the no-good dancer

Another Saltwater Room

2011-01-16T21:22:00.000-08:00

Well hey hey hey.

Now calm down, shove your jaw back up so it connects with your uppers. I'm not back. Well I mean, I guess I never left, since this is cyberspace and all. But I come brining (and bringing) a message of hope and light, of a better future where our gaybies run free in fields of grass and flame.

That message is...

THIS.

A Surprise Goodbye

2011-01-04T23:01:00.000-08:00

I am ditching this blog in lieu of another one. I've grown tired and unenthused about my blogging life and I'm thinking it's time to start over, fresh. The last few years have been.. different. Much more different than I had originally imagined.

So it's time to say good-bye to the no-good dancer, and to remember some magical moments we've shared.

2007! Damn, I really took off in September, didn't I? Four posts in a month!? I talk about my dying iBook (which didn't end up biting the bullet until, what, five months ago? You were a real champ, RIP.), as well as sharing my likes and my dislikes.

Skip ahead to heartbreak, insect bonding, late night musings, and some wonderful thoughts on same-same relations. It's interesting for me to see how, after that break-up, I seemed to find an outlet in this blog. Not necessarily to break down the nitty-gritty, but often to think and organize and understand what I'm feeling.

Then there's some broken promises, my grandparent's 50th wedding anniversary, and one singular experience that will forever mar my innocence.

And now, here we are. We end with a limerick and my continuing graying hair.

There once was a blog on the net

Where myself I am sure I had met

We looked at each other

And screamed, "Holy MOTHER!"

Together we said "I'mma jet."

Dear 2011

2011-01-01T07:09:00.000-08:00

(insert hopes and dreams here)

Sincerely, Keith

One Merry Elf, Please

2010-12-11T04:18:00.000-08:00

The office I work in has an annual Christmas party and this year, I was invited. I work with a lot of middle-aged people. I'm the youngest on staff next to a 31 year old girl named Lindsay. I'm also the only dude aside from the Doctor himself. Not the actual Doctor, mind you, but this periodontist guy named Roger. Roger, I believe, is short for Bill. As if you didn't already know.

I was allowed a plus one, so I called up Josi and asked if she'd like to go. She said yes, we planned it out, and I picked her up this evening for a drive down to Bandon. We ate at The Wheelhouse and it was delicious. This juicy piece of chicken I ate was covered in pesto, cilantro, jalapeno, and feta. OhmygoditwasAMAZING. A piece of vanilla cheesecake and chocolate swirl to top it off was just perfect.

Doctor sang an Elvis Presley classic while his current (as in, here today gone tomorrow) girlfriend wrapped her arms around his neck and overbounced. What a dork. Both of 'em.

(EDIT) This was a dull post. I realize that in hindsight.

Welcome Back, Keither

2010-12-08T23:55:00.000-08:00

Today I re-read a bunch of older blog posts I've made, both here on Blogger and also on Xanga. Now, I'll be the first to say that I'm not as wonderfully skilled a writer as I'd like to think. But I'd have to hold my tongue if you said I had more passion, more zest, more connection back then. I can see it in my posts, I can see it in comments that were left. And I've certainly had the thought cross my mind more than once in the past few years.

My faith invigorated me.

It made me feel kinetic.

It made me feel alive.

I think I'm searching for my alternative.

The would-be faith that I can feel in my bones.

A reason to be excited about life again.

Think I'll find it?

"Holy shit, no good..."

2009-09-24T02:56:00.000-07:00

Jeff cautiously sits down on the couch, leaving a gap between me and the 35 year old. He looks over and smiles at me, a smile that turns the air thick of his intention and anticipation. Politely smiling back, I grab my blanket and toss it over myself, repositioning on my flower-fabric cushion. I feel slightly on display, like a whore in a window found in the seedier parts of Amsterdam. He makes passing glances at me and my stomach turns.

We're watching a movie, one with Michael Caine and a cute little kid whose name I don't know. It chugs along at a slower pace than I'd like for a situation like this. Jeff and I are the only two still awake and his obvious interest in me only seems to be growing as the movie continues. He gets up off the couch once or twice and when he returns, he sits down an inch or two closer to me, stretching his left arm along the length of the three-seater and resting his hand dangerously close to my shoulder.

Michael Caine and the cute little kid whose name I don't know end up pushing their vehicle into the ocean by accident, and as I chuckle and Jeff laughs, he makes his move in this game of chess that I don't want to play. Fingers slightly curled and moving in circular motions, he finds my shirt and starts rubbing my shoulder like a visitor at a pet store.

I say, "Yeah, to be honest, I'm not really sure if I'm super interested." Michael Caine is performing a magic trick onscreen.

"Oh, that's alright, we don't have to do anything." He pauses for a moment and says, "I just came over because I like your company." His left hand starts mini-massaging my shoulder, occasionally brushing the flesh of my arm beneath my shirt. It moves to my neck and then up to my hair, running his fingers through a bit of it.

It feels good, I'll admit. Touch is exciting and I'm excited at being touched. But my excitement quickly subsides as he scoots even closer and then slowly rests his head on my shoulder. Two or three inches from my face, his shaved head smells like a hospital mixed with Old Spice, and my stomach doesn't feel any better.

The cute little kid is having a birthday party and Jeff is reaching his beefy hand out and ends up resting it on mine. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, I say to myself. Why are the only people interested in me people that I have zero interest in? He's doing that thing with his thumb, where he moves it left to right, left to right, seemingly trying to rub the very skin off the back of my hand. I'm frozen in fear at this point, no longer enjoying the bit of playfulness. A grown man is laying on me and attempting to sand the flesh off my bones with his calloused fingers.

Still, I say nothing and keep watching the movie. Michael Caine just passed away in his sleep.

I mentally kick myself for not having the backbone to be honest with him, but the nice-guy syndrome compels me to endure rather than simply tell him off. I'm not interested in Jeff, but I'm also not interested in hurting his feelings, either. Instead, I check the runtime of the movie and find consolation in the film being almost over. His big hand with sausages for fingers continues to rest atop of my own, which hasn't moved since he "caught" it. I wonder at this point if he has any idea how uncomfortable I am, but the way he caresses my hand tells me otherwise.

Seriously, I think to myself, what's wrong with me? Just tell the guy already. Tell him you're not interested and politely remove his hand from yours. Nudge his stinky old head off your shoulder and get your ass of that couch. He'd know for sure then, right?

The cute little kid whose name I don't know is talking to his mother. A minute later, the credits start to roll and I finally find a valid reason to end this whole hand/shoulder molestation. I slowly get up and retreat to the bathroom. I pee and wash my hands, look up into the mirror, and mouth to myself, "Holy shit, no good."

When I come back out into Jeff's makeshift love chamber, I express my tiredness and he starts putting on his shoes again. He slips on his hat and stands, walking towards me with his arms outstretched. Damn, this guy really doesn't get it. He wraps his big arms around me and bear hugs me, even lifting me off the ground an inch or so. My return embrace is weak but Jeff seems unphased, so he smiles at me again (making my stomach turn once more) and heads for the door.

"Drive safe," I say.

He turns around and says, "See you soon, sweetie."

I Watched Ken Park

2009-05-28T14:14:00.001-07:00

I was just standing outside on the porch that's connected to my room. I was lighting my cigarette when I heard movement on a balcony a few houses over, so I lower my lighter and listen. Turns out, this guy came from the school of hard knocks. I was able to pick out keywords from his expletive-fueled rants: girlfriend, cheat, I wouldn't do that, I love you, please baby, etc. Of course, I couldn't see this guy at the time so I'm quietly eavesdropping, feeling slightly guilty for peering into this window I've been given.

There are a lot of heavy conversations I've had when I thought no one was listening. Once, when I was living with Michael and Heidi I took a call from my mom. We were two hours away from each other and pissed off, so we verbally abused one another over the phone - the whole time, Mike and Heidi were in a room above me and could hear me down below, stalking around like a bat out of hell. I'm not normally an angry or aggressive person, but if I'm emotionally invested in what's going on, I don't care who's within earshot.

The guy, the one from outside: he went back into his apartment. I heard his sliding screen door shut just a second ago. He's probably livid at the fact that he royally screwed up by gettin' it on with another girl...

And of course, he probably doesn't think it's his fault.

Mushrooms

2009-05-26T23:15:00.000-07:00

Justin:

I just want to tell... dont' be sorry... don't be sorry. This is posible. Things that are happening now...Muhrooms make everything in the world the best they could possibly be. Nothing is tangible and the universe is here

Keith:

as long as...

as long as i can tipe

it's impossible to know what i'm trying to look at, itlss too far aay.

what are we listening to

slowly the day break is her=

and softer, you rain.d..

wha is this should i continue? what is thias that i'm doing it almost seems poetic whatr i'm doing here. it all fitys what i'm thinking sort of a dread. ohhhhi look down

and i can't

this is whatever it is ups and downs. all of it. surrender to it. i don't wanna.

The Golden Years

2009-04-28T17:18:00.000-07:00

My grandparents just had their 50th anniversary last weekend. Fifty years and still married to each other, isn't that wild? At the end of the night, after most of their friends and family left, I found myself facing the dance floor watching Nana and Papa slowly drift to a country love ballad. It was romantic, to say the least. I saw my Nana singing softly along with the lyrics and my Papa whispering into her ear, making her laugh and causing them to stumble a bit. Photos of their life were fading in and out on the projection screen behind their dancing, providing little details that shed light on their long lives and rich back story.

I wonder how my memoir will read (when I'm finished with it). I wonder if my golden years will resemble theirs, and whether I'll find myself slow-dancing to long love songs from my teenhood. What will that look like? Who will it be with? Am I even comfortable with that idea, of investing myself so deeply into someone? We would shuffle our velcro shoes across the dance hall, smiling and perhaps tearing up, hugging each other and feeling complete. It sounds almost dreamy, and safe. Secure. Comfortable. Vulnerable, but protected by our insistant and understanding love for one another.

I'm clearly rambling now. Truth is, I'm a two-bit, good-fer-nothin' romantic and I wouldn't have it any other way. These ideas of love and relationships can become so convoluted and complicated that it makes it not seem worth it at times. But as hard as I try, I can't help but WANT to love and be loved. I feel like I'm designed, wired, created for love.

Okay, WHOA, slow down tiger. I'm easily excitable.

Claritin Time

2009-04-19T23:51:00.000-07:00

I'm rocking myself in Justin's blue recliner, staring at the Pink Floyd poster above our kitchen windows. We've got party lights hooked up: an orange fluorescent, a green light bulb, and a blacklight. This place is baller, seriously. It's a typical bachelor pad, I guess - empty Jameson bottles line the tops of our cupboards, marijuana and it's accompanying toys lie around everywhere, and you can find one of seven 3-packs of condoms if you look hard enough.

I live with three incredibly daft people: Jared, Daniel, and Justin. They're not really daft (the jury's still out on Jared), but actually very intelligent people. Jared's the handy man who knows all sorts of random stuff about topics you'd normally find unimportant until the moment strikes. Daniel, well, he's just a genius. Certified prodigy, computer hacker, book-writer, bagel-eater... the list continues for kilometers. And Justin's the level-headed, collected guy who plays most all of his cards right and still avoids looking like a douchebag.

The community we live in is referred to by Justin as "Auschwitz" and comes complete with security guards, 24/7 streetlamps, and a padlocked trash dumpster. We've got access to the swimming pool and hot tub, the tennis and basketball courts, the playground near the office, and hotties working out in the exercise building. I'm normally the one to check the mail, so I roll myself a cigarette and light it on my way. It's a lovely little walk, and most of the time the alleys/streets are filled with kids or skateboarders or people walking their dogs.

I'm not sure how long I'll be here, but it's really pretty nice.

Hmm... Is this sufficient?

To The Valley

2009-04-02T00:52:00.000-07:00

Oh damn, it'll be hard to recover from this one, huh?

Last post: August 28th? Look, I hereby solemnly swear the following things:

1) I will dust off the cobwebs and dried semen, logging in and posting at least once a week.
2) I will continue the wonderful tradition of including one (1) photo at the end of each post.
3) I will fly like an eagle. An eagle of excellence and danger.
4) I will assume as usual that no one is reading this, and I will be honest and perhaps "raw".
5) I will expect each of you to bring me 100 scalps. And I want my scalps.

Mental Vacationing

2008-08-28T10:05:00.000-07:00

I sit in the passenger seat of my mother's Volvo. It is early still, and I cover my mouth with my sleeve and yawn a sleepy sound that sends a warm tingle to my arms and legs. I'm not a morning person, I think to myself, and I need a cigarette. Behind me is my brown messenger bag, and from it I pull out a Camel Wide. They're not my favorite, but their extra-wide tube offers more tobacco and that's what I need right now.

We're driving along the coast on Highway 101, and the great Pacific Ocean is to my right for the duration of the drive. The fog hasn't rolled in yet, so the crashing of the waves and the varied pastels of the morning sunrise are stunning to me. I think for a moment on how I'd love to shoot this image.

My mind churns slowly over ideas, words, scenes from the last few years. I feel like I'm peering into a smashed mirror, shards disconnected and sharp, unable to see the distorted reflection in its entirety. It doesn't make sense to me. My thoughts are a jumbled mess.

20 years old and the only thing I want right now is a high to make me momentarily forget. Let me zone out, space out, check out; I'll deal with my problems and my relationships, but for now, just let me gloss my eyes over with a pill or a bowl or a pinch of this or that. I'm not ready for more disappointment. I'm not ready for more disappointment. I'm not ready for the bracing I must do to keep myself steady. And if no one else will listen, I will do it on my own. I have to and I will. With or without the world watching.

Double Noice

2008-07-28T14:56:00.000-07:00

I miss you.

It's been too long.

I'll write soon.

il ritorno a casa

2008-07-14T22:27:00.000-07:00

I'm moving back to Coos Bay this week. Home to meth, poverty, and at least three Subways. I can't say I'm looking forward to it (I'd assume it has something to do with feeling like I'm running away from something - what that something is... I'm still not certain). But I'll be able to make some money and hopefully move back up to Eugene in a few months.

I sit back in my computer chair and it almost feels like my body has been worked over like laffy taffy in a three year old's hand. All of my limbs feel like steel extensions: heavy, slow, unresponsive... maybe heat conducive too, in this freaking heat that's "setting the nation ablaze", haha. And every time I wake up in the morning, it feels like I didn't rest well enough, you know? I don't think I need more sleep.. maybe it's just boredom, seeping into my very bones.

Music is fantastic, and if you're at all interested in what kind of music I like to listen to, you should check out The Weepies. Seriously, do what you can to find some of their songs and listen to them. I mean, you prolly couldn't listen to this in front of most of your friends, especially if you're a dude. All of your hetero-overdrive, Korn-listening, manly man types will give you the cold shoulder until you switch it to something more palatable, like this.

Before Sleep Comes

2008-07-14T15:18:00.000-07:00

Three steps and

a sprint towards sleep,

the idea of you.

Two steps and

a sprint towards sleep,

the idea of me.

One more step and

a sprint towards sleep,

the grand idea of loneliness.

Twice every twenty-four, right before and right after,

I numb and make inaudible sounds.

My pillows are hugged out, dried out.

The greatness of me had to downsize.

Here I am.

How To Make Bread

2008-07-12T02:48:00.000-07:00

Since I'm a total baller and I download movies off of the internet illegally, I found a good-quality version of Pixar's Wall*E. I burned it onto a DVD and we've been meaning to watch it for the past couple of days, but only just got around to it tonight. I really liked it, and it makes me want to see it in an actual movie theatre.

On a side note, this is how I make bread.

Edge of the World

2008-07-10T13:31:00.000-07:00

Hey baby, wait and see

We're okay for another night

Lights so bright, long highway

We spent our whole lives dreaming

And now we walk slowly away

From the edge of the world

You my love, you won't leave

Broken hearts, fixed with rebuilt parts

Make us right, found your dove

That damn bird, it sings through the night

Hot Dog Stash Box

2008-07-09T22:22:00.000-07:00

I found a picture of the hot dog "condiment holder" that I was talking about a bit ago. Check it. See how shiny it is? It glistens in the moonlight, too. And it talks! Did I mention that? It says something like, "Line 'em up! Relish, mustard, ketchup, onions! Hot dogs!"

Lazy Summer Days

2008-07-09T21:07:00.000-07:00

I found an incredible stash box today at a thrift store in town. Of course, I was broke and had to say goodbye to my newfound friend. It was this giant, plastic hot dog (about the size of a loaf of bread) that had a button on the side that said, "Press" on it. As soon as you push it, the top of the hot dog automatically slides back and reveals a sweet, hidden compartment. I'm looking at my desk right now and there's a perfect spot for it, right next to my incense holder and bottle of Hempz lotion.

Since it was hot out today (hold up - it's 9:11 PM right now. Nothing weird about that, you're saying to yourself. Wrong! I catch the clock when it reads exactly 9:11 at least three or four times a week... it's creepy!), we decided we'd take our scrawny asses up the river a bit and go for a dip. We had sandwiches and some sodas and chips, and we decided to pile up a bunch of rocks and make some sort of rock wall in the shallow water. It looked great, guys. Like, really great.

I've still got to do my laundry, and in order to do that, I've gotta go get some quarters. K-Snooch out.

(Butt) Sex Talk

2008-07-09T03:23:00.000-07:00

I found a pretty popular book at Goodwill the other day for 25 cents. Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Sex (But Were Afraid To Ask), explained by David Reuben, M.D. Oh, and it was written back in 1969, so take that into account when I show you these excerpts from the book...

On the topic of male homosexuality:

What is male homosexuality? Male homosexuality is a condition in which men have a driving emotional and sexual interest in other men. Because of the anatomical and physiological limitations involved, there are some formidable obstacles to overcome. Most homosexuals look upon this as a challenge and approach it with ingenuity and boundless energy. In the process they often transform themselves into part-time women. They don women's clothes, wear makeup, adopt feminine mannerisms, and occasionally even try to rearrange their bodies along feminine lines.

Look guys, it's true. I (we) often transform into a part-time woman. And I have to stuff since my breasts haven't dropped yet. Haha, this guy is seeming a little silly. Let's continue, shall we?

Surely there must be more to homosexuality? There are dozens of variations but they all have this in common: the primary interest is the penis, not the person. A homosexual may have as many as five sexual experiences in one evening - all with different partners. He rarely knows their names - he is unlikely to see any of them again. Besides, few homosexuals use their real names. They generally go by aliases, choosing first names with a sexual connotation. Harry, Dick, Peter, are the most favored.

Oh wow, he just hit the nail on the head. I mean, I'm *certainly* not interested having a relationship with an actual human being. Nope, I'm looking for a dim, brainless, hulk of a man that has a horse penis that never deflates. And when I find that man, I'll be sure to use my fake gay name: Gaylord Seaman.

What about all the homosexuals who live together happily for years? What about them? They are mighty rare birds among the homosexual flock. Moreover, the "happy" part remains to be seen. The bitterest argument between husband and wife is a passionate love sonnet by comparison with a dialogue between a butch and his queen. Live together? Yes. Happily? Hardly.

Them be some mighty big fightin' words. It doesn't even go on to explain that segment. Instead, it simply dooms me to a wretched, bitter, loveless relationship (I care only about the penis, however, so it won't be *too* bad...). And what about those gender role stereotypes? Which am I, a butch or a queen? I'd like to see myself more like Dr. David Reuben sees me: a dangerous, sexually-charged, superficial being with a love for sexually transmitted diseases and women's clothing.

Late Night Musing

2008-07-08T03:07:00.000-07:00

Inside another sleepless night

I find myself poised behind a cigarette

A smoke filled conscienceness

Seems to be the only reality here

The clock reads late, but

Time seems to hold no bearing over me

As these tired words drag on I see

That as of late I'm slipping into uncertainty

Wound up in couch cushions and stale smoke

Like a fly caught in a web, trapped

The clock reads early now and sleep tempts these eyes

Listening to the sounds of late-night traffic

I feel a new day ahead

A Dazzling Display Of Colors!!

2008-07-04T22:34:00.000-07:00

You know, I watched a firework documentary the other day at Ryan's house. Something like 80% of America's fireworks come imported from China. That got me thinking - how dank would a Chinese buffet be if they offered little sparklers in their beverages and and an ornamental dragon that sits at every table (when you push a button behind his ear, he giggles and produces flame!). Consider that buffet to be wearing a Dankness Jacket of Magical Wonderment +12.

So a short note for you - Jared and I got each got ourselves (via our neighbor) a Sweet Tart, each of which has three hits of acid. We're gonna give that a go, but I'll keep another blog window open so I can type on here if I feel so inclined. Seriously, I'm going to enjoy this mix I just made, too. Real quick, my top three psychedelic music groups:

1 - The Flaming Lips (Vein of Stars, My Cosmic Autumn Rebellion)

2 - Pink Floyd (Time, Any Colour You Like)

3 - Lemon Jelly (Space Walk, A Tune For Jack)

I've really needed some bathroom relief for the past few minutes, so I'm gonna dodge out and enjoy myself some toilet action. I'll be hitting you up soon, so look forward to that!

I'm serious when I say "literally", by the way

2008-07-03T20:15:00.000-07:00

Jared and I have found a new friend. It's a good thing, too - my roomies are camping for the second consecutive weekend and have left us to our own devices here at the apartment. The last time they left? The house smelled like reefer and spilt Pabst, and I think we might have eaten all the cereal...

Phidippus audax, aka the Bold Jumper Spider, is a beastly spider species that literally scares the shit out of me. I'm outside smoking a cigarette with J-Snoochie and Ryan when we find Larry sitting atop the handlebars of Mikey's bike. Larry is, of course, the name we gave it, and he's currently hanging out in a glass jar that we've outfitted with leaves, a stick or two, and a nice handful of grass*.

From the way I see, the little guy is prolly in paradise right now, with his makeshift luxury suite that's big enough for the whole family, enjoying himself IMMENSELY as the floppy fro and bushy beard of Jared pops in and out of view every few seconds. And since it's a jumping spider, we put a lid on the jar - BUT DON'T WORRY, animal lovers - we've made a couple of holes in the lid so Larry can get himself some oxygen action.

Anyway, Larry is beginning to make himself at home, and Jared and I are enjoying his company. I couldn't help but take a moment and think about the future, when Larry's gotten bigger and I've the wisdom of many years behind my old, frumpy body. Jared will have aged as well (but at three-times the rate of a normal person, due to a freak laboratory accident thirteen years from now), and we'll only hope that Larry remembers how kindly we treated him, and how often we gave him fresh foilage to play in, and how many times Jared softly sang to him as he fell asleep in his glass cage of emotion.

Oh, and remember how I said I met a guy named Leaf the other day? This morning, a guy with a cat in a harness walks up and asks if we have some change. I didn't (I did, but I didn't - you feel me?) but he gave us a smile and a handshake anyway. His name was Cloud, and his cat Cloudy.

Eugene is definitely a hippie town. I'm changing my name to either Willow or Moon Beam by the end of the week.

* Fuck grass. Allergies are a bitch.

Barackoburgers

2008-06-30T02:09:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I'm bad with commitment. I actually won 2nd in a district chess meet when I was in sixth grade, though, so I think that makes up for it. I'm sure you see my logic.

I was standing in the middle of a field with five other brothers and sisters, all of us with a heavy ball in our hand. We were playing bocce, see? It's a game of immense skill requiring rapid reflexes compounded with agility, strength, speed, and dexterity. Of course, it turns out I'm a skull-crusher when points are concerned. The good Lord has gifted me with a talent - (insert joke about ''ball handling'' or ''playing with my balls'' here) - and I'll be damned if I don't use it!

Whilst playing this fabulous game, however, we met a guy named Leaf. What the fuck kind of name is Leaf, by the way? This guy, he seemed drunk or high or crizacked out or what have you, but we invited him to play some rounds with us, and he'd just use his frisbee instead of a bocce ball. It was pretty good, aside from some failed co-op juggling attempts with Mikey... Oh, and once, when we finally got out of that field and into some shade, Leaf says, "Ready?" and grins real big, and then flings the jack right back into the same damn field. But he was cool, and he wasn't too bad with his frisbee, either. And need I mention that Jared and I (we were on teams) totally took first? No, I didn't really think so either.

It's pretty late out right now, and there's a thunderstorm outside. Oh and hey, I had an interview at The Bijou on Saturday. It went pretty well and I'm hoping to hear from them by Tuesday. I'm feeling pretty confident about it, but I'll put a post up as soon as I hear something.

I'm sleepy, and I'm gonna doze off with a PS2 controller in my hand...

It's a laugh. It's a devil.

2008-06-16T12:38:00.000-07:00

Oh blog, how I've missed your understanding text box, letting me type any and all of everything. Your sweet, sweet picture import options and beautiful font selection speaks to the very core of me. I am in love with you, Blog. I want to serenade you with my songs of love and expression whilst slipping it in to you, riding my mount home to your sexy stables of seduction and HTML editing.

So yes, let this be an informal apology for being away for a month and a half. It's been an awful month and a half, if that makes you feel any better. I guess a shortened summary should do, so I'll give that a try:

I am no longer dating my ex (ooh, that's weird) boyfriend Aaron. We had decided to give it a two week break, and the next time we met would be for bagels. Fast forward to Bagel Day. Now, I know this is a summary, but I have to express how much I love bagels. And what's more lovable than a bagel? A bagel sandwich, brother. A properly made bagel sandwich is the bane of my very existence.

So yeah, back on track: I have a fantastic bagel sandwich that included avocado and turkey and cream cheese, and afterwards we stroll to the nearby park. It was sunny with a high of 75, and the maple trees and huge weeping willow reinforced the feeling of summer with their color and their smells and their dark shadows cast against the grass.

And so, yeah, it was there that we decided not to remain a couple. He got scared, he told me, and thought that we'd be happier like this. But I'm a stubborn, realistic guy who likes to have the facts when it comes to important shit like this, so I fought it. I mean, there wasn't much fighting I could do, but I tried to get answers out of him. He wanted to know what I was looking to hear, but I didn't have any stipulations, I just wanted to hear him talk..

The lights in my Aaron Room were quickly fading and I needed to keep looking at him, listening to him, archiving and chronicling everything I loved about him before his face was too dim and his voice too quiet. And suddenly, signaled by a wretched twist in my stomach and the wavy impression tears can give, that light was switched off. I sat there in the park, next to this stranger, and had a distinct disconnect. Wherever all of the little tiny IBM servers are stored in my brain, maintaining and processing and recording all of me, a single cord must have been unplugged.

Fast forward again, and now it's Monday, June 16th. Aaron's birthday was four days ago. He was leaving the day after his birthday for the summer to go back home, and so he called and said he wanted to stop by and get some of his things. He picked them up and stayed for a bit, and we talked about movies and music and the typical topics that less-than-best-friends have.

He starts to leave and I follow him outside. I shut the door behind me and we're standing awful close to one another. I'm looking at him, trying to read his thoughts and communicate to him that I still love him without actually vocalizing it. And then he leans in. I act accordingly, but when our lips meet, he pulls me toward him. I slip my arm around his waist, confused but intrigued at what's going on.

It's a long time that we stood there, leaning on each other, embracing, kissing.. And I hated him. And I loved him. And I hated him again, for all of this. But his face was moving, talking now, suggesting we have sex in his mom's car. In a blind stupor I follow and we do, and it's great. I slip my pants back on and I get out of the vehicle with beads of sweat on my forehead, and we say our goodbyes and he hops in the driver seat and shuts the door.

I walked to the front of the house, near our kissing crime scene, and I stand and wait for him to drive down the street. I don't know why I do stuff like that, but I assume it's something to do with chivalry and the fact that I perhaps wanted to air out myself so I didn't smell too much like buttsex when I went inside to Jared. Aaron starts up the car and drives off, and I wave to him.

And I hate him. And I love him. And I think about how we'll turn out, and who we'll turn out with.

This is definitely not a short summary, is it? It doesn't look like it. Sorry about that, Bloggy, but now that I'll hopefully be around more regularly, you've got nothing to worry about - I'll have plenty of time to update you about what I had for breakfast and how many grams of pot we can manage to smoke in one day. Seriously, I'll keep you abreast of the news. I'll keep you abreast. I'll keep abreast. Abreast.

Tits.