...and ended up a beast. This is an epicly long personal essay about me being queer and my relationship with my mother. It's definitely still a work in progress, so I'd love any and all feedback.

*NOTE: All the dialogue was in italics before I copy and pasted it, and now isn't...sorry if that causes any confusion, but I'm kinda too lazy too fix it. :] *
--

Behind the Boxes of Old Clothes and the Forgotten Fur Coat
It was early summer, though you couldn't tell from looking at the sky, overcast and cloudy as it was. But I swam regardless, head emerging from the water only when I was out of air. The distancing of sound and the rhythm of the movements gave me room to think; with each lap, I tried to work my way through the tangle of contradictions in my head.

My family is big, and our lives chaotic. There is always something going on—people talking, kids screaming, pots banging. And amidst the chaos there has always been stories: stories of crazy neighbors, of ghosts at my grandparents', of childhood misadventures. Against this backdrop of constant movement and noise, silence is noticeable. Where giving every gory, insignificant detail is standard, any attempt to avoid or gloss over is glaringly obvious.
I don't want to sound melodramatic; there are no frightening skeletons in the familial closet, lurking behind boxes of ancient sweaters and forgotten Christmas presents. There's only me here, and I'm still breathing, thank you very much.
I'm gay, see, and closeted.
It's not as if my family is full of fundamentalist crazies or socially conservative Republican die-hards. On the whole, we—they—are a relatively accepting bunch. Just not without exception.

It's a bad choice, my mother had said, just moments before. We just want her to be happy, and she can't be if she's—with a girl. As my hands brushed one end of the pool, my feet pushing off the wall and propelling me through the water, I realized, stomach lurching, that my parents had holes in their perfection, their professed acceptance; my friend Gennie's recent coming out only emphasized that.
I moved through the water at a steady pace, counting each stroke: one, two, three, four. One, two—swerve to avoid my brother's floating toy—three, four. One, two, three, four. I hoped the numbers would grow big enough to swallow my confusion whole, to leave me simply swimming, instead of elbow-deep in what I was sure was a mid-life crisis—one, unfortunately, that could not be fixed with an expensive sports car.
But they didn't, nor did they mask the slight nausea that rolled in my stomach, worrying itself into a tight, heavy knot. Truthfully, I'd been feeling my way around the edges of this hole in their acceptance for a while now—but this was different. Previously firm convictions—and my parents' infallibility—were knocked out from under me, leaving me floundering. Being gay, it seemed, was okay only if you stayed over there; if you were close but not that close, fine. Make the choices you will. But cross that invisible barrier—become one of us instead of one of them—and something shifts.

My first remembered encounter with homosexuality began simply enough: some relative was visiting, and brought along a child, Brandy, who was my age. Brandy can't hear, my mother said. But she's just like you. Be nice; play with her. And she was, and I did. Brandy has two moms, she said. And I never thought to ask where her father was, saying only, brightly, that I wished I had two moms as well.
It was an auspicious beginning gone wrong. To be honest, I didn't realize Brandy's parents were gay until my freshmen year health class, when we had the token gay talk. I made the connection—Brandy's moms were, in fact, lesbians in class; afterwards, I rushed to find my sister and share my epiphany. Instead of being startled, or flustered at all, she stared at me. Of course, Al. Kinda weird, though, huh? Then she shut her locker, gathered her books, and left.
And that was that. As always, there were no discussions or back-story. You got some vague dialogue, and that was it.

I directly followed my mother's firm denunciation of Gennie's “choice” with a round of questioning—nonchalantly, I had hoped. But I never was good at nonchalance.
I asked if she was so sure Gennie's choice was wrong, what she thought about legalizing same-sex marriage, about adoption, about any queer topic I could think of. I was sprawled out on the carpet, looking up at her. I don't remember her exact words, or the ideas she so carefully, thoughtfully phrased. I only remember my normally unrestrained and cheerful mother's sudden reserve.
Her answers were normal, expected: gay couples could get married, adopt. But her eyes made it clear: she pitied them—and she pitied Gennie.
It's just, she said, slowly, there won't be any little Gennies running around, if she keeps up like this. She'll—miss out. On things.
The conversation ended there.

I was still in shock when I slid into the pool, still in shock as I swam lap after lap, trying to grasp the contradictions, the faulty logic behind my mother's justifications. I had needed her to tell me, concretely, in black or white terms, what she thought of Gennie—of me. I wanted good or bad, right or wrong; instead, I got a shady gray area. Concern and pity—misguided sympathy—served only to cloud the matter. And I could not wrap my head around a solution, no matter that I stayed in the water till my fingers pruned, emerging exhausted and no more certain than when I started.

I came out to her eventually, a year or so later, when the secret was buzzing incessantly around my mind, a steady pressure against my ribs. I had gotten into the practice of reciting the words in an endless, internal mantra. Mom? I would think, when we were alone, driving or walking the dogs, I kinda-think-I-might-be-gay. Even in my head, I had to rush to say it before my imaginary courage failed me.
And then, one day, it simply slipped out. Mom? My voice faltered, and she must've known something was going on, because she looked up immediately, concerned. And when I shrugged and said quickly, never mind, she wouldn't let it go. She badgered and poked and prodded like any decent mother until, shakily, I told her.
I cried when I did; she hugged me, and told me it was okay. She still loved me. We talked and she asked a series of questions—how did I know? How long? Did it start with someone in particular? I answered awkwardly, avoided the tough spots, the “not-quite-a-legitimate-relationship” arguments she was getting at. This was more than good enough for now. After all, as she'd said, You're only fifteen. Things could change.
As we walked back to the house, she sang me lullabies.

We had talked about the next step that night—about telling my father, my siblings—but it never materialized. I don't blame her, really; I was still unsure of myself, and once the pressure was gone, I let myself be pushed back into the closet. She was right, I told myself, about the change thing—I was only 15. How could I know?

I can count on one hand the number of times in the following two years we talked about me being gay; I can recall clearly the hesitation that marked each encounter, each vague conversation. We drew up unwritten rules: explicit words—gay, lesbian, queer—were to be avoided at all costs; one should never be sure in one's “decision”—confusion and ambiguity were the best routes to go.
Coming out, I discovered, was not the climax of the story between my mother and me. It didn't actually change much of anything; I was still unsure, and I was still closeted—now more than ever. My mother, privy to all other aspects of my life, was carefully excluded from this part. She wanted only to help me, to guide me—but they say the way to hell is paved with good intentions.

It was a five-week summer program, a residential program of relatively intense academic caliber, and I had meant to come out during week one. It hadn't happened, though, at least on a scale beyond my writing teacher and one of my better friends. I went to the Gay-Straight Alliance meeting anyway.
It was held during dinner, in a room off the main dining hall. There was only a handful of people at first, most of us clustered awkwardly around a few tables. But the stream of people coming in was steady; by the time an intern, Emmet, started the meeting, there were more than 30 people there. We began with introductions; Emmett went first. Obviously, he said, I'm Emmett, and I'm here because I'm gay.
Surprisingly few people were GLBT; most explained they were there to be supportive, or because they wanted to find out more. In the introductions before mine, not a single student had said they were queer.
I was sitting in the middle of the room, and the process was slow; I couldn't help but feel queasy—although that could've as easily been from the unidentifiable vegetables I was eating as from anything else. I was a mess. Should I come out? That'd mean doing crisis control and rushing to find Julia before she discovered her roommate was gay from someone else. Various other complications—what would my yoga partner think? Would my master teacher care?—swam suddenly to the forefront of my mind. Yet, the idea of not being honest about my sexuality at a GSA meeting played heavily on my sense of the absurd.
The line of introductions crept slowly toward me; the kid next to me spoke and sat down with a thump. It was my turn.
I stood up, cleared my throat. I'm Alli, I said, flushing under the eyes trained on me, and I'm gay, so this is all kinda important to me. I fell back into my seat as I finished talking, reaching for my water, hand shaking slightly.
I was out.

It was great to be out. None of my friends—even my roommate, who I had convinced myself would react badly—particularly cared one way or the other. Yet, joking with them about being gay, or the way it would casually slip into conversation, left me subtly, sublimely happy. Mentioning I was gay no longer left me agonizing in a corner over the various repercussions; life wasn't perfect, but it was a definite improvement.

A few weeks after I came home from my summer program, my mother asked me if I was still “confused.”
Yeah, I said, keeping my eyes trained on the ground. I am. I didn't tell her that, for the most part, I was not confused at all—I knew I wasn't straight. But explaining that would take longer than the length of our walk.
After a few moments of silence, she asked, hesitantly, Have you told anyone?
Uh, yeah. I told Julia, at St. Paul's.
You did? Her voice caught slightly; she didn't even try to mask her surprise. How did she...react?
I wanted to answer defiantly, to prove to her that not even my roommate, social conservatism and all, was bothered by it. But I kept my eyes focused on the ground. She didn't care.
Oh. Did you—tell anyone else?
The answer she wanted was clear. No, I lied.

I wasn't thinking when I answered her, wasn't analyzing the good or bad. I was simply trying to get away—my mind shut down, I was entering fight-or-flight mode. I couldn't stay to fight it out. She had always told me to pick my battles—though admittedly, she was generally referring to the World War III-like atmosphere that characterized relations between my siblings and me in our early years. The lesson, however, had sunk in.
I was choosing my battles carefully, whether she realized it or not, and it was a Cold War between us.

The “good” at the beginning of her sentence was implied. Well, she said, I don't think you should—tell people either. At school. You wouldn't want them to get the wrong idea of you, to—to label you.
I was no longer floundering in the blank spot of my parents' acceptance; the lines in the sand had been drawn. I stood on one side, they on the other.
But they didn't know that yet. So, Of course not, Mom, I mumbled, and walked faster. I couldn't tell her that I'd been happy when people knew. That they were getting, for once, the right idea, not the wrong one.
Instead, I walked home in front of her, mind entirely blank. I wasn't ready for this conversation.

Sometimes I wonder if she had dreams for me: of marriage, a family, a husband. I wonder if me coming out destroyed those dreams, or if she still hopes that she can guide me onto the path of a white picket fence, 2.5 kids, and a golden retriever.
I don't begrudge her that fantasy; for the most part, that's been her life, if you substitute a lab for the golden retriever and add a kid and a half. And she's been happy with it. It makes sense she'd want the same for me.
But that is, I think, the fundamental problem between us: we're different. As a kid, people always said I looked like her, but now I'm hard-pressed to find the curve of her nose in my own, or her smile caught on the edges of my mouth. When it boils down to it, we're two fundamentally different people. She's cheerful, a people person, always willing to feed people and play the host; I'm more reserved, antisocial. And yet, these differences have never come between us: different I may be, but I've always been her daughter, even when I'd rather bury my nose in a book than socialize or learn to cook.
My sexuality, however, is different. I'm gay and she's straight. I have effectively removed myself from her realm of experience, her protective bubble. She'll never quite understand what it is I go through, and honestly, I think this scares her; her concern for me is, for the most part, motivated by her love for me, and worry about what lays outside of her own experience.
And yet, even with the justifications, I can't really forgive her. I know she's my mother, and I know she's supposed to worry about me—but sometimes, I wish her worry would take on a different form. It's hard enough to have to confront other people's unintentional homophobia, never my mind my mother's; knowing she's only doing it in an attempt to keep me safe doesn't negate the fact that she's doing it.
But we're close, and we always have been. This makes it harder, I think; I can't really be mad at her, or even frustrated, in any sense other than the abstract. I know I should be angry, and on some level, I am. A friend of mine maintains that she will always angry with my mother, indignantly informing me that no one should have to go through this; but it's not as if this is the only topic or conversation or connection between my mother and me. I can't very well simplify our relationship to one sticking point.
And let's be honest: it takes two to tango. This situation is as much my fault as her; after all, even given the perfect situation to bring up my queerness, to have a discussion with her, I'm not sure I would. Bringing it up in a conversation is even harder than sustaining anger; if I couldn't stand her, or was furious with her, maybe then I'd be able to say something—but I can't even imagine it. I don't think there'd be a fight; there wouldn't be yelling, or arguments, or anything of the sort. But I'd disappoint her and, if I'm being honest, I'm not quite ready to do that any more than I already have.
So for now, it's easiest to just be quiet, to let her remarks about future husbands and vague one-sided conversations about the benefits of being closeted go by uncontested. Eventually, I'll have to tell her; it's not a conversation we can avoid forever. But there is no time line, no set list of future events. For the moment, things are okay as there are, and while I know I should claim that I'll take the initiative sometime soon and tackle the matter head on, for now all I can really say is that we'll all just have to wait and see.

I hate high school with every bone of my body. I have very few friends and the ones I did have were older and have thus graduated and moved on to bigger and better things, leaving me alone.

I'm a senior now, which is good because I'll be doing the leaving and next year I'll be gone gone gone. The mantra in my head is not so much a sentence or a word but an image: me, at college, surrounded by friends and walking between classes and having intellectual discussions and falling in love and my god, I know nothing can live up to my daydreams, but it's getting me through right now, and at this point I half expect to hate it anyways--college, I mean--simply because I've built it up so much.

But even that doesn't matter, because as of right now I have no where to go. I had a list, and I've visited two on the list--and hated both of them. So I'm madly scrambling to find more schools, more settings for my idealistic, ridiculous day dreams. I want a gay friendly school, a liberal school, a school with amazing academics. I don't think places like that actually exist. I don't think any place I can run to will fix my problems in one wave of a pretty, collegiate wand.

But that doesn't stop the day dreams.

Previously...

June 2007: "I kinda like this girl, GW. [...] Oh, did I mention [she] was gay?

I mean, I liked her before I knew that--I've liked her for years (pathetic, I know, shut up), and she came out last year. A few months before she came out, I had started questioning, realized I liked her, etc. And then she came out and it was like...shiiit.

But the thing is...nothing would have (or will) ever happen. Even though she's gay, she's four years older than I am and completley not interested. And she doesn't know I like girls. "

Today's Episode...

I've been working on coming out to people--I came out at Summer Program X, and because of an essay I wrote there and am continuing to work on, I've made myself come out to three other people. Which is great, obviously, and is hopefully a trend I'll continue. But, that's not the point--the point is I came out to GW (mentioned above).

It was over IM and was pretty basic; I mentioned that the essay I was writing was about being gay and closeted, she had a moment of "Wait, what?" and then admitted she'd kind of guessed. At any rate, we had a mutual angst fest about our mothers, and talked for a while...then she said:

GW: so your mother probably thinks I'm a corrupting influence, huh?
me: haha...that's funnier (and truer) than you think
GW: what do you mean?
me: nothing, it's silly <---[that's me regretting saying anything]
GW: [badgers for a big]
me: weeeell, i had this epic crush on you in middle school...you know, when you were cool and older and in high school. then i realized what a dork you were and got over it . :]

I was a bit worried she was sketched out, as we didn't talk about it for the rest of the (long) conversation. In her next letter to me though, (we send each other snail mail 'cause we're cool like that) she talked about how she was glad I IM'ed her. And then she said, "And this will make me sound oh-so-sketchy, but I've liked you too."

I won't lie--when I read this I flipped out. I simply couldn't believe it. I never thought the interest was mutual--and to be honest, dorky and geeky me never thought it was possible for anyone to like me. And then GW admits she did?! It was pretty great...and unfortunately only added fire to the flame that has been burning pretty constantly for the past four or five years. It's a shame she has a serious girl friend--and that her confession was in the past tense. But I lied about having liked her only in middle school--could she have lied about the past tense of her like-age as well?

Doubtful, I know, but I'll hold onto any thread I can get. It doesn't help that she followed "I've liked" with a completely inked out word. Generally, she scratches out her mistakes with a single line. Is it over analyzing to think it means something?

To be honest, I'm not sure what to do...come clean about still liking her and fuck up our relationship? I mean, she has a girl friend...obviously her attraction to me can't be too strong...and yet.

So, dear Oasians, WHAT DO I DO?!

Long story short: I'm at dork camp. I have a room mate. Room mate and I are pretty close--we hang out a fair amount and stuff. Now, a lot of the girls talk about guys. And when I say talk about guys, I mean continually obsess over them. It's kinda crazy, not gonna lie.

Anyways, Room mate has a bit of a crush on a guy so we talk about him, her exes, etc. And I dunno...I kinda want to come out to her. But this might not go well: she's relatively conservative, she uses "gay" as a synonym for stupid, and has on several occurrences explained a joke about her being a lesbian and then continually reassured me that she is, in fact, not.

I really want to come out in general, mostly in an attempt to get the continual guy fest to knock it off; but I don't want to come out without giving Room mate a fair warning first.

So, anyone know the etiquette / have any advice for this sticky situation?

Earlier this week I had a beatdown with a-now-ex-friend. Basically, she'd been a bitch/taking advantage of me and my family for years, and my sisters and I finally burst. It started 'cause she was a bitch to my sister when she just asked her how she was...and then it spiraled into an epic fight.

It's kind of long and involved (and boring, I think, for everyone else) so I won't go into the details, but basically we aren't even making eye-contact anymore, despite being in some of the same classes. I'm not too torn up about it because I knew it would happen eventually, but it's still tough.

Anyway, while tearing apart this person, I mentioned coming out to her and how she never really supported me or talked about it with me--because for her it was all about her. Anyways, my sisters, who were previously unaware of my gayness were in the room, and they came over crying and were like "we still love you."

And neither of them has mentioned it since.

I'm always so surprised when you half-mention something like being gay and it never gets brought up again. I feel wicked selfish, but I just feel like it's worthy of their attention, you know? Which is silly. But still.

So, I have this friend. We're not insanely close, but we're pretty good friends, and I'm familiar with her family and all. This year we've gotten closer, if only because we have a class together.

Now, this friend's brother is transgendered. I don't really know him--he's five or six years older than me and goes to Oxford to study classics, which is a while world away. But I have met him, and he's pretty cool, if a bit weird.

Anyways, so. The class my friend and I are in together is Adv. Writing. We're "mentors"--that is, when we write a piece we conference together. This week's assignment was family memoir.

She wrote about her brother. And it was brilliant--not like an "omg, you're amazing!!!1!!" kinda way. More subtle than that. The piece wasn't dramatic or anything like that--it just was. Everything was so matter of fact; there was never even a question of her accepting him.

There were specific lines--she said something about labels just being labels, something you can take off and restick again and again. And there was a brief scene, when he left for college, and she went through his drawers. She found things, of course--the ace bandage he used to bind with, one of his baggy sweaters, and a razor blade in a little Chinese box. She said it made sense, then, after seeing it all.

Ah. I can't do this piece justice. It was just--it was so good. It was matter-of-fact and kinda blase and just so understated and brilliant. She doesn't even like writing and she's fucking amazing.

For some reason, the ace-bandage, and everything she found, is really sticking with me

Ugh. I'm jealous and admiring and awestruck. I really wish I could share it with you all, but I don't have a copy or her permission. So yeah. Just trust me--it was incredible.

So there's this girl.

I've talked about here before--she's the one who was in my history of women class. (which we're not talking about, as apparently it's a sore subject at Oasis :])

Anyways, so, it's not like I'm obsessed with her. I don't go thinking about her constantly, and I very rarely see her in the halls. But when I do--oh boy. Even if I don't know it's her--sometimes I even think she's a guy, if I just see the back of her head--I'm always thinking to myself, "Daaaamn!"

I don't know what it is about her---no one else thinks she's that hot--at least, she's not one of the hot-girls-by-popular-consensus. But I just think she's so fucking attractive, even when she looks like shit. Sometimes, she literally takes my breath away.

She's not skinny, almost chubby. Most of it though is her build; she's short (taller than me but that's not hard) but not petite--kinda a square build, but that doesn't really describe her because it ignores the curves and the smooth contours of it all.

Walking behind her in the hall, seeing a sliver of skin where her jeans and shirt meet, drives me crazy. Her hair is so gorgeously messy it makes me ache. I could stare at her freckles, at her amazingly long lashes, at her eyes, for hours.

At this point, I'm sure you think I'm lying about the lack of obsesiveness--but it's true. I really don't. Well sometimes I do--not often, though (anymore). Mostly these fits of longing just occur as a result of direct observation, which thankfully don't happen too often or I'd be dazed and drooling all the time.

Rumor has it she's a bitch, but rumor's often unreliable. Who knows? Maybe we'd make the perfect pair. :]

I have no patience for tears.

It's not that I don't cry, because I do--a fair amount, actually. It's just that when I do, I do so in the privacy of my own room. I'll have none of this public crying nonsense--tearing up, yes, but full-out crying? Not so much.

I had a bad day yesterday--both of my sisters were bitches to me, and it was just a bad day in general--but I did not cry until I was alone.

Today, apparently, sister A. is having a bad day. As the outburst of tears would seem to say. Maybe it makes me a bitch or cold, or whatever, but crying and bawling and carrying on irritate me. Go do it in private--it's not something I should have to be forced to watch.

I know, I know--I'm a bitch. I should have sympathy and empathy and all that...

Is it just me, or is there an awful lot of new people here at Oasis? At least, that's what it seems like to me.

But anyways. Before I get to the actual part of my post I just want to say something to everybody here at Oasis--that is, I want to introduce something to you. They're called paragraphs.

I know, I know, it's a crazy idea. But seriously, coupled with correct punctuation, spaces after periods, and decent spelling, they prevent people from GOUGING THEIR EYES OUT. I'm not gonna lie--I don't even read journals that don't include all of the above. Maybe I'm elitist bitch but hey, it's really for the good of everybody. Otherwise, people are stuck with frustrating, illegible chunks of text.

[/PUBLIC HEALTH ANNOUNCEMENT]

Ah-em. Now onto the actual post.

So, I walk into Adv. Writing today, and there, sitting at Ms. X's desk is JD.

Now, I don't actually know JD. She was in the class of '05, so graduated the year before I was a freshman. However, I do know of her. The class of '05 was apparently populated by demi-gods, and Ms. X adores every single one of them; consequently, we hear a ton of their writing / know their life stories. (In their defense, they are pretty amazing.)

ANYWAYS. This JD girl? Yeah, she's pretty much amazing. She's gorgeous (though her hair cut is a bit oddly) and she has a great voice--never mind a great ass--and is artistic and literary and funny and sarcastic and in general just, well, awesome.

She spent the whole class talking to us: about writing, publishing, and reading us some of her stuff. (Which was incredible.)

For those unaware, cool personality + gorgeousness = amazing awesome attractiveness. Which means Cynical1 had an awesome class, just sitting and drooling over this girl.

Too bad she has a bf--who's a great guy. Too bad she's way out of my league. Too bad she's kinda illegal. Haha. Anyways.

So Ms. X made JD read this slam poem she wrote in high school, called something like "Everything I Read Sounds like Sex." (which it does.)

So she reads it, and it's pretty funny--basically she's just making fun of herself, and most of it is totally true. But yeah--while she was reading this poem while sounding / pretending to be overly sexy and seductive, she kept eye-contact with me. The entire time.

Me? I was dying a slow death on the inside. Here is this fantastic girl, totally off limits. This girl I'm probably never gonna meet.

So yeah. Then I got depressed 'cause I realized that I'm sad and pathetic on so many levels--like the fact that I'm a geek and a nerd and haven't had any action whatsoever even though I'm sixteen and lust over girls I'm never gonna know / have no chance with.

Ahh. But whatever. It--she--was worth it. As was the faux eye-sex.

Totally worth it.

And by slept with, I mean I shared a bed and we literally went to sleep. Not, y'know, anything sexual. But it got you reading, didn't it?

So yeah. I don't really have anything to say, but I do have two large papers to write and SATs to study for. Therefore, it's time to write a journal entry--flawless logic, I know.

Ummm. Not much going on in my life right now. It's vacation, but I've got a shit load to do. It's almost March, which means that in about three weeks, I'll find out if I got into Summer Program X. I've decided that if I do get in to Summer Program X, I'm coming out, end of story. Of course, first I have to get in...

Speaking of coming out, etc., very soon I'll be working on the set for Guitar Night, which is, as the name suggests, a musical event/ shindig held at my school. And the senior class is running it, so I'll get to (hopefully) spend a fair amount of time with this amazingly hot senior girl on student council.

She was in my History of Women class, which was sadly only a semester class and is now over, and despite the fact that I worked on Guitar Night's set last year, I've said all of about two words to her.

But, she's gorgeous. Sorry, did I say that already? It's just, y'know, she really is. She's kinda butch--short hair, multiple piercings--so who knows, she might be gay. Maybe I'll come out to her and she'll come out to me and we'll start going out...and maybe she'll profess her undying love and get down on one knee and propose.

Haha. I amuse even myself sometimes. I'm pretty sure she's not gay, even though she has had no bf's, to my knowledge. But whatever, I'm just day dreaming. Anyways, I'm off to write five pages on why I think religion is a social construct, and then another fourteen pages on Iraq. Joy.

Something I wrote for my brand-new semester elective, Advanced Writing. I think I'll leave it at that--knowing the prompt makes it not as fun, I think. Kinda ruins the (nonexistent) suspense. Anyways, comments + constructive criticism would be awesome!

--

I am not a mess. I thought I should make this clear—maybe I'm a slob, or a dork, but I am not a mess. I am calm, I am logical, I am organized. My notebook was already open to a clean, empty page, my pen perfectly parallel beside it. I had set my hands, folded, deliberately in front of me. I wasn't going to fidget, not in front of her. Never mind the fact that my mind was buzzing, that I needed to get it out—this wasn't going to work unless I was firm.
I had been on time—I always am, if it's just me. She wasn't, of course. She never was, and frankly, it drove me crazy. The clock, slightly behind and to the side of me, ticked. It was a constant, steady noise—and I swear each movement of the second hand dragged on for an eternity. The air in the room was thick, soggy; even time had a hard time dragging itself onward. Tick. Where was she, anyways? It wasn't like she had anything better to do. Tick. If she didn't come soon, I was just going to leave. Tick. The absolute stillness in the room was going to drive me crazy; not a single thing moved, nothing crackled or whispered or hummed, except for that damn clock .Tick. What time was it, anyways? I craned my neck, twisting slightly in my seat. Tick. My eyes found the face of the clock, pausing briefly to take in the position of the hands. 3:06. Tell me it hadn't been only six minutes. Oh god. Tick. Tick. Tick. Where was she? The least she could, the very smallest courtesy was to at least—
The front door suddenly slammed, and I froze, head cocked. The rhythm of her gait confirmed it, and a smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. She came skipping in through the doorway—she never walked, not if she could help it—and paused in front of the window, in front of her chair. She was back-lit by the light slanting inwards, her slight frame obscured by layers of brightly colored clothing, by greens and reds and browns. Standing there, frozen, she looked statuesque, goddess like. You could almost see the simple curves and folds of cloth, the poise with which she must have once held herself. “Alli?” she said, questioningly, and I smiled in spite of myself, relieved. She had, like all things, changed with time. She, if nothing else was, was malleable, flexible, ever-changing and omnipresent.
“Sit,” I said. “We need to talk.”
A smile played at the edges of her mouth, jokingly, teasingly, and I couldn't help but grin back. She slid into the chair, simultaneously dropping her bag onto the floor. It fell with a heavy thud, things inside clattering and jangling before settling into silence. “About what?” Her voice was light, airy, and she leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms above her head, body taut before releasing and slouching forward. Bangles clanged on her wrist, and she spread her hands out, slender fingers decked out in rings, her nail polish pink and chipping.
I paused, hesitating before saying, sternly, “This writing thing, well, it's jut not working out.”
“Oh, c'mon! What are you talking about?” Even now, she couldn't be serious. Her eyes were smiling, even when her mouth wasn't, and everything about her was distracting.
“That's the thing,” I said, dragging my eyes away from hers. “I just don't feel that we're both as, um, committed. You know, on the same page.”
She tossed her head, grinning again. She paused, making me wait, pushing a stray curl behind her ear.“Alli.” She laughed a bit as she said it. “Seriously!”
I rapped my fingers on the table, irritated. “What? I thought this was, you know, an equal partnership! You help out, I help out—every one's happy.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” she smiled again, impishly. She leaned forward, and that's the thing, I couldn't help myself—she was practically magnetic, and I found myself leaning forward too. “I'm your muse, remember? I show up, bring some inspiration, and disappear again—that's my job!”
She laughed again, and I was tempted, in my suddenly foul mood, to burst forth into cliches, and liken it to the tinkling of silver bells. Clearly, she wasn't doing her job.
“Anyways,” she said, standing abruptly, “I think I've—” she paused, shoving up her sleeve to glance at a watch that wasn't there. “really gotta go!” She grabbed her bag from the floor, and skipped out the door, before hesitating, placing her hand on the door frame. “I'll be back,” she said, firmly.
I looked up, suddenly hopeful. “Soon?”
And then the impish smile was back. She turned the corner, disappearing out of my sight, a single, lilting word drifting back to me: “Maybe.”

So I'm the midget lesbian, except I'm not really sure about the lesbian bit (unfortunately, I'm quite sure about the midget part) and besides, pastoral implies something pleasant, which this is anything but.

Anyways, hello again. I'm back for one of my semi-annual and entirely unfair unloadings upon the folks at Oasis.

So, previously on The Life and Times of Cynical1: I didn't like guys, and did not understand this crush nonsense. I discovered that I liked girls. I kinda liked a guy. I decided I was done with labels. I decided I was bi. I decided bi didn't quite cover it, what with the implication of an equal-liking of genders, and besides that I was too confused to fit a label to myself.

Now, right now, life is stressful even without the whole gay thing. Academically, I feel like my life is made up of tests that I don't know the answer to. Which is sadly also an apt metaphor for my sexual orientation.

1.Are you:
A. Gay
B. Bi
C. Straight

Okay, well we can cross off C, but other than that it's up to eni-meni-mini-mo. Damn it. I guess I have a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right, at any rate.

So, I feel like screaming that I'm gay off the top of roof tops, but I don't want to pull one of those “Bi-gay-straight, no god damn it's bi!” Which is silly, 'cause I doubt anyone cares that much. After all, it's me—practically asexual in the eyes of everyone around me.

I'm feeling so—I don't know. Confined? I guess it's the Heterosexual Lovefest that's been going on around me that's pissed me off. My kinda best friend suddenly got a boyfriend—her first—and I'm left standing in the dust. She didn't tell me they kissed, or pretty much anything—but she told this other chick. WTF? You'd think, being her best friend and all, I'd be first on her list. But nooo. Despite the fact that I was there for her for years—through her parents' divorce, and all her previous life troubles—she now goes running to someone else when life gets good.

Granted, previous to this whole gaining a boyfriend thing, I did complain about said boyfriend non-stop. Though in my defense, she never mentioned that she liked him, or stopped me in the least. She even chimed in! And apparently she's liked him for years, but that's news to me—she didn't even tell me herself!

So I'm rip shit about that, not gonna lie. Not to mention that I seriously can't stand this guy and I'm afraid he's gonna dump her when something better comes along. I'll be left to clean up the pieces, and that other chick to whom she told her sordid love affair is going to be off waltzing with /her/ boyfriend.

When will the straigtness stop?!

Damn it, I'm lonely. I want a girlfriend, or at least a fellow girl-who-likes-girls.

Okay, fine. I know what you're going to say—get out of your way and get out of the goddamn closet. And trust me, I totally agree with you on this one. I just, I don't know, can't. I want experience, I want to have a reason to come out. Which I know is ridiculous. But I feel like until some evidence comes along to support my claims, I can't come out. Which I also know is ridiculous. I mean, I can't wait till I come out to get a girlfriend. After all, getting a girlfriend while being semi-unattractive and closeted in a rural, close-minded town is difficult, nigh on impossible.

Ergo, I need to suck it up and come out.

But I don't have a label. So I can't. But I need to. And so you see—a never-ending circle. Argh.

I don't know what it is—I'm going through one of those times where I just really need to tell people, even though I know I'm not ready. So to get around this, I get this bizarre urge to tell people I don't know in the least, while wanting to hide it from my actual friends/family. Weird, no?

Okay, this is long. I'll stop now.

See you in another three months... (no really, I will try to write more consistently. )

You know what I just realized--and by just realized, I mean yesterday, while trying to fall asleep--I've never actually heard anyone say GLBT.

Which is...bizarre. I mean, for an acronym, it's a pretty central part of my life. And I've never heard anyone say it. Ever. Weeeeirrrd. It just makes me realize how closeted I am. I mean, seriously. Sometimes I even scare myself.

Right now, I'm writing my family's Christmas letter. Well, in theory, anyways.

See, my mom decided I should do it because a) I can kinda write b) I wrote that thing about my family (a few journal entries ago, if anyone's interested) which she thought was good and c) she hasn't done it in over three years and doesn't really want to do it herself. I would complain, but it gets me out of cleaning for my little brother's birthday party, so I won't.

Of course, that means that I do actually have to write it, which kinda sucks. But whatever. I'll do it, it'll be fine, everything will be fine and dandy.

Um. So yeah. Tonight my family plus friends of my various sisters are going to see The Golden Compass--it looks pretty good, so that'll be fun. Well, except for the sisters' friends bit. My little sister tends to have irritating friends, which sucks. They're freshmen and irritating and a bit too preppy and giggly for my tastes. But it's only watching a movie, which is good; after all, going to the movies is pretty much the most antisocial social thing you can do.

And then tomorrow we had my brother's birthday party, which would be fine except that Obama is speaking near here and the Politics Club from the school was going to get in for free...and I can't go with them 'cause of said party. Which is kind of upsetting, but what can you do? I can't tell my ten-soon-to-be-eleven year old brother that I'm ditching on him to go see a politician. So basically I'm just bitching about things that I don't really have a choice in. Yeah.

So, there's this really hot girl in my history of women's class. She's a little taller than me (which means she's pretty short) has short, boy-ish hair and multiple ear-piercings--which makes her the butch-est girl in my small, white, rich school. Plus she has gorgeous eyes and freckles. Completely adorable. Also probably straight, but nice eye-candy, so that's cool. I really wish there were more girls-who-like-girls in my school. It's kind of sad--most of the out ones are all paired up, and the other ones are just...blah. Some are sluts, some are irritating--maybe I'm just being picky.

Anyway, this journal entry is completely useless and without a point, and I'm basically just procrastinating. Sorry, I guess.

I probably won't be able to post it because of the spam filter anyways, so whatever.

Today was a bad day.

No, today was an okay day, and now it is a bad day. I have a lab I don't know how to do, and I've given up in math. Screw school. I'm serious. I put so much energy into doing well and honestly, who gives a fuck?

My friends will always do better than me anyways.

I should be out, or doing something exciting. Instead, I am sitting on Oasis, procrastinating and wishing I had something better to do. Ah.

Does is say much about my mental state of being that I feel inadequate all the freaking time? I seriously need to get over this stupid little rut--and by stupid little rut, I mean issues I've been having for years. I don't have much to complain about except that school sucks, which isn't new or anything.

Well, I have Officially Decided. I'm bi. I like girls and guys---now I just have to be able to sit down and agree with myself. Whatevs. Right now I have a guy-crush. And he's pretty much a man-whore. WTF? He never used to be. ugh. Clearly my taste in people is superior. I can't help it...he's incredibly sweet and smart--he just happens to be involved with (intimately, as the entirity of the theatre department can attest to) this one chick while being semi-involved with another. See? Man-whore.

Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating. But still. It does mean I have no chance with him, which sucks. But it's just a silly crush, and it's not like he'd be interested in me anyways. (After all, who's interested in dorky five foot tall, flat-chested sixteen year old midgets?)

Hmm. Kinda feels weird to talk about a guy-crush on Oasis, not gonna lie.