|
Post by Chris on May 1, 2007 9:37:03 GMT -5
You're probably wondering why I called this journal about my life what I did. Basically, I did it because that's what my life is made up of: long stretches of boredom, short stretches of watching porn on the internet, and in between stretches where my life drifts into a direction I would have told you was inconceivable five years ago.
To borrow a page from Sarah Silverman, here's how I'd introduce myself: I'm Chris. I'm 19. I have acne. I didn't finish college. My toenails are gross. I'm gay. I love bread pudding. I wanna be famous. I hate to get wet. I'm black.
I know what you're thinking: gay and black? Isn't that an oxymoron?
Yesterday was depressing. My mom made me go to Belize City to the Holy Redeemer Credit Union to pay $1000 bucks on her loan. Lazy as I was, the first thing that popped into my mind was, "Why don't you go do it yourself?" She's off work until Wednesday, which annoys me because I feel all uncomfortable when I'm home with her. At least my brother and sister and cousin don't have school today, so they can be a sort of buffer. She gave me 30 bucks for bus and taxi fare. I had shattered my old headphones the last time I had an argument with her, so I thought I'd just walk instead of take the taxi so I could have some cash to buy a cheap pair of headphones. All I was thinking while I was walking was that I'd get lost or shot. I swear I saw some guys casing a van, and I just took another street to avoid walking by them. Other than that, it was strangely uneventful.
When I came back to Belmopan, I groaned when I saw this hulking guy walking ahead of me who looks like my cousin Glenn. I sort of recognized him by the swaying, big-and-tough guy walk he has, but as he walked on I thought, "His skin is too dark to be Glenn. He's too short to be Glenn. He's too fat to be Glenn." Well, Glenn must be fatter, short and blacker than I thought, 'cause it was him. We used to get along great when we were younger, but now he annoys me. I think he's gotten bitter at how his life has turned out. Who hasn't? He'd come to see my mom about some money his mom had sent for him and his siblings. He was sweating nonstop, as usual, so I asked him where he was coming from. His answer in our native Creole roughly translates to, "About. What is this, 20 questions?" "Ok," I said, and rolled my eyes. I couldn't wait for my mom to open the door so I could stop talking to him. And later, after I'd taken off my shoes and cleaned up, I got myself some lunch, and he just said out of the blue, "Aren't you tired of eating?" Says the gorilla who's like 60 pounds heavier than me! I just muttered no and continued ignoring him.
When I told my mom about it later, she started a rant about how he's an idiot, and he doesn't know to talk with people and stuff. I tuned it out, as usual, even though I knew it was in my defense. See, Glenn had gotten drunk a short while ago, and made a spectacle of himself out at the house he had been sharing with his brother. I wasn't there, but from what I heard it sounds like he was really in top jerk form. He told his neighbors something about them being filthy Spanish people, he said something to my mother about her "battyman" son, which translates to faggot, he said how he'd like to push a fist down his stepmothers throat. He said something about how his father was the only person who ever loved him and took care of him. He broke down the front door of his house. He is now back at home with his dad and stepmom, I believe. I think it was because of that crack about me being a faggot that my mom made such a fuss when I told her about the passive-aggressive stuff he told me. To show me that she's ... got my back or something. Honestly, I don't think she does.
My mom found out about me being gay the same way Glenn did: stupid internet history. What a day that was. I was shocked, because she seemed genuinely shocked. I always figured she had sorta suspected, because she told me some really dumb stuff before. One time, she told me not to always be sitting by myself at school, because the 'gay people' would single me out. I don't even know what I said to something like that. There was a time where I was going to a psychiatrist because I had confessed to my parents that I had wanted to kill myself, and I honestly believe that my mom only sent me to find out if I was gay or not. That day she found out I was gay, she told me that the psychiatrist had told her how I had said that I didn't like gay people. I was stunned that she had betrayed my confidence like that. That was the only thing I had lied to the psychiatrist about, and in retrospect I am very glad I did it. If I ever see her again, I'm giving her a piece of my mind. I really hate this country sometimes. It's not a bad place or anything, but I don't fit in here. I wanna go someplace where nobody knows my name.
Nothing of interest happened today. When I went to the store this morning, the ones I'd gone to were closed, so I had to walk all the way back over to 168. On the way there, I passed the street my grandmother's house is on, and I coulda sworn I saw my dad's car there. I ... don't hate my dad, but if I never saw him again I wouldn't be broken up about it. He cheated on my mom, and hit her. My mom keeps telling me he's not a bad guy, but my first memory is of him hitting her and she calling out to me for help. I tried to bite him, but his jeans were too thick. I feel like I'm turning into him, day by day. I just walked past, and after I'd bought the stuff, I walked around by the other end of the street to see if he was really there. His car wasn't parked there, so I must have imagined it, or he must have left while I was at the store.
I bet you're wondering about the aforementioned argument I had with my mom in which I shattered the headphones. It's stuff like that that makes me think I'm like my dad. Sometimes I have so much anger. I didn't tell you about it until now 'cause I wanted it to stew, but I bet you'd already forgotten about it, right? Anyway, she had shown me an ad for a job she thought I could get, and when I brought the paper into the hall my little sister Kay had wanted to see it, so I let her read it and went back to the computer. My mom came out and saw me just sitting at the computer instead of perusing the ad, and she got frustrated that I was so disinterested. Then, of course, I got mad, because Kay had just wanted to see it for a second, and I was just thinking that she has so many things to get upset with me about that I just wished she would pick her battles every once in a while. I threw my already feeble headphones on the ground, I snatched the newspaper out of Kay's hand and crumpled it, and I stormed into my room. Geez, what a bitch, right? Well, I have new ones now, so all is right in the world.
I like TV. I think I'm gonna become a writer for a TV show someday. I much prefer TV shows to movies, because you get more involved with the characters on TV shows. Tuesday is a terrible day to watch TV, but I think I'll catch American Idol and House on Fox, and then switch over to ABC for Boston Legal, unless the pull of Futurama becomes too much, as it often does. If my life were a TV show, it'd have to be a comedy. One of those single camera ones that are all the rage right now but nobody really watches that much. Of course, a sitcom about me would be doomed from the start, 'cause I'm boring. Unless you like hearing about me staring at my naked self in the mirror after a shower while singing or chronic masturbation.
Sorry about being so crude, by the way, but I just want to make it interesting. I think my life wouldn't be good enough to read about with all the scandalous, taboo stuff. I want people to read. I know about good TV, and good TV is the kind that keeps you watching, no matter what they do to do it. It's good practice for me to test it out if I'm gonna work in the festering rat's nest called TV someday.
That's a Futurama reference, by the way. I would be remiss to not make a reference to something.
My brother wants a sandwich, and I'm running out of stuff to say. All I know is you'd better enjoy this while it lasts, because I am notoriously bad at keeping journals.
|
|
|
Post by Chris on May 1, 2007 10:05:52 GMT -5
We don't have the supplies to make my brother that sandwich, and he doesn't want cereal or Ramen noodles, so I'm off the hook for getting him breakfast. Yippee!
I realized that I could talk about my brother Maxwell, nicknamed Tunchi by my grandmother, god bless her soul. He's 9, he was born with Spinabifida and Hydrocephalus, so he's got a big head, his spine is sort of exposed and he can't feel anything for the waist down. He's not fat, but his chest is strangely huge; he can rest his chin on it, I swear. His stomach sort of balloons and deflates depending on how full he is. Despite that sort of gross description, he's very cute. And very spoiled in my opinion. Since I don't have a job, and he doesn't go to school in the afternoons, I spend more time with him than anyone else. He's such a pain. He's constantly asking me dumb questions, and god forbid someone other than my mom or him wants to use the TV in the hall. The only way he gives it up is if I give him a tour of the house, a scam I once made up to get it from him that now comes back to bite me in the ass every so often, or if I take him for a walk. If I'm using it when he comes back from a school, he always gets huffy. "But Chris, what am I supposed to do in this house?" He'll invariably ask me. "Go to Mexico," I'll tell him, or something in that vein, and he'll get mad or he'll cry. He should know better than to think I'll surrender my remote, especially on days when Brothers & Sisters or Grey's Anatomy is going to be on. I can deal with him pretty well, though, because I can annoy faster than he can annoy me. I just reply to anything he says with, "UFOs are real," and he'll soon lose it. He's so easy to tease that sometimes I just can't help myself.
He's a pretty weird kid. He loves watching the Food Network channel. Thanks to him, I now know that Rachael Ray talks too much, Emeril likes his spices, and Sandra Lee likes making alcoholic beverages. It seems like every other word out of his mouth is Westby. Ms. Westby is one of his teachers; Mrs. Westby is the principal. I think he has a crush on Ms. Westby. "Ms. Westby this, Ms. Westby that." "Don't you mean Mr. Westby?" "Chris, why do you always say everything wrong?" "I don't say everything wrong; Everything is said wrong to me." He'll begrudgingly smile and wail, "CHRISSSS!!!!" His fine motor skills leave something to be desired, but they are good enough to use the Falcon Punch on Super Smash Bros. on the computer. Captain Falcon is normally the only person he'll use, but sometimes he'll mix it up and use Pikachu or Mario. He's best with Falcon.
I'm so hungry, but I'm too lazy to get food. Besides, I feel like I'm getting fat. I sometimes look at my stomach and thighs and they seem humongous, most particularly when I'm sitting on the toilet. After I take a shower and look at myself in the mirror, that's when I think I look best. That's the only time I look good naked.
I always wonder if I think that way because I'm gay. I thought gay guys were just normal guys who liked guys, but sometimes I wonder. Is it normal for me to think about how much I weigh, or how I look naked? Do guys do that?
I know guys like pulling out their rulers, if you catch my drift. I'm about 6 inches and change. It's more like 7 and change, I think, but I don't know if I can trust my ruler, and I don't wanna oversell myself. I'm about 2 or 3 inches flaccid. Not bad, huh?
I'm going down a bad road here. Let's just call it a day.
|
|
|
Post by Chris on May 1, 2007 10:45:42 GMT -5
I know I said I'd call it quits for today, but my brother Roy wants to use the computer, and if I do anything that doesn't look important, he'll demand that I give it up to him. Which I certainly won't do, because there's nothing else to do, and if I stop using the computer, I'll just end up lying in my bed with the fan on, thinking of story ideas that I know I'll never follow through on.
Roy is my other brother. He's ... 12, I think? I'm so terrible, I'm not certain of the ages of my own brothers and my sister. To be fair, I forget my own age from time to time. In fact, I'm not even that sure that I am 19. I feel like I'm missing a year of my life.
As easily as I can piss Maxwell off, Roy can piss me off just as easily. He had turned teasing me into a science, seriously. He has a natural talent for making anything I say sound dirty. I usually play to good sport and laugh along, although sometimes he gets on my nerves. When he does, I give him a warning. I'll glare, or I'll say, "You can shut up now." If he continues, there's definitely going to be one kicked ass in our house.
Roy had a lot of sores on his butt at one time. I don't know how he got them, but he did. My sister Kay called him scabby for it, and now whenever she wants to get him riled up, that's what she called him. When she had first called him that, I tried to make the word taboo, but that just made it that more attractive to use, and now it'll never die. Only she can make it work as an insult, though, because he just shrugs it off whenever I say it. Her strategy is to basically use it as much as possible in any sentence she's saying. "Don't scabbing talk to me, you scabby, because I don't want to here any scabbing from you just because you're scabby!"
My sister is fierce. If there were a hierarchy, it'd go Kay, Roy, Maxwell, then me, even though I'm the oldest. Maybe I'd beat Maxwell out for third, but just barely. Unlike Roy, I don't dare get physical with her: not 'cause she's a girl, but because she'd probably kick my ass. She fights dirty, and she'll use her nails and bite if I'm involved. She can beat Roy with going to that, but she wouldn't hesitate to maim me. She's probably the most popular one of all of us, even though she's got really bad acne like I used to. I still do, just not as bad. She's such a tomboy, too.
My cousin Olarae is staying with us. She ran away from home, and she apparently has no intention of going back. I doubt her dad would even take her back. That jackass Glenn I was telling you about his her older brother. Unlike her brothers and her sister, she spent most of her life with my aunt Marilyn. We call her Mally, probably pronounced more like Maalee. She ran away, and like Glenn when he was drunk, dissed everyone who was trying to help her out. She said that my mother likes bossing people around, and that's why my dad left her. She said that said that my aunt Judy was too much of a bad mother to take her in. I don't remember what else she was rumored to have said, but none of us really took it seriously. I think she was just trying to push everyone away. She's really not that bad. Not like Glenn, anyway.
I was at the University of Belize for three years, and I have no degree to show for it. I started out bad, and it steadily got worse. I was 14 when I started there, and there was just so much freedom than I was used to. I avoided classes like they were bullets. My parents tried and tried to make me apply myself, because we all knew I was better than that. I have no discipline. In the end, my dad told me he'd stop paying my tuition if I didn't buck up, and ... I didn't buck up. My mom said she would have paid for me to continue if (a) I could guarantee that I wouldn't be wasting her money and (b) if I could reapply and start off with a clean slate instead of continuing with my probation, which limited me to taking three classes per semester. When (b) wasn't an option, she said no. I never really expected her to send me back to school anyway. Were I in her position, I wouldn't either.
Sometimes I think something is wrong with me. I feel like everyone is growing up around me and I'm staying the same. I still like cartoons, I don't watch the news, I have no interest in current events, and I'm very content to waste my life day after day at my computer terminal. I know that sounds bad, but ... I can't help myself. I have no plan. I just wanna be famous. I'm lazy. I think on some level, I think that the answer to all my problems is going to fall right into my lap. I really do. I know it's not true, but I still believe it somehow. I don't really think about it. I don't care about myself all that much. I feel that no matter what happens to me, I'm not gonna care. I don't have enough sense to care.
I'm so lonely. Not in a bad way, like I wish I had friends or something. That roughly translates to I'm just horny, and I wanna meet some hot guy and just do stuff to him. I'm so constantly turned on it's not even funny. I've never met another gay person every, and I'm so desperate I'd probably jump the first one I see, no matter how fugly they are.
It is so strange how easy it is to be candid with strange people. Knowing that I'll never meet anyone reading this is sort of comforting in a weird way. I've never really come out to anyone before, besides my mom, were I was sorta cornered into telling the truth. I just hope the people who hate me for being gay on this site will keep it to themselves, or just lie to me. I can understand why people hate gays, I can. I don't really see it as the way I was born, like it was natural or something. I could understand why people would be disgusted by people going against nature. It's sort of like a fetish to me. I think, if I really wanted to, I could be with a girl, and be normal. But I don't really wanna. God, I hope no one I know reads this. I sound like a perv, to tell you the truth. I sort of am, but ... everyone's got a bit of perv in them, I always say. Well, no, I don't always say that, but there's got to be some truth in that.
Meh. This time I'll seriously give it up for the day.
Or at the very least I'll seriously consider it.
|
|
|
Post by Chris on May 4, 2007 0:28:56 GMT -5
I just got back from my aunt Marilyn's house. Most of the family was over there because my aunt Melissa and some other family members came from the US so we could have a memorial service for my grandmother sometime this weekend. It was nice, I guess. We ate chinese take-out (my sweet and sour chicken had bones in it, imagine that), most of the adults drank and reminisced, the kids and some others gambled. And then there was me, watching Grey's Anatomy while I listened to everyone else have fun. Not that Grey's Anatomy isn't fun; it is my favorite show after all, and this was a 2 hour episode that is serving as the test pilot for a spinoff of Addison's character. It was awesome. But I just don't get why I can't seem to join in like everyone else. Everyone was in full flow about my grandmother and what a force she was. There was nary a story about her told tonight that didn't involve her being profane and in your face. I used to think that reminiscing about dead old people with grey in their hair and fire in their veins was just a tired TV show cliche, but I guess I stand corrected. She really was someone to be reckoned with, my grandmother Rose. The sad thing is that that's the only way I can describe her. I knew her all my life, and I have come to realize that I never knew anything about her at all. She always talked about me in a good light, about how I was so smart and stuff. If only she could see me now. She'd probably let a few swears fly about how I was wasting my life. I was in charge of the video camera for a while there. I think it was just my aunt Melissa's way of keeping me busy, keeping me involved. I love her for it, but I wish she hadn't. Holding that camera just reminded me that everyone else was having fun, and I was just watching them do it. It's funny how the delivery people finally got my mom her closet here today. I think she must've called them and yelled at them because it was her last chance to make her room decent before Lucille, her aunt, came to stay with us. She's also here for the memorial service. Anyway, the closet came, and when she came home, we took all her clothes (which she had been previously keeping in garbage bags or strewn on the floor) and put them in the closet, and she made me hang some new curtain things. As we were making things respectable for our visitor, I guess that reminded that she had to make me respectable for our visitor too, because she said that I needed to learn to act 'more like a man'. She said I overpronounce my S's, and then she demonstrated to me some flitty motion that I apparently always make. Classic mom. The thing is, I was pretty depressed when she first told me about it. Whenever she does stuff like that, it just makes me uncomfortable. Its stuff like that makes me want to leave the room when she's in it, because I feel like if I stay there long enough I'm just giving her time to find something else wrong with me. It makes me feel like I must be some kinda idiot if I can't even walk right, or talk right, or move right. Like a man. Not to be melodramatic, but it hurts. If she doesn't accept me as I am, who will? But, as I always do, I calm down later on, and I start questioning if maybe she was right. After all, she is my mom, and like most moms she's sorta always right, and she probably has my best interests at heart, despite what I may think. Maybe there is some method to her madness. Maybe there is something wrong with me, or my mannerisms. Maybe she really does have my back. But I can't figure out why she's telling me this, how it benefits me to change the way I behave. Is it because she thinks if I pretend to be a man, if I act like a man, then I'll mature into more than I presently am, the college dropout on the fast track to nowhere? Is it because ... she's trying to help me pretend to be normal so other people won't pick up on me being gay? I hate not being able to pick up on this. I can't tell if she's picking at me because she's trying to help me become a better person, or if she's just a bigot. I hate that I can't tell. She's always saying crazy stupid stuff that I know she probably doesn't mean, but it's so racist. I like to shake up my Sprite to get it flat, but if she sees me do that, she'll be all, "Stop shaking that soda like a Spanish." She sometimes said that I hung clothes like Spanish people. I can't tell if she's serious or just using a sort of weird expression, but I know there's something racist in what she's saying because whenever she says someone does something like a Spanish person she never means it in a good way. If I'm doing something like a Spanish person, it invariably means that I'm doing it wrong. I can't help but think that maybe she is bigoted, and that I'm wrong and she is just picking at me because she's trying to make me feel guilty for being gay. Why is it that I feel more comfortable at home than at that party? Why can't I just get along, join in? Is it something that you have to practice at? How can I choose to come back here and share my life with complete strangers but I can't sit down, play some cards and shoot the breeze with my own family? The only thing for me here is boredom and porn, and my self-respect will slink down a few more notches as I wack off for the third time today to a so-so orgasm, then I'll wonder how it was that I got to this point in my life where I'd be happy to just settle for some nine to five to get out of my mother's house and hair so she'll finally one less thing to bitch about and we can all get on with our lives. And that's another thing. I don't really care about my mother's stress. I don't really care about anything but myself. I don't really care that I'm mooching off her, but I do care that she's giving me grief about it. What am I? I'm so phony, even right down to this very sentence here. I don't care, but somewhere between the lines of these very words I'm typing, it implies that ... I do, on some level. But I don't. I think I'm just trying to sway you to be on my side, to get you to like me with my sincerity. I think it's impossible for me to be really honest, no matter how hard I try, and in everything I do, I'm doing it for some selfish reason. Eh, whatever. No one's reading anyway. Why would they? Heck, I don't read anyone else's journal. I read Eakyra's back when we were close, but not much because her life is probably even bleaker than mine. At least it sure seemed that way when I read it, even though she assured me constantly that it was better than it sounded. Eaky and I used to be pretty close. Back when Matt was around, we were sorting of vying for her 'love', and I guess she sorta chose me. We were kinda pretend flirting for a while around here. At least, I was pretending. We'd say we love each other and stuff, and it was all good fun. And then we started chatting on YIM, and we shared stuff about our lives with each other. Our friendship started getting deeper and real, and, in stereotypical heterosexual male fashion, I panicked and bolted. If anyone out there actually reads this and knew me way back when, back when I was Pessimism or Illiteracy or something, I can't remember, then you now know why I suddenly disappeared from the guild. I dreaded seeing Eakyra because I suddenly found myself in a situation where I told some faceless person intimate details about myself that I'd never shared with anyone else, and she was doing the same with me, and it suddenly hit me that maybe I was doing something incredibly stupid. How could I have given my life to a complete stranger? That person could have been lying to me all along, and there I was willingly serving up my hurt and my feelings and my dreams and everything I was on a silver platter. And worse, what if Carmen was exactly who she said she was, and ... what if all those times she'd said she loved me, she really meant it, while I just said it because it was something to say? What clinched it for me was, after such a long period of being incommunicado, I decided to hit her up with a new nick, and I pretend to be someone else. It had been months, and I figured she'd already forgotten about me. So when I pmed her, even with this new nick, she almost instantly answered my pm with a "CHRIS?". Had she been ... just waiting there, hoping I'd come on someday? And there was no stopping this connection we had. She'd ask me things, and I'd just tell her the truth. It was just so complete, this hold she had over me. So I did the cowardly thing, and I just slowly stopped coming on altogether. I have never spoken to her since. I bet you're thinking I'm an ass, because I could have told her the truth about how I felt. Or how I'm a hypocrite, because I fled from her because I told her personal stuff, and here I am, willingly volunteering my life, my thoughts, my feelings to all eyes with no prompting necessary. You're right on both counts. Maybe its easier this way because ... there's no one to care about what I say. No one for me to care about. Excuses, excuses and lies. I don't know why I did what I did, and I think I'd do it again. I'm such a loser. I think that's the cue to call it a night. I'm going to wack off as I previously stated. Gaymoviedome.com, the pantheon of gay porn, is calling my name. P.S. I just worked in that last sentence there 'cause pantheon is my word of the day. EDIT: It's so good that I waited as long as I did before jerking off. My brother, my sister and my cousin just got in. A few minutes later, and I'd have had some explaining to do. Saved by the YWG!
|
|
|
Post by AshVersion2 on May 4, 2007 5:03:23 GMT -5
I'm reading . . .
|
|
|
Post by Chris on May 4, 2007 10:25:45 GMT -5
Somebody actually read this? God, you must think I'm so gross!
|
|
Erik
Rank 7 (Ooooh! Look, Fungus!)
Minijohn
Posts: 1,396
|
Post by Erik on May 4, 2007 13:40:55 GMT -5
Lol, I'm reading too. And no, not really, it's refreshingly honest. As you say you're 'willingly volunteering my life, my thoughts, my feelings to all eyes with no prompting necessary'. Many people, myself included, just wouldn't be able to do that.
|
|
|
Post by AshVersion2 on May 4, 2007 13:58:55 GMT -5
What ^ said.
|
|
|
Post by Chris on May 4, 2007 14:05:42 GMT -5
Well, thanks. Truth is, I guess I just never expected anyone to read it, and even if they did, I didn't expect to them to say anything, and just be put off by it. The truth is sort of an ugly thing, especially the way I put it, and when I think about it, I certainly wouldn't be inclined to continue reading this if it were about anyone other than myself.
|
|
|
Post by AshVersion2 on May 4, 2007 14:12:26 GMT -5
The truth is refreshing, especially on here - people are very prone to holding back here.
|
|
|
Post by Ethan on May 4, 2007 21:56:53 GMT -5
Somebody actually read this? God, you must think I'm so gross! I just read it all...it sounds like a story, it's sickly interesting ..just want to let you know someone's reading (and you know that thing you were waiting to fall into your lap? This may be it...if you were to tweak a bit of things, and add a fictional plot, witht he same style of writing, it woukld actually be VERY interesting I like it,. it's honest (and vaguely reminds me of "Tuesdays with Mory(sp?)"
|
|
Brokenhearts
Rank 15 (On Angie's Level)
Beware, all ye who talk 2 me
Posts: 4,934
|
Post by Brokenhearts on May 5, 2007 17:23:17 GMT -5
2 b honest pesto, i think ur 1 of the only ppl here hu dusnt hold bak and is so brazenly honest about ur life and so blunt about ur emotions and wat happens, these entries r refreashing and oddily (ok scarily) interesting 2 b perfectly honest the world wud b a bttr place if ppl were as open as u r and i wish i cud b the same... i think there r 2 many ppl like me in the world- terrified of showin wat they think and feel. ur jst showin us wat really can happen in the world and it really is a gr8 change keep it up, im readin as well
|
|
|
Post by Emily on May 6, 2007 7:05:23 GMT -5
You know Pesto? I could never be as blunt as you are, and even online, I could never reveal the absolute truth to anyone. It's sad from that point of view, that I'm scared to even talk to people who I will probably never meet about my true thoughts and feelings. In actual truth - I admire you in that way that you can be so honest. I agree with Ash
|
|
|
Post by Chris on May 23, 2007 12:18:03 GMT -5
It's been a while, I guess. I think I got a little put off when I noticed that people were actually reading what I was writing.
But it's so cathartic. I can't stay away for too long, and I want to prove to myself that keeping a journal isn't something too difficult, even if people are going to be reading it.
So, the memorial service. What a day that was. In the morning, my cousin Ola Rae had gone out earlier to somebody's house to do their hair, and when she came back, my mom's aunt Lucille and my mom had been standing outside by the car. My mom said she was saying something to Ola Rae, but like she wasn't hearing her, and Ola Rae just walked over and collapsed in her arms. What a job it was getting her inside; she's a heavy one. I was stunned and scared, I had no idea what I would have done if my mom and her aunt weren't there. She sounded so ... urgent when she groaned at us. "I'm so hot. Help me, hurry!" We laid her down in the kitchen on top of the clothes on the floor, and we put a fan on her to cool her down. My mom covered a napkin in alcohol and made her smell it, and my aunt damped another napkin and wipe her face. She had soiled herself too. My mom wanted to take her to the hospital, but Lucille insisted that she just had a fainting spell, and she needed to cool down, so we heaved her, clothes and all, into my mom's tub and turned the shower on her. We almost ruined her cellphone, luckily my mom remembered that she had it on her. They kept asking her if she had eaten breakfast, or drank water, or was smoking weed or doing drugs or something, and I couldn't help but laugh in spite of myself. My mom ended up taking her to the hospital after all, just to make sure she was ok. Which she turned out to be.
The memorial service itself was such a fiasco. I would say I hate church because I feel guilty or hypocritical as a homosexual in a church, but honestly, it doesn't even register. I'd like to believe there's a God out there, but I feel ... unable, for lack of a more apt word. Besides, even if there was one, I doubt he'd want a man-hungry deviant like me in his heaven. I was so wholly bored by the damn service. That preacher's sermon went on for like ever, and I just hated him for it, I swear. I ground my teeth at him for talking on and on about nothing. It wasnn't even that coherent a sermon, as he was talking about this and that, and none of what he said seemed appropriate for a memorial. He even tried to poke fun at himself, by saying what we were all thinking. "That father really likes taking his time, doesn't he?" And everyone sort of laughed, because they knew it was true. I think he was just pandering to them, trying to hit a note of truth in his way off sermon.
And not once did he mention Rose, as my mother and her sister Marilyn complained and swore about loudly as we were leaving the church later (of course, my mother was the one doing the swearing). See, a memorial service here is just an ordinary church service, but they always at least mention the person they are remembering. Oh, and you pay money for it.
Nothing else of interest happened at the service, unless you count when I grabbed my sister's butt when we were offering each other the sign of peace. She was stunned that little old me would be so brash in a church.
At Marilyn's house, we served food and drink and many people shared their memories of my grandmother. All the stories invariably talked about some instance of her in-your-face-ed-ness and her swearing and her sheer ferocity. Melissa had me running the camera again. I felt so lame with that thing, walking up and down to catch the person who was speaking. I wish she hadn't made me do it.
There are two stories that I remember most from that night. One old woman talked about how back when they were young, she had been making a cake for somebody, and she saw my grandmother coming. She figured she would be getting some help now, and she did. My grandmother told her off for moving so slow and snatched the cake batter and started beating the heck out of it. By hand of course, 'cause they didn't have mixers back then. The woman said she then went to do ... something or other, I can't remember, but she said when she came back, she was astonished to find that my grandmother had been beating the cake so hard most of the batter had somehow found its way on the ceiling. God, how we all laughed.
And then my grandmother's brother, Clement, told a story about how Rose had wanted to go to a dance, and she left her then only daughter, Betty, in his care. But when she left, Betty wouldn't stop crying, no matter what he did. So he took Betty to the dance, and then insisted that my grandmother swore at him so badly and clobbered him right there in front of everybody. And of course, Betty went right to sleep after Rose took her.
I feel ... this sighy kind of feeling when I hear stories like this, because I know that nobody's gonna remember stuff like that about me when I die. I'm a teeny bit jealous of my grandmother, because she had that magic thing that just seems to make everything orbit around you, that makes everything amped up because you're there. When we buried my grandmother, we had to get buses for all the people who wanted to come out from all over the country to pay their respects. I bet when I die, my funeral will be more like my other grandmother's brother's funeral, where the church had an underwhelmingly empty feel.
At Roy's funeral (that's the name of my other grandmother's brother), I had to do the eulogy. That's how few people were there. Out of all the people they could have chosen, they chose me. At first, I relished ... ew, not relished, god no, but I was grateful, you could say, for being able to help in some way. A eulogy is, after all, one of the most important parts of a funeral, the part where the people who know your best send you off with a final goodbye. A eulogy gives closure, in my opinion. However, I think I chose to be a little too honest in my version of the eulogy, because my mom read it, and she ... well, not literally, but figuratively, turned her nose up at it. In a nutshell, I had said, or had tried to say, that Roy may not have had a beautiful life, but he had nevertheless been a most beautiful man. My mother asked me if I thought he had had a hard life, and I told her I did. She was about to tell me that people didn't want to hear about that in a eulogy, but what they wanted to hear I'll never know, she got busy. I got a little angry, because I didn't want to go up there and read something that I had written that I knew had little to no truth in it. I was even less inclined to do it when his sister emailed my mom her eulogy. She didn't even come to the funeral, whoever she was, but she wanted to put her two cents in.
And again, after my initial reaction, I thought that maybe my mom was right. She is often right about such things, and me being socially challenged, maybe I couldn't see that perhaps there is something in my truth about how I saw Roy that just didn't fit.
Roy had been ill. He had gotten in a car crash, and he had been staying with my grandmother Vincent, his sister, at her house on Mayflower Street. We used to live there before she slowly started moving back to Belize. My grandmother and my mother used to roll their eyes whenever he asked somebody to do something for him. He had asked for things ice cream that he didn't eat, and cigarettes for the friend visiting him. They took him to get checked up on at the hospital some day after and he died there. What a tragedy for my grandmother, who had come here to Belize for a holiday. At least she got to see her brother again before he passed on.
Death scares me. I don't believe in God, so I think death is the end. I'm not scared of death itself, actually, but I'm scared of pain. I think it's my fear of getting hurt, of feeling pain, that has kept me from committing suicide back when I was miserable because I was living with my dad on his farm. Most of all, I'm afraid that I'll still be conscious after death, and I'll have to spend an eternity in my own mind, alone. It's weird that I'm afraid of that, because that's almost sort of what my life is like.
I'm being way too morbid today.
Nothing significant has happened since the memorial service, really. Same old boredom, porn and misdirection. Well, Maurice happened, actually, I just remembered. Lucille and her brothers Doy and Uriel (or Lech, as we call him), went to Caye Caulker for a day or two after the memorial service, I don't remember, and when they came back they brought with them a Maurice. God I hate that guy. He's related to us somehow, don't ask me. He's the kind that talks and talks even when he's not saying anything of importance. Obviously I wouldn't get along with him because I'm the silent type, but he likes badgering into conversation.
Of course Maxwell likes him. They're two of a kind, blabbermouths. "Brother of another mother" is a phrase Maxwell has picked up from him, and he now uses it constantly, mostly when my brother Roy brings his friends over. Maurice finds Maxwell to be a hoot. He gave him money, and bought him (get this) a cellphone. He bought my 10 year old brother a cellphone. Idiot much? It already looks scratched and worn and old, and it doesn't work that well. Thank god he left when Lucille and her brothers went back to the US. May I never lay eyes on him again.
My dad brought over a check for my mom yesterday. We didn't say much to each other, as usual. He asked me where Maxwell was, I told him he was at school, he left. Then I went to the refrigerator and I was just gripped by this hunger all of a sudden. I felt like my knees were gonna give out. I made some Kool Aid, and while I was doing it I stuffed my hand into this box of honeyed Corn Flakes I had bought, and just ate handful after handful after handful. Then I went to the refrigerator and I ate some peanut butter, I tasted some sour cream that's probably expiring, I ate a piece of stewed chicken, I chugged from that mug of soursop drink my mom made, I ate some more corn flakes, and I chugged from the mug of Kool Aid I had just mixed again. I think my body was tellin me that it really needed some food.
I tried to convince myself that it had something to do with my dad's visit, but I gave up on that. I'm not deep enough that my body would react to my psychological state, and to tell you the truth I probably pushed my dad from my mind the second his car started pulling away.
It wasn't yesterday, it was Monday. I'm too lazy to go back and find and edit that, so I'm just mentioning it now.
I think I'm going to join the BDF: the Belize Defense Force. A.K.A. the army. A.K.A. Belize Dog Food, as the young people who think they're so clever will tell you. Meh, who am I kidding? The date for application is this Friday ... or Saturday, I'm not even sure, and I need a police record, my birth certificate and ID. I'm pretty sure that I can't secure a police record before then, and I don't even know if I have a birth certificate lying around somewhere. Also, if I did join the BDF, it would just be because I'm tired of being pissed off at my mom for no particular reason. It's odd that I can feel my blood pumping faster even if I just imagine that I'm getting angry with her, or with anyone for that matter. I always thought that were I an actor, I wouldn't need any motivation to be angry, because it just comes to me so naturally. It scares me sometimes, because I can't just suddenly be happy or sad or any other feeling at random like that. Well, it doesn't really scare me, or make me feel anyway at all for that matter, but ... I don't know, it's just there.
Anyway, I've been fooling myself into thinking that I would join the army. I could say that maybe it's because I know I would only be doing it to get out of my mom's hair and get her out of mine, or to make her feel guilty or something, but I think it's mostly because I'm too lazy to make the effort. I think I geniunely considered it, but I can't be sure. I feel like I'm so constantly playing mind games with myself that I don't even know what's going on in my head. I never understood how fleeting truth could be until I started writing here and seeing for myself that I can't even be true with myself. I know this all looks like truth, but I can't help feeling that it's nowhere near to being the whole truth. Partly because I can't explain what I mean, partly because I still feel like there are some roadblocks that I find myself unwilling or unable to cross somewhere in my head, partly because I don't know what the truth really is, and partly because the truth seems to change every time I think about it or wheever I'm in a different mood.
Take that rant just now: did I do it because I want to impress you with my depth, with my sincerity? Because I like it when you guys say to me, "Oh, Chris, I could never be as honest as you are."? Or is that really what I'm thinking? It feels like I'm trying to be honest, but sometimes I really can't differentiate the two.
Psh. Enough about honesty. Truth is overrated and difficult.
Normally I would have taken a load off by now (wink, wink), but Ola Rae is home right now. They had the final assembly yesterday, and now the fourth years are basically free until graduation, not counting practice. Final assembly day is the day when all the fourth years bring markers to school to write stuff on each other's uniforms, a lot of which is profane. It's a nice way to use your uniform for the last time. I thought I was too lazy to go get my shirt and tell you what it says, but I guess I thought wrong. I guess I can't turn down the opportunity to show you what people think of me.
There's one from Valerie at the back with an arrow pointing where my butt should be that says, "Sweet and stinck ass" and "Good luck Chris Valerie". Yes, she misspelled stink. There's a big "FOCK YOU" on the back that was thankfully written in yellow, so it's sort of hard to make out. "Find a girl quick! B.M.M." I don't remember who wrote that one. Sigh. I hate my memory sometimes. "Life Suck" one says on the right side of the front in purple, and it has "VL" under it, which I assume stands for "Vatos Locos", some sort of gang. I think that one was Hilbert. Man, I hate everyone who wrote in yellow, I can't make out what they said. "Touch the girls Dude!!!" an anonymous one says in light purple on the left front, and next to that, "Time Fu Bruck Out, Get Fucked Up, C. Crawford". Darn Carlos. Time Fu Bruck Out means it's time to come out of my shell, if you didn't catch that.
Those are all the embarrassing ones, I think. Well, there's one that says I should try to grow a couple more inches, again I can't remember who wrote that, and one from Othelia who says that she'll remain my friend even though I'm snobbish at times (yes, she actually used the damn word snobbish).
And there are the sweet ones. Deshawn, on whom I once had a crush back when I was straight, says, "Well, Lit w/ you has been an experience. Crhis you are on of a kind so don't you ever let the world get the best of you! Keep your head up! Your friend always, D'Shawn Kemarrah Brown". She had written that right next to the one that said "Life Suck", and I guess upon seeing that, she was spurred to add, "Life doesn't suck when you try to make the best of it! You make life what it is! D'Shawn K. Brown!" I was so pleased that she was the one who wrote the most on my shirt. "Wish you the best in life" Denise blandly says, but she draws a cute picture of a swan next to it (Swan is her last name). Most of the other comments were pretty bland, particularly that of Martha Balan's, whom I considered my best friend, although I'm sure I wasn't hers: "Hey boy, You'v ebeen a great friend and a friend like you deserves only the best so good luck in the future M. Balan." Ugh, I think I just my cousin Glen wrote one on me that says "Good Luck, Glen" that I haven't seen before.
Then there are the sad ones, like, "Always do your best in life. A very intelligent person. From soneone who admired you. F.D." The ones that remind me just how much of a loser I've stayed.
And Beckie Lemoth simply says "I wonder about you sometimes!" God, those people make me laugh. I never thought I would miss high school, but sometimes ...
Enough reminiscing.
|
|
|
Post by Denithar on May 23, 2007 15:56:38 GMT -5
I am going to be very blunt. I don't even know why, other than that I think you are an amazing person and deserve me to be honest rather than nice, and you said you "seriously" wanted to get to know me. Also, you are quite blunt yourself, so I shall follow in my own accord. Lastly, I feel I must admit that I only read the entire first and last posts of your journal so if I am missing something do not hesitate to correct me. You really do have a knack for making the refuse of humanity interesting to read. I think you probably guessed, but that is not exactly a compliment. Not that you will necessarily believe me, but I respect you a lot as well. You have a talent for writing that could be put to better use. You say that you enjoy TV, well I despise it for its pandering to humanity's base nature. I also am honest. I once was addicted to porn. But my story is a little different. Why is it different? I only wish I knew. It is my genes? Is it my religion? But the fact is, I overcame my addiction. We have a choice. John Milton said it quite well: I made him [man] just and right, Sufficient to have stood though free to fall. Such I created all th’ ethereal pow’rs And spirits, both them who stood and them who failed: Freely they stood who stood and fell who fell. (Paradise Lost p. 59)
I choose to glorify that which is good in my limited writing experience, believing that humanity can become better than our animal impulses with the help of an outside power, who I believe is Jesus Christ. I don't claim to have any right to suggest what you should read, but Till We Have Faces by C. S. Lewis is a fascinating read that might interest you. It is in one aspect, a retelling of an ancient myth. However, I believe, as does Lewis, that myth is a powerful source of truth. Because, as you seem to have realized, we cannot understand truth fully. Abstract truth is often more real when it is in story and no longer abstract. So, yeah... you said you wanted to get to know me and I did my best. If you feel the need to blast away at me I welcome any criticism. Edit: And if someone called me homophobic I will... never mind. I have plenty of friends who have same sex attraction.
|
|