Monday, June 28


I'm getting a tattoo.

This one is absolutely beautiful, but I don't want something that big -- so it'll probably be just one horse similar to one of those. A little black-and-white paint. Below my belly button and to one side a little.

But not for a few months, when I get some more money.

Wednesday, June 23


Yesterday I get sunburned to blisters riding all day and today he rubs my back raw fucking me up against the wall.

"Shit," I say when it's over and I finally notice the fire starting at the top of my shoulders and running downwards.

He smiles half-heartedly. I lay in bed on my stomach and we spend the next hour with his soft soft hands rubbing aloe-infused lotion all over the pink and leaving kisses on the white.

After that the sun's started to disappear on the horizon so I throw on some jeans and hop on my horse to gallop around the pastures and stir up some trouble. He sits on the porch smoking and watching my silhouette as I ride, smiling and humming an old country song.

Saturday, June 19


I haven't been writing much (again) because...

I'm busy with my new horse, Aster...

She's perfect and beautiful.

And I will have many pictures to show you all soon.

But for now we're going to go ride.

Tuesday, June 15


Despite the fact that I have not actually bought the horse yet, we are considering names. And yes, I will be incredibly incredibly upset if this mare is not mine by this weekend.

Anyway, after going through about fifty gazillion names, we've narrowed it down to these. Poll time.

Rory - Aster - Xing* - Qing-Jao - Jengo

(Hey, if anyone knows if Xing is pronounced "zing" like I think or something completely different, let me know.)

I like Aster. Toby likes Rory. Rio likes Xing.

What choices.

Friday, June 11


The horse I'm trying to buy.

When buying a horse, it's usually pretty standard that the prospective buyer is given a week to a month's "trial time" with the horse to make sure it'll work out. This also ensures that the seller is not fucking over the buyer by giving the horse some sort of mood/injury-altering drug that would make it amazing until you got the horse home for a few days, when it turns out to be a bucking bronco and/or too lame to move.

The woman is a little iffy on this, so I say (just trying to calm the waters) that I'll put 20% down before the trial (not standard--you usually trial the horse with nothing down). She tells me that she doesn't feel comfortable doing that, because since there are no papers on the horse, how does she know I won't just run off with her?

As Toby relays this to me in sign (it was a damned phone conversation), I stare at him in disbelief.

"I manage a fucking stable you fucking moron," I sign, "where the fuck am I going to run to that you can't find me!!!"

Toby says, "All due respect, ma'am, but he manages a stable...I'm not sure there's anywhere he could go with a horse that you couldn't find him...also if he were going to run off with a horse it would probably be the $50,000 ones we keep here."

He signs to me, rolling his eyes: "I'm still not comfortable with that. If you can get me the money this weekend and find out it doesn't work out, I'll take the horse back before Wednesday only."

"Bitch," I sign.

"We'll get back to you," Toby says.

Wednesday, June 9


I finally got back on my Zoloft. Thank God, even though it made me sleep until noon today.

Most of you don't know this, but I recently took a second job at a restaurant. It's the kind of restaurant where only old people go--not exactly a booming business, but I guess I decided it was time for me to work in public service (or something), because it's been a long time since I did anything but work with horses.

Quick background: around the barn, what needs to get done gets done, no matter who does it. If someone sees something that needs to happen, they do it--even if that particular project was originally given to someone else. Some days I start work at eight in the morning and don't stop until I go to bed; other days, someone else will come in and help me so we're all done by noon or three or whatever. Same thing around the house: whoever sees there is something that needs to happen takes care of it. It's none of that "oh, I thought you were going to do it" or "that's not my job" or...whatever stupid thing people spout off.

And obviously I'm a little bit too used to this idea of helping other people out because it'll come back around to you, because it doesn't seem to work like this in the real world (or at least not in the world of this restaurant that teenagers inhabit).

I spend five hours bussing other people's tables and refilling other people's table's drinks and cleaning parts of the restaurant that are not included in my list of duties for the night and taking the tables that no one wants and saying, "yeah, you go ahead and go home, I'll stay." Who does Mr. Manager yell at for not being finished when everyone else is? You guessed it. I almost told him to go fuck himself, but I don't like conflict, so I just told him that the reason I wasn't done when everyone else was was because I did half their work and not only did they skip out on helping me, they didn't even bother to say thank you. That's right, when all the little blondies were standing around gossiping (oh yeah, and did Mr. Manager fail to miss that one of the other girls' boyfriends was in the restaurant and she was going over to him every three minutes trying to get the courage to break up with him? Talk to her about time management), I was doing their work. I'm the bad guy here.

Regarding this, I really want to pull the whole discrimination card, but I'm not really sure if it fits or not. It's no secret that I'm gay--after all, the boyfriend comes in several nights a week to sit in the corner, drink coffee, and work--but I'm not really sure it's an issue, either.

But seriously. Costomers love me; in the month since I've been there I've got nearly 10 positive comment cards, and it's not that often that people take the time to write a positive one. I get less tables than everyone else and yet still make better tips.

--

Enough crying.

I went and looked at a horse on Saturday, and she's exactly what I want. Cute little chestnut quarter horse, sound, great on trails, will do anything you ask her to. She doesn't jump, but it wouldn't be a problem to teach her. Now I just have to convince the current owner I'm trustworthy enough for her to accept a payment plan. I'll be talking to her tomorrow morning. I'm crossing my fingers it'll work out.

--

Also, I haven't been visiting any of my favorite blogs lately. Truthfully, my personal computer (with all my favorites, etc, on it) hasn't even been turned on for more than three days. It's crazy-busy over here, but I haven't forgotten about anyone (Keith and Jen especially).

--

Libby, regarding the Iowa twins: they referred to me as a "white trash gay boi who couldn't get a date" and then one of them threatened to smash my head in with a platform shoe.

Tuesday, June 8


I got reviewed.

So when I first got the email, I was planning to be all aloof and not comment on it at all. Not even mention it. It happened; let's move on; the end. (Um, yeah right--Libby knows me better than that, I hope. Remember the Iowa incident? I actually thought about mentioning them the other day--I think someone with Iowa plates cut me off or something.)

Anyway, back to me being aloof and not mentioning it. Let's just all pretend that happened, ok?

The person who reviewed me felt that my site belonged in the "adult" category instead of creative writing (where I submitted it). Do I really talk about sex that much? (Toby says, "Good thing you were too lazy to write about the other night.")

I think this is my favorite quote: ...along with a dose of covert anger.... I think I'm going to put it on my new banner when I get around to making one. I really didn't think I was that angry of a person (and I'll probably keep telling people I'm not), but Toby snorted coffee through his nose when I said it so I guess I really am. Also, sometimes my "disjointed thoughts" are "shocking." I'll have to go find some shocking stuff 'cause I thought I was being pretty boring.

There are some fairly explicit conversations of a sexual nature, and frequent references to anorexia. (Internal dialogue: I will not comment on unneeded comma I will not comment on unneeded comma I will not I will not) I gotta go looking for the sexual stuff, too, because I really didn't think it was that bad, but maybe that's just because I live in a house full of horny men so it's just not that strange for sex to come up in conversation. Anyway, the anorexia and my "unhappiness that spans so many levels" (yes, those are mocking quotations this time) yet there is no compassion because I am "self-destructive."

What the former paragraph is leading up to is this problem of mine where it's really hard for me to sit down and be all "blah blah blah, life is good, I went to Applebee's today and it was really fun, everything is great, so there's nothing to write about" -- because if there's nothing to write about, why the hell am I even here? So, admittedly, I write when something fucked up is on my mind (literally, figuratively, whatever). I assure you (and Libby might know this, too): I'm not as unhappy as I seem in this medium. Come on; in the last twelve hours I've spent nearly six of them playing MLB 2005 on the PS2 and the other six or so were spent sleeping. My life is not as dramatic as I would like to think it is, hence all the fun Three Faces of [Whoever] (dammit, are any of you ever going to get the reference???).

And the self-destructiveness of anorexia: Go talk to a cancer patient and tell them to stop being self-destructive, because when I've spent over three months (collectively) in the hospital in the last year and a half, and I have done everything I know to do to not be sick anymore--well, I don't know, is it really self-destructive when I don't want to self-destruct? I'm not sure if I just present myself in a way that seems like I want to be dead or hurt myself, or if it's just that weird belief that anorectics/bulimics "choose" to be that way ('cause we all want attention, y'all)...I'm not sure if that made any sense. But here's the deal: this "anorexia thing" will be on my mind forever. It's not going to go away. Most of the time I can keep it "under control" so it doesn't own me, but that doesn't mean that I don't have to make a conscious choice not to freak out everytime I'm expected to eat [without throwing up]. I'm gaining weight, actually--at 115-120--and I'll probably get back up to 150 or so before I lose again (if I do, cross your fingers).

Anorexia is one of the only major life-threatening mental disorders that doesn't have some pill you can pop or some "miracle cure." Since we're all supposed to be whiney teenage rich white girls, we're just supposed to suck it up and go on with our lives, but our disease is just as bad, if not worse, than a schizophrenic's or someone with bipolar disorder.

I knew this was going to turn into a tangent. Sorry everybody.

On a totally different subject, my subconscious is all over this story idea--something about backrap (if you don't drive a stick you don't know, and if you do you might not know either). Yeah, it'll involve this huge metaphor and I really hate metaphors (just say what you mean, dammit).

I've got a baseball game waiting on me. Royals vs. Devil Rays. Toby's going down. [insert evil grin]

Friday, June 4


We're all in a bad mood, therefore the communal thought is: "what a dumbass. let's kill him."

(My doctor went insane or something and apparently can't remember ever seeing me or treating me in any way, therefore it's unethical for him to refill my prescription for Zoloft. It's not like I spent a month in the hospital pretty much under his care or anything. It's also not like my friends call him every five seconds trying to get him to convince me that I need to go back in the hospital. But no, he doesn't remember me, so it's week two with no happy pills.)

Wednesday, June 2


what i like about you:

#34738 we can be having sex and you'll say something and we'll both start laughing so hard we have to give up and go watch law & order instead.

Tuesday, June 1


Every generation has it's hippies -- and, sadly, I am one of those hippies. Today I was hanging out with some of my DK friends and

(Wait. Hold up. I need to know if DK is a localized term (because there is the possibility that it's so localized it's only used by people at a certain school, or it may be like "counter!" in which only a few special people know about it), so if any of you happen to be young enough or know someone young enough to be "in" with slang, ask them if DK has any special meaning to them. And no, it's not Donkey Kong. Really has nothing to do with video games at all.)

ok, and we were sitting around in the grass, grilling hotdogs on our pathetic grill (it only took us an hour to figure out how to light the damn coals -- yeah, we're real men), talking philosophy and ambiguous sexuality. It was all very "make love, not war" and "burn those fuckin commies down!"

All we needed was bell-bottoms and some weed and we'd be good. (Oops, I forgot; we are straight-edge, and we are the kind of fags that like to dress like men, not women, despite Mr. Dreadlocks and his vinyl hotpants -- but I won't get into it.) "Hi, I'm James, and I'm a hippie."