Navigation

* Profile
* New
* Old
* First
* Random

Credit

* Host
* Design

More shit that
Bothers me:

- The chick in Group who seems to like me

She's really nice, but she's just not my kind of gal. If Gay K were present, he'd rattle off my generic Dream Girl #1: busty redhead with round boobs, and a good personality. (The personality is a wishful thinking thing; all the redheads I've craved have been pretty damn cruel.) Dream Girl #2 is the same idea, but a curly-brunette.

About this Group Girl:
- She's kind of odd-looking
- She's sweet, in an uncomplicated way
- Seems to agree too much with things I say
- Seems to pretend to have things in common with me
- Seems to be trying to impress me (I could be imagining this)

I really hope that she kind of decides that I'm too much of a bother to pursue. I dread the notion of trying to turn her down. My arguments are pretty flimsy:
- I'm not attracted to her in any way
- I have the sex drive of a rock: dead
- I'm waiting for "the one for me"
- I'm not interested in dating people from Group
- I don't really have faith in a relationship with someone adamant about being bisexual (so much so that she was planning to tattoo the word to her arm)
- I already have little to talk to her about
- I'm not mentally stable, and therefore am the worst candidate for intimacy*

* this is the one that affects things the most dramatically, above all others. If I need to load up on coffee to be active, I'm not in any shape to take on someone else's affections and complications. I refuse to be Invalid Lump Girlfriend again. I put Big D through that, and he hates my fucking guts for it.

Big D. Good god, he's segue-ing into my thoughts a lot lately. Not even actively; it's a passive, "oh, gee, remember when __?" sort of influx. I had a dream about him a while back; he showed up, and I was scared. I thought he'd be mad at me, as usual. Instead, we sat on the floor and put together a white jigsaw puzzle. I always have these dreams of being buddies with him. I think it's sissy; he hates me -- why can't I hate him back? Why do I keep missing the good parts, and willfully neglecting to remember what a jackass he was, too?

I've been NAQ-ing about him. Exploring the dead facets of my feelings. Mostly, I'm still at the "It's all my fault that shit went wrong" square. It's my fault that I was gay; it's my fault that I went insane; it's my fault that I couldn't buckle down and become some perfect housewife -- these are the things my mind tells me, when I dredge through the Big D file in my head.

I've had gay tenancies from Day 1. I kissed girls before I kissed guys. So on; preferred it more. I just kind of ignored all the signs, until about the time Big D came on the scene. If not for him, and my lack of charm with the ladies, I think that I would have "come out" a lot sooner.

Coming out will probably never be a complete deal. I'm scared of my uncle knowing. Both of my parents know, and their mates. It's kind of a running bet around Mom's house (well, with Caesar, anyway) that I'll find myself a nice ol' dick, and renounce my silly gayness. Caesar phoned once, and joked about me partying and getting knocked-up. I haven't "partied", in the inebriated sense, since October 2008. Even then, I still had the wherewithal to decline sexual offers.

The idea of fucking a male, vaginally, gives me this squeamish chill. My whole face pinches up. I guess this is the emotional/visual-equivalent of a projectile vomit. It always alarms me when males make sexual approaches. It's kind of funny; when I first started coming to terms with the notion of never living a heterosexual life, I was a royal jackass to sexual suitors. "Fuck me? I'M GAYYYYY. DUDE. I'M LIKE AN HONORARY MALE."

That's what I wanted -- a special pass to make sexual comments about women without men taking that to mean I would take them on. Allow me to joke about Jessica Alba giving my nonexistent cock a blowjob, allow me to share sex-life anecdotes. Hell, allow me to joke that I give amazing blowjobs, puking and bitching aside; just don't expect me to give a demonstration.

That progressed to wondering if I was a transsexual. I don't want to sing, write, or draw like a female; there aren't very many good female role models in my life. All of the guitarists I can name are male. Singers, are all mostly male. My authors are primarily male. I've always kind of gravitated back and forth between femininity and masculinity. Lately, I'm pretty sissy-butch. Suits, short hair. I look less male, and a lot more Shitty 80s Diva. What it comes down to is: I don't want a dick; I want to pretend. I want to be in the League of the Boys, without having the necessary equipment.

Ah, but we can't have it all.

You Missed:

*DISCLAIMER
* WHO TF IS ALL THIS??!
* INTRO, 2
* NAQ

Backlog:

Circa 2010