I am so incredibly depressed I think I lost two pounds.
I'm trying to look on the bright side of Bush's potential reelection, so following in this vein, I've decided to (a) never leave my house, (b) devote the remainder of my life to livingroom pilates, and (c) begin blogging again.
Republican turnout, it seems, can do this to a person.
The Pennylane Journals
The Pennylane Journals
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
I am so incredibly depressed I think I lost two pounds.
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
Three Minutes of Wonderful
Last night I did something that no gay man should do past two a.m.
I ate pasta and then watched Steal Magnolias.
I was so depressed and sopping with grief this morning that I could barely see straight. Luckily, I remembered that I would be picking out a new color for the bathroom today and somehow managed to raise myself from among the bedsheets, take a long hard look in the mirror, and even though my colors would not be plum and bashful, there'd definitely be something in the Home Depot paint selection that would make my gay face smile nonetheless. . .
Tuesday, January 06, 2004
I'm a fat beast that deserves to die.
Is what I thought to myself as I shoved the remaining pieces of an entire loaf of bread I managed to consume a few minutes ago in the kitchen.
Mouthful after greedy mouthful, I saw myself consume enough carbohydrates to sustain an entire village in Bosnia, but I was incapable of intervening, as if my mouth had somehow become an erupting volcano and each crumb a sacrificed virgin hurled into its terrible red fury.
I contemplated purging, of course, but I hear that bulimia, unless coupled with anorexia, is as efficient for weight loss as Kirstie Allen's Pier 1 commercials were for her career.
I guess this recent binge has something to do with the fact that I've been feeling as unattractive and asexual as a yeast infection, as if my penis were a Christmas ornament I'd forgotten to unhinge from the tree. Being single for a prolonged period can do this to a person, you know. There's only so many nights of Faulkner, cheap Chardonnay, and a death wish that any faggot can bear before sprinting to the refrigerator for some sort of acceptance.
Hopefully chubby will be the new black in 2004, otherwise this new year seems as optimistic and pleasant as stage four colon cancer.
Monday, December 29, 2003
Every once in a while I will be convinced that I have stumbled onto the most nauseating thing on the web, and then I am proven wrong.
Saturday, December 27, 2003
After a rather long nap last night, I've spent a considerable portion of the night and, now, early morning suffering from a bad case of unexplained sleeplessness, and to make matters worse, I've begun smoking cigarettes again. A handful of cigarettes and I can already hear my lungs protesting like underpaid workers.
Well, it's somewhat untrue to claim that tonight's insomnia is entirely unexplained. I guess it has something to do with driving home after a six hour shift yesterday and realizing, halfway through traffic, as most commuters often do, that life—and more specifically my life—seems to lack any true substance. While thousands were dying in Iran in the bricks and concrete of their poorly constructed homes, I was wondering how long Pottery Barn's After Christmas sale would last, and whether it'd be wise to head there today or tomorrow before anything of quality was sold out entirely.
And then I got to thinking: I wondered if the English continued to debate the superiority of strawberry jam over blueberry as their neighbors were being carted off in makeshift coffins, the victims of the 14th century Black Plague? Did the Irish, warm and rosy-cheeked from pints, keep up with rugby matches while black rot was winning its own match over potato crops in mid-19th century Ireland? And even more recent, was it possible for villagers across Vietnam to plan something as banal as the day's meal, arguing between fried rice and stew, as news of deceased sons arrived daily on foot?
It might seem a bit sophomoric, but I can't help but feeling a need of justifying my existence for some reason, as if my lofty life as a student with the trivial preoccupations of daily affairs needs a rationale, an explanation—an Because I can and want to declaration . Even still, I can't help but notice that there are no explanations, no justification, and that, maybe, like the Irish or English, Vietnamese, Iranians, and any humans who've found themselves in tragedy, occupying one's self with daily affairs, with department store sales, even credit card applications, is after all the only thing one can do.
Triviality, at the very least, might afford one sleep.
Thursday, December 25, 2003
When Festivus Ends with You
For Christmas I recieved an email from go-go boy informing me of his departure for Tokyo for a three-week stay. Naturally, I slipped into my favorite Elizabethan gown and, with the aid of Kirin, penned an appropriate response. It reads:
I am eternally saddened to hear the news of your imminent departure. I'm likely to miss you the way deciduous trees must miss sunshine in the winter. But alas, if this is the path that your life needs to take you on, so be it. I'll be waiting in the wings.
It is true, that I might wallow and grieve in your absence, and yes it may be true that while you will be in the land of the rising sun and I in my own personal land of the weeping heart, we'll be connected perhaps through an email, a phone call, perhaps through a whisper in the wind, smoke rings, or even the night call of the owl sending out our personal, audible moris code.
But still, not even Richard Marx's Right Here Waiting can console me now, as your Boeing 747 is surely taking flight, the land increasingly moving away from you, leaving me beneath you, an anonymous speck now 20,000 feet away and climbing. And if you're wondering now by your window seat, as many travelers often do, whether you've forgotten to pack something know that, yes, you have indeed forgotten something.
I am that toothbrush left in your bathroom cabinet.
But like all forgotten items, like photographs or checkbooks, I know that I will not be forever misplaced. Years later, you will stumble onto me one lazy Sunday morning, and in that instant of recognition, that moment where history will begin to repeat itself, I will be given utility once more.
Until then, my love.
Forever your toothbrush,
The only thing that irked both Kirin and I about the letter wasn't so much its verbose tone or images of hopelessness but the fact that the words seemed to emerge from us as effortlessly as water droplets from moisture laden clouds. It was almost biological, we concluded, for us to write love letters since we've spent half a lifetime waiting for others to pen them for us.
In addition to our Always a Bridesmaid flowershop we intend to establish in our thirties, a love letter writing company seems to also be in the works because, as our motto goes, when they don't love you, it's good to pretend they do anyway.
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
I was going to write about my third day in retail hell, working the seasonal, six am stock shift at Bath and Body, the geriatric mall pacers, as we call them, who will sneak into the mall hours before opening to make laps around the stores, occasionally pausing to mouth a "That's cute" at one of our displayed items and them merging back into formation, that sea of white hair and dry fit clothing.
I was going to write about painting the walls of my parents' home, how it had taken me a good hour to select the perfect color, mentally debating with myself in Home Depot over which sage green had a touch of more sageiness to it, as burly men hauled off 2x4's and piping into their pickup trucks with sawdust trailing behind them like a great prehistoric tail.
And I was going to write about my plans to visit Joshua Tree next week, how I imagined myself scaling a boulder the size of Delaware in quick and determined movements, how I'd mount the top, wipe the sweat from my brow, and let out a long and deep yell, the way bottled water commercials have their hikers yell out in thirst before drowning their faces in a deluge of Evian.
And so with all this material, all these images wrestling in my mind like starving buffalo, I never anticipated that I would write about my ex, his 2am call last night, his request for help out of a, as he put it, messy situation in Hollywood, and, surprisingly, my refusal to become involved again.
I never expected any of it because resolution, like clarity, hemorrhoids, or even unexpected strength, is something that, as it turns out, can't be planned for.