never walk into a building with red carpet again. Church people are morbid.

Before I left the church, however, I did accompany the entire youth group to a church camp. I was excited to go, this would be my last chance before I went off to college to pure my spirit of the deadly gayness, or so I thought. My friend Lance, who is also gay, and I were bunk mates during the trip. Looking back now, I find humor in the fact that fashion made its way into Jesus' chambers. It gives me hope if I ever make it up to heaven. My days consisted of group discussion and bible study in the morning, followed by Acting Class for Jesus in the Afternoons, Lunch, than a swim. After swimming we'd get together for another bible study and then off to the concert part of the evening, or worship part. This consisted of plays and scripture and then a band. Afterward the group would get together and once again, have discussion. It was taxing and Louisiana is hot and humid, maybe I wasn't too use to the environment or maybe somebody was spiking my slushy with something toxic but somehow on the last day I broke down. Earlier in the day a couple of the guys in the youth group made a remark about how I was obviously not a virgin because of some girl I must of had sex with. Let me just say that I am not some piece of meat, I'd never sleep with a woman because she has a crush on me, or any other reason for that matter.

After too many slushies I started to cry uncontrollably, the kind of crying when snot pours out of yours nose. Something had come over me and I couldn't keep my secret any longer. Right then and there I confessed my secret. With every youth member around in a circle I confessed that I wasn't a virgin and that it had been troubling me for some time. Everyone seemed real awkward about the information, and I could tell people were fighting back images of me naked. What I neglected to say was that I had sex with a male and that I was gay. People, this was Jesus central and I would have been crucified, I know, because all the youth groups talked about the whole weekend was Jesus' Crucifixion. Today I feel better being who I am rather than trying to keep a lie from all of the religious people who completely turned their backs to me. It is worse to live a life of lies than to continue a journey with an unwanted truth. BAM! Suck on that!
　

Why Silence Is Golden

Anyone who has had the pleasure of spending a night drinking with me has also shared the displeasure of hearing me sing. I love to sing. I sing in the car, in the shower, in bars, and even in the rain on occasion. My mother would tell you I came out of the womb singing, only to remark later that the doctor then desperately tried to shove me back in.

I noticed early on that singing would be a life long passion for myself, I didn't realize however that it would be so painful for those around me. For years, around the ages of 11 to 15 I sang proud as if I was Christina Agulera herself. In fact, I received Christina's first CD shortly after it came out for Christmas one year while I was in fifth or sixth grade. I loved that CD and wore it out, I cleaned it constantly and put it on every night as I was going to bed, the dilemma consisted of the fact that I shared a bedroom with two of my brothers. My twin brother Josh and my step brother Jason. I would like to officially apologize now for all of the awful noises coming from my bunk. Also that same apology is meant for my first roommate in college for a separate reason not related to singing.

Late at night I would sing low to myself so that my brother's wouldn't complain. After a while they would steal my only blanket and force me to be cold, I guess they thought if they would have to suffer than so should I. My brother Josh convinced me to record myself and I've never been able to sing with the same confidence that I once had. On almost every occasion I get paranoid like there is a recording device in the room and worry that it will be on you-tube the next day. My singing is about as bad as Lindsey Lohan's addiction to methamphetamine. It's lethal, people wonder why I can't just stop and I am completely addicted and ignorant to the consequences.

My friend Tara and I would sing after late nights of drinking and fought over the microphone on almost every instance. Any particular Disney song or the entire soundtrack to a Taylor Swift album. I'm not particularly violent, but take away my microphone and you'll see the Hulk come out. It was my twenty first birthday, perhaps its the Irish in me that makes me a violent singer, anyways I was singing "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey. I was midway through the song when any ugly bitch with wide hips, flat chest, perky noise, and a dark hair cut pushed behind both ears at shoulder length came up to me and pleaded for me to stop singing. Her scrunched up forehead and serious feeble lips suggested an intense attitude, she had been drinking and hadn't been laid in a while, it's even possible that she was under the hypnosis of her period. Regardless, it was my birthday and the bitch was in my air space. There we were, standing on what resembled a much smaller version of the American Idol semi-finalist stage in a tug-of-war over the large mic. My twin brother had to pull me off and ever since I've been reluctant to sing on stage in public. Afterward the young lady sang an intense version of "Should've Said No" by Taylor Swift. Apparently she had been in a fight with her boyfriend and had broken it off with hurt feelings, discovering this fact led to bits of empathy for the woman and then I eventually let the scuffle go because after drinking I tend to get more horny than I do violent. Which I deduce is from my Italian side of the family.

I must now take the chance to apologize for any future situation where another human being or even pet dog or cat must hear my huffing off-key tone def rendition of "A Whole New World" from Disney's "Aladdin." I sincerely understand now why so many believe silence is golden.