Well hello, glorious internet people. How are your bitstrip comics and Giraffe riddle failure profile pictures doing today? Mine are fabulous, meaning they don’t exist. I feel the need to drop a ridiculous, nonsensical blog upon your assholes today, and so I shall. Crash positions, everyone. This one’s a train wreck.
So I love my little apartment. I say little, but it has a ton of rooms. They’re all small rooms, but it has as many of them as my parents’ house! My living room is about a fourth of the size of theirs, but like I said, we are not counting size. In my mind, though, this is merely a stop on my way to something more permanent. Yes, I could stay there forever, because I adore it, but Listen to my plan. I will lay it out for you. Close your dick mops and listen. This lease is up in a little less than a year. It becomes month to month after that. For the time being, I am content to roam the fake-art streets of Muncietown and revel in being arty and mysterious and slightly overweight (and if one more person tells me I’m not allowed to say that… I swear to cheezus) and drink iced coffee whilst I make infinite plans which beget more plans, and I have hatched a grand one.
I hate moving. We all know this. Moving this time was horrifying, because there were stairs; so many stairs; narrow, terrible, evil fucking stairs that robbed me of my soul and look like they lead to a creaky scary attic, but in fact lead to my apartment. By the end of the process, I wanted to throw all of my shit back down them. At least it wasn’t like the haunted apartment in Portland where I moved a sectional couch up a single flight of 705 stairs by myself and then puked down them. No, no, I had friends and family to share the joy. We all puked together.
Given that I hate moving, I have decided that for my next home, I shall make moving my stuff obsolete. I will simply move my house. I’m not talking about trickery. I’m talking about buying a newish single-wide mobile home and just taking it with me everywhere! I don’t want an RV as a primary home, so don’t suggest that. I’m not THAT mobile. I want something with all the features of a “normal” house. I have friends who drive truck, and I’m betting at least a few of them are familiar with hauling mobile homes down a freeway. You see my plan? You see it? I will pay one of these awesome people money to move my house! It’s brilliant. I’m not sure what the laws are concerning that sort of thing, but I shall investigate. For years, I’ve thought I was just an idiot. I wanted a permanent home, but I wanted to move constantly. It took this long for me to realize I can do both!
Moving on. We know how I love to rant about my fellow gays. I always get these comments like “you’re so bitter you need to just calm down meeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhhhhhhgaga.” I think I have valid points sometimes, so I just sort of shrug when I see those comments anymore. I used to go all ninja table flip on people about them, but I have since realized that I can shut out all opinions by locking my front door and staying off the internet. Problem solved. Usually, when I post something, I don’t do so to get an opposing viewpoint and be magically changed. This is not an after school special. The gay community is full of issues, and I just happen to love picking at them like scabs to try in my way to cause some sort of awakening. So far, I am apparently not yelling loud enough to be heard over Madonna’s remix of a remix of a cocaine remix. Because of my negativity and how much everyone enjoys it, I officially rename myself Negative Nancy Superbeast 3000. I’ll leave your comments in place, but I likely will not respond to them. My hope is that they either make a good point and provide a valid counter-argument to whatever sludge my brain smashes out onto Facebook, or that it is so singularly stupid that I don’t have to help you look like an idiot.
I have a revelation for you. Some men are just not into dicks. That’s right, I said it. They might support us, they might wear our little T-shirts for equal rights and whatnot, but there are some of us who simply cannot connect straight men with support. This is where we will one day lose support. Just because someone puts on an equal rights T-shirt and changes his profile picture to a red and white equal sign does not mean he’s saying to you “Okay I admit it, now get your flabby, washed-up hooker anus over here.” It simply means that he supports equal rights, specifically marriage equality. This misinterpretation is something that seems to be unique to the gay community because our public image is light years ahead of my high school in “lacks ability to think critically and in three dimensions.” He doesn’t want you, ass nugget bitch lantern poopmouth. He wants you to be happy. GET YOUR HAND OUT OF HIS PANTS FOR FUCK SAKE BEFORE YOU RUIN IT FOR ALL OF US. Because let me tell you something, even if he lets you do anything, that doesn’t mean you won. It doesn’t mean you’re some irresistible converter. You have a hole, that’s all that means. In all likelihood, you probably scarred him more than “opened his eyes.” So let’s all quit barking up the wrong trees. Plenty of slimy, catty little gutter skanks out there to go around. Pair up. Do the rest of us a favor and eliminate yourselves from the equation.
Am I bitter? You bet. I love it. Bring me a hot dog and some grape soda. I feel like being ironic.
Moving on again, I would like to announce that I will soon be selling my work. YES. Selling. Ohhhhhh I said a bad word. Are all your houses on fire? Is Joanne’s in flames? Did all your lensless glasses melt into puddles of arty hatred? I want everyone to do me a favor. Come to my first book signing and throw tomatoes at me. Scream that I sold out. Tell me my work was better before I became “mainstream.” I would love to be in that class of people, because I would be on the other side of popular culture. I bet I could think better on that side of it. Personally, I do not plan to spend the rest of my days answering phones for a pancake stack of companies who couldn’t care less if I lived or died. One day, I would like to be free of that. I don’t want to spend the next fifty years rotting into husk of a former artist. I want to leave a Bradbury-like catalogue in my wake when I become a member of Future Zombies of America. I want to be a tortured old man in a lovely little house with a head full of stories and a house full of memories. I do not want to still be working in the service industry, because jobs like mine are in the same category as a suicide prevention hotline. My job keeps that one in business, I should imagine. I hate my job. I do not want to stay there forever. I’m okay with another four years, but if I am there when I turn forty, I’m just going to give up. I doubt it will still be there by then. That building may be a parking lot by then. I won’t be there. I do not give a fuck.
You can work your minimum wage Panera Bread Jimmy John’s Walmart jobs for the next fifty years and maintain your artistic integrity if you like. I plan to be a successful artist, rather than one that can’t support myself with my art. Believe me, I shall one day live on the proceeds of my ability to tell a story. My writing is by no means great, but I have no shortage of stories to tell, and I improve every single time. You just wait. One day, I’ll be regulated to English Literature textbooks where students will be forced to read my work. No one will read it by choice at that point. I want to be THAT loved as a writer.
I require it all! All of it! A single wide mobile home! Get your hand out of his pants! I want to be a sellout!
So up yours. Up yours with a great big engraved redwood log, my friends. With love, of course. How else does one sodomize another with a huge tree?