"To: Friend Doug"

It was a Friday, and this was my fifth and last client I had to see. I came to the client's apartment with a preset mind of stress. It was stress that I blamed on him, just like I did with the other consumers: The feeling that they don't need services; the constant calls about nothing but problems; the long drives to their homes to be told that they don't want to be seen; the lies they tell; all of the rescheduling due to petty reasons (My favorite one: "It's because I've been staying home all week from the weather and I've been lazy). With all of that considered, I forget why I do this job.

I come into this client's low-income apartment making sure I don't blow off steam on him, cataloging everything he's done to upset me throughout the whole week. I also make sure I come in with a smile, as always, though I'm eager to set off a calm yet stern-voiced lecture. All of my meetings start with me being an affable image, and this one was no different.

I'm glad I kept my cool, as he pointed to a dresser and told me there was something for me there. It was an envelope. The cover read: "To: Friend Doug." I opened it and pulled out a Christmas card with a greeting. In it was writing that looked like a six-year-old's construction with poor grammar and no consideration of spaces, but this was coming from a middle-aged man. It was the message that made me choke:

"I hope you have a safe trip back east to Virginia


Your Friend,
T**"


I smiled a big smile. I looked at him and made sure he knew how much I loved the gift. The gift wasn't the card with a nice message, but it was the thought and appreciation behind it. So, is this is what it feels like to be a teacher? To have a student genuinely acknowledge the work you're doing for them? Because I sure am proud to have someone realize that I'm not just there to give him a hard time and tell him what to do.

This isn't the only case that had me recognize (again) that this job is worth-while. I see improvements, goals being met, thanks being given and effort being put out through each of my clients. I still run into brick walls, but I recognize that it'll take a small drill to slowly get through towards the goal.

I love helping and I love my job.

Awwwkwarrrd

Twas a cool Virginia night, and it was our first night sleeping together. I've been looking forward to cuddle with Chris after a great dinner and all that jetlag.

Cuddling is beautiful: the intimacy; the warmth; the skin-on-skin contact. There's nothing better than having him as my heat generator as I wrapped my left arm around him. I felt soothed as my crotch was pressed against his buttocks and lower back, and my hairy ankles intertwined with his. One arm wrapped around him and pulled him closer to me as my hand stretched out on his hairy chest. I was content.

For two minutes.

My elbow was above his head, but my arm was awkwardly akimbo in the air and my hand started to get numb. It was most comfortable when I put my arm between my chest and his back, but that defeated the whole purpose of cuddling. Then I attempted to put my whole arm under his pillow, but my anterior deltoids prevent me from stretching out too much. I don't think Chris appreciated all this commotion as his head kept rising up and down.

I never really knew what the hell to do with my other arm. I've yet to perfect the art of the cuddle-er as I've always been the cuddle-ee. I'm sure this is a petty subject, like how to tie a zip-up tie. I did learn how to tie a tie with the help of Google. I wonder if Google can help me out with that. Otherwise, can anyone else offer any advice on how to cuddle?

I Only Contributed to History is All

I don't know what the big deal is. All I did was pop my voting-cherry by electing the first African-American president in American history. It's not like I contributed in a milestone event that would redirect the country's perception of what America is.

Profeshunnul

There is no real dress code for my job, but I like that I get the chance to wear slacks, long sleeves and dress shoes, which is totally appropriate for my job. I dress as if I know what I'm doing. There's a strong correlation between having nice attire and being smart, apparently. My clients think I know it all, so I must know it all -- or at least I should.

Let's Talk Business

I'm happy to announce that I've received my business license. It has to be the best business name in the world; Douglas *CENSOR* is pretty catchy. Really loving my job. I hope all's well with everyone in the blogosphere. I'll be in the Flickrsphere if you need me.

Putting it Out on the Table

I wasn't completely truthful with my mother when I came out to her just a couple of days ago. She asked if Mike was my boyfriend, and I said no. That was bothering me, as I feel like I'm in a position where I need to tell her the truth.

She came home from another 16-hour shift, tired, as usual. I asked her if I could talk to her, to talk about me. I shouldn't have asked; her work has drained a lot of energy from her, and I think the last thing she wanted to hear was my gay lifestyle.

"Ay! I don't know; I'm tired." I understood. I went to bed. After a long day of work, she always sits on the couch in the living room with her rosary, praying. I know she prays for the best for her family, especially when it comes to monetary terms. After coming out to her, I knew she added an extra prayer to her list of "good intentions."

Several minutes later while I tried to go to sleep, she walked into my room, making sure that I gargled with warm water and salt (I've had a sore throat for the past few days). She kissed me, and I said I loved her.

"What do you want to talk about?" she asked.

"I just felt like I've lied to you."

"Put on your t-shirt." She walked into the living room, and I followed her as I put on my shirt. She asked what I was lying about. I told her that I'm not doing anything wrong; that I'm doing really well in life, like getting good grades in school and keeping myself busy with work. I worked to make her proud, but most of all happy, knowing that she has a son that she can talk to her co-workers about.

I let everything out on the table, confessing that Mike was my boyfriend, but not anymore, and that I'm seeing someone from another state. She knew that I had a boyfriend, yet she still prayed that I'd be straight (I knew she was in denial, though I convinced myself that she was that naive). My mom brought up how much she wanted to be "macho," and the times that I've made fun of my gay uncle; it was hard for her to grasp the fact that I'm gay and that I can throw a football without breaking a nail. I told her that my sexual orientation is not my personality. I made sure that she heard this: "Other than my sexual life, mom, I'm doing so well. Aren't I? Aren't I making you proud? Aren't I the one that's doing well in school? Aren't I the son that's making you proud?" She nodded her head, saying of course, but she still wanted me to be straight. She hated the idea that people she knew would talk about me. I reassured her that many already know, and she didn't like that idea either. And, again, I reassured her that other peoples' opinion about me being her gay son doesn't matter and doesn't affect my life or hers.

She cried. She asked what she did wrong. My mother did nothing wrong, and I told her that. I told her that I learned from my mother, the strongest and hardest working woman I know, and that I'm here to make her proud and happy; that I'm nothing like my older brothers when they were my age; and that me being gay is not going to change who I am. Yet she cries, still, hoping that I'll be straight. I won't force her into believing that I won't change, and in time she'll have to accept that.

It was a rougher talk than last time, but at the end, only one thing mattered:

She still loves me.

Out! Who's Next?

During the time I realized I was (still am, thank goodness) gay, I felt like I was living a double life. I was deep in a closet, not letting anyone know my secret. I remember coming out on blogger on my previous blog, and I built up the courage to tell my fabulous trait to everyone, including acquaintances, childhood friends, teachers, and other gay men. Yet I still didn't have the cajones to tell my direct family members.

I've mentioned before that it's easier to tell anyone new everything about yourself, because if he/she doesn't like you, why care(?), because they don't know you and you don't know them. It was harder, though, to tell friends you've known for a while, as you've built a history without them knowing you're a 'mo; there's a threat of your "friend" invalidating the comraderie you two have shaped. Thankfully, I've only had one experience of that happening, and, consequently, I lost one...out of the many. It does sound easy to delete someone from your life after that person suddenly looks at you in a different way, but I was, nonetheless, hurt. But what kept my head straight (hah, "straight") was realizing that my life doesn't revolve another person's opinion, knowing that I don't have to prove to some asshole that I'm still going to be the same person that everyone has known, whether I like boys' naughty parts or not.

And with that mentality, I've finally built up the courage to tell my mom today. They say that there is no such thing as perfect timing when it comes to coming out, and this situation was just that. As I sat on my computer chair, my momma asked for a nail-cutter. I gave it to her. She stood in the doorway, clipping her red fingernails, not even catching the nail clippings that dropped to the wooden floor and my green rug: Perfect opportunity to tell her I'm gay. So, I sat her down on my bed, telling her that I had something important to say. She asked me if anything was wrong, and I assured her nothing really is wrong. I asked if she loved me no matter what, and she says of course. I looked straight (hah, "straight") into her deep, loving, brown eyes; they told me, "I loved you as a baby and that has not changed." I told her: "I'm gay." I still locked my eyes on hers and anticipated tears -- but there were none.

"Ohh...well, I hope that changes," she said weakly. A bit frustrated, already, I ask her why would she would want me to change. She replied: "I want grandchildren from you." For a second I thought about adopting or having a surrogate child, just for her. But I reassured her that she already has a grandchild, and that she'll receive more from my two older brothers. "But I want grandchildren from you."

In the end, though, I hugged and kissed her, and asked her numerous times if she still loves me, and numerous times she assured me that she still does...

"I still want grandchildren from you."

Why I'm Voting for McCain

Now that I've got your attention...

Forget all the cute things I've said before about being a grownup. THIS time, for sure, is the turning point of my adulthood -- I swear.

I don't have enough time to catch up on my gay life, as too much has been going on since I've last posted. (I will say this, though: I'm more ffffabulous than ever!). What's more important in my life as of right now is the career that I hope and pray will be the right one for me. No, I'm not going to own a Subway restaurant, but I will be providing a service (and it doesn't have to do with making sub sandwiches). I just got the job as an independent living source provider. I'll help counsel, direct and redirect those with mental and physical disabilities to a more independent life; whether I help someone move out to an apartment or teach household management skills.

I believe this job is something for me (I say that as I cross my fingers), because I'll be dealing with different clients/consumers just about everyday. I need the variety. Asking whether someone provolone, swiss or American cheese every hour is not for me. Also, it will help me maximize my social skills as I'll meet different clients with different circumstances.

Not only will this job help me with social skills and provide a diverse network of people to work with, but this will enrich my current studies as a teacher. To counsel someone is to teach; to direct someone how to clean up their room is to teach; to help someone find a job is to teach -- this will only help me gain experience to be a teacher in the future.

There's not a doubt in my mind that this will be challenging, but the empathetic side of me will look at the people I work with and find motivation. I've already teared up one time when I was training with a co-worker who was helping a sweet lady that is bed-bound. The frustration of finding a company that will provide a Heyer lift and hearing the bed-ridden woman saying, "It's tough," as we are told to call back the pharmacy another week moistened my eyes.

I officially start on my own tomorrow with my first caseload of clients. I'm still crossing my fingers that this is the job for me.



As long as I have to look professional like this, I'll keep the job. I mean, c'mon; I look like I can sell you a car, or somethin'.

Mother's Day Surprise

I invited my mom to come to my school to see the painting I made for her.


Mom: "Who's that?!"

Me: "That's you when you were younger and prettier."


And you wonder why I'm her favorite son. =)

Mother's Day Present

The assignment was to choose artists, like Monet, Van Gogh, Manet, etc., and paint a cropped section of four of their paintings. Then in the middle we were supposed to paint a portrait of a family member or more. The reason why I painted the men proportionally smaller than the women was because they represent how small a part my father played in my life; he left us for a new family. I had actually painted my dad on the left, but it didn't go with the whole painting, but you can still see a bit of him under the paint. I guess that adds more weight to the content. It's still not finished to me, so I'll touch up when I get it graded.

My mom doesn't know that I painted her, so this'll be a surprise for her on Mother's Day. Hope my mom likes it!

19

I'm sure when I was 9, I had a writing assignment in elementary with the prompt asking what do you see yourself doing 10 years from now. I wonder what I wrote down: maybe I said I was going to be a straight A college student, working on my career to be a computer technician, if not a fireman; or maybe I predicted that I'd have a girlfriend that I'd marry later in life and have a family with her while I do my job as a fireman (or was it an astronaut I wanted to be?). And to think I'd grow up to be all peaches and cream.

But I didn't have the slightest clue back then, and that hasn't changed. I didn't know I would get arrested during middle school; I didn't know that my dad would leave my family; I didn't know that I was going to ever touch drugs; I didn't know I was going to be gay (and a not so fabulous one, for that matter). I still don't know what I'll be like or do 10 years from now, even with all practicalities of a career considered.

At 19, I don't have to know or worry where I'll end up 10 years from now. At 19, I don't have to narrow my choices of what career I need to choose. At 19, I have nothing but time, and it's the (Passion + Ambition) x Work Ethic = Success formula I'll live by to guarantee my future, and this equation has yet to be proven false.

So, cheers to getting - not older, but wiser.

(I actually kinda wish I was a fireman)

"How Ya Like Them Apples?"

- is the title for my latest oil painting. This is the largest work I've ever done; the canvas is 2x3 feet, and I covered every part of that sucker with paint!

The assignment was to choose any kind of noun or thing as a figure and paint it 16 times - differently. My choice was an apple, because I was eating an apple while trying to figure out what my figure should be. (I'm really good at critical thinking).

In each of the 16 sections, the figure should be painted according to certain guidelines from the assignment sheet, but you can paint in any order as you wish. For example: number 7 on the assignment sheet tells you to paint one section with the figure with one color, and then the background a complementary color; my number 7 section is on the bottom left. Another example would be number 8 on the assignment sheet; you're supposed to use texture in the section. In my number 8 section (top left), I used an actual popsicle stick and painted over it.

For my second oil painting ever, I'm satisfied with it. I could've done better as far as cleaning up the edges a bit, and some of the backgrounds could've had a bit more thought put into them.

Btw, I'm sick 'n tired of apples.

Do the Math

Cut Back

"Stop balancing the budget on our children's backs," is a popular quote going around among district officials in California. Because of Swarzchenegger's budget project, the layoff process of many faculty members statewide is becoming more of a reality. Vital members, like teachers, principals, counselors, school nurses and other non-teacher positions are dreading these soon realistic cutbacks. Those with non-teaching jobs have already faced the effects from the Governator's cuts. Yes, it's unfair for the essential team players to be laid off, but I feel like we've overlooked a department that does not play a significant role in academics: the athletic department.

With a relatively small population among all schools, the athletic department has somehow dodged the priority list of branches that need to be totally cut, if not restricted. I don't understand why I'm not hearing the word "coaches" or "physical educator" mentioned as I hear far more important faculty members being listed down as if they didn't make it on the varsity basketball team; "Sorry Geometry Teacher, but we have some high standards on this team to reach our goals. Take some tips from P.E. Instructor and observe what it takes to be a high priority on the team." The news has mentioned nothing related to athletics, so the department must be doing it's job of students reaching the general ideal goal: graduate from high school with a full-ride scholarship to a distinguished 4-year university.

I'm raising my left hand up and using the other to point at the school coaches. You're damn right I'm tattling on you guys. The only coaches that were addressed as being laid off were writing and math coaches, and from what I've heard, the brain needs more of a workout than the biceps and glutes. I appreciate that these teachers are advocates of health, but let's be real: these P.E. classes aren't making an impact on the malnutritioned and obese kids, especially in this day of age when kids are turned into passive learners because of the internet. OK, you can argue* that there are other classes post-graduate students won't reminisce, but I'm a firm believer that any history, math, english, or science class and the teachers that indoctrinate them prompt students to genuinely think about possible careers to research; it's not often for a student to say, "Coach McCloud really inspired me to become a kinestheologist."

"Academics over athletics," is what you'd hear from my former Honors Intermediate Algebra teacher, who is also a Cross Country and Track & Field coach. I've never heard anyone say anything so true, asides from my former basketball coach: "Your priorities should be listed from least to most important: basketball, then school, then your religion." He didn't like fags, though, so that kinda invalidates the last part of his inspiring words. Nonetheless, strengthening the brain is more important than the body, and that's the message that should be taken out of this. It kills me to hear that former wrestling teammates still struggle in classes because they've been focused and stressed about the sport; and not to mention cutting pounds of water weight, which makes concentration in school difficult. So, let's face the fact that not every student is a star athlete with an above average grade point average, though it is highly doable, but I don't doubt that a high GPA is put into more consideration by universities than a perfect touchdown record; besides, you would need a minimum of a 2.0 GPA with no Fs in order to play.

I don't know for sure how California's budget cut is going to seriously effect schools statewide; I actually just heard on the news that the probability of teachers actually getting laid off is low, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't take this whole deal ardently. Maybe only a few teachers will be laid off, and the biggest problem would be oversized classrooms -- which is still a significant deal. I'm sure students will still get the chance to check out books at their school libraries, but librarians won't supervise those buildings. Restrooms will still be used, but custodians aren't going to clean the graffiti off the walls and stalls.

In school, you are a student to learn and find out what kind of career you want to pursue, not to train to win the basketball state championship. In school, you are a student to move on to a higher level of education, not become a professional football player. In school, you are a student, but being an athlete is an option.




*thanks Sue!

Getting My Name Out

It's been over a month into the Spring semester 'n I feel like I've been on top of things as far as homework 'n studying goes (a lot of credit goes to the b/f for keeping me focused in the books rather than the computer screen). I feel that I'm making a subtle impression on most of my instructors; it's important to me that I get to know them by raising my hand 'n adding on to the lecture, especially if the instructor demands a lot of participation (it's just too awkward for the whole class to say nothing when a professor asks a question 'n expects feedback).

English 110 (college composition) and English 217 (sci-fi & fantasy lit.) are still my favorite yet most challenging classes, 'n I really try hard to keep up w/ some outstanding classmates. There are quite a lot of smart students, 'n I feel behind the class knowing a lot of them have read a bajillion novels (I feel proud just finishing Ender's Game!). One of the instructors remembered my name only b/c I was late, 'n said: "You're late. You delay, just like your last name." It's irritating to have my last name remembered b/c I wasn't punctual for one day. I did, however, put in a lot of effort towards studying 'n work for the first essay 'n book exam; I hope they remember my name b/c I aced both of them.

I thought blogging would reinforce my writing skills in Engl110, but I still feel like I'm starting from square one, reviewing 'n learning all of this paragraph structure; content; thesis statements; topic sentences; central ideas; comma splices; sentences that are too awkward to read when read aloud b/c it's just too wordy that it doesn't really make sense 'n also b/c it's too long for the reader to comprehend as an understandable sentence; avoiding repetition 'n long, awkward, run-on sentences; when to stop using semicolons - this class is helping me a lot.

I love lectures about authors/storytellers like Mark Twain, J. R. R. Tolkien, Homer, 'n others who would've made great bloggers if they had computers 'n the internets. I never really took the time to study great writers 'n their work. When I do analyze, I notice a lot of their writing skills that I've always overlooked. When I carefully read passages from Meditations on Middle-Earth, I think to myself: "Wow, he knows how to use semicolons flawlessly!" 'n, "Hey, I noticed none of these writers use ''n' as a variant of the word 'and'. I should start doing that." 'n that's where the real learning begins

Psychology is another challenging class, but I love the content 'n the proffesuh. I had dropped the class last semester partly b/c I wasn't focused, 'n I looked at the instructor w/ disdain. I can't stand a teacher who gets irked for people not participating but gets frustrated when someone asks a question ('n not necessarily a dumb question!). My current psych instructor, on the other hand, encourages us to participate so she can know our names - plus she gives participation points. Acing the first exam (see where I'm going w/ this ego thing?) was a big self-esteem booster, 'n encourages me to keep on doing what I've been doing: not procrastinating. 'n it's working fairly well.

Of course, my psych instructor will remember me, as I didn't remember her name in the beginning of the semester - well, I knew her name, but I didn't pronounce it correctly. She is a person who wants to have her last name w/ the Hispanic pronunciation, which I understand. One time, I had had raised my hand to ask a question, 'n called "Dr. Ramos, I have a question." She replied back, "It's pronounced Rah-mose," as the tip of her tongue hit the roof of her mouth at a speed of 200 intervals per nanosecond. I have great difficulty rolling my tongue; I wouldn't make a good Latino if I can't do that. In all seriousness, she added, "Remember in the beginning of the semester I told you that you can address me w/ my first name or last, but not pronounced 'Ray-mose.' So I'll answer your question if you say my name right" I apologized, but I knew she was just kidding around - I think.

I've heard lots about my art instructor before taking his painting class - but they weren't exactly positive things. Word amongst students who have had him is that he's a grumpy, middle-aged guy 'n he does favorites, 'n those favorites were usually girls. So I asked myself how the hell will a gay guy like will ever has his name remembered? It turns out that he's actually a nice, affable guy. Ask him a question 'n he's there to give an answer along w/ his life story. He's already gotten to know us by our individual styles when we paint; "Whose is that? The one w/ the crazy brush strokes? Kathy, right? She should be an impressionist," or "I like the use of darks of that apple 'n dramatic shading on the doll face. Isn't Doug the one that hates creepy dolls 'n clowns?" Things are looking positive in this class 'n I enjoy being surrounded by artists, both young and older (not OLD!).

Intermediate Algebra is easy, 'n my instructor's a goofy guy that likes to cuss a lot. I remember after class I had him check my work for a question I got wrong, 'n he goes, "Shit! That's a lot of denominators you need to get rid of! Fuckin' hairy mess you got into, huh?" Eff yeah! He has my name down b/c I look like a student he had before, and he was a good student, so he says; I guess I gotta live up to that.

W/ all of that said, this semester's looking great, 'n I'm up for the challenges my great instructors give me. I will also practice rolling my tongue 'n perfect it by the end of the semester.

Creepy

Painting I is a great class so far. I have an instructor that can talk as long as the Great Wall of China, w/ extensions. I'm finally using oil paint instead of acrylic. Just as I expected, oil takes a while longer than acrylic to oxidize. Having the medium dry slower is a benefit as far as being able to blend easier. The downside is the same reason why I like it. I always end up having some paint lifted off the canvas on my hands or arms when I try to pick it up.

Our first real project was to paint a still life, only using the gray scale. Then at the end, we had to add a shape of one color on to any section of the piece, just so long as there's more than one tone included w/in the shape.

My critique: The paint can could've had some more work done. The choice of color and placement wasn't a great one; it's hard to see any range when blue is added on to black, plus I think the face was the strongest point of the piece before the shape was added. The apple, though, is painted the actual way the real apple was shaped. I could've added some text on the binding of the books, 'n created more reflection on the paint tube (bottom left of can).

I was surprised I ended up w/ an A- b/c the instructor expects a lot in this class 'n doesn't really give out pats in the back a lot.

I can't wait to start on our new project. No, I won't do any more creepy cabbage patch dolls, or clowns.

Firsts

You all remember your firsts. The first time you had a crush; the first time you kissed someone other than your mother; the first time you fell in love, or infatuation; the first time you had a sexual experience; the first time you were in a relationship; the first time you had your heart broken. I'll always remember my first boyfriend, 'n all the firsts we've experienced as a couple.

I remember the first time we’ve met. As I rode shotgun in his truck, I nervously made conversation, hoping my confident façade would impress him. I stuttered here ‘n there, brought up random topics ‘n couldn’t focus on one; I didn’t fool him. On the way home, we rented the movie Click. Good, I thought, he seemed domestic. I wouldn't want to keep in touch w/ someone w/ only one thing on their mind. But let me be real: I had only one "thing" in mind at the time.

Meeting Daphne was fun. I couldn't recall ever seeing or touching a dalmatian, let alone one w/ spots perfectly distributed around the body, 'n a stomach that can count as a two-pack. The first interaction between him 'n "Daph" made me mistakenly guess her age, as she stood up on her two hind legs, having a boxing match w/ her "daddy."; I also second-guessed his age, seeing how energetic he was w/ his best friend. It was cute. I never knew Dalmatians "smiled." I could've sworn she was going to rip his face off as she snarled 'n snorted; the only thing missing was foam dripping down her mouth. But it was all just another playful game between man 'n his dog.

I remember the first time I called him just to say good night. I was eating out w/ a friend, 'n we were both talking about the guys we were focusing on. He was already in love, 'n I didn't know if I was or not, but I really liked the guy whom was on my mind. I decided that I'd give him a call. I didn't feel obligated to, but I wanted to. It felt rewarding to reassure him that he was still in my thoughts by saying good night to him. My friend said it was sweet of me that I did that. I remember I used to be the one that'd say, "Awww, that's cute," to a friend who would say sweet things to his or her partner, but now I was in the moment. I then knew what it felt like to be commended for doing something so small 'n effortless, yet w/ a great impact. This pattern grew more into the future. Now I always put him to bed, then we kiss each other, I kiss him on the forehead, we say I love you to each other, 'n I leave.

I can recall our first fight - if you can call it a fight (I consider it one if one or both of us gets hurt). He got tickets to a Padres game. The location of the seats were more than great; we were basically on the field right next to the third basemen. Padres fans around us were within earshot of the third base referee (is that what you call 'em?) 'n had the liberty of making rude comments to him if he made a bad call. The whole game was great, as our home team won, 'n we were there to see Trevor Hoffman's 500th save of his career (I guess that's significant. 500 is a pretty big number). The night couldn't get any better, w/ our hands clasped 'n fingers intertwined as we drove away from Downtown. However, on the way back home, some misunderstanding took place as words exchanged, 'n it led him to withdraw his hands from mine. He put in a James Blunt CD, having the song "Goodbye My Lover" blaring out of the truck w/ the windows down. I couldn't stand the loudness, 'n the song, so I wanted him to turn it down. The ride home was silent, 'n no more words were exchanged. As he dropped me off home, I said my thanks, but no kiss. As he made a U-turn at the intersection next to my house, his wheels screeched. I slept that night feeling empty, as if the whole fun night was invalidated b/c of a stupid misunderstanding. The next day at his house, I raised my arms out for a hug, 'n we both knew what for. W/ his face buried into my shoulder, he muffled, "I don't like fighting w/ you."

'n that was our first make-up.



To be continued.

At it Again

So, I'm at it again. I'm out (but not totally) 'n about, gallivanting in the bloggersphere. The abrupt retirement from my old blog is in the past now; change is, after all, constant, 'n change of a new blog was necessary for me to have a smaller sense of paranoia. I've disregarded the fact that I can be easily found by peers. I've also underestimated The One who caused this paranoia in the first place; I forget, now 'n then, how powerful He is. Yes, you know Him, 'n His name starts w/ a capital G. You guessed it: Google. How can I be so naive to think that my blog wouldn't be found by Googling a 19 y/o porn star's name, or trying to find out a teacher's e-mail, so you can find out what the English homework was?

I have no doubt that this blog will be found one way (Googling) or another, but there will be careful consideration of the information I'll put in here. It's hard to keep a certain level of discretion when there is so much to share; from life-changing experiences w/ the boyfriend, to some random dialog I had w/ my mom.

No matter what, though, I want to keep this blog for deeper introspection than I do before I head to bed. Deleting Change is Constant was a big deal, as far as having news to tell an audience. I don't keep in touch w/ my many friends nowadays, as I'm occupied w/ focusing on school 'n my great boyfriend. I won't make this blog an obligation, however. I will not be guilty if I miss a day or two of blogging, b/c you 'n I both know that an abundance of time is what we do NOT have.

Out of my 5 classes I'm taking this semester, there are 2 that I look forward going to class: college composition writing 'n Sci-Fi 'n Fantasy literature; both English classes, back-to-back. My professors have inspired me to blog again, as I learn how to improving mine Eanglesh, 'n read an average of 100+ pages of novels a week. My writing professor has makes learning how to write a surprisingly fun time for a good hour; I'm always listening intently, 'n thinking about how I can improve my blogging skills. Dr. P. is enthusiastic when he teaches his class, 'n the same is evident in Dr. M., who is the more stern voice for soft-spoken Professor P.. Dr. P. has inspired me to read 'n look at Sci-Fi 'n Fantasy literature in a whole different perspective. Actually, she reminded me that Sci-Fi was the first genre I fell in love w/, as I've read The Giver by Lois Lowry over 'n over 'n over, wondering if Jonas has made it to Elsewhere.

This semester's looking up for me.

This blog's theme is somewhat neutral (not solely for political views 'n the like), b/c I don't want to limit myself from posting a gamut of topics, like school, sex, relationships, friends, everyday life, politics, sex, 'n some sex; I want this blog to have personality 'n life, so it can make mistakes, 'n learn from them. It's a blog that is in progress of reaching a status (but not necessarily the primary goal) of well known gay blogs, like Glennalicious, and political Joe.My.God., 'n the like. This blog, though, is still young, just like me, but it has potential.

So, your blog friend, Doug, has resurrected 'n will keep you posted w/ breaking news, like Britney Spears' life.