WEI, it's RLY us!

cheryl: wei, we're rly here!

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RANDOMNESS

by WEI

Come on, admit it. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that you're a homosexual, or, at the very least, slightly sexually confused, if you want me to use of those euphemisms my English teacher was always going on about. There's no use trying to hide it from me. Number one, we're friends, and number two, I have an infallible gay-dar that has never malfunctioned, except for that one time where I chased a man in a fairy suit down about fifty alleyways before I learned that he was really a very masculine woman. It wasn't my fault, it really wasn't! She even had facial hair and everything. Plus, she had some of the beefiest arms I'd ever seen. In fact, she was more buff than you, my brother, and this chickpea sandwich put together. And trust me, chickpeas can be quite buff when they want to be.

But that's besides the point I'm trying to make. The point is, you're gay, and I don't think that will ever change. I mean, those shrinks that tried to cure homosexuality were really just trying to suppress a human being's innate desire for others that were of the same sex as him or her. In my very humble and un-opinionated opinion, they were about as intelligent as giant potatoes from outer space. I mean, a faggot's a faggot, whether you want him to be or not- oh fine, I'm sure you'd rather I was a bit more politically correct. Fine, gay people are gay and gay is said as gay is done. Just like how eggs are eggs and cheese is cheese. Mm, cheese. Do you like blue cheese or-

Arrgh! I really need to stop changing the subject, dammit! Or I'm never going to get to get my argument across and you'll always be living in your little bubble of fear and anger and pain and whatever comes from hiding the person you really are. We need to give it a name. That's because according to the Wonderful Genius School of Psychology, things are happy when they have names, because they feel like they're loved and they belong! So anyway, let's call this place you're in right now the closet, just because we're unoriginal like that. A closet of horror, despair, and a place in which you need to face the inner turmoil of the depths of the human soul. There's a happy, sparkly world outside, but you're too afraid to step out. Come on, WHY!

Admit it, you're just afraid. Afraid! Well I'm going to convince you that there's absolutely nothing to be scared of. There were lots of wonderful homosexuals out there, and I'm sure there are some around at the moment, if you Google them or something. Famous homosexuals of the 21st Century. I think that sounds like a book title, don't you? Maybe I'll be the author of that book and you'll be one of the gay people in it, then I'll share out some of the royalties with you and we can be rich and run off to Vegas together. But you've got to come out first. Oh, come on, don't gape at me like that, you know exactly what I'm talking about, and you know you want to do it. There's a giant carrot in front of you outside the closet-bubble-whatever and there's absolutely nothing that's stopping you from leaving, except for the possibility that the carrot is rotten. Let me tell you this, though, the carrot is awesome and orange and shiny and pretty. Shiny.

Girls like shiny things, therefore they like gay guys, therefore they think that all gay men are hot. Wait, that's cause-effect logic, and it's really not very intelligent come to think of it. Anyway you wouldn't really want women dropping themselves at your feet, would you? That would probably just make things harder, if you know what I mean. Plus you're a nice person and I'm sure you have absolutely no intention of stomping on girls' hearts and shattering them into a million pieces. But hey, I'm sure that you'd learn how to work the whole "I'm sorry-but-I'm-gay-can-we-be-good-friends" routine pretty well pretty quickly. Trust me, once they learn to accept it, you'll learn that platonic friendships are the true source of happiness and all that is good in this wonderful world.

Of course, I'm sure you're also doubting society's perception of you, blah, blah, blah, what people will think, blah, blah, blah, and how you being a faggot is going to fit into the larger scheme of things- all that crap and whatnot. I suppose there are homophobes out there, because we have to be realistic. I'd like to say who cares about them, but I can't really do that because you, being a Sensitive New Age Guy, will inevitably worry about them, won't you? Well, Elton John is gay, and look how many gazillion albums he's made and sold all over the face of this tiny planet. It hasn't stopped Disney from making him sing haroom-harah, haroom-harah, haroom-harah in the Lion King. No wait, was that Elton John or was that someone else? I can't remember.

But who cares! My point is, gay guys are like the marshmallows in my coffee: they aren't always there, some people aren't going to like them, but the people that do will want to cuddle them because they're just so awesome. And they would ask the waitress for some more if this stupid cafe wasn't a stingy little shitpile that's threatened to drag me out of here by my heels if I didn't stop protesting against their one-marshmallow-per-mug policy. Bleh, back to the marshmallow- by not eating the marshmallow, you are denying it of its purpose of existence.

Now, who would I be to deny you of your purpose of existence? Which is, of course, to be GAY! GAY AND PROUD OF IT!

So, what was I saying earlier about blue cheese?

T A G B O A R D

"Fergus, NOOOOOOOO! D:"

Some mornings

12:46 AM - Wednesday, December 31, 2008

I get too lazy to blog, to eat, to sleep, too lazy to do anything than just stare at my ceiling all day, wondering what might lie in the future or the shreds of a forgotten past. I think of the people that I've left behind, the people that I might see tomorrow, the faces and names and people all blending into one before dissipating into colour. And I turn around in my sheets again, unsure whether it's really me that's causing this lack of motivation, whether it's really my fault that I'm dreaming of a future that I can't be bothered to create, dreaming of a past that I can't be bothered to recreate or don't want to revisit, too lazy yet too happy yet too scared to face the present and what it holds...

I switch off the lamps, and leave myself in darkness

Tune into-

12:53 AM - Friday, December 19, 2008

She's trying to listen, trying to keep her ear pressed to your skin, trying to keep her hand fixed on your shoulder and her mind on the snow, her thoughts in rhythm with the beating of your heart. And she's not sure, not sure of anything anymore, not sure whether this is imagined or real or anything she would ever have dreamed of, an illusion charmed up in her desperation, a fantasy crafted by the artists of her mind? For the first time, she's not sitting on this park bench alone, she's got somebody to squeeze her hand while staring into the sky, she's got somebody to stroke her cheek while facing the ice and the stabbing wind.

She blushes a little as you bring your finger to touch her lips; the same lips that you've taken kisses from in another reality, the same lips that spoke of love and hate and everything in between. They're warm. Warm unlike the rest of her body in the falling snow, shredded icicles that she once feared in the rage of a storm. But no, no, the storm is over: she has you now, she has you and your shyness to complement her own, the shyness that she saw in herself long ago but she felt you try to hide. She knows she was the first to reach out towards you even behind her facade, her mask of icy blue and porcelain white that today, this Christmas, you managed to crack. A mockery of symbolism, the baubles on the pine tree crashing towards the ground; crashing to the sounds of the beating of your heart? No, it wasn't a plummet, it was a graceful fall. A fall that she was willing to take again now that she had come crumbling down once, a chance that meant nothing to her except the final vestiges of her sanity.

Did you know that she would be like this; did you know that she would have golden hair and a pointed chin? Did you feel the racetrack of her mind pumping out the blood of her thoughts along to the metronome of your heart? No, she doesn't think you did, doesn't think you even knew she would be her; but for a wild, fleeting moment, she allows herself not to care, allows herself to sink into the fabric of your hoodie and for herself to act like this is true. And she flushes again and smiles, her body a hot water bottle in the cold, gazes up at you with rawness and apology and love, fidgets a little as you lift a skinny arm to tangle her hair- because you're there, you're not a thing like you pretended to be but she knew that long ago; she had never seen you through the distorted mirrors of a mask- and she laughs, wisps of giggles from her mouth, because you not being you doesn't change the fact that you're there and you're real.

Real. Real, real; she wants to speak to you, call your name, whisper it out loud just to solidify the moment, essence of emotion distilled forever in time. But she's not sure which of your names she should be using, knowing that no matter what, it will come out as a gasp, the mist of her words lingering in the air as vapour before effervescence turns it into nothing. Again she feels like a child jumping on her bed to see if she can touch the ceiling, the elves in Santa's workshop that know that they will never be called upon to join him in the skies, for she is moving her lips over and over again in silence but never uttering a sound. A slight yearning for this quiet, especially in the aftermath of poisoned words and fire flying across the room like darts of war, a slight yearning for the peace normally associated with this time of year and the emotions of love.

She presses her ear closer to you as you wince; for once, she's the more experienced one, she's the one that knows how to deal with relationships even though none of them have been materialized, she's the one that holds your heart on your sleeve and your feelings in her hands, when you should be the strong one, the one that's toying with her like you always have. But she can't expect reality to be the same as its projection, can she? She can't expect reality to hold the same faces and names, can't expect reality to be the same solace of escape. Reality has feeling and touch and chilling snow, kisses she can actually feel as she snuggles herself closer to you, reality has the roles reversed because she's older, wiser, supposedly smarter, but still afraid. Deathly scared of girls or not, she knows you love her, she can hear it in the thumping of your heartbeat and the light flush on your face so much like her own, because she's scared too, scared that she isn't good enough.

In reality, virtual ranks mean nothing, and she glows with warmth, glad for that as she sees your tentativeness in your black eyes, swimming with emotion and anger and surprise and fear as she smiles again, comfortable in your embrace and to just sit there forever watching the snow fall, watching frozen water shake itself into the ground like powdered icing on her cake. There's nothing between you anymore except blushes and quiet, no, no; it's not quiet as long as she knows you're there for her and always will be, not quiet as long as even relationships based in fantasy can have a happy end, not quiet as long as she can hear the thumping of your heart. It's not quiet as long as she has you, because the meaning of this meeting fills in the gaps, the meaning of her having someone to hold, to touch on Christmas Day when she's always been alone, love spoken of but never felt in her arms as closely as this.

And like always she's worried that you'll disappear and you'll be nothing but a dream, a tantalizing dream that gets whisked away with the calls of a new morning. She bites her lip to make sure, almost hard enough to draw the taste of blood, bites her lip to remind herself that you're flesh and you're human just like she is, that you're not going to vanish into smoke like the words she can't seem to find. She feels your fingers caress your palms, senses your fear, senses her own, and realizes for the first time that she's not weak; she's strong inside despite her meek front and blatant submission, she knows how to take charge when she wants to and knows what it is to fight.

Because everyone's got inner strength deep down, because she's willing to wait for you to find yours, because she's seen it once and twice and many a time, or was it just a projection of you that was strong? Was it just the other side that she had seen, the other side that she had fallen in love with? Was it just the darkness that she had wanted, the flip side to her light? Your heart's still beating, the questions are coming, tap tap tap like your heart rate and your foot on the ground and the steps of the passersby as they dance away. The snow's stopped falling, the sun's glaring at her face while she's wondering whether it's possible for a fantasy to become real.

Then she laughs it away. Of course it is, silly, she chides as she pulls herself away, warm enough to be able to glance you in the eye and mouth a "Thank you". She can't hear your heart any more. She can't hear it beat, have her thoughts spring to its rapid pacing, so she's using words to fill that silence, words that make her realize that she has spoken and force a blush to return to her face. You raise an eyebrow in surprise, a gesture that speaks of bitter truth, a gesture that speaks of confusion mixed with mesmerized love. Her eyes gaze up into yours again, waiting for your response, knowing that you're scared like she is, knowing that no matter what, she understands how you feel because deep down, you and her the same, like most people are the same. It's not like her to speak first, so she's going to wait for you-

"Hello, Sean," you say stiffly, briefly glancing into her eyes before turning your head away. She laughs at your tone, a giggle that sounds like the tinkling of Christmas bells, for she knows that this means something good. And the red remains on her face as she rests on your shoulder again, ready to tune in to your feelings through the beating of your heart.

for Lavender-Ice

Happy Christmas;;

Secret Santa

Sometimes

11:12 PM - Tuesday, December 2, 2008

I'm too bitter for my own good, aren't I?

Hah.

Hah.

School play in two days, we don't know shit. I don't know shit.

I feel like shit.

Shit.