Thursday, January 31, 2002


Wednesday, January 30, 2002

Well tie me up and throw shit at me!

It snowed today. In Southern California. In Walnut. On my campus!
I was sitting in my Philosophy class and, while trying to pull apart a categorical proposition, I look out the window and see white stuff falling from the sky. So, naturally, I think either (a) someone is having a little TOO much fun on the roof or (b) that it is snowing.
We all piled out of the classroom, our palms streched out and what the fuck? written all over our faces, in one of those let-us-relate-to-each-other-because-it's-snowing-and-we're-all-part-of-one-big-human-family kinda moments.

First it was the earthquake, then the snow, then me not having sex for moral reasons. The world REALLY must be coming to an end.

[Also, as a side note, I hereby pledge to never post anything after 2 a.m. because, as John pointed out, I begin to sound too Sex and the City-ish. Not like sitting in your underwear somewhere in a Manhattan apartment and unleashing relationship talk is THAT original...]

Tuesday, January 29, 2002


Can there be love without them?

It seems that while treading on this highway called dating, we tend to look for indicators or signs that tell us when to get off and veer into that other stretch of land called Commitment. But when do we know when the signs are right, and how do we know when it's the right time to exit? When it comes to dating, how do we know whether someone is the right exit or a wrong left turn made miles back?

Among my close circle of friends, it is well-known that I lack a sense of direction, and I have come to believe that my sense of direction also deviates when it comes to relationships. If we survey my short list of affairs we see that I am not guided by sense but by whim and instant gratification. I am attracted to the unattainable, the difficult, the guy with a girlfriend, the guy with a motorcycle---the bipolar guy who asks me, "Do you know how lucky we are to have found each other in this world?" I think this all stems from the idea that an intimate connection with another should be something earth-shattering and paramount---something that quickens your blood flow and gives importance to the seemingly unimportant. But I have to ask: are warm, fuzzy feelings and butterflies-in-the-stomach really indicators of love or indications of too much alcohol and one too many Anais Nin novels?

Tonight I listened to Nick gripe about his tweezers being taken away by airport security for fear that they might be used as a weapon. Of course I was happy that he would call me from Utah, but I couldn't help but wonder if I could love a man who would call me from out of state so that we could mourn the loss of his favorite tweezers together. Nick is nice. He has nice hair; he works at the GAP. He is someone who would ask me about my day...everyday. He is someone who would ask me, "Do you know how lucky we are to have found these Natalie Merchant tickets for so cheap?" and I would reply with a no, having a feeling that he would soon tell me.

So, returning to my tired metaphor for relationships, Nick is an exit to Bakersfield en route to Vegas, and I am sitting in my civic, perplexed: on one hand lured by neon lights, prostitutes, and Taxicab Confessions, and, on the other hand, curious of whether a liking for TV dinners and Bingo can be acquired like coffee or boxers after 13 years of tidy widies.

There's only one thing I know for certain: One road leads to waking up with a hangover and a bleeding ass and the other to a 25% discount on turtlenecks and a Best of Natalie Merchant cd box set...

The hard part is deciding which is better.

Monday, January 28, 2002


1. My third date with Nick lasted for seven hours: Museum, Sushi in Little Tokyo, and the Santa Monica Pier in one night. And oddly enough, rather than having cheap yet insanely fun car love underneath a freeway overpass, we kept our hands to ourselves and the one-eyed-snakes in their Ck undies. He's been in Utah for the weekend, went to watch his sister-in-law run with the Olympic flame. All I can say about this whole affair is that it is interesting, and I will have to wait to see what will happen.

2. I've refurbished my entire computer-room/study. $650 worth of furniture made in the Czech Republic (IKEA) compliments of my mother. She believes that if I ultimately must leave the nest (i.e., my home) in five months, I should leave with truckloads of fashionable furniture.
My mother deals with issues by shopping, and she wonders why my wrist goes limp at times...

3. I had a third development when I started this list, but now I only have two and there's nothing worse than only having two items on a list, so here's the first poem I workshopped in my poetry class:

Another Poem with Too Many Similes for my Ex

I miss you the way
people in Weight Watchers
must miss tube tops and Twinkies:
Both angry and bitter
but being too knee-faint and queasy
to do anything but count up points
for an apricot,
a Neutrasweet packet,
a Tic-Tac---
something for the mouth
besides you.

But I am not one for cold turkeys.

As if it were a sleeping Siamese cat,
I will tip toe to the phone,
with a face as determined as a Neurologist
and, itchy fingered and swaying,
I would call for that brief taste,
that finger in the pumpkin pie,
of you saying the first syllable of hello,
and me, delirious with the satisfaction
only food and sex can give,
letting you hear me pant
like a Boxer left in the trunk of a car.

I miss you the way
people in Weight Watchers must miss
seconds at Hometown Buffet---
that chance to indulge,
to go wild like an 18 year old
Mormon cheerleader sent
away for college:

I want to take you in
the way an 18 year old Mormon
cheerleader sent away for college would:
whole and unchewed.

Or like Madonna spreading eagle
for the very first time,

but like the three pound Godiva Bear
I keep beneath my bed
for those rainy days and reruns of
The Golden Girls, or like
corndogs after three years
of Meat is Murder, or even
sleeping past 2 p.m. on Sundays,

I know that you are not worth the guilt
nor the damage to my thighs.

And yet I still miss you the way
people at Weight Watchers must miss
convention because real hunger,
the ending of a poem,

is never planned.

Friday, January 25, 2002

I'm on Cloud Nine

and ten, and eleven, and twelve, and quite possibly thirteen...

After putting off calling Nick with the tenacity equivalent to that of delaying a visit to the dentist, I decided to, while treading towards my car after an eight hour shift of explaining what subjects and verbs are to Asian foreign exchange students, call him. Things couldn't possibly get any worse, I thought to myself.

Nick: I was beginning to think that you were never going to call.
Me: Well, you know, I was sticking to the three-day-wait system.
Nick: Yeah, but you waited four days.
Me: You counted?


I am such a fool. Here I was, thinking that he was enlisting in a witness protection program in order to avoid the likes of me, while in actuality he was counting the days until I would call. I don't know which is to blame: my naivety when it comes to guys or this nihilistic notion I have which makes me believe that I am unworthy of happiness or, as was in this case, unworthy of a sweet guy who could probably spell kaleidoscope without mouthing out the syllables.

We met at the Abby again tonight. We drank martinis and talked until a man holding a mop and a tray of dirty dishes told us, "It's time for you two lovebirds to hit the road."

I've never had such an intimate conversation before in a bar or with someone that I had met for only the second time. We spoke till we both had furry tongues, and though I'd like to write about it, I feel like being selfish. I want it all to be mine, exclusively. I'd like to take it to bed with me, bury it underneath my pillow as if it were a dream charm, and hope that in the morning it will still be there: remarkable, vivid, and, most importantly, real.

We made plans to go to the MOCA tomorrow (Museum of Contemporary Art), and anyone who knows me well knows how moist I get over the idea of taking a boy to a museum. It's way up there on the 10 Things to do Before I Die list right next to streaking at a Bruins game and climbing the Himalayas.

It's times like these that make me glad that my father was too cheap to buy condoms on that fateful night I was conceived in the back of a Buick Skylark somewhere in 1981.

Tuesday, January 22, 2002

Fairy Godmothers Do Exist

and mine just took a while to make my wish come true...

On Saturday night while I was preoccupied with looking out for asshole to walk into the Abby at any moment, my fairy godmother, who looks a little something like Bette Midler in polka dots, sat on my left shoulder and lured an adorable man into asking me for a cigarette.

As it turns out, he was half greek, twenty, a soon to be Business major at UCLA, and completely enamored by my charm. We spent over an hour and a half secluded in a dark corner of the bar talking about everything underneath the sun, ranging from our greek mothers to our views on euthanasia. I got his number. His name is Nick.

That sounds like an all around successful night now doesn't it? Yeah well that's cause I'm not done.

After leaving the bar I decided that I was in much to high a spirit to go home, and so I climbed on top of those children's playground loopdiloop things in the park and reenacted the night in its entirety to Rocky who, drunk off martinis, couldn't have cared less.

Rocky (almost passing out): So whadda bout guy?
Me: Garrett who? Screw Garrett. I'm in LOVE with Nick now... (then I go off on a Nick this, Nick that soliloquy before I get interrupted by...)
Rocky: Isn't that Nick behind you?

The guy was no more than 15 feet behind me while I'm reading off my Why I Want to Make Mad Passionate Love to Nick list on top of this ridiculous red playhouse...and I know I must have been loud.

I have not called him yet for obvious reasons. Rocky contends that--if he heard at all--he was probably flattered by my overt excitement and joy. I contend that he wasted no time in calling his telephone company and changing his number...

To Be Continued...

Saturday, January 19, 2002

Wild Horses

by the Sundays, even tho it conjures up the image of Mark Wahlberg fingering that defenseless girl on a rollercoaster, always makes me gaze out my window and pretend that there's someone out there to whom I'm inextricably tied to by some unknown yet divine force.
But then the song ends, and I find something else to think about...

Thursday night I ended up sleeping in a Motel 6. With lesbians. I spent most of the night locked away in the bathroom trying to avoid those creatures from the dark lagoon. If drinking equals lesbians and a motel 6 room, I want nothing to do with it...I'd gladly welcome a lifetime of AA meetings.

Asshole called today. I told him that I was going to be in W. Hollywood drinking at the Abby. He wants me to come over afterwards if, as he said, I want to. Tho he meant that in the most pedestrian sense, those words, if I want to, stuck with me long after our conversation had ended. I couldn't help but wonder, after all that has happened, do I really want to? What is it that he/I expect to happen? What is most likely to happen? That is the more easier question: we would end up sleeping together, and in the morning, messy haired and hungover, I would drive home with the window down, trying to get his smell off me.

While the sensationalist in me is saying "Yes! you want to," there's something else, call it my heart, my sense of duty, my self-respect, that's furiously shaking it's head.

At the moment I can't rationally decide so, even tho this is a potentially dangerous thing to do, I think I'll let my intuition guide me tonight.

Thursday, January 17, 2002

Actually, nevermind. I took a shower, looked myself in the mirror in one of those self cathartic moments, and said, "Angelo. There is plenty of joy in your life..."
I need to stop giving into those feelings of pity and hopelessness that plague me the way hunger plagues children in Ethiopia. But unlike children in Ethiopia, I have a choice.
I had planned this month to be my sobriety month. It was all part of this plan that I had to become a "better" person, but I've decided that I FEEL better when I'm drunk and giddy.
Yeah, so I'm not dealing with my issue at hand but drowning it with sour apple martinis and Heinekens, and I'm quite fine with that at the moment.

My happiness is a bar in hollywood.

For some reason I feel extremely sad tonight, and it's the worst kind of saddness: the unexplainable kind. All I want to do is burrow inside my bed, avoid all calls, and sleep. So if anyone is calling me, know that I am burrowed inside my bed, avoiding calls, and sleeping. It beats the alternative: food.

Wednesday, January 16, 2002

Quick Note

It's great to know that my blog shows up in search engines under the keywords


"not wearing socks"

and my favorite


But moving on to more pressing issues, my emotional status is more adequately summed up by Elton John's (tho I've never been much of a fan; the eyebrow twitch, as if he were a recovering stroke victim, just doesn't work for me) new song, I Want Love...and I guess that speaks for itself.

Tuesday, January 15, 2002

Ok. So check this out. I'm sitting at some random coffee shop (for once it wasn't Starfucks) and I notice an extremely attractive guy deep in thought with studying. He looked older, mature, and, unlike my prior flings, someone who could operate a scientific calculator. So I sit and start on my Chemistry homework, making sporadic, abrupt noises every now and then like coughing or dropping my pen to, you know, get the eyes coming my way...But then I thought about it: why do I always have to wait like the timid country girl to be spoken to first? But then I thought again: straight people have it easy. You see, before going up to him, I had to ask myself two things: (1) Is he gay? (2) Would he be interested in me? Straight people on the other hand usually just have to ask the latter and not, "hmm is he attracted to my sex???"
But anyway, I drift. Feeling angered by my inaction I said the hell with it and, trying to appear bold and just so I'm-so-confident-I-don't-give-a-damn-bout-what-people-think, I pull up a seat besides him and say: "taking chemistry too?"

Yah, ok, not exactly the BEST first liner, but I was under pressure. So we spoke for a while--mainly about school--and I'm totally getting twitterpated over the way he spoke and was already planning our marriage in Thailand when he unleashes the "Yeah, me and my girlfriend. . ." comment. I didn't get to listen to the last part of the sentence; the sound of my heart crushing drowned the noise of even the espresso machine.

But then again, why the hell wouldn't he be straight?? It was I, after all, who hand picked him and say, yes, shall be my pair in the arc...

Oh no. It would be TOO bizarre for me to (a) meet a cute guy with intellect, (b) actually muster up the guts to go up to him, and (c) have him fall to his knees saying, "I have waited all 25 years of my life for you."

I'm not bitter. Just dissatisfied with the way the world turns.

Saturday, January 12, 2002

So I guess my diagnosis was wrong: I don't have moth larva developing in my ear, I have an ear infection that requires 83 dollars worth of medicine to get rid of. 83 dollars! Trying to be funny, I told my pharmacist, "DAMN! Not even my hiv cocktails cost that much." She didn't think it was funny.

And also, despite my fears, I wasn't anally probed or asked to insert a tube into my urethra, but I still hate doctors for the following reasons:

1. After putting that light-microscope-thingie into my ear, the doctor jerked away as if in disgust, uttering "Woah! This is the worst ear infection I've seen in a LONG time!" Stupid bitch. I felt like tearing out her ovaries and feeding them to her.

2. And as if that weren't enough, she leaves the room and I hear her announcing to someone in the hall, "He has a really BAD ear infection". What ever happened to that whole confidentiality thing?? Not that ear infections are particularly embarrassing, but can you imagine: "Man, I haven't seen so many crabs since my weekend in Lake Tahoe."

3. The prescription. Do doctors think that just because they're paying off student loans of ridiculous amounts of money that put them through med school that they are no longer expected to write legibly? My prescription looked as if it had been written in Arabic. What if the pharmacist, dreary-eyed from counting pills, misreads my prescription and gives me Estrogen pills, thus resulting in a sudden growth of man boobs on my part? You never know.

You know what, I'm pissed. Kirin got her first sexual experience, with an actual person that is, on Thursday, John got laid last night, and I got an ear infection that makes me turn my head to the left when I want to hear someone speak as if I were an old man in a wheelchair, reeking of metamusil and urine.

On the bright side, at least I still have fabulous hair...

Poster Boy for the SHIT HAPPENS Sticker

I am convinced that a community of spiders or some other really gross insect species has decided to take residence in my ear. These past few days the hearing in my left ear has been diminishing like Bruce Willis' hairline. Of course I tried all the home remedies I could think of: violently shaking my head, escavating inside my ear with q-tips, chanting, and mentally visualizing my "trauma" slowing disappearing...

So yeah, I'm going to the doctor in a few minutes. I've avoided it long enough. Doctors ALWAYS find some excuse to get you naked or plunge a needle into your arm. I better prepare myself for the sense of violation I will soon encounter at Meghan Medical Clinic.

Note: I've conveniently avoided mentioning what happened last night with asshole. YES, asshole has some way managed to butt himself into my life. I feel like being really cruel today for some reason by telling him that I've been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and have 2-3 months to live. I wonder what his response would be..

OMG! Let's find out!!!

Wednesday, January 09, 2002

It's so beautiful today...

I don't know whether to shit my pants or gouge my eyes out.
The sun's out; it's not too hot, not too cold, just perfect for a sweater and sandals. I finished school early today and instead of going home, I bought a large cherry slurpy, a pack of cigarettes, and went driving around town with all windows down. SIGH. What more could a gay man stuck in suburbia ask for? (I'm not gonna answer that)

I feel like washing my car out on the driveway or trimming some bushes or sitting out on my lawn, writing a poem about the smell of barbeques on sundays. Maybe I'll lay on my hammock, spark up some Mimosa Magic incence, and play some lesbian music like Enya or Sarah Mclachlan, everso gently carressing my navel in a circular manner and thinking about the wonders of birth...

Yes. It is great to be alive.

Tuesday, January 08, 2002

Three Reasons I Should Kill Myself:

1) You know you're a loser when Great Expectations, The new way to meet singles in your area , calls you asking "Hi! You're single right?"


2) At any rate, it's the second day being back at school and I'm already exhausted and sleep deprived. I think it has something to do with my taking of ecstasy on sunday night (and for all you drug naysayers, it's only my THIRD time and besides what's so wrong about taking a little cute pill with a star or elephant or buddha on it that just makes you love everything?) I took my little buddha at the Griffith observatory on the night it closed for the next THREE years. I don't know what I'm gonna do without my Griffith for so long. It's where the date of my dreams would take me! This is an omen...I can smell it.

3) I walked into my philosophy class today wearing an outfit I had put together weeks ago that had "Hi, I'm an idealistic yet poor college student who will do ANYTHING you want" written all over it, prepared to lure my insanely gorgeous philosophy professor into bed and instead of seeing his perky ass passing around the syllabi, I see a hefty, old, white-haired man in a disastrous striped polo shirt...
Now that one just kills me.

It is decided. I have nothing left to live for.

Sunday, January 06, 2002

What do you do when a friend calls you looking for a shoulder to cry on? What do you do when your friend actually starts to cry on you shoulder? Move?

You would think that I should know by now considering that I've received the my-boyfriend-just-broke-up-with-me call many a time in the past, but I just DONT KNOW WHAT TO DO...
I am the worst person to call in an emotional crisis of course. I try to be sincere and comforting but every word that comes flying out of my mouth sounds as if I'm stretched out on my stomach painting my fingernails, my legs flaying about in the air:

Honey. These things just HAPPEN.

He was ugly anyway.

I just don't know...(dramatic pause)...I just don't know.

David called me tonight sobbing because his boyfriend of three months decided that it "just wasn't working out". What were I to say? In moments of emotional mayhem, I tend to do one of two things: either use humor or just become silent. Neither of these I think would work in this situation.

I guess I've become so accustomed to my own habit of burrowing myself underneath my bed when dealing with problems, I just figure that others would do the same. Obviously they don't, thus resulting in phone calls at 2am which remind me of my inability to appease the troubled heart of a friend, let alone my own.

Saturday, January 05, 2002

Note to Skinny People: Don't Read This. You Wouldn't Understand.

I eat. It's just that I sometimes forget with my busy schedule and such. The other day I was eager to plunge myself into a bucket of fries, but then The Golden Girls came on and we ALL know it's a sin to eat while watching The Golden Girls. But when I do eat, I EAT. Like today for instance I indulged: had a scallop and a nutrasweet packet. Now how 'bout

Sound convincing? I'm rehearsing for when I'm finally found out and locked away in one of those clinics where they watch you eat spoonful after dreadful spoonful and then make sure you don't heave it out in the loo. I never understood why they call it an eating disorder: there's no EATING involved. It's willful starvation. Period.

I have a feeling, however, that even if I were to become sickly skinny and insect-like, I would still find something else to neurotically gripe about. I can see it now: after taking an exacto knife to my nose, smoldering off the hairs on my arms with battery acid, and inserting rice bowls into my pecs as implants in order to give me a muscled look, I'd stretch the skin on my face--fastening it to my neck with a safety pin--to the point where it's so taut the neighbors hire me for their children's birthdays instead of that inflatable Barney Bounce Around! monstrosity.

It would probably be less time/energy consuming if I were to come to terms with myself, but that's no fun. I'm sure reading all those self-help books that talk about inner beauty and all those cassettes you can buy from infomercials that blow smoke up your ass, telling you what a great and unique individual you are, would contribute to my library of profound things I could say when on a date, but who wants to sleep with a self-actualized Maslownian schmuck? Yeah I may be able to own my feelings, but I'd rather own the stench of sleazy sex in my bedroom thank you very much.

After all, is life REALLY worth living if you can't parade around in a midrift and have A&F models sucking martini olives from off your abdomen while simultaneously being telecasted on the web for thousands of salivating fans, begging for MORE, MORE, MORE!???

That's right. Put the Krispy Kreme down. You can do it.

Thursday, January 03, 2002

...3 days later

John was right. The only point of coming up with new year's resolutions is to break them, which I did 15 minutes into the new year.
So here's my list of this years broken resolutions:

1. don't smoke (I'm beaming with originality)
2. don't drink to the point where you feel the undying urge to crawl on top a table shouting I have a third nipple!!!!
3. don't make out with strange guys who buy you an adios motherfucker and a heineken.

The only one I've miraculously been able to keep--and you all better perform cartwheels for me--is numero four: DON'T CALL ASSHOLE. I'm contemplating branding that one on my forehead but I think people might get the wrong idea.

Have nothing ingenious to say--as if I ever do--tonight; just thought I'd get my first-blog-of-the-year over and done with. So, *drumroll* tada!