Give A Man A Mask

Maybe I surround myself with attractive friends in order to sustain my piss poor self-esteem regarding my appearance.

I am nothing more than a collection of broken bottle dreams, assembled haphazardly and poised to shatter at any moment. Shatter now. Shatter please. Break. I need to break.

The only upside to sometimes getting depressed when I drink is that every once in a while I’ll write something that I don’t hate.

Did you know that most men are heterosexuals? And that these heterosexual men are just, fucking, everywhere? In theatre we live in by a  ”gay until proven straight” maxim. Much to my chagrin, I’m realizing that the real world doesn’t work that way.

I love straight people. They’re great. But now that I’ve ventured away from the world of theatre, the knowledge that most of the men I interact with are likely straight has been an added, unexpected and dreadfully unfortunate hurdle in my quest for a boy.

I thought, however, that I had a secret weapon: Style. I stand out at Northwestern, yes, because I’m black and we’re an endangered species here, but also because of the way I dress. My sense of style is about average for New York, but here, in the midwest, I’m Karl-fucking-Lagerfeld. People have to know when they come into contact with me that I’m gay, right? Wrong.

Some people definitely do. But not everyone. Some people don’t want to make assumptions (which is totesz~* cool). But the most frustrating thing that I’ve had to deal with this quarter is the attention I’ve received from attractive men, who, after stalking their Facebooks, seem to be straight. Which leads to only more confusion. Am I reading into things too much? Are they in the closet? Should I just throw myself out of a window now and get it over with?

They say that there are plenty of fish in the sea, but what happens to my standings when less than 10 percent of fish are playing for my team?

The candy I keep finding hidden in the folds of my bed sheets are the perfect illustration for the drought that is my sex life.

My back falls out of whack if I sleep on the wrong side, I’m blind without my glasses, and now, to add to the list of aches and pains that have me convinced I’m an elderly man, my knees have been in pain all week.

I slept for about three hours in a super uncomfortable, super small couch on Saturday night and when I woke up to head home, my knees hurt a lot. I was hoping it would just go away, and the pain did get less severe. Today I thought it was finally safe to go to the gym. WRONG. I got off the elliptical and felt a shooting pain with every step.

It’s times like these when I just want my mom(my) or dad(dy) to tell me to get in the car, and drive me to the appropriate facility. But here, it’s just me and my bike. Ugh. I’ll go to the campus facility tomorrow if I wake up early enough.

In a gif:

In a long-winded rant:

The media production class I’m in culminates in a final project that’s a 5 minute film. In a class riddled with super talented individuals, I assume that this project will be easy enough. But, of course, Murphy’s law rears its ugly head. I thoroughly enjoy the people in my group. They’re hilarious and I want to be friends with most of them! But for the most part, they don’t know what they’re doing.

The ‘original leader’ of the group (there isn’t an official leader, but she was the one to get things rolling) was great at first. Except that she thought it appropriate for us to plan things over Facebook when we all have university e-mail, but fine. Lo and behold, planning our first meeting over Facebook didn’t pan out well, so I took the liberty of sending an e-mail to the group explaining that which I expected from each member and when we would meet. It worked. But uh-oh. Now there are two leaders.

She tries. She really does try to make things happen. But she’s just terribly inaffective. She tried to plan our first meeting. She failed. She tried to make a Doodle. Failed. Her only real task is to  make a shooting schedule for the film, and she did do that…but not before changing my shot list. My role in the film is that of the Director of Photography. Girl. You dont just change the DP’s shotlist.

And now, being that I’m the most responsive member of the group to her incessant texts and Facebook messages (she still insists on them), she keeps delegating work to me that’s not in my job description. Not only have I had the most labor-intensive role in the pre-production of this film, I’ve also helped others with locations and casting. I’m done helping when I have my own job to do.

tl:dr

I don’t have the time to be at your beck and call, Carlie. I got your texts and Facebook messages, but, at this point, I’ve decided to stop responding. We’re big boys and girls. So use e-mail.

It’s been two months since I last posted. Why? I think mostly because I allowed my screenwriting class to fill my writing quota for the latter half of last quarter. Also, because I had no time to think, let alone, write for fun in the latter half of last quarter.

But we’re 6 weeks into spring quarter and I still haven’t been writing. Why? Because I’m lazy. Because most of my free time has been spent sleeping or at the gym.

But I’m writing. Now. Tonight. Why? Because it’s 12:44 and I can’t sleep, because there’s a million things going on in my mind. So I’m writing. 

Hello.

You called me beautiful. Not cute. Or sexy. Or hot. Beautiful. Beautiful’s not one of the words you’re allowed to just throw around. It’s got heft. Weight.

You called me beautiful. I don’t care if you were shit-faced. I don’t care if we’d never spoken before that night. I don’t care if this may have been prompted by your raging hormones (you were too drunk for us to do anything other than make out a little anyway).

You called me beautiful. And you friended me on Facebook the next day. You don’t just friend a random hook up on Facebook. But you never message me. I still check Facebook every once in a while to see if you’re on, so I can message you. But you’re never on, and I don’t think I’d know how to start up a conversation. Anyway, you called me beautiful. Starting conversations is your job.

You called me beautiful and you’re an upperclassmen, so everything you do is coated in a sheen of intelligence and maturity.

You called me beautiful and remember that day we accidentally ate lunch together? I was sitting in one of the dining hall’s eating alone with Michelle, and she says to me that a friend of hers is coming to join us and that I should really meet him. And I ask what his name is. And she says yours. And before I can abandon this potentially very awkward ship, you’re there and you eat with us and you’re not awkward, you’re actually very nice and have great eyebrows.

You called me beautiful. It’s been a month, and I’ve seen you three times since. The chances of anything happening between us are slim to none, so of course it’s you that I’ll pin all my hopes and dreams on. 

You called me beautiful and it reminded me that I’m not cut out for hooking up. You reminded me that I want intimacy. You reminded me of how nice it is to be called beautiful by someone who means it. Someone who understands how heavy that word is. How expensive that word is. Someone who gives it to you anyway.

You called me beautiful. And even if we never speak again, I’m going to believe you meant it.

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the lord reincarnate me as Sailor Venus.