Aha! A breakthrough! It is 9:32 P.M. as I write this, and I am officially in the euphoric state of my self-diagnosed manic depression. It is wonderful! It's like having an orgasm with your favorite food in your mouth, and Pavarotti is booming through the stereo speakers . . . and why look at that, it's Morrissey! Except he is naked. Of course, he is wearing that "I'm Asexual, buddy" shirt, but that doesn't matter. Look at that hair. Anyways, enough about 80s queers. This is the 21st century, isn't it?
Oh I wonder if one day all of us bipolar homosexual teenage prodigies will get together and watch Annie Hall in our slippers and sip some coco, as I am right now. It would be great if our parents dreamt as much about Keir Gilchrist (I cannot stand men over the age of 20) as we did, while listening to Kurt Cobain and reading Sylvia Plath poetry. No, sadly, existing in the flesh is Jesus as usual, perhaps the most homosexual religious figure in all of existence. Who else wandered through deserts and cities with 12 men, no women, and had extreme issues with his mother, denying his sexual quandaries? Sounds like a self-loathing queer to me. Alas, call me a male Anne Sexton. This is indeed the Ballad - err, no, the Confessions (that's more like it!) - of the Lonely Masturbator.
There are just two things I can't deal with, and yes, they keep me up at night, in case you are wondering. One is I can't fuck my best friend, who is a heterosexual, and two, I am horribly unfunny. Have you ever had to be unfunny? It's rather terrible. Suicide inducing, actually. Apparently I'm like watching Budd Dwyer deliver a baby. Hell, I'd laugh at that. Perhaps the truth is upon me, and I am a sick pervert. I mean, sure, I'd enjoy personally inserting a bible into Michele Bachmann's anus, as I'm sure anyone living outside of Minnesota (all 2% of us) would, but apparently I am a disturbed child. The sickest part is that I have to pretend that I am not unfunny, and that I am actually quite humorous. And if I am not funny, I know I would be a wonderful person to love. But I can't even be that. I have to fake it. I'll say, "Why yes, Alvin, that female's set of breasts are quite satisfactory. Why, I think I'd just love to place my hands on them and fluctuate them in a rhythmic pattern. Why, I am so aroused inside, Alvin, I just can't take it! Why don't you tell me more of your sexual adventures with Tracy? As a normal teenage boy, I'd really appreciate it!" (This is when I keep smiling while silently imagining Alvin with his clothes off) "Why yes, Alvin, go on . . ."
I know. I know what you're thinking. The world does not need another unfunny politically inactive gay writer. David Sedaris has that chair, but hey, I am not him, and I am not Augusten Burroughs either! I'd say if I was older, I would be a daring politician. But living in Suckcity, USA, I don't think that's possible, where the only thing on anyone's minds is what type of toilet paper they get to wipe their asses with. "What time is Mad Men on, David?"
But where in it all can I find my place? My niche? What am I as a writer supposed to do? We're supposed to make our lives, our shitacular lives funny. Yeah, but what if I don't want to be funny? What if I want to cry with someone holding me? What if I, dare I say it, want to fall in love? Wait, my friend, wait. It gets better. Yes, I know it gets better. Later. But what about now? Thanks for the advice, amigo. Don't forget to shut the closet door on your way out.
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