It's Cool They Say. I Wish I Could They Say

I killed my sister last night. It wasn't planned, but I knew eventually it was going to happen. She asked me to meet her somewhere for something. It was strange since we have had no contact since my mother died 13 years ago. I showed up and we met basically at the end of an alley. I am flanked by two buildings and only one way out . . . Fuck me. As soon as she sees me she makes a hand motion and two of her daughters, my nieces, come out of nowhere. My sister begins to berate me. I feel really small. I am wont to retreat; to slink back with my esteem and not berate myself for coming here in the first place. I look behind me. I'm fucked. My nieces begin to pummel me of course. I am a tiny person. I can only defend myself to a certain degree since I am outweighed and outnumbered. I am on the ground thinking about what I have on me and realize I have pepper spray. They are enjoying this too much. They are giving me way too much time on the ground to think. I rise to my feet and spray the idiot closest to me in the eyes. I actually thought for a second if she had asthma and I sprayed her again. She goes backwards blindly as I spray her sister. At this point it is just me and my big sister. I throw the can of pepper spray to the ground and I pounce on her. I straddle her and I pound her head into the ground. I pound and I pound and I don't remember if I am saying anything. Am I explaining to her what I am about to do? Am I grunting? All I know is that I am slamming her head into the ground and I can't stop. But I do. There is no more head to pulverize. I stop. I stand up and fall to my knees shaking. I am crying an uncontrollable cry. I am not crying because I killed her. I am crying because of how it feels to kill someone with your bare hands. That out of body, auto-pilot feeling that you are not yourself. I am crying because I was so full of hatred for my sister. This hatred was born of hatred. This hatred was born of abuse and I burned all of that hatred out of my body with every pound of her head on the ground. Every sound and splatter brought relief. It is finally over.

When I woke up I was shaking. And I needed a hug. The thing that people don't realize about lucid dreaming is it isn't a dream for me until I wake up. When I wake up, I am tired from all of the running and falling and slamming of heads into the ground as it were. This morning my arms were tired and my eyes hurt. It is scary as well. I am not only a lucid dreamer, but I can control my dreams. I could have easily gotten out of the dream once I realized it was an ambush. Sometimes I'll do this with myself. I want to see what my brain will come up with as if I am learning more about myself. I knew I would kill my sister. It was the only way out of that situation. But I guess what I expected out of the dream was not the actual feeling of killing someone with my bare hands. Whatever it is I expected, I did not get. Lucid dreaming is a curse and nothing to be envied. Look at me. I'm killing my sister and exhausted all day. It's not fun kids.

Rules of Entanglement

I created a list of dating rules years ago. This list has served me well. When Jess decided to dive into the dating pool a few years ago, I made sure to share this invaluable resource. She clearly took the rules to heart. Case in point – I found out only yesterday that Jess’s favorite book is Catcher in the Rye. If I knew this three years ago, we wouldn’t be friends today. For me, dating is an exercise in transferring the “I want to fuck you” energy into “I want to do more than fuck you” energy. By that standard, your favorite book should never come up on date one or two, or even eight for that matter.

Commiserating with Jess about my last few dates (horrible!) prompted us to write down, formally, my rules of dating – to be used by all women kind. We want women to get out of their own way and let dating be fun again. Full disclosure, we are lesbians and we do consider ourselves experts on the Hows and Whys of women and dating (we are experts on any topic we discuss, but that’s for another post). These simple guidelines can and should be used by women of all orientations. It would make life a lot easier for the rest of us.

Let’s begin, shall we?

1. Getting to The First Date
Women like to play coy. That's not demeaning or misogynistic. It is a reality and lesbians are some of the biggest offenders. Women will lead you on a trail driven by pseudo aggressiveness and copious amounts of alcohol and wait for you to do the "heavy" lifting. Once a couple of rounds have been ordered, the waiting begins. This is where we drop the ball ladies. If you meet someone and you are PHYSICALLY attracted to them, ask them out. Do not wait for them to ask you. Like most guys, I will miss the signals that you are trying to send out that you want to see me again. It is just that simple. The person doesn't have to be your soul mate. If you like what you see, don't pass up an opportunity to ask to see it again.

2. THE First Date
The first date should be completely casual. Not too early and not too late. It should be a one on one opportunity for you to talk about nothing. That's right ladies. Nothing. On date one I don't know you. If your attire is clean and you are remotely amusing, date one should lead to date two 100% of the time. On my most recent “first date”, the chick I was entertaining acted as though we were competing for the same job. It was not fun. I was completely physically attracted to her, but as I sat there trying to mull over whether I wanted to see her again she kept dropping nuggets and nuggets of information that was making my second date decision pretty easy. She hates her dad. Why do I know this? At the end of the first date I want to be able to say "Sweet, we both love RuPaul's Drag Race" not "Shit, we both hate our dad". Good clean fun. That's what a first date should be all about.

3. The Marathon Date
No first date, or subsequent date for that matter, should last 12 hours. You do no need to spend an inordinate amount of time with someone you just met. Your date may regale you with exciting stories of her time in the Peace Corps or his years spent summering in Cape Cod. You may find this banter interesting, intelligent, introspective – insert I word here. STOP. There is plenty of time on date 2, 3, 4 5, 6, and even 7 to learn more about your potential mate, to build intimacy and comfort. A marathon date does nothing but give you a false sense of closeness, which can lead to #9, sans testing (YIKES!).

4. The Thirty Year Old Virgin
For all intents and purposes, when you begin to date someone new, you are a virgin. Not literally. No one wants to date an old virgin, but in the figurative sense you have no exes. I don't even know when you should ever hear about an ex. Seriously. It is hard to grasp who you are while you are telling me about people I have never met. Inevitably, I will sit there trying to figure out why they dumped you. There are subtle ways you can go about never talking about your exes. Some people have a tendency to fall into the trap of confusing "What's your type?" with "Tell me about your ex". To answer the former I generally say that I have no type. As for the latter, I say I have dated humans in the past.

5. I'm O+ and You?
I have a very strict two date mental illness declaration policy. By the second date I should know if you have been diagnosed with ANY and all mental illnesses. This also goes for transitioning gender and STDs. I have a couple of things you will need to know before anything gets serious. The only declaration on date one is that I'm gluten free. On date one, you will notice I have OCD, I will admit it and I will, for the rest of the date, stifle most of my tendencies. Full blown OCD comes date two. On date two, I need the option of saying I can handle your bipolar disorder since I already like you. Knowing this on date one will most likely not result in date two.

6. With Friends Like These
I was hanging out with a guy a couple of years back. I have known this guy most of my life. I was invited by a different friend to meet up at a bar and watch the NBA playoffs. I asked the guy if he wanted to go. That was a mistake. As soon as I showed up, my friend was giving me the tenth degree: Who was the guy? Why was I with a guy? I'm gay. What the fuck am I doing with a guy? I said relax, just watch the game. And I was relaxed until the guy I brought along decided to claim his territory and inform me we were dating. So…this was entirely my fault. I raised the stakes. Because I let this guy around my friends, he felt the need to amp it up a bit by saying something stupid like he and my gay ass were in a relationship. This anecdote was shared for your benefit to emphasize that the later you introduce your new love to your friends, the better. My last date was talking about her birthday plans with her bff and I asked about it because I genuinely wanted to see if I could hook them up with a nice place. She thought that was me begging for an invite. I said "Oh, I don't want to go. You guys have fun". She got mad. You should never be too eager to introduce someone to your friend. A week later you will have to explain why you can't bear to hear their name uttered. Take your time. Get to know the person and see if they are worth introducing to your chosen family and then your actual family.

7. Pretty lady want a cocktail?
Here is where the waters get murky. We’ve argued over this rule and come to no compromise. Y’A insists there be a one drink max during a date. She has consistently refused to follow her own advice. Jess feels that as an adult, she can mind her own drinking and read the situation to see what seems appropriate.

Y’A would like to interject and clarify: “Jess thinks a pitcher of Sangria equates one drink. I have done this. All it does is make me thirsty for real alcohol. If you are driving, one drink. Far from home, one drink. Anywhere in Brooklyn, one drink. Trust me.”   

Bottom line – don’t get shitfaced on the first date. Be your shiny new penny self until you receive some confirmation that this person genuinely likes you, then peel back the layers a bit and buy the pretty lady a cocktail.

8. NO SEX
Do not have sex on the first date. How about keeping it in your pants for the second date, too? Str8, Gay, Queer, Genderful – we’ve all made the same mistake and paid dearly for it later. After spending the equivalent of a nurse’s ER shift together, you may feel that you know this person, have made a judgment of character in the positive, and there is no reason to wait any longer to seal the deal. I implore you – wait! Just because he’s good with dogs and volunteers for a No Kill Shelter does not mean he isn’t over his ex gf and experimenting with some strange to see if he can get over her. (Lesbians, just fucking stop. Leave the U-Haul on the rental lot and calm down.)   

9. Sex

Now that we have ruled out sex, let's talk about sex. Whenever you decide to do the deed, you need to have a conversation or two before you are caught in an awkward situation. I am not going to waste time saying get tested for STDs. You know what to do at this point and if you don't know to get tested before sex, then I won't be having any sexy times with you. What I am talking about is what KIND of sex you are in to. I don't want to be revved up and all excited and then I find out you are a power bottom. What am I going to do with that? If you like spanking, cool. If you like biting, that’s even better. Full on humiliation, remember I’m a feminist. I just want to know if I need a strength and conditioning coach beforehand. In the gay community, there are tops, bottoms, verse, and switch - I don't get into any of that, which makes it all the more important to have that pre-coitus conversation. Allow me to illustrate = without this convo some chick could show up at my house with an uninvited duffel bag full of toys, leaving us both limp, blue, and floating in an ice bath. I think you get the point. 

10. Remember, this is supposed to be fun.

I Have Had It

I have decided to try something new and talk to women that actually like me or at least admit that they like me. I would 110% of the time prefer to be by myself. My friends say this is unhealthy so I literally stick my neck out there once a year to prove them wrong. Dating in NY sucks. In just a couple of encounters with one girl, I have endured ten personalities; clear frustration; demeaning behavior and why? So I can say I did it? Well I did and where does that get me? At some point, our society will have to accept that some people don't belong with other people. We are slowly accepting the reality that some people don't want to get married. I am willing to stand up and proudly admit that not only do I not want to get married, I also don't want to be coupled up. It is not that I am adverse to compromise. I am charming and personable and talkative and a great listener and I remember everything you say and I don't want to get married and I don't want to share my space and I cook every single day and I don't want to cook for you and I am the abnormal One. I meet a woman who wants to get married and that seems to be her only shining light. She hates kids. She hates life it seems and she definitely hates me. How does one navigate the world looking for a mate with such hate in their heart? We have all been wronged. We all hurt. We also know to put on our best clothes; take an extra long shower; smile brighter on a first date. We know if that new person wants to see us after, we have to somehow keep it going. We all have to express a little and reveal less. We have to keep them coming. We have to play the game. Without these mating rituals, where would we be? Some people think reciting their resume is enough. What I say to that is at some point I will stop thinking with my dick. You have to play the game to win at love. I have no gamesmanship, but I convince people anyway. Those who, in their thirties, haven't figured out who they are and how they relate to others keep me in my woman cave with wine, tequila and beer thanking God I haven't succumb to the pressure of the coupled.

. . .And In This Corner

I went on a first date last night. Admittedly, I met this chick in a dark bar and I have really bad eyesight. I was just hopeful that when she showed up, I didn't have a beer goggle situation. Originally, we were supposed to meet up Friday afternoon for a late lunch (read early dinner date). Originally, originally, I had suggested having lunch together in a casual and not-at-all-date-like-setting sometime during the week. Here’s the thing. I can’t eat shit. No gluten, milk, soy, eggs, nuts…you name it and I’m pretty sure I can’t eat it. I spent all week stressing out about trying to find a restaurant that fit my non-committal vibe and also served food I could eat. No easy feat, even in New York fucking City. I wanted to avoid a gluten-free place cause, let’s be honest, that just plain sucks. So I found a place and by the time I had it all figured out, she rescheduled. Fine. Saturday night dinner date it is. I gave up all control and let her pick the place with the soft instructions of no Italian and no Asian.

When she showed up she was still pretty. She then proceeded to spend 30 minutes making fun on my gluten-free ass. Within the first 5 minutes I was told I was not ‘date material’ because I don’t eat Italian food (which, unless GLUTEN-FREE, would kill me!!) and because I don’t eat/like cheese (still made out of milk last time I checked). If we had gone to the restaurant that I had stressed to find for our originally scheduled casual lunch soiree and she had acted like the ass she ended up being, I would have completely lost my shit. At this point I’m about half an hour into this ridiculousness and decide I’m in it for the story from here on out. I am a curious person with thick skin. It’ll be fun and logged for research.

I'm a lover not a fighter. I enjoy a hefty serving of spirited debate. My friends and I are most often debating sports, Harry Potter, and unfortunately, politics. I don't like fighting with girls. Girls I like. Girls I want to date. I see no need to argue.  By this standard, this date is a fight…of the cock or sword variety. Typically on a first date, I leave my cock and my sword at home. This gal was double fisted and raring to go. She gave me her ENTIRE resume. I feel like I should have taken notes in case I meet someone that wants to hire an over-educated know-it-all. She was really smart, which is always my thing. It was hard to get off on the smart when it was heavily shrouded in her bitter and jaded anti-pregnancy, anti-breast feeding, and anti-children diatribe. I LOVE children. And I said so kind of just to shut her up, to which her response was a pedophile joke. I shit you not. ALL of this happened on a first date. A pedophile joke that was really painful and I had to literally beg her not to keep going with it.

To add to the growing list of ‘things this chick hates’ she also hates my neighborhood. I hate my neighborhood, too. Somehow, without actually living there, she hates it more than I do. It was a sticking point throughout the entire date. I hate Brooklyn. I also hate all of the Bronx. That's because I'm from Queens and people from Queens hate everywhere except Queens. That is the sole reason I still haven't adjusted to living in Brooklyn for the last 12 years. I didn't need to talk about my hatred of Brooklyn, nor did I bring it up, but apparently this topic quite intrigued her. What’s worse, she interlaced her hate expression with a completely inappropriate bad sex story. ON OUR FIRST DATE! The bad sex girl lives in my neighborhood. She complained, quite accurately, about every piece of shit detail that I deal with on a daily basis living in my neighborhood during her story of going to this chick's house to get laid. I interrupted and said "that poor girl". She said "why that poor girl?" (Disclaimer: I generally say what's on my mind. Usually, people like the fresh and frank way I speak. Jess told me not to be normal Y'A on this date. I was so fucking muted I had to go to the bathroom and look myself in the mirror to remind myself of the shit talker I usually am. This spontaneous utterance was the first sign of true me.) As I thought about how I would answer this, I reminded myself that I don't like to argue with girls. Even her. A chick I certainly did not like at this point. So I come back quickly with "you cast aspersions on a girl because of where she lives." Nice save.

I understand first dates are nerve racking. You don't want to seem anxious or nervous and telling yourself not to be anxious causes anxiety. I stress about details and things like that because of my mild, barely noticeable, OCD. This girl was on another planet. Having an agenda on a first date is very common. Her agenda was to let everyone in the restaurant know she had the biggest dick. Unfortunately, she ended up just being a big dick. When she cracked a joke about me not coming home with her I said "I thought we established that 5 minutes into the date." Not a trace of sarcasm or humor. I think she got it. So I walked her to her car and she is doing her big dick walk and big dick talk and I told her she is just too competitive. She chuckled. I thought I was competitive. I will kick your ass in Wii Tennis guaranteed. This chick was on a completely different level. It’s called not fun.

As I got on the train I mused to myself about how this chick should apologize, but knew she definitely wouldn’t. Imagine my shock when I got a half-assed non-apology apology for her assholishness (my word not hers). She blamed it on fatigue and thanked me for hanging. I responded ‘Thanks and sleep well’, to which she got pissy. I am the Queen of apologizing by not apologizing. It is a really bad trait. I could smell this shit a mile away. How was I supposed to react? As I sit in my shitty apartment in my shitty neighborhood drinking a cold gluten free beer that's actually good (despite her making fun of it viciously), I had to give myself credit for being a fucking saint throughout this whole ordeal.

Know When To Say When

"Hi I have OCD and food allergies. Would you like to go on a date?"

"Sure"

"Great. Let's go a week from now. I'll OCD the hell out of the plans. It's going to be perfect [the way God intended it to be]"

Then it happens. Not the date, but she asked to reschedule. At this point I would rather her cancel entirely. Rescheduling just starts the OCD clock all over again. I'm not anxious, but my OCD is. My OCD is not quite sure I will be able to plan whatever it is we are now going to do on no notice. So, I have decided to lay caution to the wind and not think about it at all. I'm going to try to do this date thing like the rest of you people. By the seat of my pants. I must give her major kudos for letting me know 24 hours in advance though... 

The moment you know you can't or don't want to make the date, inform the other person immediately. This might be the first sign that you are barking up the wrong tree. I once had a girl who shall remain nameless [EE] who would invite me to any and everything. I didn't even know these were dates that I was saying no to until Jess told me. She wasn't getting it. Not only was I the wrong tree, she would tell me I'm the wrong tree repeatedly. I didn't get it. I chalked it up to schizophrenia and cut her off.

My friend suffers the same daft inability to see real life. By not taking the hint, he goes around being a door mat. The weirdest thing is he is a HE. I didn't think guys had these problems. He meets these guys, sets up dates and they consistently cancel. He then hounds these guys to reschedule with bated breath. I feel bad for him. Why? Because he calls me close to tears when these guys consistently bail on him and I have to say "He's just not that into you".

So where will I go with this chick whenever she wants to actually go out? I have absolutely no idea. That is pretty refreshing. How long will this new found freedom for my brain last? I have no idea. I'm willing to bet it will last up until the minute she texts me again. In the meantime, I will take myself on a date today. I'm never late and I'm easy breezy. Clearly.

My Ten Commandments

10. I promise never to be compelled to take a selfie in the bathroom of my local Outback Steakhouse (or any public restroom).

9. I can’t wear makeup and if I could, I wouldn't, because all natural is hot and no matter how many times I hear I would look pretty with whatever, I’m not convinced. And I like imperfect teeth. Not meth mouth, just teeth that have character.

8. Never judge a book by its cover. I like women. Strong women. Smart women. Short haired women. Athletic women. OPINIONATED women. I don’t care how you dress. Have something to say and we can be friends. Gender expression is not sexuality. Just love.

7. I like to bite… ;)

6. Thou shalt not admit to liking Miley Cyrus. Rihanna is OK because of the, ummm, you know, artistic value of her, errr, videos and the message she is trying to convey. Errrr, yeah, so again no Miley Cyrus.

5. I’m a gay boy trapped in a lesbian’s body. I can’t explain it, but I enjoy the hell out of it.

4. Cleanliness is next to godliness. And I don’t believe in the traditional god, just the god of clean ass. So worship in the shower altar twice a day.

3. I promise no matter how drunk I get, I will never talk about my ex.

2. I do not believe in monogamy. The plus is I never cheat. The minus is I never lie. The bonus is a completely stress free relationship.

1. I will never marry. I know what I would like to wear. I know how I would have my wedding. I envision this all at gunpoint. I believe in love. Soul crushing, all encompassing love. I don’t believe legally sanctioned love makes it sparkle any more than it already does. Love free, live free, fuck marriage.

I'm Off The Sex

I'm officially off the sex. Well technically, you have to be on the sex to get off the sex. So technically speaking. sex is no longer on the table in the future, but like I said I wasn't previously offering it up as a main course on said table. So more accurately, I give up. I know my problem. I haven't dated in so long, I really don't understand the rules anymore. So I'm on the train reading my tablet today and people board what must have been 42nd st. I'm reading my tablet doing the introverted thing. Someone boards the train and stands in front of me. Let me be specific. This person, crotch first, is adjusting their position in front of me. I'm not paying attention. Adjust. Adjust. The train is not crowded enough for all of this. One more adjustment and the shoes of the person touch my bag. Enough already. I put my tablet in my bag and look squarely at the crotch positioned inches away from my face. I look up. I look up and down. Good GOD the hot dyke who clearly wanted to get my attention whose crotch stood before me was hot. Cute as hell. Black pants with a brown belt. Brown oxford shoes with turquoise shoe strings. Grey button down with the sleeves rolled up to the mid forearm. This chick was very fucking  cute. So what the hell was all of that primal bullshit going on before I actually looked at her? I personally like to keep my crotch as far away from everyone while on the train. I think it is rude. So some chick comes on the train does all of this bullshit to get my attention and says not one word to me. It doesn't make sense. And this is the reason why I am done. I haven't dated in so long, that I have no patience for the games and I don't get the rules. I'm more of a text me 4 days before you want to hang out kind of girl. So when girls do this and they do do this, I have no idea how to react. Is this the mating call of the modern lesbian? The kindergarten notice me notice me sort of way. If hot crotch would have said anything to me, I would have stayed on the train instead of savoring her crotch for one stop. 

Golf, Tennis, and Other White People Stuff

My co-worker likes to play the "If We Were Slaves" game. If you have never heard of this game, thank god for your blessings. It is a game I could only conclude was made by an only child who spent summers alone and wanted to distinguish herself from her imaginary friends. At least once a week she plays this game to her immense amusement, while I silently weep for the future.  Here goes: "If we were slaves, we would both be house Negroes, but I [she] would most likely be confused for an out of state cousin." You get it? We are both fair skinned, but she is the fairest one of all. This clearly means the world to her. I would rather be invisible when she says it. At work.  To the public. It is funny that she is obsessed with her lightness and yet everything I do is considered "White People Shit".  I love asparagus. White People Shit. I asked what I should eat as a black person and the answer was green beans. I like salad, raw spinach and kale and I sauté instead of frying. I read everything and do research and love the violin and I don't listen to rap music. White. People. Shit. The biggest laugh had at my expense was the word "cutlery".  I use the word regularly as would be expected from someone smart enough not to waste time saying three words that have been neatly summed up into one. Cutlery. A huge confused laugh was had. "Who says that?"  Who doesn't?  What should I have said?  "Forks, Knives, and Spoons"? What idiot would say three words when one has been created to sum it up nicely? This was also White People Shit, but more specifically, I speak like a white person.  I have heard this all before. Never by my black friends from HS and college who spoke exactly like me. Dare I meet people from different parts of NY. This is when I encounter the inter-race stupidity. I am told I know everything.  I correct them and say I don't know everything.  I try to learn everything and there is a difference.

What’s worse is that everyone assumes I won't date black people. Some of my oldest friends insist I won't date black people because I “don't like black people shit." Like when I cringe when some idiot says the word "nigger" around me. In reality, I like women and I don't care what color they are wrapped in as long as they are smart and have a good sense of humor.

I like golf. I love it. My mom bought me an indoor golfing set after I asked for it when I was nine and I have loved it ever since. I love tennis. Really love tennis. I mean Monica Seles, Maria Chonchita Alonzo, Arantxa Sánchez Vicario and not just Venus and Serena.  My favorite sport to play is volleyball. I am a huge sports fan. I like to read. I love music. Are these qualities black people don't like? I sat every night drinking tea while my family watched little house on the prairie. My mom, to my dismay, loved westerns. Is this not black people shit? Or is it people shit, which is probably what my mom would say about this whole stupid conversation.

Adrift

There’s a lot to be said post-divorce; or rather, a lot that you’d rather not say. After years of voicing every concern, petty grievance, and minuscule malcontent there is a freedom in not saying anything at all. I fought endlessly with the Ex. Challenged every single statement she made, questioned every difference of opinion as if mine was law and unequivocally accused her of mental duress because, more often than not, we didn't see a goddamn thing eye to eye.

Fast forward to my current relationship and it would appear that the problem is not she, but me. I don’t want to budge. I am a curmudgeon. I want to be left alone, free to speak when the mood strikes me and free to remain distant and aloof just the same. I spent ten years fighting the Battle of Codependence and realize that my definition of freedom may just be a bit extreme for the faint of heart. I speak a language unfamiliar to most. It’s a lonely space – this place stuck between trying to be ‘normal’ and trying to make sense of the lifetime lived with another person in cohabitation and complete dependence. How does one go from the tense ‘we/us’ to ‘I/me’ without missing a beat? How does one maintain a hard fought identity ensconced in a fairly solitary life while trying to maintain a relationship with someone who rightfully demands more than just the ghost of a gf? How do I keep myself while sharing my self, yet stand firm in my personhood?

I’m just one woman adrift, seeking an answer that is probably already apparent. I am easy to love. I am hard to comprehend. I am open and willing and funny and enticing. I am hardened and battered and stoic and cold. There is now a doorway so small, so conditional, that it doesn't really matter who approaches, I will cause a retreat. I will lay it bare and tuck it away so that no matter how hard she tries, I am impenetrable.

Another Year

I always knew I would have kids. I envisioned myself being married to a doctor, having two children and divorced by 26. I was going to raise my ingenious children with my ex-husband in complete amicable bliss. My children would grow to cure cancer. Reality is somewhat of a tempestuous beast. I had fallen in love at the age of 15 and that would render all of my plans moot. My nephew, Edwin, came to live with us October 1992. I was 15. He wasn't one. I was done for. We were inseparable.

As time went on, I came out. Of what I don't know. The closet, a cloud, a funk? No one, I'm sure, expected me to be straight. So when I had a girlfriend who had a son three years younger than Edwin, it was somewhat ho hum. My life changed. I didn't go away to college because of him. I told my mom I would take guardianship of him when she died. He was 8, I was 23, and she was gone. I had a college degree in my pocket, a kid I adored in my hands and a girlfriend I couldn't live without. I couldn't have been more overwhelmed if I tried. Eventually, I had to move out of the house of my raising due to circumstances beyond my control or anyone's understanding. To Brooklyn we go. Kid in tow and me with no clue.

I'm adopted. It took nothing for me to bring Edwin into my bosom as my own and bleed for him. It is that adoption laying over  both our heads that I thought would keep us together. I was better than my mom. I was better than his mom. I made sure of it. I maintained the shittiest of jobs that would help me keep him in the things he wanted and needed and keep us having dinner together every night. I was struggling, but we were happy. Or so I thought.

When it came time for my nephew to act like the man he thought he was, it was too late. I was no longer with my girlfriend. I decided I wanted to be single so I can focus on Edwin in this foreign land called Brooklyn. I held mindless jobs beneath my intellect so I could be the parent he needed. I was involved in school. Heavily. From Kindergarten on, I was that parent. The one all of the teachers knew. That is until he hit me.

My brother called today to wish me a happy birthday just in case he couldn't call me tomorrow. He told me Edwin came to see him. He tells me this not to hurt me, but to inform me. He said he was driving a brand new car with his younger brother. He said he gained weight. See, I sacrificed everything for my nephew. My education, my livelihood, relationships, sex, but I couldn't sacrifice my dignity no matter how much I loved him. My nephew was my child for 18 years and I couldn't see myself as a woman taking that from a child. My nephew's birth mother contacted him on facebook three years ago and he called me to ask what he should do. She hadn't seen or spoken to him since he was two. They were fast rekindling old times and this kills my brother. Like he raised him. Like he is me.  

So what? Why now? I'm having issues right now and I don't know why. I'm having dreams. I plugged my hard drive into my BluRay player and I saw a video "Edwin singing in the shower". It wouldn't play. So I sang the song he made up in the shower in the video like it was today. It was over a decade ago. When I think I'm good, I'm not. When I don't think about him, my brother calls me with an Edwin story. When friends ask me about him, I'm truthful but evasive. I don't know. When I'm honest with myself, it makes me sad. 

Now here I am 3 years removed from my nephew. I don't want to have kids and I don't know how to be in a relationship. I don't believe in regret. I believe in lessons learned. So what did I learn from this? The same thing I learned from my ex. Nothing. I would do it all over again.

Babies and all that jazz

Y'A

I don't know what letter the media assigned to my generation, but I consider people "my age" to be between 30-40. My circle of friends is refreshingly progressive. There is only one married couple in the bunch. The rest of us are either single or serially monogamous, but never getting to the U-Haul stage. It's pretty awesome to have Sunday Funday without waiting on babysitters. Ahhh the good life. Imagine my utter shock when, upon arriving at MID-THIRTIES, some of us (mostly the men) are suddenly talking about settling down. I don't know where they are getting this from. It must be in a Playboy or Men's Health because it basically reads like a script. "You know, I'm getting close to 40 so I'm thinking about settling down. We are the same age. You know what I mean?" No actually I don't. I, unlike most women, don't consider age a precipitating factor in my decision to marry. I have always wanted to have kids and even my rapidly declining egg production is not pushing the issue. This all makes me feel weird. A Peter Pan of sorts. And why aren't my female friends going through the same biological clock bullshit? Talking to these guys makes me feel old.

Maybe these male friends of mine waited so long to be mature that it all rushes them at once. One of my best guy friends asked me if he should ask out a single mom we know. She will never say yes because he is the most immature person that I know. He recently got a dog and I have no issue admitting I'm concerned about the well-being of this dog. I wouldn't trust him with a plant. I tried to tell him the single mom is awesome yes, but her son is like 12 now. He is basically a lil man and old enough to call out bullshit. The real problem I have is his reasoning for wanting to date her. He said "at my age, I don't know if I will ever get married or have kids so I think she is the type of person I should be dating." What the fuck does that even mean? I don't know what's going on with people in their thirties having a midlife crisis, but I cannot sympathize. I still have money to waste and wine to drink before I start feeling lonely and settle down to have babies and all that jazz.

Jess

This mid-life crisis business is hitting my friends a bit early. One female, 27, has already been married, bought and sold a house, and gotten divorced. So I guess you could say her practical age is accelerated. Instead of stepping back and enjoying singlehood, she’s been on a mission to find Mr. Right 2.0 and decided literally two weeks ago that she’s tired of renting and is going to buy a house. She’s already put an offer in and will be devastated if it falls through. Her boyfriend of 6 months must be shitting himself by now, knowing the next step will be the invite to keep his personal affects in several drawers at her new home. Soon after, she’ll let him know there’s just no reason to leave anymore, why not bring the rest of his stuff and settle in for the long haul. Oddly enough, I haven’t heard the K word being whispered. I think she just feels that in her str8 and narrow world, this is what she should be doing right now at this point in her life.  Which leads me to the BFF.

Last we saw her, she was recently enGAGed and loving the word FIANCE. This has not changed, it has merely accelerated. The wedding is 2/3 planned and it isn’t until next summer. New furniture keeps mysteriously showing up in her rental home. All in anticipation of the FIANCE moving in ‘soon’. Mind you, he owns his own home that he will be giving up to undergrad renters hell bent on keg stands in order to placate her need to live in the city. So they need more storage space – hence the new china cabinet.  He will need a room of his own in which to do ‘guy’ things (read jerk off to geek porn) so the basement has been cleaned out and a new couch arrived promptly. It’s like someone else’s life blew through her house and suddenly she’s trying it on for size, testing out the waters of spending recklessly (his money) and rolling the words ‘US/WE’ around in her mouth, getting a feel for the union.

I hate to nit-pick (not really, it’s my favorite pastime), but to recap this epic romance – 1. They dated for a little over a year and fought for half of it. 2. They painfully broke up for 5 months. 3. Death of a beloved pet bred reconciliation and 7 months later – engaged. If anything in this life seems rushed, it’s this engagement. I wonder if women look in the mirror and at the first sight of a grey hair, run screaming into the arms of the first available bachelor, convinced it was kismet and begin the process that ends with 2.5 kids and a white picket fence.

Life flashes by in a millisecond and to feel that you are not in the right place within it, when really you are exactly where you should be, because you stand in this moment now, is unfortunately why these men and women are in the throes of a crisis. Rushing to the end of one’s life means only that you haven’t enjoyed the journey along the way. 

Single Parent Guilt

I am a lesbian. I have cats. The second point was probably obvious. My cats were born of my previous LTR.  As a product of gay divorce, they have taken over the apartment and completely dominate our shared environment. If Chobee wants to lie in the sink, who am I to stop her? If Luxie wants to walk all over me and smoosh her face into mine at 4am, what can I say? If Zeke….well he’s the baby and always perfect so, no complaints. Our family was broken and their other mom lives 600 miles away (fine with me) and so I have absorbed all the guilt of being a single parent to three rambunctious kitties. They have a step-mom (of course, who didn’t see that coming) who loves them dearly, but does not share my lackadaisical parenting.  She arms herself with the spray bottle, waiting patiently for one to jump on the table or scratch at the couch or try to eat our mac n cheese and BAM mist to kitty face. I keep thinking that tomorrow will be the day I start to discipline them again, but alas tomorrow never comes.  If we’d had to split a daughter, I swear she’d be knocked up and on meth by now.  I’m thankful there was no lengthy custody battle. I’m thankful I was able to keep them all with me. I’m thankful that my girlfriend understood early on that my kitties are always #1. But DAMN if these cats don’t take full advantage of that fucking divorce.    

The Virgin

When I was 18, I introduced my then girlfriend to my best friend of 3 years. We attended college together and I really wanted them to like each other. For reasons unbeknownst to me, that didn't work out. After the meeting, the gf said something I never forgot, but actually never thought about again: "She's in love with you". This was ridiculous. Joyce wasn't gay. I, myself, was just creeping into that minute path in life called bisexuality. I thought my gf was being territorial as usual. 

When I graduated college, Joyce unceremoniously stopped speaking to me. When my mom died, she was unreachable. When I was banished to Brooklyn, she was on another planet ignoring me and I couldn't understand it. By the time I finally broke up with my gf, I didn't give any care to reaching out to Joyce.
Imagine my surprise when 3 years ago a friend of a HS friend of mine invites me to a surprise birthday party. She asked if I could find anyone else from HS, namely Joyce. I said I would try, but don't hold her breath. That's how Joyce and I began speaking again. She came to the party and we sparked up the whole friendship again. It wasn't the same, but it was cool to have her around again. We hung out; went to the gym together; just talked. It took a month to sense something was off with Joyce. I asked if she was dating and she said she was still a virgin. Mind blown.

She offered to go with me to lesbian bars and dinner on Saturday nights. I'm still oblivious. One such night after dinner on our way to Ginger's she let it slip that she considers me her teddy bear and dreamt we would be friends again. I said "you what!" She explained by pantomiming hugging a teddy bear . . . . At the bar, she was on me like glue. She wouldn't let me talk to any girls. This still wasn't it. I was still oblivious. That is until we went to the gym one Sunday. This is the routine: gym, then quick bite. This Sunday I told her to pick the after gym eats. She tells me the reservation isn't for a half an hour. Reservation? Why on earth would she get a reservation for a post gym sweaty meal? We walk to the restaurant and it is packed. We wait at the bar for the table. I am viewing the scene. Small, intimate place. Nice. White table cloth on the tables. I'm under dressed. I see couples and happy families everywhere. What day is this? A cold, blistery Sunday attracted all of these people. I go to the restroom and all I see are more couples. Oh shit, it dawns on me. It's Valentine's day. I was beside myself. We get sat and all of the surrounding tables and the server is treating us like we are a couple. I silently weep inside. 

After that ambush Valentine date, I had a plan. Joyce needs a boyfriend. I know a religious guy from work and I thought they would be perfect for each other. They could worship God together in virginal bliss. Joyce probably sensed my relief at them hitting it off because she amped it up a notch. Every time we hung out she made damn sure she made her presence felt. Long awkward hug after long awkward hug made me avoid her at all costs. I would have nightmares of her running her hands up and down my back. She actually did this every time we saw each other. We had to have "The Talk". I asked her to meet me. This was murder cause she was so concerned about my allergies. I was just trying to break up with her for God's sake. We meet up and I asked her why she stopped speaking to me when I graduated. She said "because you had your gf". I replied "what does that mean Joyce? I had my gf for 3 years. That didn't stop us hanging out." She said "well you had your gf, and your nephew and Gabriel so . . . " My frustration was mounting. Going backwards and forwards with her faulty logic was giving me a headache. I had to cut to the chase. I said "look, I don't understand how my having a gf stopped us from talking before, but you need to understand you make me feel uncomfortable. I don't want you to touch me. You need to stop acting like you are my gf or I'm never going to speak to you again". She got weepy. When we left she said some more weird shit and I told her that is exactly what I was talking about. She begged for me to continue speaking to her. She came in for a chester molester hug and I walked away. 

After this "break up", I hoped never to be felt up by Joyce again. No such luck. She did this shit in front of her bf even. At some point I had to realize she probably had no control over how she was making me feel. She would send me wispy texts about the moon and the stars and the sky and a whole bunch of weepy bullshit. Just my luck, she is still dating my work friend. I had to tell her via text that I have been nice and one more text I will cease to be. I have to send her a warning text that I will be at a work function if i know he is going just so she can adjust to fact that she will see me and I will avoid her. She has yet and never will tell her bf why the person who hooked them up no longer speaks to her. That makes this situation all the more weird. I gotta say, this entire situation angered me and made me feel all kinds of ways, but I feel nothing about losing my best friend again. This situation was so creepy and molestory that I will be happy never to have her hands on me again. Another BFF bites the dust.

Sunday Bloody Sunday

In two weeks, my ex's son turns 18. Monumental? No. Sentimental? Yes. A little over three years ago, my ex, Michelle, said I could no longer see Gabriel. Why? Because she read his emails and discovered he told me he is bisexual. I always imagined a kid coming out to his parents, a parent that had an approximate ten year lesbian relationship, would be easy. It wasn't. The story he told made me cry. She didn't accept him. Then I remembered his parent is my ex. While I told him via email to be safe with his body and his heart, she told him it is just a phase. She read his emails and determined my acceptance of him was a negative influence. That's it. I told her I would oblige her wishes, but she would have to be the one to tell Gabriel. I told her he will be 18 soon. He has my email and my phone number and when he is 18, I would be happy to hear from him. 

I am not stupid and I am not holding my breath. Gay divorce is bloody. So bloody, that for me to get to the point where I could see Gabriel, I had to negotiate with Michelle for a long time to get her to let me spend Sundays with him. Michelle told me the last time we "met", while lying in my bed, the only reason why she is with her current fiance is because she is "the mother of a son and needs to stop hating men". That's an interesting reason to be straight. When it was finally over [for good], she refused to let me see him. She knew I loved him as much as I loved my nephew, my son. She knew it would hurt me. She knew it did. She set up rules that I had to obey in order to see him. 

Gabriel explained to me, when I took him out the first Sunday, he was depressed. He said he attempted suicide. He said he had a counselor at school. I just wanted to hold him. He talked. I mean he talked and talked and talked and talked and it didn't take me long to realized he talked because I listened. At the end of every Sunday he said he didn't want to leave. I explained as long as we want to hang out, we have to follow Michelle's rules in order to do so. That meant 7pm sharp curfew. He said he was just going home to be alone. I told him to never say anything bad about his mother to me. Not because it was disrespectful, but because it broke my heart.

When she said I could no longer see him, it hurt more than you could imagine. It was a familiar sting.  He is and will always be my Gaby. I wish the best for him and success. I don't need for him to call or email me in two weeks. What I want is for him to be happy with himself and his life. I relish the fact that I have known this amazing boy [turning into a man] since he was 8 months old. Nothing on earth will make me not love him. Not even his mother. I am lucky to say I know him. I love him more each day.

Turning White

I'm not vain. I mean I obsess about my hair and it needs to look perfect everyday, but that's it. I don't even own a full length mirror to stop myself from obsessing about my skin. See, I was diagnosed with eczema at the age of seven in a horrific event. My mom was forced to cut all of my hair off. I was already a tomboy and this did not help at all. I did everything the doctors told me to do and I still looked like a reptile. In seventh grade, there was a white spot on my cheek the size of a nickle that would not go away. By the time it went away, it was eighth grade. I kept my hands shoved into my pockets because the skin on my hands and feet peeled the entire year. That's no exaggeration. It wasn't until I was 19 that I realized all of the stress and depression was wreaking havoc on my eczema. I went completely through adolescence trying to be invisible. I never got to try on make up or perfume. I wore gigantic clothes to hide my horrendous skin. I thought I would never be in a relationship because of it. That is until I did find my ex at 18. She was super patient with my skin. She kissed my breakouts which is gross and kind. I began to feel less stress. I combined everything the doctors told me with research we did together and my skin was clear within a year. I was very grateful for her. It's the nicest thing I can say about her, but that's another story. To this day, you would never know I have eczema. I try everyday to stay healthy and it's working. Happy ending right?

Now in my thirties, when I have everything down to a system, I'm developing vitiligo. The worst thing about it is I'm losing pigmentation all over my legs. They are all splotchy and I am already yellow as it is. The best thing about it is it is progressing so fast that I should look like Michael Jackson by next year. I went to a dermatologist last year who not only told me that I had syphilis [despite my loud protest that I'm not sexually active], but also said it wasn't vitiligo. Needless to say, I never went back to that crackpot again. I spent so much time getting good with my skin and now I feel like that little kid again. Every time I see my legs, there are more white spots. Every 95 degree day begins with a debate about whether I want to wear shorts. I'm stressed again. My friends say there is nothing to be ashamed about. Every shower is punctuated by tears after the discovery of more fucking spots every fucking day. So I have to ask myself "Am I just vain?". It's funny how you never see something until you have it. I literally see people with vitiligo every single day and they seem fine. So what the hell am I crying about? I am fortunate that I am fair skinned. I can see positives. It doesn't hurt. At all. By next year, I will be the white person with the best looking dreads. My eczema is not acting up and eventually I'll be good with turning white. I just wished that day was now.

I Want A Do-Over

I just met 22. She is gorgeous, vibrant, exploratory and fun. I got nothing out of 22. I mean, except a college education that I insert into casual conversation like I have Asperger’s. I can tell you what drugs do your body, but I can't tell you how they feel. I spent 22 in the lap of some girl while my mom was dying. A girl who clearly had that Sunshine thing cause she pretends like she never knew me. She erased ten years of her life including my 22. My 22 was like being in a locked room with the Joker constantly asking "Why so serious?" I spent 22 collecting wounds you can't see. The scars are now so faint there are no stories to tell.

I want a do over. I want to make allegedly regrettable decisions. I want to get invited. I want to go to parties and actually get drunk. I want to make career altering mistakes like tattoos in the middle of the night. I want to collect new wounds with stories that make me want to sing. I want to do 22 all over again.

The Fiancee

My best friend is someone I met as an adult. I say that to clarify any misunderstandings based on an assumption that I have known this person ‘all my life’. Not so. We met as a sum total of all who we had been, and who we struggled to be as ‘nontraditional students’ in grad school (that means we are old).  We share a strikingly similar past, our birthdays are merely two days apart, and her mom is a big ol lesbo. It was a match made in heaven.

I credit her with challenging me through grad school, saving me throughout my gay divorce, and never ever judging me for showing up at her house with several water bottles full of jungle juice.  I have seen her through several breakups, always with guys nowhere near her caliber of being. Then she met The One. She met The One late one night at our favorite bar, probably three sheets to the wind. I wouldn't know because I was six sheets to the moon and back by that point. All I know is that some short guy with a bandanna introduced himself to me and I thought he said ‘Hi, I’m Matt’. I had no idea why he was talking to me until I saw her beaming behind him with The Look. Oh shit. Even drunken me knows how that goes. It turns out they talked and danced all night (while I threw back cosmos that were actually martini glasses full of vodka with a slightly pinkish hue) and as we left he asked for her number. I was suspicious from the get. He said he frequented our bar. I said no way; we would have seen him at some point. He said his friend’s band played there all the time. I said no way; we would have heard them before. This would be indicative of their future where he was always hyperbolic and she was insanely sensitive to his absolutes.    

Long story short, my bf descended into madness for a bit, ‘Matt’ and I tried to hold together the pieces of her sanity, I was extremely overwhelmed and overwrought and he was just broken down. It was an extremely hard time and he handled it like a champ. She hated him in the end and gave up. He walked away injured, afraid, and lonely. I picked up the pieces. 

My bff and I went to a city street fair several months after the break up. She was still disillusioned and looking for answers. She mused about how crazy it would be if he was there, knowing he had no business hanging out in the city. Low and behold, as we walked down the crowded street, dodging rain drops, he appeared like a goddamn movie. We chased his stupid cowboy hat through the masses until his hand was on a door handle, about to walk into a restaurant, “Wait, Matt” she screamed desperately. He turned and the moment crystallized and I saw The Look shot across the throngs of people, only with eyes for each other, I knew that he was The One. I stepped away, half embarrassed at their abandon, half deflated because I had just spent months helping her piece things back together. She was fragile, she was impressionable, she was not going to walk away from him again.

After that day it was only a matter of time before they were boyfriend and girlfriend again, reporting that they had been together two years, as if the 5 months apart had never happened. And you know what, maybe it didn't.  Just like that year I spent traveling with my own emergency kit of cocktails seemed like it was someone else’s life – maybe the breakup had never really happened. Maybe in life, sometimes, you could ignore the difficult and painful parts and only focus on the contrived joy.

Last weekend they got engaged. My best friend is now Matt’s fiancée. This means we will plan her wedding, her future, her kids’ names, everything we will never really share because she will have a husband and he will be her closest friend.  

The Gay Husband

The Gay Husband 
I had the great displeasure of introducing Jess to an old friend of mine during the pride parade. We were very close until we had an argument about MY gender expression. He somehow thinks that being a gay man in the closet gives him the authority or knowledge to tell a lesbian who she is. He insisted, to the point of an argument, that I am butch. Whatever. I explained to him it really isn't about what he thinks I am and since we haven't had and never would have sex with each other, he really is in no position to call me butch. We stopped speaking for two years over this. I didn't consider being butch an insult at all. He was stereotyping and judging me and every other lesbian for that matter. I really didn't expect to experience that judgment from a gay man. I thought that was the point of Pride. I am proud of who I am as a person and I respect all other people for their strength in just being who they are. I invited him out because some of our friends were worried about him being so isolated. So the first thing he says to me on Pride Sunday at a gay bar was that he is no longer talking to our friend because she is a white girl [he's a white guy] with blond hair and blue eyes who is all of a sudden dating a Puerto Rican guy, like she knows what that's about. What the hell? He is a closeted white male who specifically prefers our brown brothers, judging a friend we have known for ten years, who happens to enjoy the same spectrum of men. Wow. While he, Jess and I were sitting and drinking, he started with the Home Depot shit. He has a habit of calling me a "Home Depot" dyke, derogatorily I might add. Jess sat there aghast. I was thinking "Wow, this is why I stopped speaking to you". He kept going. I futilely tried to tell him what he was doing wrong and not to talk to me that way. He said "Well, that's the way I see you". I was sitting there thinking "I'm being gay bashed at a gay bar on Pride Sunday, the holiest of fucking gay days, by a gay man". I was done. I tried to steer the conversation to something more jovial before I beat the shit out of him or Jess blew a gasket. I tried to tell him vaguely about a project Jess and I are working on. He proceeded to tell me and Jess, whom he just met, that we are not funny and basically what we are doing won't work. Wow. He then proceeds to show me some art he was doing. I cheered him on. You go boy. I was very reserved and contained my complete and utter anger because Jess didn’t come here for that. I was upset and the next day I was embarrassed. If I told Jess what happened, she probably would not have believed me. She was witness to the last straw of patience in what was a fruitful friendship.

My Person

My best friend wishes nothing but the best for me. That is to say as long as my best isn't better than her best. Truthfully, her best isn't that great right now. I have never met anyone who wished unmitigated, swift and abrupt misery on EVERYONE. I get it. She pumped out three babies back to back "accidentally" before the age of 30. I say “accidentally” because she wanted to join the FBI and she ended up pregnant with my goddaughter. But by God, she kept sitting on that toilet seat, getting pregnant. Again and again. She is just the latest and most painful example of what I call the "7 Year Itch" between my friends and me. We grow apart, but more adeptly, I grow away. I lost my patience with her because of her sister. She hates her sister. I can't even accurately nail down why. Her sister, who was a devout heroin addict and a devout lesbian, became a devout Christian and married some dude named Tom. We really still don't know why. Well, her sister informed their dad that Tom began beating the crap out of her. I was floored by my bestie relaying this story with such glee. I informed her that her sister, living in a state with no familial support, is a victim of domestic violence. I asked simply "don't you care about your sister being abused?" She said "allegedly". I said simply "I think that's fucked up". I needed a break. I needed a break from her wishing all of the people we know would suffer heartache. Unprovoked mind you. One day I told her I was going on a date and she asked me why. I responded "Why??" She said "Yeah, why bother?" I didn't get it at all. Her level of misery is that which I cannot comprehend. She lives in Kansas for God's sake, so I get that part, but why do I have to be miserable? My sympathy all but dissipated when she told me the paternal grandfather of her children has terminal cancer and she really didn't give a fuck. On the other side of the country, I am happy, I am good. There are joys I just can't share with her and that's sad. A few months ago I wanted to talk to her as my best friend. I needed counsel and looked to her. She was foaming at the mouth with absolute delight that I was having a difficult time. I was done. I told Jess I wasn’t going to talk to her until Flag Day. Jess replied “What’s Flag Day?” The months fly by and Flag Day finally comes. I texted her “How are you?” and she answered with some despondent ass story and I thought “Yup”. 

The Quickest Courtship Ever

I have always believed in Chosen Family. For me, and a lot of people like me, it was best to choose which people I allowed in my life. I didn't get along with my mom and she died when I was 23. I vowed then that I would be cautious as to who I allowed into my inner circle. It has worked out pretty well so far. I know and love a merry band of misfits and we do not judge one another. We call ourselves the Strays and support each other in the best ways we can. We are all different. We are all a mess. We all love each other without fail. 

I was recently reminded of the last time I told a friend about the Chosen Family choice:

My neighbor growing up in Queens now lives in my neighborhood in Brooklyn. One day, I was walking by and saw her talking to a dude on the corner. I basically grew up with this chick, we went to the same schools, she was raised with an adoptive brother right next door. I was concerned, seeing her with this dude.  I am always in mom mode. I announce it and never apologize for it. It is what it is. I called her over to me and asked her if she was ok. She said yes and explained that the dude is her biological father. She found him. Or he found her. Either way, I left her with one piece of advice. I said "I want you to remember, you are an adult now. You are choosing people and situations in your life. Be ready for them and be careful. At any time, you can say no and call me if you need to." She never called and I assumed everything was fine until she ran into me some time later and told me that dude was rearrested. Oh, I forgot to mention, he was in prison her whole life. She said she soured of the fatherly bond when he began to dangle the "I know where your birth mom is" carrot. She explained to me she didn't actually want to meet her Mother. Even so, I know it affected her. Most adopted kids would be affected. I am not most. She also explained Dad was making up for lost time by sending her a shopping list of all of the things he insisted she buy him so he could be comfortable in prison. She had had it. I was reminded of this story when recent events with Michael made me think "Why am I letting this happen to me?"

A lil about me. I don't do stress. I don't stress about money or work like normal people stress. I have a coworker who stresses about money every minute of the day. That is no way to live. If I get pissed, I devise a solution to alleviate my pissed-off-ness and I'm over it. I'm easy breezy. I like to read. I like independent films. I enjoy my solitude way more than would be considered healthy. I have patience for old people and children and absolutely no patience for stupidity. This, you all know as the reader. This, Michael refused to learn. My temperament  . . So when Michael used my gov'ment name as his alias, I needed time to think. His use of my name doesn't just affect me. It affects my brother, my sister and nephew who are all legal possessors of this name. Not Michael. His complete lack of responsibility in this situation was jarring. When I called him on his shit his response was "you are my sister." I tried to emphasize that his choice of "petty" crimes [his words] will probably result in my getting fired from my State job. He insisted what he did was not illegal and he had to use an alias. I was done. While I was trying to have this serious conversation with him about how utterly fucking violated I felt, he interrupted twice to hit on some young ladies who were passing by him on the street. Fuck. That. Shit. I hung up. I thought about what he just said. He told me in a span of two minutes 1. It's only petty crimes. 2. In reference to using my legal name and address he said "he had to" "he didn't" "oh yeah" and that I'm pressuring him too much. 3. He also said I don't give him credit for not committing felonies and/or being arrested already. He has been out a month.

After this exchange, Michael proceeded to leave me very curious voice mail messages. I'm choosing this? To have this clown in my life who is jeopardizing my job on a daily basis? Who has no fucking care in his body about how he is violating my hospitality, and MY NAME AND ADDRESS! Yeah, that's done. I thought about this long and hard and realized for the last 12 years of my life I chose not to have crazy in my life and in my fruitless efforts to get to know this dude, not only is this crazy, it is dangerous. I told him to come get his shit one day when he called me, quite unapologetically, asking to come over. He made excuses about needing to make two trips. I said absolutely not, thinking back to the voice mail he left which basically said I should praise him for not taking some criminal up on his offer to make $3,000/ day to do god knows what.  He came. He said his shoulder hurt. I told him "I am telling you my feelings [when I spoke to him previously he said I only care about my feelings pertaining to my anger with him using my name. My feelings?] You cannot come here anymore. If I see mail with my name in my box for you, I will burn it. You using my mailbox is not good for me. You coming here is not good for me. When you get your shit together, call me. We can have lunch, but you cannot come here anymore."

So that's how I broke up with my brother. I imagine it was somewhat like having a date from Craigslist. You have no idea what you are getting and it’s not at all what you bargained for. He stalled; he made excuses; he needed to make a second trip. He left a fucking bag full of utter garbage in my house that I just threw away. I could have many emotions at this point, but I don’t. It is not my way anyway. I walked him out. I walked him to the corner. He said "is that all you have to say to me?"  Not an ‘I'm sorry’ in sight. I said “yeah, what do you want me to say?” I knew at that point I was validated in what I needed to do. This dude has been in my life a month. A month where I was paranoid about everything he could think of in his criminal mind to jeopardize my career. It was a month not of my choosing. I reaffirmed to myself that my philosophy is ‘I choose who to allow into my life.’ I would never choose the utter chaos this stranger brought me in the span of 30 days. My actual brother called me and I told him what happened and he said it was all my fault. I knew it was because I chose it.

Rebuttal To Justice Scalia

Dear Justice Scalia,
     Sodomy will not be in my wedding vows, so why is it in your dissent?


Thank you,

A Human Who Loves