I'll get you my pretty, and little your brother, too!

When I was a wee lad all I ever wanted to be for Halloween was a witch—complete with pantyhose and an itchy black wig. I think this was my Halloween costume three years in a row, upon my own personal request, of course. In hindsight, it was actually pretty cool of my parents to let me do that year after year. I'm sure my dad loved it. Probably just about as much as when I'd put the Christmas tree skirt on like a dress and jump and twirl around our living room at Christmastime—a proud moment for any Midwestern father. Hm, isn't that interesting? Why do gay children have an innate desire for feminine things? Maybe that's a total blanket statement, but I think I'm having a revelation, people. I didn't have any sisters, and my mom wasn't particularly girly, so why the girly desires? I wasn't really exposed to it. Maybe it was an influence of all my female friends—of which I naturally gravitated to. Maybe it was the TV? I'm reading this book right now about how body pain and skin problems are the result of suppressed rage and I'm almost to the part where the reader, me, is going to uncover their, my, secret rage. Supposedly, something is to have happened in my childhood to spawn this unconscious rage—something I'm not supposed to know about yet. This is apparently some sort defense mechanism of one's subconscious in efforts to protect the conscious mind from emotional distress. What if something wacky happened in my childhood, like my mom dressing me up as a girl, taking photos and telling everyone I was a girl? You know, one of those stories: like where some guy cries every night, "Why do I sit down to pee and can only 'get off' when I sniff high-heeled shoes!? Whhhhhhy?!" And then he finds out his aunt made him wear pink panties or something... nah, if anything I traumatized them by dressing as a girl and taking photos. I didn't technically "take photos". I made videos. It was artistic, you guys, not like porn or something. This is getting off topic. And I'm sure the real story is that my mom had to explain how the little witch was really her son, shrugging her shoulders and smiling to the perturbed neighbors. Maybe she should be reading this book. Anyway, I'm sure my secret rage is a product of being a little feminine boy who grew up in Toledo, Ohio and was called 'faggot' and 'girly-girl' everyday and would come home and cry. Pretty depressing.. kinda like those gay teen suicides. Seriously, what's up with that? It's like that movie Suicide Club.. or Heathers, sort of. It seems so silly to just go and off yourself, although, with the way the world is, maybe they just saved themselves a lot of heartache. Being gay kinda sucks. Where do you go? It's not like Jon and I could just move to some cute little town and stroll down to the general store to buy bread, or have a little potluck—the villagers would greet us with torches, not casseroles. Even New York isn't safe. Every gay person I know there has been called a faggot numerous times, plus there's all those crazy beatings, and those weirdos who tortured captive gays in their Brooklyn apartment, or whatever. The world doesn't like us—even if Ricky Martin, or Cher, or whoever, makes a viral YouTube video saying it's fine. It's not fine, Cher. So, I guess I should be happy I have parents who let me wear pantyhose, only if it was once a year, and who only slightly groaned when I was nancying about in that holiday tree dressing.


Speaking of gay Halloween costumes: Jon and I are going as Batman and Robin. Yes, I'm wearing spandex this year—in public. I don't know why I thought this was a good idea. I blame Jon. My head is way too big for spandex. I think this is because I was born c-section. I imagine my head as a Mylar balloon, all long and flat, and behind it: my body, trailing behind like a curly ribbon—more of an afterthought than anything. My Halloween costume exacerbates this misfortune. It also makes my face look all squishy and bloated. I'm not sure if this is because of the contrast of head-to-toe Lycra to the small amount of visible face flesh, or possibly the fact that my face is being squeezed through a tiny stretchy hole, or maybe it's just that my face is bloated and squishy. I, unfortunately, expect the latter. Not everyone can be Val Kilmer, you guys. Someones gotta be William Shatner.

Tonight is "beggar's night", as my grandmother calls it. As a child, I found this term ridiculously funny. Growing up in a wealthy suburb, where the concept of people begging for food was so foreign and hilarious to me, I imagined "beggar's night" to consist of smelly children in tattered clothes with soot-smudged faces plodding door-to-door for tiny, garishly wrapped, sweet morsels of sustenance. Or even worse yet: smelly children with no costumes, holding dirty pillow cases slightly a gap, frowning for candy. Now that we live in Merion Village, this all makes sense. Full circle, as they say. So, hopefully no one tries to shoot us this year, tie us to the back of their red, white and blue pickup truck, only to drive us three houses down the street—where they would then fashion our arms into a gun rack. You never know, really.
Happy Halloween, you guys!

Trick or treat! Thank you. (Although, nowadays I believe they omit the last part.)

Dear Diary,

I just realized it's been awhile since I've written anything, but not because nothing exciting has happened. Exciting things happen all the time in Ohio. Someone once referred to it as being "off the chain". Ok, so maybe that's a lie.

I have never gotten the chihuahua's teeth cleaned. They are turning six this year. Eddy's teeth have gone from slightly moldly to completely corroded in a matter of six years, but that's like (6 x 7 =) forty-two in dog years and that's a ridiculously long time to ignore one's dental hygiene. This is also a lie. Jon has brushed both Eddy and Eva's teeth a few times over the last couple years — what a nice guy. I have always joked when people would ask, "Why don't you brush their teeth? Their breath smells like trash. That's disgusting.", I would chuckle and say with a shitty smile: "I'm just waiting for them to fall out. Teeth are overrated anyway." This too is a lie, well at least the shitty smile part, as my teeth are gleaming and white. Eddy's teeth, on the other hand, have begun to fall out. It has happened. This is it: the moment I have been waiting for.. and I couldn't feel more terrible. So what does one do when they let their pet's teeth rot out of their mouth? One writes a haiku:

Her teeth are now brown
They have fallen to the ground
To the Swiffer they stick
Me=dick

Ok, so maybe it was more of a limerick — and I'm pretty sure you can't use 'equals' in a haiku anyway as it is a mathematical symbol and in that form contains no syllables. How's that for a mind-fuck? The point is I feel bad and her teeth are scratching the hardwood when I'm trying to clean.

I'm reinventing myself. I know, you're all like: You are perfect, Jacob, everyone wants to be you. I know, you guys. Thank you. No, but really. I decided to sell my car and buy a truck. Well, it was Jon's idea originally, but I stole it.. the idea, not the car. I think our household would benefit from a truck and I hate my car. I feel like a total fag driving it. It's like riding around in Adam Lambert's hair — but with wheels. The problem now is selling it. No one else wants to drive Adam Lambert's hair either. I don't blame them. It would be a perfect first car for a semi-wealthy teen girl from the suburbs — most likely a hockey cheerleader. I need to market to this niche.

So, I guess I was over-exaggerating when I said 'reinventing'.

Can you believe it's August? Me neither.

Over Hung

I am so hungover. I blame this on George for buying us those ridiculously tall drinks and forcing us to drink them, what a jerk. Despite this minor setback, I have managed to muster up the brainpower and drive to write this blog while drinking my morning coffee, stomach still churning from the Taco Bell I ate at 1 am. Today I am asking myself some important questions about life. First, why am I eating Taco Bell at 1 am when I'm almost 30? It's 90% plastic and I'm not 15. Second, what am I doing with my life? Work, school and a night of something fun every third month? I have to keep in mind that I'm working toward a goal. This will all be worth it.
School is killing me. I find myself reverting back to the blasé attitude I once had in high school. This quarter I'm taking biology and statistics. Believe it or not, the biology is the worse of the evils. It's not the subject matter as much as the people in my class and the professor. Everyone in my class believes evolution is a lie because "people just want to argue"— I won't even go there today.
My professor looks like a child rapist. He's gray, his skin that is, not his hair. He doesn't have any hair, not on his head, no eyebrows, pretty sure no eyelashes either. His lips are thin and purple as he sips coffee from a pre-war thermos lid and sucks on Halls cough drops at the same time while pacing about in his JCPenney polyester navy blue suit. He wears a pair of glasses from the 70s that the lenses have yellowed to a shade of nicotine and his eyes fix on yours for just a little too long to be comfortable. Oh, and he's the most boring person in the entire world. On the first day in order to better remember us, he says, we must announce our names as he "takes our picture"— with his creepy little video camera. Everyone sort of looked at each other like, is this a joke?. The girl next to me, Juana Steal (seriously), responded with a "huh, uhhhh."
Eventually, after the torture is complete, I will graduate and become a hospitality manager and will need something to manage. Jon and I have been discussing possible locations for our bed and breakfast/inn and have come up with a few. And here they are, in random order:

A) Vermont, the least religious state in the US.

B) Puerto Vallarta, the most funniest city in MX.

C) Sonoma, where wine comes from.

D) Cape Cod, I don't know, because it sounds nice.

E) Ohio, oh my god, I'm totally joking.

F) The Adirondacks, where they make those chairs.

G) Louisiana, that place where all that water was.

What are your thoughts?

No One Wants to Sit Next to the Gay Kid

My math class is full of dudes, twenty seven to be exact, and only three girls. It's a business math class, the foundation for the school of business, accounting, etc. I am the only gay one. Well, there was another gay guy, but he dropped out, leaving the seat next to me open.

Everyday I take my seat as the rest of the class slowly files in; everyone choosing a place to sit. Eventually, it gets to the point where all the seats are taken, except the one next to me—guys choosing floating chairs and the option of doing math problems in their laps, avoiding my neighboring spot. I know I don't smell. I shower twice a day, floss and brush my teeth three times a day. I'm also not a paranoid person—unless it comes to self-diagnosed Internet health issues—so I know I'm not making this up. What the hell? Is my gayness oozing out my giant pores and wafting through the air like deer pheromones? I'm gay, but am I really that gay? I mean, I stopped wearing tiny pants and foundation at the beginning of the new millennium. I don't get it.

Sometimes I think we forget how socially unaccepted gay people still are—especially in the God-fearin' Bible Belt. People just don't like gay people. I read this gay news blog every morning, Towleroad, it's pretty crazy how many gay people are beaten, murdered or prejudiced against every day. It's sad. Everyone should be ashamed. Jesus would be rolling over in his grave, if he only knew. Oh, and did I mention the guys in my class are all fucking gross? I don't know what they're so worried about. I wouldn't touch any of them with a ten foot pole. I'm pretty sure they eat McDonald's everyday and the classroom smells like a junior high locker room. Oh, and the roly-poly-neck-roll-boy in front of me smells like ham.

My theater class smells too. The kid to the left of me has the aroma of slightly soured milk. To my right, there is a girl named Chardonnay. She smells like cigarettes and Bath and Body lotion. In the class, we read plays and analyze them. Chardonnay was terribly disappointed when she came to the realization she wasn't going to be acting. She likes acting. She also likes snapping and popping her gum continuously, that and playing with her multiple gold earrings, sliding them back and forth through their holes rubbing past the callous lumps that once housed bacterial infections. She can get you free cable. She also hates Alicia Keys because she never told anyone she was biracial, so now she feels mislead and won't listen to her music anymore. For Valentines Day, her boyfriend sent her a Valentine from the state penitentiary. She doesn't like him anyway and her other boyfriend made it up to her by giving her a rose dipped in real gold. In front of me sits a young man that looks strikingly similar to Beetlejuice from the Howard Stern Show—no joke. He likes to itch his cornrows through his do-rag. His heart was broken recently and he plans to use this raw emotion in our upcoming class project. He told me only moments after gargling his Mountain Dew.

The other day I was thinking about a world without homosexuals. I really think people wouldn't know what they had until it was gone, you know? Just think of all those cute parts of town that were made cute simply because gays were the only ones brave enough to live there, redoing all the houses, opening coffee shops, opening faggy art galleries. Gays make cute parts of town. They also design clothes and make pretty hair. In fact, most beautiful and creative things are made by gays. I know that's totally stereotypical and kind of a stretch but it's still kinda true. So, if Christian Republicans had their way and all gays were exterminated, like in Uganda (which is my prediction for the next presidential campaign), just think how depressing the world would be? You heteros would have to eat at Olive Garden or Chili's every night, wearing burlap sacks, with six inch roots and you'd have nothing to talk about except what happened on Two and a Half Men the night before (because it would be the only show left on TV). Boring, and the food at Chili's is gross. And just think of what would happen to New York City? All those girls who moved there to be Carrie Bradshaw would be wandering around crying and wondering why there is no one to make their pink martinis and to design their four-hundred dollar shoes.

The Romans and the Greeks accepted gay people, back before Christianity was made up. It was normal back then. Thousands and thousands of years ago. They invented plumbing too, you know, and where would be without plumbing? Swimming in shit, that's where. And where would we be without all the gays throughout history? Leonardo DiVinci? Plato, Socrates, Michelangelo? Sir Elton John? Sir Isaac Newton?? Do you think a heterosexual would have ever noticed gravity? And I bet Alexander the Great wouldn't have been so Great if he weren't a fag and I'm sure no one was "not sitting next to" Aristotle when he set the stage for the future of physics and mathematics.

Just think about a world where all gay people, everyone in fact, could be happy and encouraged to succeed. Maybe Virginia Woolf wouldn't have walked into that river with pockets full of rocks if she had a dyke softball team to play on. And poor Eleanor Roosevelt wouldn't have been forced to have all that sex with fuddy-old-Franklin. The world could have been an even better place, a cuter place.

I'm not pointing fingers, but Christianity is a bit like the irresponsible parent who only feeds their child spaghetti-o's and tells them one side of the story. Unfortunately, until someone tells that parent that they're unfit, this whole mess perpetuates. I know it seems like I am always picking on religion, but it really is what is keeping the gays as second class citizens. Christians need to realize that we are just as normal as straight people. Gays exist throughout the animal and insect kingdom as part of the evolutionary structure and the natural world. It is fact, just as the earth is round, not flat, and the planets revolve around the sun, and that our solar system is in a galaxy that is one of millions in the universe. See what I'm saying? This is the way it is. I don't care if you think Jesus made it this way or microorganisms grew feet, but this is the world and gay people are a natural part of it. We have always been here. I know I can't prove my gayness is innate, just as you can't prove your God is real. You're "faith" is just as good as my word. So for now, we must try to live harmoniously—or at least until I figure out a way to "misplace" the 650 billion Bibles in the world.
In the meantime, I guess I'll just enjoy the elbow room.