A Release

The other night, I had an email all written, addressed, and ready to be sent out. All I needed to do was click the Send button and it would be finished. But I couldn’t do it.

The only thing the email said was I’m done.

I haven’t been speaking with my best friend since early October, though we’ve been having issues since last January. It’s difficult to say where the problems started, though, because we’re both so in it, I think it is hard to discern what’s what.

A good part of the difficulties were caused by me. However it happened, I began to view him as an option for me. While I knew, realistically, that this wasn’t a scenario that could ever be entertained, I still kind of had a hope for things. Which turned out to be a painful experience for me.

After he and his girlfriend became official, things began to go downhill. For awhile, I struggled with a few things. Staying loyal to my best friend by befriending the girlfriend, and feeling all of those fun emotions that accompany jealousy. I did my best to separate the two, though, which turned out to be much more difficult than I had thought it could be. It was simple to associate with her when they weren’t official. I could easily say Hi, involve her in a conversation, and things like that.

It was when second semester of last year begun and when they started to be official was when it got hard. I made the decision sometime around late February to stop trying to be friends with the girlfriend. By this time, I was able to separate my feelings caused by jealousy and those that were unaffected by it. I can remember when I stopped trying to befriend the girlfriend. I was behind the library in the small parking lot. A car was trying to back up, but was kind of stuck in the ice. Finally, the driver revved the engine and sped backwards. I was never in danger of being hit, but it was damn surprising to see a car move that fast towards me. So I jumped. I saw the girlfriend and made a joke about it. She didn’t respond to me.

It had been about 7 months since I first started to try to talk to her. 7 months of saying Hello and, a few times, try to include her in conversation. I still didn’t know what her voice sounded like. I still don’t. She never would bother to even give me the time of day. He and I were speaking on a much less frequent basis, as well.

Things continued to go downhill for my friend and I. We would take breaks so we could have some time to figure things out. By this time, I had told him my feelings. To his credit, he took it much better than I ever would have thought, and wanted to find a way for us to remain best friends, if not better.

At the beginning of the summer, I decided that it would be best if he and I weren’t friends anymore. I didn’t want either of us to have to be constantly bothered or upset by the degradation of our friendship. I also worried that I would cause problems with his relationship. Even though I didn’t like her, I didn’t want to feel to be the cause of any fights or issues between them. Whether or not my decision was based in a lack of will power or as an attempt to deter further pain, I still don’t really know.

At the end of the summer, I decided to get back in touch with him. I missed my best friend, and I wanted him back in my life. His girlfriend had just broken up with him, so we had time to reconnect. I lost even more respect for her during the short period they were no longer together. She would call and tell him about the guy she met in Vegas, about how her friends were glad they broke up, and how some of her friends would kill him [metaphorically, of course] if they ever saw him.

After a few weeks, they got back together, and our friendship began to decline again. We began to speak and hang out a lot less. His time was devoted to her. We had more fights, more angry words, and finally, he decided that he needed a break to consider things. He told me that he had accidentally left his email open in her room, and she went through it all, reading everything I’d written to him. She told him she didn’t want him to hang out with me anymore. He agreed, saying that if he had to choose between his girlfriend and someone he doesn’t know, he’d choose his girlfriend. The only differentiating factor is our history.

He also told me that maybe it wasn’t her fault she never gave me the time of day. Maybe she was having a bad day. Or maybe she didn’t hear me. Both of which are highly improbable to occur for 7 months straight. Finally he said, maybe she is uncomfortable around me because I am gay.

That hit home. That really hurt.

So it’s been about 4 months, now, since we’ve spoken. I’ve moved through the whole range of emotions. I would defend his actions and try to rationalize everything. Then I would get angry and think how could my best friend listen to someone else when they tell him to not see me anymore. Or how could he be with someone who treated me like I didn’t exist. After the whole anger thing, I began to think that if things went about a certain way, then there would still be hope for our friendship.

Now, I’m kind of caught between the depression and acceptance stages. I mean, it’s still something that is very upsetting to me. I feel almost replaced. Like my friendship was one that could be shelved, then eventually replaced. It hurts to think of someone I was so close to choose to spend time with someone who treated me so transparently, possibly because of my sexuality. I mean, I would rather be treated negatively than treated like I don’t exist.

It hurts to think of how much time, energy, and love I put into a friendship could be ended by some one else with the demand of forget him. It scares me. I had thought that I had found a friendship that, years down the line, we could both say Remember, back in college? That was him. But now…now it’s different. I feel lied to. Used. Replaceable. Most of all, I feel betrayed. My faith in how I see others is shaken.

But if this is the way it is, then so be it. I’m ready for an answer to decided upon and handed out moreso than anything else. I’ve 3 months left in my college career, and I want to spend that time with the people that I know love and care about me as much as I do them.

I’m not sure if he reads this blog. I’m guessing no. I don’t want this to be a jab, an insult, or anything along those lines, which I was worried about while writing this entry. This was more of a release for me than anything else.

I was going to send the email. But I decided to wait. Maybe because I could have gone about the whole situation in a more mature way. I could have given her more or a chance. I could have never told him about my feelings regarding him OR her. Maybe because I’d rather him deal the final blow, so to speak. Maybe I still have hope. I don’t know why, really.

I just want an answer.

If I Smile Like The Joker, You Laugh Like Kathy Najimy

I just want to sit and eat and watch TV and sleep. I think…oh my God.

What?

You smile like the Joker.

What?!

Look at you! NO, STOP SMILING! You smile like Jack Nicholson as the Joker! You’re the Joker!

I am? No I’m not! I don’t…

Yes you DO! Go. Go look it up on the internet. If we put red lipstick on you, you’d be the Joker.

Tiff, I don’t think we can be friends anymore.

John. You and smiling? It’s over. Done.

If Ruth Sees This, She Will Descend Upon Me Like A Vulture On It’s Prey

Every New Year’s day, I go to my friend’s house for a party. Danielle’s mother and grandmother always get their family coralled together for food, alcohol and games, and every year Danielle invites over some of her friends to partake in the festivities.

This year, we are all finally 21, which means we can fully enjoy the company of her extremely French Canadian [and Polish...because we all know Poles rock] family. I’m so glad I had some exposures left from my Rhode Island trip, because the photos I got are priceless.

In terms of Danielle’s family, my relationship with them is very simple. Basically, they love me. As I do them. But seriously, I’m amazed with the shit I get away with in that household. Especially when her mother would [and has] easily eviscerated someone for half the stuff that I’ve done.

Her mother, Ruth [whom Danielle and I used to call from my cell phone on the way home from work and scream, on the commuter rail mind you, THE RUTH! THE RUTH! THE RUTH IS ON FIRE! RAAAAISE THE RUTH!] is one of the coolest women you’ll ever meet. In one minute, she’ll offer you a seat in her kitchen, something to eat and drink, and smack you upside the head for no damn reason other than to feel like a big woman.

I forgot to mention. Ruth is about as tall as an 8 year old girl in her mother’s high heels. One of my favorite rips on her is to tell her to sit down and relax, because I would hate to see her hit her head on the table top as she runs underneath it. The last time I was at their house, I took a baby carrot and put it on top of the door frame. She had to stand on her tip toes on top of a chair to get it down.

To her credit, though, she is one of the few people who can go toe to toe with me in terms of jokes and playful ribs. She knows her place, though, because if she ever gets out of hand, I just pick her up and put her on top of the fridge. She knows the drill from then on out.

Anyways, when I got to Danielle’s house, Ruth and Mem [Danielle's grandmother, who can have the same foul mouth on her as her granddaughter, but is still the sweetest woman you've ever met] were busy cooking their famous coconut shrimp and entertaining the cousins, aunts and uncles. I grabbed a beer, sat down and just listened in on the conversations. The most important [because it comes up later] being that most of Danielle’s family went to New Year’s Day mass at a church they’ve never been to before. They figured they would attend mass there, and continue on their way to the party.

Lo and behold, they went to one of the only Spanish speaking masses in the entire north shore. Now, Danielle’s family is by no means a diverse family. In fact, let’s be honest. They are as white as a bleached bed sheet. So imagine, if you will, a group of them sitting in a Spanish speaking mass. By the end, the only thing they know was Santos! Santos! Santos! Amen! Amen! Amen!

Now, fast forward from the telling of this story to about, oh, 2 hours later. Danielle and I decided to start a game of Catch Phrase. While her entire family was intoxicated. I love her whole family. I really do. But when half of them can’t read the clue, and the other half are a beer away from embalming themselves, Catch Phrase turns from a fun party game into an excercise of pain, bloodshed, verbal harrassment and food fights. Yes. Food fights. Started NOT by the youngest of the players. Oh no. But by the drunkest.

The woman to the far left is on the same team as the woman to the far right. As you can see, they are both on opposite spectrums of the emotional scale. One is angry as hell and the other is laughing like an ass. I forget what the clues were at this point in the game, but I know Auntie on the left is screaming every word in her currently prouncable vocabulary, and Cousin on the right is trying to hold in the pee. Both weren’t very good at their attempted jobs.

It got to the point that no one was playing on the same team anymore. Notice who has the disk in their hand. It’s Ruth. And notice how everyone else is trying to guess at the exact same time. I don’t really know what was happening at this point, because soon after this round, food started to be thrown. Or, more specifically, food started to be thrown at me. The only thing I know for certain after leaving Danielle’s home is that Hasbro is the bastard child of Jack Black and Satan. Seems like fun in the beginning, but then you end up screaming and yelling and swearing and accusing people of being evil assholes, and it is all because the buzzer went off while you were trying to get your team to say cute as a button.

After every round won [and come to think of it, every round lost] Danielle’s family would break into their drunken Catch Phrase cheer they learned earlier that day: SANTOSSANTOSSANTOS!!! AMENAMENAMEN!!! And without fail, they would stand up and rally together into clapping and yelling and dancing and howling. If it weren’t for my damn thumb, you could see Danielle’s cousin dancing in a very vulgar way to their religious chant. Actually…maybe it’s best that was mistakenly censored.

And finally…the family. In the picture on the top, we see, from left to right, Danielle, her younger sister Andrea [in case you can't tell...Ruth, Danielle and Andrea all look exactly alike. They also speak alike, act alike, and have the power to bring to a stop airplanes and other massive machines with the power of their scream. Remember that oil spill in Alaska a few years back? They vacationed there a few days prior.], and the infamous Ruth*. And in the picture on the bottom, we see Ruth and her eldest child, my good friend Danielle. Even with the drunken food fight, angry yelling, and sacriligious Spanish church chants, I still had a blast.

*Special thanks to the Tiny Toddler organization for the use of their booster seat to aid Ruth in her needs.

Well…I Once Had A REALLY Painful Bowel Movement

During my communication of whiteness class [no...seriously] we got to do the whole introduction thing. You know how it goes…

Hi. My name is Ashley. I’m a freshmen who is undecided with their major. I’m from Central Penn., and an interesting fact…I really don’t like to go out, so I spend my time knitting sweaters for puppies about to be euthanized at the local pound.

Sad stuff like that. So anyways, we went around the circle, giving everyone else semi-personal information about ourselves…I was a volunteer fire fighter…I’m the first to attend college in my family…I live in Central Jersey and actually like it…and then…then there was the clincher.

Hi, my name is Lisa, and I’m a junior communications major with a minor in psychology. I’m from Jersey, and an interesting fact about me…can I say something about my family? Okay, great. An interesting fact about me is that my grandfather is 1 of 22 children.

Excuse me, what? 22 kids? As in, 11 times the amount of kids in MY immediate family?! Meaning 22 heads, 44 arms, 220 fingers and about 198 pounds of human beings climbed their way out of ONE PERSON’S uterus, said what’s up?! to the vagina, and exploded in a hail storm of placenta and a symphony of screaming into the great new world?! Jesus, Mary and Joseph [that's what my mom always says].

I immediately turned to the woman sitting next to me and whispered I didn’t know that shit kept working after number 3!

UPDATE: Visit this site. I’ve added it to my blogroll because it is THAT good [via Jon]

UPDATE: If you shoot on over to Melanhead, you’ll see my grill plastered up on her page because I have the distinct honor of being named person of the week, right along with Mainely Madge. As it turns out, Madge is up for a bloggie as well! So if you haven’t voted already, please head on over and give her your support. You’ll find her under Best New Weblog. Hurrah for us all!

And Making A Triangle With Your Forefingers And Thumbs Means Vagina

Today I learned that, with just a twist of the wrist, you can accidentally offend your sign language teacher in ways that are pretty much horrific and gross.

In class, we learned how to say job, employee, work and worker. It’s the same sign for all of them, and depending upon the situation, can mean one word or the other. Simple, right?

Okay internet, I’m about to teach you THROUGH THE COMPUTER [oooo! aaaaah!] some sign language. Take your dominant hand and hold it in a fist in front of you, as if you were writing a letter or masturbating.

Good. Good.

Okay, now take the other hand and make the same formation, but make sure it is positioned underneath the dominant hand. Now, with both wrists facing down, hands in a fist, clap your dominant hand and your other hand together.

Get it? Both hands in a fist, palms facing down, and you clap together the wrists. Now you try it.

…

Very good! You just did sign language!

So that means job or work. There is a co-sign that goes along with it that can make it mean employee or worker, but we don’t need that right now. It’s basically a small sign used for a lot of things to make a verb a noun, such as work to worker, art to artist, or swim to swimmer. But now you know the sign for job slash work, and that’s all we need.

Now. Put your hands in that same position, only this time, have the bottom palm face up. The dominant palm is still facing down. So it will look like you will be clapping, but the hands are still in fists. Got it?

That means something completely different than work.

So while everyone else signed What job do you want? to our professor [an overweight munchkin from the Wizard of Oz], I signed What do you want to fuck?

See the subtle difference? A hideous trick, isn’t it?

Thank you, deaf community, for making two TOTALLY different words so similar in signage.

Though it was pretty damn funny to see a member of the lollipop guild freak out while sitting up on her table.

I’m Going To Tejas

I haven’t been spending money wisely, recently, and my bank account is starting to show it. I’ve still yet to receive the rest of my pay checks from my winter break job, and I’ve only worked a very limited amount of hours at my school job. So my pocket has become considerably lighter, and me living it up my last semester of college isn’t helping so much. I’ve discovered the men on the corner of the street don’t share their bagged beverages as easily as and they do their charming use of the English language [one used fuckass, which I'm pretty sure is a Donnie Darko-ism...clever].

So paying the airfare, hotel accommodations and registration fee to attend the South by Southwest Festival is going to pose a problem. Why am I hoping to attend SXSW, you ask?

BECAUSE I AM A FINALIST IN THE 2006 BLOGGIES, THAT’S WHY!!!

This, by the way, will cost me even more money, because it seems I can’t keep a pair of pants clean for more than 2 hours before I soil them and utterly embarrass myself…and anyone who laughs at me, because you do NOT laugh at a finalist, because he will make you eat it…it being the soiling.

I’m not going to lie to all of you…I’m still really shaken about all of this. I was talking with Tiffany the other night, and she said, out of nowhere, John…you’re a writer. And I stopped. I’m a writer. People read what I write and they ENJOY it. To even see my site up on that list is more than I could have hoped for.

That’s a lie. I also really want that GOD FORSAKEN car, a job after college, and a cool place in NYC.

And a digital camera.

Oh, and DVR or Tivo.

But I’ve gotten the label as writer, which is just amazing. However much of a bastardized version of one I may be. Honestly, Internet…thank you. I really appreciate it. It’s more than I could have asked for and it means a whole lot to me. I joke a lot on Come To Find Out, but I want to make sure you know how much I appreciate just being able to say I’m a finalist. I’ve you all to thank.

So please, take the 10 minutes to go and vote for as many blogs as possible. You have until 10 pm Sunday, January 31st, to cast your vote. And pay special attention to the Best-Kept-Secret Weblog category. I’m up against some stiff competition [Needcoffee.com, The Man Who Couldn't Blog, Ear Farm, and Golfwidow's Ministry of Silly Walks]* so I ask that you vote fairly and honestly for who you deem to be the best choice.

And if you doubt yourself, vote for me.

*Good luck, everyone!

*And Happy Birthday, Kim! She’s 21!

I Feel Better Because Martin Would Have Given Her The Ticket

Every year, Syracuse University has the nation’s largest Martin Luther King Jr. celebration. It is a dress up event where tons of people from the school and community get together and celebrate Dr. King’s memory. The dinner is complete with awards, keynote speakers, and a variety of performances from local and school organizations. And soul food. Delicious soul food.

This is the third year I’ve went, and every year, I’ve managed to pull off surviving the night without making some sort of an ass out of myself. This year? Not so lucky.

The first transgression isn’t so much a mistake as it is something hilarious, but still something I probably shouldn’t have done. So, because of APO [I'm the vice president of fellowship this semester] I had 2 extra tickets to the event because people decided they couldn’t attend the dinner. So, as I was approaching the door to the Dome, where the dinner was being held, a woman called out to me, asking for a ticket. I said of course, and walked over to give it to her. She began to say what I THOUGHT would be something along the lines of Because I lost mine and still really want to go.

But no. That would mean that I live a normal life, complete with no obstacles or issues. The woman said Because I don’t have a job and can’t afford the ticket price. Only then did I realize that the woman bore a striking resemblance to the pigeon woman in Home Alone II: Lost in New York. With no teeth. And the neon orange hat I wear in Starks. Of course, I still gave her the ticket. I’m not about to take away a ticket from a homeless woman. Come on, now.

Now, the tables at the dinner are sectioned off by organizations. So, the Office of Multicultural affairs has a table, the Office of Residence Life has a bunch, and yes…APO has a table. Did John remember this as he handed off a ticket to a random woman with no teeth and a big orange wool hat? Nope.

Did he realize it when he was about to bite into a drumstick and saw an entire table of 19 year old APOers giving each other the nervous eye as a woman with 3 plates worth of food and a needed 3 grand’s worth of dental work sit down in all her pigeon glory? Yes, he did. And he laughed. A lot. Because how awkward is that.

The only thing that made the scenario even the funnier was when my friend, Erin, announced to my table Well…maybe she’ll pledge this semester…

My next fuck up happened at the juice table. I had just gotten some nice cran-raspberry juice when I ran into one of my professors from spring semester of my junior year. She kind of runs all of Syracuse. She volunteers in every single community organization, teaches in both my department AND the social work department, was on the committee that PUT TOGETHER the MLK Celebration, and in her spare time solves world hunger and hugs babies. She’s just freakin’ everywhere.

So anyways, I had just gotten my drinks when I ran into her, and we had a quick conversation.

John! How are you?!
Hi Professor! I’m good, and you?
Great thanks. So this is your last semester, right? Are you excited?
Yah, I guess so. I’m kind of nervous about things, but yah, excited at the same time.
Well, I’ll make sure to cheer for you at commencement.
Oh great! I REALLY want to hear you scream my name.

There was an uncomfortable silence, a quick goodbye, and before I knew what happened, I was walking back to my table.

I walked for about three or four tables before I stopped dead in my tracks. I can only imagine what I looked like from a distance, because the moment I realized I just told my professor I want to hear her scream my name, I had a slight freak out and slapped myself in the face with the hand holding the juice.

Great, John. Tell the person who could write you an INCREDIBLE recommendation that you want to hear her SCREAM out your name, presumably in the throws of passionate, sweaty monkey sex. That’s just great. I should have just slapped her on the ass and called it a day. All of this at the nation’s LARGEST King celebration in the nation. Public embarassment. Yes.

Bad things happen in threes. I’m still waiting to see out what the next thing will be. Tiffany and Kim thought it may have been when we turned around and saw a giant man going up the steps to the second level of the Dome while his pants hung down around the lower half of his ass region. It was like his butt was trying to go for a walk back down the steps. He basically mooned the largest MLK Celebration in the country. While I deem this sight horrific, I don’t know if it constitutes my third worst event in the series.

I’m nervous about what number 3 will be.

Say What You Want, I’ll Just Go And Tell The Internet

Tiffany: See, I keep a blog too. But no one knows who I am, so when people read what I write they’re like Ooooh who is this person?! And they keep reading to find out more. This way I can write whatever I want and not worry about it.

Kim: Yes. I write too, just so I can remember things for later.

Me: And that’s great for some people. But I can’t write like that. I don’t want to be inblognito, it just isn’t for me. I’d rather be more connected to my writings than that.

Tiffany:…

Kim:…

Tiffany: Did you just say inblognito? In a real sentence?

Kim: He did! He just up and used inblognito!

Me: I don’t get it…

Tiffany: You spend too much time on the internet.

I Am A Needy Bastard, And I Admit It

As one friend said to me [Vanessa aka Salvo], it is people like this that make computers so much more fun.

Bloggers and Bloghers, I am about to revolutionize Google for you.

One of my friends, Courtney, recently sent an invite to me to join something called Blingo. It is the exact same thing as Google [literally, because Blingo is powered by Google] but OH SO MUCH better. And I will tell you why.

Every time you search, there is the possibility of winning prizes. Glorious, free, no strings attached PRIZES. And it isn’t fake. Believe me. Courtney’s boyfriend, Brian [hello, if you read this] won a portable DVD player and movie tickets. Just because he did some searches [porn most likely, but you didn't hear it from me].

Here is the great thing. If you sign up as my friend, I win whatever you win. And if you have people sign up as YOUR friend, you win what THEY win. It’s amazing.

So here is the link for you to click and sign up. Do it. Come on. COME ON! Do it.

I have no dishonor in selling this to any of you. I want these prizes, dammit. I want them.

And you do too.

OH I ALMOST FORGOT! Do you all know what tomorrow is? It is the NEXT ROUND of the 2006 Bloggies! So make sure you head on over and vote for the finalists. I don’t know if I am in there or not, but I’m sure we will all know someone who are in there. So vote!

What I Learned At Faegan’s: Part 2

As I mentioned the other day, alcohol is the tie that bonds in friendships. Even if you don’t drink, you can’t say you didn’t learn something worthwhile from a plastered friend while you held their head out the car window as they puked at a 45 mph velocity.

So story number 2 is a short one. One staff member, Vanessa, who I’ve worked with for almost 2 years now, is your archetypal photography student. Artsy. Fun. A little odd, but not in the way that makes you feel dirty if she were to look at you. She’s outspoken about her beliefs, but still easy to get along with.

Until you decide to cross her. In which case, depending upon her mood and the roll of a die, she may decide to hunt you down and cause emotional harm.

Back in our sophomore year of college, Vanessa was dating a guy named…well…she doesn’t want his name out. So we’ll just call him the editor-in-chief of the Daily Orange. So anyways, they had a fruitful relationship, filled with photos and art and Vanessa taking his V-Card. Everything was wonderful, until the Grim Reaper of Relationships came in the form of the last day of school before summer break. At 3 am, the MORNING of his flight back home, Editor knocked on Vanessa’s door when she had spent all day trying to contact him. You know. Hang out before the summer and what not.

A screaming match with a side of fisticuffs ensued when Editor said he preferred taking a break for the summer, then picking back up where they left off back in September. Vanessa thought this was a great idea, and decided that they should do it, along with scooping out their eyeballs with rusty spoons. So they fought. Oh did they fight.

Seeing as how Vanessa was not about to be in a relationship that allowed for a passing of the pipe, so to speak, she told Editor to make the break permanent. She then spent the next few days having chocolate ice cream for her meals by herself in her room because all her friends had left for the summer.

When she began cleaning out her room, she started to accumulate all of Editor’s shit. Favorite t-shirts. Coffee mugs. Sweaters. A jean jacket. A blanket. Some sunglasses. And about 73 pairs of socks. Vanessa had kindly set all of this stuff aside and planned to box it up and send it to him when she got back home. Then it hit her. Why should she drive home all of his shit and pay postage to mail it back to him? So she did what any other sane woman after a break up would do, and she donated all of it to the Salvation Army.

The best part was that Editor had returned all of Vanessa’s stuff to one of her friends, which forced him to explain to her why he and Vanessa had broken up [read: bone it up to Boston girls over summer break]. He also had the nerve to call Vanessa to ask her to mail him all of his stuff [a package that would have traveled from Chicago to Boston]. The conversation, we were told, went something like this.

Did you find any of my stuff?
Um..yeah.
Well…do you think that you could mail it all to me? I’m missing some of my favorite shirts.
To be honest, you kind of pissed me off and were an asshole to me.
Yeah, okay. And?
So I didn’t want to drive all your stuff 10 hours home. So I donated it to the Salvation Army.
…
Have a good summer, editor-in-chief of the Daily Orange. [click].

I think we all learned something very important about Vanessa that night. She will bust your ass if you piss her off, and still manage to give back to the greater community. All in the same move.