Retiring from Gay

I love you and I miss you, Happy Endings.

Dream 11

And while I’m on a roll about Jordan, here’s another one from Sept. 11, 2005.

There was a whole bunch of people watching this outdoor thing around Victoria Drive.  When it was over, everybody started [leaving right] away, like after the fireworks in the summer.  I needed to get to the Victoria Drive bus station.  Since there were so many people, it was hard to get through.  I saw some Grade 11’s there, like Spencer.  People kept stepping on my shoes.  I got to the crowded bus stop.  While I [walked, I saw?] J Lo’s dead body on the way.  People were crying, so I guess it was because of her.  I saw Jordan in the navy blue shirt that I saw him on Friday.  Immediately, I went over to him and said hey.  He seemed a bit surprised but I dragged him away to a quieter place.  I asked him how he was and he said he was okay.  For some reason, my hands were around his waists and his were around mine.  I told him we needed to talk.

We went and sat down on this picnic table.  Jordan sat across from me.  Karen Lee sat beside him.  Jordan told me I was too late; he already had a boyfriend.  I wasn’t really sad, just… disappointed.  I asked what his bf was like.  he said his bf was nice, kind, etc.  He told me that he would not tell me the name of his bf and I said that was okay, since I was gonna find out and bring it up again.  He told me that he really, really, liked me in the past.  I asked why he liked me.  He said that he didn’t really like me (personality-wise) but he though I was hot.  He also said he did crazy stuff just to talk to me.  For example, he made up an account on MSN Messenger named JD Onick that lived in Toronto.  Karen used the user to talk to me cuz she said she was bored.

He said [something illegible] that I had missed my chance and that I was too late.

[My commentary: oh what a dream.  Like I said, I doubt he’s actually gay but typing up these dreams on my blog is giving me ideas for another gay romance story… hmmmmm….]

 

Dream 10

From Aug. 24, 2005

I was in the old house, in my own room.  It was about 8:00 at night, or that’s what my alarm clock said.  I think my sister introduced me to this guy in a robe, who was actually Jordan.  Almost immediately, I began making moves on him.  I remember we talked about stuff, but I don’t remember what.  I put my arms around him and felt his warmth.  But he was all, “Don’t get me wrong.  I have nothing against those people.”  In other words, he was straight.  I (obviously) was sad and asked if he could just lie next to me on my bed.  He did.  Don’t know how it ended because the dream was too long ago.

[My commentary: sigh.  I think I can decipher this one.  I had a huge crush on this guy, and actually knew a little about him so it wasn’t just an infatuation based on looks like it was for Sean.  Anyway, I really thought there was a chance he was gay, or maybe it was just wishful thinking.  At the time, though I longed for a boyfriend, what I really wanted was to have a gay friend, to have someone I could talk to about these things.  Despite coming out at 14, I thought that I’d be somehow find a hidden community of gay teens like me at school but that never happened.  I’m sure my lack of any sort of popularity/most people never knowing I was actually out contributed to it as well.

In the end, Jordan probably did turn out to be straight and it really wasn’t until post-high school that I started to actually talk to and find people like me.  It was so alienating, so lonely.  More lonely than I can really put in words.]

Art Class

Written on the back of the same paper as the homeless story.

Art Class

When I look back on it, it seems like such a distant memory.  Even when I think about it, it’s more difficult than it really should be.  Like the word love.  So tereotyped but usually by people who can’t find it themselves.  A stroy about real love is what we all need, like mine.

I remmeber when I was in Grade 8 art class.  I knew nobody since I was new to the school.  The students in my class were waiting around the door of the classroom when I saw him.  From that moment on, I constantly thought about him and never cared for anyone else.  It doesn’t matter what he looked like, but that I was just so mesmerized by his personality and charm, even from such a far distance.

Just then, our teacher came and opened the door for us.  Easels were set up around the room for everyone.  She told us to each take one.  I chose one at the perfect angle to him, with the sun casting a brilliant glow on his face as he smiled.  I remember her telling us to paint freely, since this was our first class.  I couldn’t think of anything but when I looked up, I knew.

A Formula for Idiocy

Something I conjured up in non-fiction class.  Does it make sense?  I was never good at math.

Formula for Idiocy

a = a person
b = ridiculous things people say

Formula:  a + a = b
if b takes place on a bus, b (ridiculousness) multiplies by 2:

so, a + a = 2b
What you do to one side, you must do to the other:

Formula: 2(a + a) = 2b

Exercise: if a = typical skateboarder, and there are two of them on a bus, find b.

Answer: 2(a + a) = 2b
b = talking about absurd television show involving a warden owning a jail, telling the inmates to wear rabbit costumes.

New formula:

x = stereotypical straight men’s behaviour
y = stereotypical gay men’s behaviour

if b ≠ x, ∴ b = y.

Exercise: Prove b = y.

Answer: ?

Conversations With a Ghost

The original short story which was then adapted into On the Bus, which was produced and filmed in my last term at Vancouver Film School.  (the video at the bottom)  There are clear differences between the short story and the film.  Which do you like better?

I wrote this story back in high school after a similar experience I had.  I won’t go into the details right now but if you’re wondering, I don’t converse with ghosts anymore.

Conversations With a Ghost

I sit there, dumbly, my mind pushing itself to think of an answer.  Who should I ask out?  I had only a few more days ’till the bet was up with my friend.

“You could ask me.”  I recognize that voice.  It’s him again, sitting across from me, wearing what I last saw him wear; a baseball cap turned backwards, a casual sweatshirt and jeans, topped off with glasses that actually make him look semi-smart.

“Why would I do that?”  My voice shows a possible foreshadowing of anger.

“Because you like me.  You’ve always liked me, since the moment you saw me.”  He smiles, which I interpret to be an evil smile, and tilts his head slightly to one side.

“Yeah, so what?  I’m scared.  I’m scared that you’ll reject me.  Why in hell would anyone want that?”  The anger is rising.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“How?  What’s this based on?”

“On the fact that most times when I happen to see you in the halls, some slut is hanging off of you, like a dead animal.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.  We’re just friends.”

“Oh, I’ve heard that before.”

“Did you ever stop to think that it might be true?  Why would I lie to you?”

“Oh, I don’t know; because you keep breaking my heart, dammit!  You’re the only guy I haven’t ever really gotten over.”

“I’m sorry about that.  I can’t help that I’m so good looking.”

“Shut up.  That’s not helping.”

“What do you want me to say?  ‘Oh Jeremy, I’ve been in love with you too and I’ve been waiting 4 years for you to tell me!  Let’s get married and ride off into the sunset!'”  He laughs (loudly, I might add).  I silently fume to myself.

“You have no idea what it’s like when you see someone you love and know you won’t ever end up with them, but you still want them to be with you.  You have no idea how sad I am when I see you, the only boy I’ve ever really fallen in love with.  You just don’t get it do you?”  By this time, depression has replaced my rage.

He leans forward in his seat, closing the gap between our faces.  The complexion on his face is hard to read.  I expect him to say something comforting.

“Why are you doing this to yourself, Jeremy?  You say you like me and stuff but you’re too scared to talk to me because you’re afraid I’ll reject you.  What have you got to lose by talking to me?”

“Everything, including my life.”

“You know what the most pitiable part of this whole thing is?”  He leans back against the seat, his arm draped across the adjacent seat, trying to look laid-back.  I already know what he’s going to do and begin to brace for the worst.

“The saddest thing about this is that you have to make me up to talk to you.  I’m part of your stupid little fantasy.  You make me say whatever you want to make you feel better…

“Shut up.  Stop it now.”

“…and it works, yet when the real me comes strolling along, you might as well have jumped in a ditch or something…

“Shut up right now.  I mean it, Sean.”

“…because you’re just too shy to talk to me.  Now that is just sad.”

“You don’t know me.  You don’t know me!”

“Oh, I know you alright.  But do you wanna know something really pathetic?”

At this point, I can’t even talk anymore.

“No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you are never ever going to get over me.  Never.”  He smiles that evil smile again.  I hate that one.

I’ve had enough of this charade.

“Stop it!  Go away!  Leave me alone!”  I shut my eyes tightly.

For a few seconds, I don’t hear anymore from him.  When I open my eyes, a fat woman in an ugly pink muumuu is sitting in his seat.  I can feel her studying me, which makes me feel like a lab rat.

“Are you okay, dearie?”  She pulls out a small tissue from her matching ugly purse.  It is not until now that I feel the warm streaks of tears on my face.  I had been crying, during my own fantasy where I was in control, or at least thought I was.

I tell her I am fine and take the delicate paper from her to wipe my eyes.

“I remember when I was in high school, so many memories…” her voice continues.

Stop talking to me!  And get some new clothes while you’re at it! my mind screams.

“…and bad ones, too.  I don’t think I’ll ever get over those ones…”

I glance up at her, my entire body in shock.  Her face slowly morphs into Sean’s as they both finish the last word simultaneously: “Never.”