Neon Pink Spray Paint

I have just about two months left at BYU and I can just feel the freedom a comin’! Of course, I have no clue where I am going to end up, or what I will be doing for my year of transit before I get into grad school (crossing my fingers). So at the moment, I just feel like insanity is coming just as fast as freedom is.

On another note, I hate the concept of feast or famine. Either I am in a desert wasteland, where nobody has the slightest attraction to me, or I am wading in pool of men and I have no clue what to do. Recently, I have found myself in the transition from famine to feast, which is good… except the fact that 50 year old men are now coming onto my scent. I find this very reminiscent to when I started blogging and I developed a creepy, stalker fan base, which would randomly show up in my hometown, when I was 17. Yes, I was jailbait. Now that I no longer have the repellant of statutory rape, the old men have now started to dive-bomb.

I found it a bit disturbing when I received a message from one guy (50+) who said he saw me at a festival and was disappointed that he didn’t see me at the after party. Definitely a smidge creepy. And recognizing me at a festival with thousands of people makes it creepier. Then another message came from a 47 year old who wanted to fly me down to Texas… and another from a 43 year old with a kid my age. When did this become acceptable, and where the hell are they finding me? People who are closer to my age are also biting, which is better. Although most are about a decade older, have suicidal tendencies, and are addicted to porn. I guess I just attract the weirdos, which makes me wonder, why? Do I dress like a weirdo? Talk like one? If I am a weirdo, somebody better tell me soon, or heads will roll!

Also, I have an increasing fangirl supply. This phenomenon I do not understand in the least. As fangirls go, I don’t mind girls willing to wait on me like a servant, but last time I let the fangirl populous do things for me… well I ended up with lips on my face and confusion in my eyes. Honestly, I appreciate the attention because I love when people tell me I’m pretty. So I probably nurture these weirdos until they get a little too close, and then get freaked out. But I just can’t turn away a compliment. I am actually addicted to them. So as long as they keep coming, I think I will be ok.

Last November, my bishop met with me to discuss me getting promoted in the priesthood. I denied and received a letter from him that was completely on my sexuality, how that was the reason I don’t feel witness from the spirit, and was in turn told that I was possessed. This of course is the speed version of what happened, and I will try to put up my post explaining the whole situation, but I digress.

This last Wednesday, I was talking to my father on the phone, trying to explain why I didn’t want my sister’s boyfriend to move in with me. I didn’t want to be blunt and say, “I don’t want him to live with me because I don’t want people back at home to know that I am the apostate child. I don’t want people to judge my parents because of how my life pans out. I don’t want to ruin things for my sister.” So instead, I was just kept saying that I was hard to live with. My dad then decided to insult me several times, and then reference the bishop’s last letter where it said, “… the dark side inside of you.” I really had no clue what this meant and my father told me that I needed to ask my bishop.

I would rather stab myself in the eye with a meat skewer than meet with the bishop, so instead I sent him an email. I asked him what he meant by the, “dark side,” and also why he gave me a letter about sexuality when that was not the subject matter that I asked about. But then I wrote him the truth; the letter haunts me. Because of that letter, I feel awkward around him and at church, and most of the time I feel ostracized. I feel like he judges me, and that he is two faced, and that he will treat me just like his previous members in Greenwich Village, whom he described as, “… visiting hell when I went to visit! They hate the world and everyone in it, and have no potential….”

He didn’t take to the letter too kindly and responded in the hour telling me how, “… I don’t HAVE to care one single iota,” and, “You are making this all up in your head!” Now I dread going to church even more and have an urge to vomit whenever thinking about having to interact with him.

But the moral of the story is that when I received this email, I reached out to people who I thought would console or try to help me. One, well I had a crush on him (he had a crush on me too… and I console him whenever he has pills in one hand and a knife in the other), but he heard that I was having a harsh time and just stopped talking to me. The other, he and I have blogged for a long time (and he used to always be there for me when I was having a harsh time) but he lent no support and thought that it was funny. I ended up calling my mother and discussing the whole thing for several, tear-filled hours (from midnight on), which is bizarre because she and I do not discuss things like sexuality and church because I just end up making her cry, and she makes me cry. We talked through everything though, and although it was awkward, she was there for me.

I guess I am just disappointed with those that I turned to first. I used to have this huge support from the online community, but now I don’t. I can somewhat understand it because I have stopped communication with them because I think they are whiney and are obsessed with themselves, but I don’t believe that that means that they can just turn away when I have a crisis. The problem is that I give everyone a “Come-to-Jesus” speech.

This speech has nothing to do with Jesus, but when I was given a “Come-to-Jesus” a year and a half ago, well that was what it was called so I keep on the namesake. Essentially, I tell these people that they need to get over themselves. Nobody cares that they are gay and that maybe they should develop other parts of their character before they become swallowed up as the annoying homosexual. This has offended people, I know, when I deliver it to them. But I think of how much my life was changed when my friend Sarah gave me a “Come-to-Jesus” and I hope that maybe I could influence these people for good, like she did for me.

But from giving these speeches, I have become hated. One person has said that I “… just don’t understand it anymore. BYU must be making you forget who you are!” Another has said, “I am not obsessed with my sexuality! Being gay is who I am!” I think that is a prime example of a concept flying above one’s head.

I don’t even know how I got to that topic but anyway, I am sad that I have lost a support system because I am unwilling to focus my entire life on one, small detail of my life. Maybe I should just get a therapist instead… meh.

I am not a clean freak. I can withstand some mess, and my bedroom is most the time in shambles, but besides my own space I would like to have a clean area. This has proven to be a problem with this year’s roommates though. They are the biggest slobs I have ever come across, and my kitchen sink, if not piled to the brim with used dishes, smells like it is actually a toilet. I especially have a problem with this because my roomies will use my pots, my pans, my forks, my plates, my bowls, my spatulas, my whisks, my blender, my food processor, and anything else that is mine in the kitchen, and then leave it to rot in the sink.

Today, I had reached my limit of waiting for other people to clean their shit, so I went to work. The worst proved to be my medium sized sauce pan that somebody decided to make instant mash in… two weeks ago. It has sat on our counter, in front of my cabinet, and I was not going to take care of it. Unfortunately enough, I should have dealt with it last week because the mash had cemented itself to the sides of the pan and would not budge. Nothing less than putting the pot on the stove and boiling it with baking soda could soften the residual potatoes enough for me to chisel the mess off for the most part.

As I was finishing up the dishes, the worst roommate of them all came out. “Can I grab a pot for my ramen?” I responded with, “If you do not wash the pot after you use it, I will kill you.” So he gets out my largest pot to boil water for ramen, places it on the burner with about a half a cup of water, and leaves the room. I was furious haw blasé he was about me doing all of his dishes, so I went to my bedroom to find my stash of revenge. Laxatives. I have a box on hand just in case I decide to become bulimic, and I would never want to puke up my previous meal (mostly because I have nice teeth, I would hate to melt them with hydrochloric stomach acid). I placed the tablet in the boiling water and let it sit for a few moments. My guilt caught up to me, so I poured out the tainted water and filled the pot with more water.

I went to take out the trash and chat with my friend, but when I came back, the pot was still on the stove boiling nothing. I snatched the pot off the burner and looked at the damage done. It wasn’t horrendous, but the Teflon is now flaked and I feel an overwhelming hatred towards Jim (my smelly roommate). So I pound on his door, yell a bit, and he comes out and just passes it off like nothing happened, although he did say he will buy my a new pot. My problem comes with the fact that all my pots and pans are a set, and he will skimp out and get me some cheap ass pot that I will then think of him whenever I open my cupboard; thus, I will never use
it.

Maybe it is because of kharma for putting the laxative in his water, although I did replace the water so he wouldn’t actually experience my revenge. I guess this just means that when you do something bad, you have to make up for it and more, or else kharma still applies. Or maybe I was supposed to slip him a laxative and because I didn’t, the universe punished me. Whatever it is, I am just still upset about something so trivial as a pot… and maybe that is a problem itself.

I’m stuck. I feel like I am just stuck and can’t get myself moving again and I don’t really know why. Things are going good for me; I am doing well in my studies, I have friends, I am graduating soon... So why do I feel like I am stuck?

Well for one, every broken person in the state of Utah flocks to me like I am some beacon of hope. Almost every month since I have lived here, I have either been asked to take somebody to the emergency room, Planned Parenthood, or the psych ward. It never stops. And I like to put on a cheerful smile and go about like everything is ok, but really it sucks and I hate being put in these situations. On top of everything, this guy who I occasionally like (but he lives in DC, so not like anything is going to happen there) randomly will call me and tell me how horribly depressed he is and I don’t know how to fix things when they are more than 30 miles away from my present area. My friend with the warty hoo-hah finally had a gynecologist look to see if she had genital warts or not, and now she wants to discuss with me every detail of her feminine hygiene with me: Tampons, douches, Vagisil. I am soon to just shoot myself to keep from having to hear about it.

One problem that I hate to admit is that my friends make me lonelier. All of them want to snuggle with me, flirt, and hold my hand, which just makes me realize how I am still alone and that the only people on this planet who are attracted to me are women. I love my friends, I really do, but they make my loneliness into an omnipresent entity. And so I have to get away from them to just sit in my apartment (which doesn’t help anything either!).

But on a good note, I had dinner with this guy who has been in my life for more than two years now and finally we are on the same plane. He is really the only guy who has ever taken me out on a date, and he will always have a special place in my heart, but he and I never really felt the same way for each other at the same time. Dinner between us was finally just normal, and I didn’t have to worry about what I could and could not say. Somehow, we finally became friends and I feel relief.

Sometimes I wish I was just 30. My life would be started by then, I’d have a job, a decent place to live, and possibly a relationship. And whenever I tell people that I just wish I was 30, they always respond, “The adventure is in the journey!” No, it isn’t. I want my adventure to begin once I arrive at my destination. And I would like to be at my destination now! I have never been known for my patience.