A Character Profile

Okay, I have to be truthful to you guys. I skipped class today and it felt wonderful. I watched six movies on Netflix, one on Madonna, which was fabulous, I went to Taco Bell and got my five-layer burrito and I thought. I thought a lot.

I thought people don’t understand that when you have nothing, you’ll start to miss the things you had. As I bit into the burrito, the familiar mysterious filling seeped out (you know the filling, its like you know what’s in it, but you don’t know what’s in it.) I filled my gas tank and went for a ride and let me tell you, after walking to school for six days, I missed my car.

I guess that makes me spoiled. Oh, and I had my first soda in about two weeks. Let me tell you something about soda, it’s a fucking addiction. I was an addict, craving soda like a junkie craves drugs. And when that Baja Blast hit my throat, I thought I went to heaven. Cold and refreshing. Fabulous.

But I guess I did miss a good class. Mystery Man told me that they wrote a piece about their significant other. At first I was confused. You have to understand; most of us are single and have been for a while (cough, cough me.) He said that the teacher wanted a profile to “deepen our understanding of creating dynamic characters.”

Mystery said he created an Asian who liked Hello Kitty and wanted to write for video games. I wanted to ask if this was some sort of fetish, but I didn’t want to know any more information. But this got me thinking about my significant other. Who is it?

I wondered if I could live with another writer, like Mystery. I wondered, what if I got more famous than him. What if I won an award and he didn’t? What if we write for the same medium? I’m already loosing my mind and I’m only one screenwriter. Now, I’m not saying that if Dustin Lance Black came up to me and asked me on a date, I would say no, I’m just saying, I would have to think about it.

Could I live with anyone other than myself? I wrote, a while back, about my 5-10 hunk that I met in a bar. He was in a dream but that’s all I knew about him. I still have about five hours until the assignment is due, and I’ve been thinking about it all day. If anything, a director or producer would be great. I write the shit and he’ll direct it or produce it. Perfect.

If you had to do a character profile about your significant other what would he or she be? Look like? Act like? Why?

Welcome to my life.

CAUGHT

Being caught in the rain sound exactly as it sounds. It fucking sucks. There I was walking the thirty-minute plus hike, my laptop bag secured in front of me, my travel mug clasped in one hand and my umbrella out.

Where was Rihanna when you needed her? The rain pelted me, and my unfortunate white shirt and exercise pants, with a force to match gays at the Gaga concert. The only saving grace to this 21^st century version of the walk of shame was having Mystery Man walk with me.

“ My mom always said ‘The rain is only gods tears washing away the soul of all troubles’.”

As soon as he said this I couldn’t help but wonder if god offered a bath of his tears. Or maybe sold them at Walmart.

As we got closer to home, and the rain started dripping from the leaves instead of from the sky, Mystery asked me a question. “Why don’t you get offended when people say faggot?”

I was caught off guard. Where did this come from? Who is this new person? Did the rain cleanse his soul of the nice and inquisitive Mystery Man and turned him into this…beast?

I opened my bag to make sure my laptop was okay (that would be the icing on the cake, to have a ruined computer, right?)

“I’m not sure why. Maybe because I was never called that in a harmful way. Maybe because I use it too often that people kinda just brush it off.”

“So, if I called you a faggot,” mystery started, “ You wouldn’t be offended?”

I shook my head no.

“I wonder why some….”

“Gays,” I finished for him.

“Right, why some are like that?”

We stopped in front of his apartment, said our “see ya laters” and I walked off wondering why some of us get offended at that term. It’s just a word. A phrase. A term. It’s a word that describes us, but not a word that describes US.

That word isn’t who you are, what you’ll become and who you love.

I want to know how you feel about that word. Does it anger you? Make you sad? Happy? Why?

Call Me....

You can say a lot about the city of Orlando and even more about the people of Orlando. You can say even MORE about the students of Orlando. About thee days ago I was walking back to my car after class. We just finished watching Paper Moon, which was fabulous and were discussing the scenes, which ones we liked, which ones we didn’t.

“I don’t watch black and white movies. They give me a headache,” Tennessee said.

“I can only watch a select few,” Man of Mystery said.

“Some of my favorite movies are black and white like Streetcar named Desire,” I told them.

“What’s that?”

“Streetcar? Well, it’s about a crazy bitch and she gets raped and-“

“No, that. On your windshield.”

I stopped talking and walking and saw what Tennessee was talking about. Clamped between my windshield wipers and…windshield was a piece of paper. The paper was ripped, like the person (people?) did this in a hurry.

“I’m not sure. What is it?”

Mystery took it, unfolded it and started laughing. “You know what this is? This is a call me note.”

I took it from him, unsure,  wondering why people are still doing this. Sure enough, it was a call me note. At the top, in what seemed like female handwriting was Hey. Below that was her (his?) phone number.

“Are you going to call?”

“No. I don’t know who this is! It could be some creepy asshole.”

“Yeah or that guy who wore a tail to class today,” Tennessee said.

I couldn’t help but agree with him.

“If you don’t, I will,” mystery said, phone already in his hand.

“Fine go ahead. But if you get killed, don’t come after me.”

He dials the number and places the phone to his ear. The time slows down, waiting for someone to pick up. After about three minutes, we were all impatient, mystery hung up.

“No answer.”

He hands me the ripped notebook paper, “In case you get bored.”

I sit and look at it, as you read this. I couldn’t help but wonder if 324-4521 found what he (she?) needed and that it wasn’t anything important. Or my secret admirer, trying at last, to reach me. I wondered should I, if you don’t? Should I take the time to call them if they couldn’t call me, let alone talk to me in person.

Maybe I’m thinking too far into this, maybe it was an honest mistake. The note was for someone else with the same car. Maybe it was for Tennessee or Mystery Man.

Please don’t call that number. I’m still unsure who it is and wouldn’t want to endanger your pretty selves.

In the End

The day finally came when I told my friends of my impending plan to move back home. It was yesterday when we were on break from class. We went to our version of the breakfast meeting from SATC, Wendy’s. I told them of the plan, when it was going down and why I wanted to do it. They all said it was a great idea that they wished they could do the same. Then the table got quiet.

“Well, someone break the ice,” I said.

“There was this girl, half-Jamaican, half-Greek that I loved back when I was in high school,” international man of mystery said. “She was crazy, liked to smoke and drink and have sex.”

“Sounds like my type of girl,” Tennessee said. If you couldn’t guess, he was from Tennessee.

“If I could go home I would visit her again. Maybe this time sleep with her.”

“And you didn’t before you left?”

Man of mystery shook his head no. “I was too scared. The last time I saw her I was leaving the next day to come here. We made out and everything but…”

“But it was too late?”

“No her dad in the navy and her mom was a model. They scared me more than the flight coming here,” mystery said, laughing.

As the conversation turned to sleeping with anyone we could get our hands on, I wondered about my time here on campus. In the beginning, I was afraid I wouldn’t make any friends, let alone friends that reminded me of my friends back home. As I looked at them, they were talking about sending the Kardashians over to Iraq for some reason, I knew I didn’t just meet people; I met some of the best people.

In the beginning, be the person no one knows. In the end, be the person everyone knows.

“You have to come visit us, every now and then,” Tennessee said.

“Of course! I’ll come up each month, see everyone, maybe say hi to the teachers. Its not like I’m going to a third world country. I’m only going three hours away,” I told them, as we packed our stuff and walked back to class.

Tossing and Turning

It was 2:23 AM and I was wide-awake. I kept tossing and turning, the room was too hot then too cold. My mind kept thinking about random things, like what if Charizard was caught on fire, would he freak out, but it kept returning to the same question. Should I stay or should I go?

I’ve been thinking, I’ve been thinking (for you Beyonce lovers) about my stay in college. I wondered if I could still go on, I wondered how I could go on. Money is tight, like the rest of America I bet, but I wondered just how much longer I could go on without breaking down. How much longer my mom could go on.

They say that college students change their major at least twice during their college career. I changed mine before I even started and I wondered if this was the beginning of my problems. I wondered why I chose the expansive apartments, then remembered that the rest of them have a high crime rate. 

As I tossed and turned, I weighed the pros and cons in my head. I knew sleep escaped me so I had plenty of time to go over everything. Cons- I won’t get to interact with teachers, classmates and others. I have a list of friends here that I wont see if I switch to online. I can't do anything with the club I'm VP of. 

The pros have a considerably bigger list. I don’t have to pay rent, electric or Internet anymore. I don’t have to shop anymore. I don’t have to pay for laundry anymore. If I switch, I’ll graduate later. If I switch, I get to see my friends that I left behind (and attend birthday parties that I missed this year.) I could also get a job closer to home and save up money for my real move to LA. I wont be stressed anymore.

I spent the rest of the day wondering if I could leave everyone behind. Everyone I met, my roommate. I know it will be great; that whatever I choose will benefit everyone.

I’m still sitting on a decision. The inner battle is continuing. Check back for an update.

Omegle is the new Black

After class, I came home and did absolutely nothing. That’s a lie- I came home and watched six episodes of Orange is the New Black, cooked pasta and took my pants off. As I was about to click on the seventh episode, eat my second bowl of pasta I wondered if I could be doing something else. Something, if I may say, fun.

I remembered back in high school, we went on this site called Omegle. It was a good place to meet new people, laugh and see thousands of thousands of naked men. One of the first people I chatted to, I didn’t use my camera because that’s nasty, was a man asking if I was male or female. I answered back male, I’m not into the whole trolling thing, and he disconnected.

The same went for the next one. And the next one. By the fifth one, I wondered if it was me, then remembered that they couldn’t even see me. But the seventh proved it was them. He asked the normal questions, ASL, which stands for age, sex and language (again using Wikipedia.) I answered back 19, male, American. He then asked if I was gay.

Mind you, this is taking place while he stood in front of his camera, naked. I answered back, yes. He asked if he could see me and this is when I disconnected. Not without dinner first honey.

This experience, if one can call it that, made me wonder. What is it about a site like Omegle or Chat Roulette that guys really like? Do the guys looking for cheap thrills and big boobs expect to find cheap thrills and big boobs?

Or are sites like Omegle and Chat Roulette just a pissing contest? One where men feel superior based on their size. If I learned anything from my short, seven-man experience on Omegle, it’s that men are always one-upping each other.  For the better car, girl, guy, house, clothes and the list is ever growing.

Here’s a story: Once in high school, a friend and I did it, we logged onto Omegle, afraid at first because it was our first time. We stopped at this guy, who was pretty, nice and young. He loved my friend, told her to do really nasty shit (she didn’t) and then asked if I could leave. She asked why, is it because he’s gay? The guy disconnected so quickly, we thought it was our computer.

Side note, if you haven’t started OITNB, start it now. Right now. Its fab.

The Roommate Test Vol.2

My college diet consists of four P’s: pizza, pasta, pork and paramedics. Yes, you read that right. The roommate calls from her bedroom, saying she cant breathe.

“Yeah that’s real funny. I’m tired quit playing around,” I tell her, logging back on to Facebook for the ninth time in ten minutes.

“I’m not kidding. It hurts, maybe we can go to the hospital?”

This was when I started panicking. The roommate can’t breathe and she wants to go to the hospital? What if she’s dying? My thoughts were running, “What if she dies in my car?” “What if we don’t make it.” “Do I give CPR?” "Do I know how to give CPR?" 

No, no, I was not about this life saving lifestyle, so I called the paramedics. I told them my roommate wasn’t breathing and that her stomach hurt.

“Is she pregnant?” the paramedic asked me, like I was the father. Hello, my voice is as high as a little girl.

I ask upstairs. The roommate answers back with a laugh. In my head, I knew she was fine. Only she could laugh at a time like this. We waited about ten minutes, I checked Facebook another two times and the paramedics knocked on the front door.

They came inside, asked where the sick girl was, like they instead came to give a morbid lap dance, and walked upstairs. I overheard everything, first, cause I'm nosey, second, cause I wanted to make sure she was okay.

The roommate has a bad case of indigestion, brought on by her Lactose Intolerant problem. I never saw her eat the cheese, hell, even buy cheese. She had butter, but that was like a week ago. As the paramedics left, a piece of paper was given to me with instructions. One luke-warm cup of water, morning and night, no MORE dairy, and to spend about three days on her right side.

The roommate called down and said thanks.

“No problem,” I answered back.

She then got all wishy washy, saying how lucky she is to have me as a roommate. That no one would else would’ve even dared to pick the phone up. That she didn't want the paramedics to show up because she was embarrassed. Like she knew she wasn't dying. 

As she said, this I wondered if this was the second part to the roommate test. To see how we reacted with each other during times of need, danger or stress. I passed this one, I hope she passes mine.

Knocking on Wood

I have this friend who has a certain taking to bad boys. The boys who fail most of their classes, drink and get high almost every weekend and have their pants way down past their ass. She told us this information, newly single and I, late one night when they both came to visit me.

We were laying, well not really laying, more like dropping on top of each other, on my bed, the lights all off, the fan circling, it felt and must’ve looked like, we were doing the nasty. She went on to tell us that the first time she did it was on a playground.

“A playground?”

“That’s nasty!”

“The playground was empty! It was at night. I’m not that weird,” she went on to tell us.

“That’s still weird,” I said.

“Yeah, but it was hot.”

There was a slight pause as we fixed ourselves, gathered more pillows and blankets and waited for more info.

“Well…?” newly single said, breaking the silence.

“Well what?” bad boy lover asked.

“How was it!”

Bad boy lover sighed and rubbed her eyes (I know because I was laying right next to her.)

“It was great. He was uh…about this big.”  She raised her hands in front of her and spread them about a shoulder length apart. It was at this point that newly single sprang up.

“Damn! And you took it?”

Bad boy lover nodded. “Hurt like a bitch.”

“I could imagine!” I said.

“Man I wish I could find someone like that,” newly single said, as she knocked on my wall- the 21^st century way of knocking on wood. As the thoughts of bad boy lover taking something like that lingered, I wondered about knocking on wood. Does it matter what wood we knock on?

Why do we knock on wood? I know it’s a way to wish good health on us, or something like that. My grandma does it all time. “Uncle whoever has such and such sickness. Glad I don’t,” she’ll say, knocking on her wood table.

I wondered where did it start? Who started it? A simple Wikipedia search later- my professor will be so proud I’m using on of his least favorite sites- I found that people knock on wood to avoid tempting fate. To avoid a wrongful death placed upon them.

I wondered why newly single said that. I wondered does she want to avoid a person with a large… or does she want someone like that? I wondered what happens if we don’t knock on wood.

Said as I knocked on wood.

Gay Days and Pride Month

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned or so the saying goes. But the truth is, hell hath no fury like a gay scorned because he wasn’t invited to gay days at Disney. Happy pride month everygay.

I unlike the rest of the American gays didn’t know the June was pride month. Where is the guidebook on being gay?! Shouldn’t it have come done when I came out? Shouldn’t an angel come down from the heaven, carrying the guidebook on being gay, wearing nothing but a little white Speedo? Who do I have to talk to, to get one?

In all honesty, I have no clue what pride month really entails. Is it a giant party where gays get drunk, and fool around? Is it a whole month of not talking to straight people? What happens if we do?

No, it’s so much simpler. As you read, Disney has a gay day where gays (and the rest of the populace, if you can handle being around 160,000+ gays) can go to the parks, have fun and take a few pictures with their cherished Disney princess. They have a fashion show, the ever fabulous kick-off show and upon further research, the Black and Blue ball. Sounds like fun, right?!

Key West, though all ready pretty gay, has plenty of shit to do, for you older, more relaxed gays. Dining, check. Boating, check. A nice, relaxing beach, check. Plenty of hotels. Thought what am I saying, I’ve never been.

It then moves to Las Vegas at the beginning of September.

I’m not going to sit here and ask, “Why is there a pride month?” and all those other questions because I don’t want to bore you, for one, and two, because I really don’t have an answer. “Straight pride is every month.” "Why do we only get one."  Blah. Blah. Blah. Anyone can go to gay days, and looking at the pictures, it looks like one hell of a good time.

http://www.gaydays.com

The website with a shit ton more info.