My Weblog

comment on my comic in the last year

(i tried to make my degrees have meaning. but they are just papers. i think i took my high school diploma and made it a blunt when i ran out of those cheap cigars that day. it burned really nice.)

(why did i get a degree in creative writing. funny, i had to pay Uh 2000 dollars before they let go my english degree. and then they changed the fonts. all my degrees are in some tube they sent me. I didn't even go to graduation, why spend 200 dollars on a robe and hat and listen to boring as latin for a hour when i could just gone to the bar, bought me an ectasy pill and a nice bag of weed. )

(the psycology degree is by default. by the time i was already too far in it, i realized it was a bunch of bullshit. if you take psyc 101, you've taken all the course. but i will always remember cognitive psych, how i mae As on all my test, and then fucked it up because i didn't turn in the extra credit project worth 33 percent of my grade. i went to a college like an assembly line, if your check cashed, they let you in. And i didn't read sylimbus. and i got a C in that class but most importanlt, i threw a brick through that professor car. )

   

   

 

 

 

I'm back again

LOL

"Love Letter"

Disclaimer: "I wrote this story when i was twenty five years old. I hate to say it but it's a 100 percent true. I wasn't HIV positive. But I did go into the hosptial with a scare and a fever of a 105. I was cured. But the story that i got from it was more profound. IT beget the change for my life. I'm still learning the lession. I didn't change it at all because somethings have to be as flawed as they were written. "

What if I was never whole? What if I was always broken? Rehabilitation? What if there nothing there to put back together? I know it sounds depressing and unforgiving. I know Mr. Rogers would tell me to turn my frown upside down. I get fucking tired of everybody telling me I should see the brighter side. I was born into Hell. I still don’t know what I did. Now what? There's nothing like almost dying, that makes you want to live forever.

If I was to die today, I would want you to know the truth. You who loved me and held me and carried me even when I didn't love myself. This is my love letter to you. Don't every stop loving me. You are all that I have.

If I was to die today, I would want you to know that I've always feared this. I've always feared regret.  I would want you to know that I've always feared facing my mirror, the brutal reflection, especially the morning after when it was too late. I always feared fear, knowing that we change and the tomorrow I thought I wouldn't care about came too fast, because we do change, even when we aren't trying as we fall to our end.   My world is spinning out of control, my head hurts, nausea, my dark skin blends into these white sheets, the same skin my grandmother told me was too dark to ever wear red or be happy, but all that right now doesn't matter. My stomach cramps like fists banging against concrete proving a point, that flesh does tear and run and that we're just glass that often breaks. The doctors haven't figured out yet what's wrong with me. It has been a month since I felt bad. My temperature is a 105 but I shake cold sweat. So many nights I've been sweating lakes that quickly became seas and oceans. It's been awhile since I could hold my head still or stop feeling like the moon pulling the sea to the shore when I move anything. Everything is out of balance. I tried to ignore it at first. I tried to pray myself back to normal. Never thought I could feel this bad. I know this time is different. This time it's serious. I haven't eaten in weeks but yet I can't stop vomiting. I don't know where the clear fluid or strength is coming from but it hurts. I'm scared. I'm really scared. The nurse comes in and she smiles. She's black and familiar and reminds me of an aunt I haven't spoken to in years. She takes my temperature and blood pressure and more blood. She isn't kind or comforting, but procedural and withdrawn. I know I'm just another patient for her, not real or human, but work.  I’m just another tragic fag. I want scream at her. I want to claw her with my nails. I ask for some aspirin but she refuses me. She says the Doctor has to approve it. I haven't seen the doctor in eight hours since I checked myself in what is now feeling like "hell". It's the County Hospital and part of me wants to feel grateful that I'm at least being seen but I really feel like a failure because I got fired from my last job which means I don't have insurance or enough money to get a real doctor or someone who at least acted like they gave a damn.   When I did see the doctor when I first got here, I admit he was cute and attentive and part of me fell in love with his red scarf tied around his head, his blue eyes, and that I wanted him to save me and make my world stop spinning. He asked me if I was gay and the question made me feel defensive, as if I had something to hide. I also felt vulnerable as if I had accidentally let my guard down and the secret crept out. I shook my head yes. He ran his hands strategically throughout my overheated body, searching for clues and asking if this or that hurt, but everything felt numb. I tried to explain to him that the pain was in my head, in my eyes. He told me that he was going to take some blood, urine sample, some x-rays and a cat scan; but that he had a good feeling it was AIDS. I wondered for a second if he was just saying that because I told him I was gay. I had no choice but to just lay there and take it all in.

That's was eight hours ago and I'm still here and don’t feel no better. I try not to cry but the tears burglarize my eyes and tattoo my skin like Egyptian make-up. I surrender it all to the white sheets that cradle my head. I'm cold but I'm hot. I asked over three hours ago for an extra sheet, but the nurse who reminds me of my aunt keeps forgetting to bring it to me. I can't think about nothing but death. I just want this feeling to be over with. I feel bad, real bad, hurt. I feel sick. The type of sick you don't heal from.  I try not to think, but breath and lay still so that I want have to move, but my head pounds and stomach heaves and I just want whatever this is to be over with.  I knew one day this was coming, my end. My grandma used to tell me that when you lie down with dogs, you eventually going to get up with fleas.

IT WAS NEVER ABOUT THE SEX

If I were to die today my love, I would want you to know that it was never about the sex. I know I cheated. I know I haunted the bathhouse and bookstores. I know. But I would want you to know that I couldn't stop, no matter how hard I wanted to. I would want you to know that I've always feared changing because I built my life around pain and suffering, not knowing what or who I would be without it. I spent so many nights in that darkness, thinking I wanted death, to just die, to just surrender to that pain that wouldn't let up or vacation. I know it sounds depressing my love, but that's who I was for a long time. I know you tried to save me from myself, but even I couldn't save me. I couldn’t save me. I couldn’t save me. In that darkness I kept trying to kill it all away, with the drinking, getting high, poppers, cocaine, or any drug that allowed me to escape; anything that tore a hole in my reality, but no matter how far I ran, I could still remember everything. I could remember the rape. I could only remember the abuse. I could only remember that I was a son of a prostitute. I hated myself. I fucking hated myself. I just wanted to die in that darkness, to get so high that I could fly away or so drunk that I'd drown. I just wanted to fall asleep and never have to wake but every sunrise I remained with the unforgiving hangover and some stranger's wet lust lingering inside of me, not thinking I would want to live tomorrow. Laying here just blending in with these white sheets, I think to myself that maybe I didn't want to die; that maybe I just wanted to find myself somewhere in that darkness. I knew there had to be light somewhere. I also think to myself maybe I shouldn't had been so passive aggressive about my end, that I should've just taken a gun and let the bullet rape my brain. I tried taking pills twice, when I was fifteen but both times I lived. I tried killing myself so many times but I just lived. I couldn’t understand why God wouldn’t let me die. I didn’t have any family. My fucking life didn’t have any meaning. And it was mostly the meaninglessness I couldn’t escape. It’s like that’s all I been taught my entire life. Nobody took their roles seriously. Daddy got himself killed with his own mess. Mama got addicted to crack. I just went from one relative to the next but nobody took their role serious. There was no mama, daddy, grandma, uncle or sister. Everybody was just on their own shit. It didn’t give me an identity moved around so much. I didn’t get to enjoy my education or accomplishment because that only reminded me of how nobody took their role serious. I just wanted some damn focus. I just wanted an anchor. I just wanted a mirror so I could see myself but all I got was darkness. So I didn’t take my serious. I was just waiting to die.

So many nights in that darkness, so many men. Bathhouse, bookstores, cruising corners, the internet, phone lines, one night stands  and now the Doctor tells me that it might be AIDS and I guess I should be happy that I'm dying but I'm not. I want to live.

It was never about sex. It was never about all the men. It was never about all of the names I can't even remember now. It was never about them. I could care less about them, and obviously as I blend into these white sheets, I know now they could've cared less about me. They used to call me beautiful, especially when I was young.  I never really believed it, but I liked hearing the words. I didn't care where the words came from, short, fat, ugly, cute, big dick, little dick, it didn't really matter. I just needed to hear it. They used to feel so special to lie next to me, inside of me, to kiss me. Suddenly, in the beginning, with men, I found something like a drug, escapism. I thought I found a home with men who adored me, who made me feel special even if it was only for half an hour. It was never about sex, shit, most of the times I didn't even enjoy it. I would just lie there, feeling the warmth, not wanting the interaction to be over with, not wanting flesh to tear itself away from me which meant I would be alone again.  In the beginning it was about wanting to feel beautiful and special. In the beginning it was about wanting to be wanted, and to feel as if I mattered, no matter if it was just skin deep. In the beginning I was like a kid in a candy store. I loved the instant gratification, the verification, but honestly it never made me feel whole because drugs never do, sex never does, it just let me escape. It was never about sex but the exact opposite. I like to think that I just didn't care. I know better now. I just didn't know how to care. I just didn't know how to value my life. I thought I wanted out. I thought I wanted to suffer. I thought I just wanted to die. And those days were so dark and suffocating. I was just waiting for my sun, that's all. I was just waiting. Even as my body burns and my head spins, I think to myself that I chose this, for whatever reason I did choose it. But now it seems so stupid. And I’m angry that I was so damn weak. And I’m angry with so much shame. Now, I'm just left with the hangover. There's nothing like dying, that makes you want to live forever.

I can say it started with my mother, because she didn't love me. I can say it started with abandonment, with growing up and not being wanted and never feeling good enough for anybody, not even myself. But I know now, that it started with the self-destruction, because it isn't easy living when you're whole entire life has been about pain. It's waking up every morning, empty. It's having nothing feel real but the destruction. How I loved the destruction. IT was the only thing I knew that gave me meaning. The destruction of self. I know now, sometimes we don't chose what we chose, even when we are choosing it. Death is a part of reality and none of us should be in a rush to get there. It was all suicidal every time I entered the bathhouse, or every time I entered a bookstore, or every one night stand. It was all suicidal. Promiscuity is suicidal. I try to remember if I had a good time, and sometimes I did, but it was never about the sex, now I can't remember what it was about. I don’t care anymore. I couldn’t save me.

And nobody knew, not even you. Nobody knew the depth of my suffering. It seems so pointless now. Now it seems so sad and pathetic. 

HE LOVES ME

I remember when I first met you. It was a cliché, love at first sight. I knew at that exact moment that we would share a life together. We shared several. I remember in the beginning how I so wanted to love you. I remember how I tried so hard to love you, to suppress those demons that kept rising. You were so perfect. You were what I needed. You not only completed my sentences, you completed me. You really loved me. At first I didn't know how to digest you or if I could digest you because I had never been loved. I had spent my whole entire life up until I met you without being loved. Can you imagine my loneliness? Can you imagine how happy I was to find you? I just didn't know with love, you had to do it everyday. I thought just because I loved you, that I would change over night. I thought love was magic or the cure. It wasn't. I was selfish. I know that now. I loved you loving me. You made me feel safe. You made me feel like you would never leave me. I made you feel uncertain. I made you feel like I could always leave you. There was a time when we were both on the same frequency. It was when I was most happy. I would come home from work and you will be there. We'd eat dinner and watch television in each other arms. We go to bed together in each other arms. We wake up together in each others arms. I never thought I could love a man as much as I loved you. I never thought I could be vulnerable with another man as much as I was vulnerable with you. So why did I fuck it all up? Why did I leave you? The truth is, I just didn't know how to stay. It wasn’t in my vocabulary. It wasn’t in my soul. I only knew the destruction. I was in love with it.

And I couldn’t trust you. I was afraid of you. Everybody in my life had let me down. I knew it was just a matter of time. And I didn’t want to give you that burden. I was actually protecting you every time I cheated. I was giving you a way out. I just didn't know how to love you. I just didn't know how to stay still. All my life I've been drifting. All my life I've been disappointed. All my life I've been hurting. It hasn't been an easy life for me. I used to think because I was now separated from my yesterday, that it didn't matter anymore. Now I know, I carried it with me everyday. It has made me who I am for the good or bad. I can't run from it anymore but I also refuse to not love or live because of it. I love you. I love you mostly because I know you love me. That all that really matters. In this life, everything is illusion, none of it is what it seems, but when one finds love, they find truth. You are my truth.

Loving you made me realize I had to love myself. I thought I could cheat. I loved you like I loved myself. And I didn’t want to love that way. I hate me. I could love anybody that way. I couldn’t abuse anybody that way. It made me feel guilty because I saw how I loved you. I saw how I drank, cursed, started fights, broke furniture and I would tell myself you didn’t deserve that. Yet when I looked in the mirror saw the razor blade markings where I carved hate into my arms, constantly cutting myself, I knew I didn’t deserve me.

It's so simple. Stop or it stops you. So what now?

                                                               

I want this story to have a happy ending.  I want to heal. I want to get of this hospital. I don’t want to go back to that darkness. I will leave those old demons behind. I will change my friends. I will make sure I’m healthy. I don’t care if it’s too late I just want enough time to live a life. Not live a death. This black gay man needs a happy ending. I want to come home. I want to fall asleep in your arms and you be the first person I see every morning for the rest of my life. I want for us to walk into the sunsets and all that corny shit. I want you to see me as an old man. I want for us to go grocery shopping together. I want to wash your dirty underwear. I want to rub the tension knots out of your back after a hard day of work. I want for us to celebrate anniversaries. I don't want to die. I don't won't to die. I don't want to die. I’m only twenty four years old.

You can't STOP the beat

I FUCKING LOVE THIS MOVIE

TRACY
You cant stop an avalanche
As it races down the hill
You can try to stop the seasons, girl
But ya know you never will
And you can try to stop my dancin' feet

But i just cannot stand still
'Cause the world keeps spinning
'Round and 'round
And my heart's keeping time
To the speed of sound
I was lost til i heard the drums
Then i found my way

TRACY & LINK
'Cause you can't stop the beat

Ever since this old world began
A woman found out if she shook it
She could shake up a man
And so i'm gonna shake and shimmy it
The best that i can today

'Cause you cant stop
The motion of the ocean
Or the sun in the sky
You can wonder if you wanna
But i never ask why

And if you try to hold me down
I'm gonna spit in your eye and say
That you cant stop the beat!

(Penny appears onstage transformed into a hot teenage tigress.)

TRACY

What do ya' have to say, Penny?

PENNY
I am now a checkerboard chick!
You can't stop a river
As it rushes to the sea
You can try and stop the hands of time
But ya know it just can't be
And if they try to stop us, seaweed,
I'll call the n - double-a - ñ - p!

'Cause the world keeps spinning
'Round and 'round.

SEAWEED
'Round and 'round

PENNY
And my heart's keeping time
To the speed of sound

SEAWEED
Speed of sound

PENNY
I was lost till i heard the drums
Then i found my way

PENNY & SEAWEED
'Cause you can't stop the beat

PENNY & SEAWEED, TRACY & LINK
Ever since we first saw the light
A man and woman liked to shake it
On a saturday night
And so i'm gonna shake and shimmy it
With all my might today
'Cause you cant stop
The motion of the ocean
Or the rain from above
They can try to stop the paradise
We're dreaming of
But they cannot stop the rhythm
Of two hearts in love to stay
'Cause you cant stop the beat!

EDNA
Tracy, I have a little something
I'd like to add, if you don't mind.
You cant stop my happiness
'Cause i like the way i am
And you just can't stop my knife and fork
When i see a christmas ham
So if you don't like the way i look
Well, i |ust don't give a damn!

EDNA & ENSEMBLE
'Cause the world keeps spinning
'Round and 'round
And my heart's keeping time
To the speed of sound
I was lost til i heard the drums
Then i found my way

EDNA & WILBUR & COMPANY
'Cause you cant stop the beat

Ever since this old world began
A woman found out if she shook it
She could shake up a man
And so i'm gonna shake and shimmy it
The best that i can today

'Cause you cant stop
The motion of the ocean
Or the sun in the sky

In the case of the Happily Ever After

In case of the Happily Ever After

Who wants to be happy? It’s creepy. Ever walk in a room and see a person smiling, it’s disturbing. You’re automatically suspicious. If you’re too happy people think you’re on drugs or joined a religious cult; either way it’s the human instinct to kill the buzz. When I was a young boy, I asked my mama when I grow up will I be good looking, will I be happy, will I be loved and she said shut your black ass up, don’t you see I’m trying to smoke my crack pipe.

It was supposed to be so easy, the happily ever after. I was supposed to grow up, get a good job, marry a good Christian girl, buy a house and go to church every Sunday according to my grandfather. There were so many things wrong with that picture since I was a Buddhist and allergic to pussy. In the fairy tale I was supposed to be the Prince, ride up on my great white house, saved the damsel whiny Princess, and then ride off to the sunset and live happily ever after. Yet history has shown royalty (king, queens, prince and princes) never really have a good life. If they are good looking it usually ends in tragedy. In Egypt Ramesses III and Amenemhat I were assassinated, Nefertiti went missing and Cleopatra committed suicide. Let’s not forget the Marie Antoinette who got her head cut off, Grace Kelly drove off a mountainside and lastly Princess Di crashed into a wall chased down by her fame. Not even American Royalty unofficial had it better. Need I say more, the Kennedys, shot in the head and plane crashes. It seemed not even the real Prince Charming and damsel Princess lived happily ever, just the opposite, life only got more complicated or tragic.

Yet it happens to the best of us--that need to try and make some sort of sense out of our lives. I called it the last chance for happiness. It’s the age when most of us begin the adult negotiations. It usually happens when we start approaching thirty years old. There’s an innate panic of high school reunions and fear of failure. It’s usually the time when alcoholic friends suddenly find Jesus and strippers become soccer moms. It’s the last chance. I’ve seen it happened so many times. My sister was fat and approaching thirty years old when she met her husband. She was a college drop out and working as a receptionist for a law firm. One day she disappeared. All I was told was that she met some guy at work and was no longer speaking to the family, especially me because she blamed me for her last failed relationship. She ignored the fact that guy was a deadbeat meth addict. In the beginning I was insulted because I didn’t want to be a dirty little secret like herpes. My older sister had always had anger management problems but the day she met her soon to be husband she turned into an uber-BITCH. She stopped answering her phone. She wouldn’t loan me money. I felt as if she abandoned my irresponsibility. I didn’t meet the mystery man until the day of her wedding. I was only invited because I promised to bring a gift and not show up drunk. I brought a present. It was very difficult for me to be happy for her since she excluded me from possibly ruining her happily ever after. But I understood. It was her last chance to be somebody. She was pushing thirty years old. She wasn’t so cute anymore. She was used. She had a life time of fast food jobs. She had too many secrets. It was her last chance to be the bride and not the bridesmaid. Women take that shit serious. She was beginning to feel the pressure of loneliness. She met the guy and six months later they were man and wife. It turned out he was already married and never got a divorce.

A happy ending is an ending of the plot of a work of fiction in which most everything turns out for the best for the hero or heroine, their sidekicks, and just about everyone but the villains.. A happy ending at the China Town Massage therapist is getting the dick jacked off. I rather get my dick jacked off. Growing up I fell in love with fairytales I fell in love with family sitcoms on television. I fell in love with idea of the happy ending or happily ever after where problems can be solved in thirty minutes. I watched shows like Leave it to Beaver, Family Ties and the Cosby show like it was the bible. I guess because my real life was such a mess. Daddy got himself killed when I five years old. Mama got addicted to drugs. We were dirt poor. It was a lot of reality for a child deal with so I fell in love with the television. I fell in love with romantic comedies.

I based my life on a fantasy. I believed so much in it I refused to face reality. I based love on that lie. I based friendships on that lie. I based my life success on that lie. I couldn’t understand the implausibility of Rachel on the show Friends, a high school graduate and waitress could just one day be a buyer for Gucci. That’s doesn’t happen in reality. And I couldn’t figure out why nothing was working for me. I was trying to live the life of what some drug addict writer wrote on a binge like West Wing. I should’ve known better because I’m a writer. I thought love was “When Harry Met Sally” and didn’t know love was “When Harry tried to kill Sally.”

I had to pretend to be this good boy that came from a good family, a mom and dad with a good job, so that I could grow and have a good life. The truth was haunting. I was from the ghetto. I was from the back of the ghetto, not the front, but the back where the crack heads passed out and drug dealers played dice. I was from the bottom of the pudding cup; life wasn’t going to be so easy for me like Theo on the Cosby Show. The more I surrendered to the fantasy, the addictions begin to happen. I needed to drink more. I needed to abuse more. I needed drugs. I needed more sex. And I’m a stubborn person who refused to be wrong, so I couldn’t see I wasn’t happy. I was fucking miserable. I grew up to be a liar. I grew up to be a hustler. I grew up to be the villain. I wanted to be Prince Charming but name itself sounds like gigolo or gay rapper.

And being gay didn’t help coming from where I come from. It’s such a fantasy of young hot boys with great bodies and big dicks. As a homosexual it seemed that the first thing I learned was to lie. I had to hide it. I had to be convincing when I hid it. I had to create some personality that was a lie. I had to pretend to like women. And then lying didn’t stop when I came out. That day in church when I was recruited to be gay, it all seemed like a fantasy. I was told I never have to worry about getting anyone pregnant. I was promised techno-colored drinks, all the sex I could handle and dancing all night. It seemed so much fun that rainbow flag flickering in the wind. It seemed so tempting, the intoxicating lights, the basing music, nobody ever said I had to grow up. Yet, we do grow up. I came out when I was fifteen years old. I am now thirty years old. I lived five lives in that fifteen years old. But the lying didn’t stop. It was still about sex. Men lie. Show me a man that doesn’t lie and I show you a third nipple, they are that rare. And how was I to know when I came out that I was on my own. My family didn’t ask any questions about my life anymore. I was alone. Nobody told me. All I knew at the beginning of my gay existence I starting lying. I didn’t know how to stop. I lied in my online profiles. I lied about my age. I lied just to sleep with a guy. I lied to myself. I told myself my youth would last forever. It didn’t.

Yet, the happily ever is haunting. I still wanted love. I still wanted a home to call my own. It didn’t matter that I was gay. I was still going to have to grow up. A friend of mine called me at three o’clock in the morning. He wanted to go to a park and cruise. I thought the idea was silly since we both were thirty years old. I only went because he promised weed. In the park at three in the morning on a Wednesday night, it seemed ridiculous riding around in the car in circles looking for dick. Everyone seemed so young. I felt I was dressed inappropriately in beach sandals, cargo shorts and a t-shirt that asked “Who would Jesus Do?” I looked more like I was going to a yard sale than looking to get my dick sick behind a tree in a gay park. I knew I had a nice bed at home and I suddenly wanted to be in it. I couldn’t lie anymore. I couldn’t conjure that desperate spark in my eyes. I couldn’t pretend that it was all so damn unnecessary and hilarious grown ass men sniffing around each other like common street dogs. I wanted more. I wasn’t so young any more.

I was still going to have to become a man that scared the shit out of me. I guess because I was afraid to say that I still wanted to be happy. I thought I had given up on the fairytale with my first STD. I’d seen how it worked out for some of my friends and relatives but I still wanted the American dream. I still wanted the advertisement. I felt I was owed it. When I was twenty one years old, I couldn’t see my life past Friday and Saturday night and now at thirty years old, I was saving for my down payment for my dream home. It’s because it’s called “the life” not “my life.” In that park cruising with my friend I suddenly knew when I’m gone the liquor stores will still be there, so will the drug dealers, the bathhouses, the clubs, the bars, none of them won’t close down because I’m no longer dancing on the dance floor. It’s called “the life” not “my life.” I wanted my life. When I was recruited that day in church and signed the contract to be a promiscuous homosexual I should’ve read the fine print. I decided to hire me a drag queen. I needed a need contract. I didn’t want to be the old man in the park flashing teenagers. I didn’t want to be the botox tragic fag with ass implants and fake teeth trying to pretend I was still in my twenties. I wanted to be home watching television with my lover. I wanted the fantasy of growing old with him on the porch and sweet tea. I was still a romantic no matter how many bathhouses and orgies I’ve attended. I was still a boy standing in front of a boy and asking him to love me.

I don’t’ understand why it has to be called happily ever after. It sounds like a place where the Easter Bunnies and Santa Claus go to commit suicide. It sounds so damn final. I don’t want to ride off into the sunset. I want to wake up to sun rises. I can’t understand why the story can’t end “the two lovers did the best the good.” Why couldn’t it be called “good enough?” I didn’t want my story to end that I lived happily ever after because I know that’s another lie. I’m TIRED OF LIES. I want my story to end that I did the best I could every day and practiced forgiveness. I think that’s the key to a happy life. It’s hard work. You have to constantly learn how to rebuild. You have to learn how to start over and keep forgiving your past. I am not my past. I am now. I am not happy. That’s creepy.

I was here

Why write on some gas station bathroom in middle of Nowhere, Texas with a ballpoint pen, “I was here.” Did the person forget? And who carries the specific permanent marker for such graffiti: maybe a John Doe that’s afraid no one will miss him if he’s abducted by aliens.

They usually leave their name and date. Sometimes they draw boobs or a man’s dick. It’s usually in those bathrooms where you only stop because you ate some bad “truckstop” tuna or Mexican food and it wants out. On the toilet, you bend down just far enough where the booty hole can aim correctly but your butt check won’t touch the seat. And in that awkward Yoga move between explosive convulsions, the eyes wonder especially focus on the cracks of the bathroom stale hoping nobody comes in like a relative or ex-lover or current lover or the newspaper or news team with cameras. Your eyes wonder and splattered all over the walls are messages. Somebody is looking for a dick sucking around 5 in the evening on Sunday and left their phone number. Somebody doesn’t like a certain gang. Somebody wants to get fucked with an umbrella. You chuckle thinking of all the freaks in the world. And then it’s that ubiquitous, “I was here, 6-17-1997.” You suddenly feel not so alone that somebody was there in the same position you’re probably in ten years ago with exploding Diarrhea.

I often wondered who those people were. What did they look like? Are they still alive? Did they find happiness? Did that guy looking to get his dick sucked finally get a phone call? And what would make them write on the walls? Is it loneliness? Is it that human need to record our existence even it’s a kinky need to get fucked with a canary yellow umbrella? Do anybody ever call those numbers. Does anybody care the Saprina Ellis is a slut/bitch and isn’t that a double negative?

I started writing on the bathroom walls “I was here” when I started to question if I could save myself. I was twenty five years old. I was drinking too much. I was partying too much. I was getting older and scared. I wrote on the every wall at bathhouses, bookstores, clubs, bars, that I was here. I knew eventually I be another ghost. I guess to say that I was once young, that I was horny, that I was lonely, that I was scared, that I was drunk and I once thought I would live forever.

And then there was epidemic of Graffiti in the city in the early nineties what some called the desperation of the ghetto for attention. Images or lettering scratched, scrawled, or more usually spray-painted on property that didn’t belong to the artist, and was often regarded by others as unsightly damage or unwanted vandalism. It was the name of gangs. The names of those shot down in the streets by gang violence. The artwork of young ghetto artist trying to make their mark on the world. I remember being on the train in New York and thinking why spray paint on the sides of the building when the “man” was just going to paint over it the next day. And some of the artwork was better than some crap I’ve seen museums. It spoke to me. It was my cousin Pookie, Ray Ray, or that guy I slept with behind that building on a musty New York Saturday night. It was my history. I had to understand, why say I was here when people would eventually forget.

I was born October 5th. The doctor slapped my ass and recorded the time. I was given a birth certificate with my footprints to prove I existed, an American citizen. And when I die, I’m also promised a death certificate and tombstone to say that I was here. But the real question, why was I here in the first place?

There was time when I started writing on the walls because I was really asking if I would feel good enough. I tried being a whore. I went to the gym five times a week. I slept with a different man every other week. But it didn’t’ mean shit. A condom in the trash didn’t mean shit. Hoping they remember or I remember meant everything. I wanted to carve into their bodies that “Michael Whitley was here” because I often I forgot who I slept with that drunk night but that would’ve probably sent me to jail or to a mental hospital. So I carved in into the trees, walls, on the floors. The real question was if I would ever feel good enough. I had to check the mirror so often. I wondered if the wounds of my childhood abuse could heal. I wondered if they abandoned child would ever feel good enough for happiness. Good enough to be a writer. Good enough to love myself. I asked the question. The universe gave me the challenge.

So I set out for physical response. I pushed in hopes that it would push back. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t some ectoplasm. I ain’t no invisible man. I guess vandalizing walls wasn’t enough for me. I wrote a book. I just wanted to be able to put my name in the computer and see it come up. To see Michael Whitley come up.

For two years I was the “shirtless writer.” An alcoholic drag queen named “Bing” gave me that name. She told me I could rule the world if I wanted. I believed her. Some people called me the “shitless writer” or “full of shit” writer. They didn’t understand. Some thought I was a hustler, a common prostitute or pathetic con man. I was all of it. For two years every week without fail, I wrote my weekly column about my pathetic life living in the city. I sold it at the local gay bars and clubs for one dollar. I still can’t believe I got away with it. I figured people gave away their money all the time. They gave it away to bartenders who made weak drinks. They gave it away to overpriced clubs. They gave it away to strippers. They gave it away to aging alcoholic drag queens. I figured why not me.

Like Graffiti I’d see on my comics on the floors of bathrooms, dance floors and parking lots. It would make me feel alive. I know “I was here.” Just in case I forgot. I wanted to be a lot of things in my life. My first break as a writer came in third grade. I wrote a poem called “mirror.” It was basically about how I was scared to look in the mirror because I was convinced the person behind it was trying to kill me. I thought he was mocking me. I showed the poem to my teacher hoping that she knew the ghost busters. In second grade I wanted to Valentine Day king. My teacher laughed at me when I raised my hand to nominate myself. She said nobody was going to vote for a nappy head snot nose kid, so I should just save myself the embarrassment. I didn’t care. I stood in front of the class wiping my nose as they voted. I told myself that I should do the politically correct thing and vote for the other guy, because I didn’t want to seem vain. When the votes were tabulated, I had gotten zero votes. I didn’t even vote for myself. That’s what bothered me the most. I didn’t even vote for myself. I vowed to never do that again. The next year I ran again and that time I not only voted for myself, I changed the votes. I won. When I was in fourth grade, I wanted the lead in the choir. I was told I couldn’t sing and that I sounded like God murdering a basket of monkeys with a toothpick. She said my vomit would sound better. The choir director told me I sang through my nose and it was always full of boogers. She said I should be happy being in the back, therefore nobody could see me. I didn’t stop singing. Actually I sang louder. I got kicked out of choir. When was in high school I tried to be an actor. My drama teacher told me I acted like Scarlet O’Hara with an obsessive compulsive disorder. I didn’t understand what that mean. I thought she was a bitch. In college I wanted to be a model. I was told I was too dark. Not too good looking. Too short. The first photo shoot I pissed on myself. I was wearing white Calvin Klein. The director told me the shoot wasn’t about waster sports. I didn’t find out what that meant until years later.

But the need to say I was here was still tormenting. It’s why I kept doing the comic every week. I didn’t care what they thought. I didn’t care if they gave me money or not. I was fucking h ere. “I so want you to succeed.” His name was Mike. He was more than a little overweight. He and Jabber the Hutt probably wore the same pants size. I liked Mike because he was a Negrophile, a barfly and every week he had a ten dollar bill to stuff down my pants. I knew he was in lust with me, had been saying he was trying to lose weight so that he could be with me. I was also sure he said that to all the young black boys with flat stomachs and a nice dick print. I was always happy to see Mike, mostly because he gave me money with few complications. Hearing him say that he wanted me to succeed made me feel so good, because it was hard trying to hold on to a slippery dream at twenty-nine years old. It was hard hustling the bar with my little comic that I put together at home. And it was hard wearing my heart on my sleeves for every pervert just to try and look down my pants. I only did it because I got to be a writer every week. I got to live my dream, and until I was discovered by the “powers that be” that write checks, it was all I had to look forward to in life. So I hugged Mike, put my skinny toned arms around his fat waist, and that’s when he whisper it in my ear again, “I so want you to succeed” but it didn’t sound so supportive anymore. It was more suggestive and nasty. He whispered it again to make sure I heard him, “I so want you to pee on me.” Needless to say, I let go of Mike’s fat nasty ass.

I was shirtless writer. I was here. And I was horny, often scared, trying to figure it all out, and trying to make myself feel good enough for happiness. I laughed. I danced. I sold a comic in the club for two years. I kissed. I sucked dick. I ate ass. Vice Versa. I sold jokes. I was in love. But most important, I lived

i'm back

Be afraid, be very afraid, introducing, Steven G Fullwood

I didn’t get much for Christmas, but if I would’ve asked for anything, not some stupid toy I get bored with a month later, not that damn bike cuz I stole my neighbor’s bike and dared him to call the cops, but I would’ve asked Santa for a conversation with somebody fucking cool like the corpse of James Dean or Jack the Ripper, some many years later and it’s not my birthday, it’s the mad scientist or rebelling writer, Steven G. Fullwood.

Introducing and I fucking adore him; Steven G. Fullwood and his dick is only "one inch long" but his tongue had to get arrested for indecent exposure. Buy the book.  http://www.vepress.com/funny/

***Steven G. Fullwood edited this interview. He also took it upon himself to interject himself into every aspect of it, even in the pro and epilogue. He is represented in the parenthetical aside.

To begin, at first glance he has a unique look, the pale skin almost albino, the innocent childlike eyes on a man’s face, can’t tell if he’s praying or preying. He’s hyper and very sure of himself but not too convincing. I see fragility. I see thread strings loose. I see hurt, maybe a broken hurt, maybe he’s still healing, something searching. I wonder what he is hiding

(***Chicken. under my bed.) I wonder if I care. (***You’d care. It’s BBQ chicken.) It’s like Emperor of Oz, the big lights, smoke and mirrors just to find behind the curtain is a vulnerable man. I think that’s Steven (***Could be). I don’t know. Maybe that’s what he wants me to think (***I want you put your genitals in a pot of boiling soup.) It’s those innocent childlike eyes on a man’s face, don’t know if he’s praying or preying or playing? He’s "funny" that way.

Question 1: Who is Steven G. Fullwood—born, nurtured, or reinvented?

     All of it and more. I’m still figuring it out. I’ve died so much that I have no idea where I am in the death/rebirth stage, which is probably a good thing. Still coughing up dirt, I am.

Question 2: After reading your book "Funny" I couldn’t help to think to myself why call the book "Funny?" Was it supposed be funny like ironic or funny like "hahaha" or funny like gay or freak?

    I wanted to write a book of humor. Most black homos and homettes were doing poetry or fiction, but few were funny and many were simply cautionary tales about coming out or catching the AIDS. Give me the funny! So okay, on a trip back from DC Black Pride in 2003, my best friend James named the book, "Funny," which encapsulated for me what I was attempting to do. I am attracted to many types of humor – satire, goof, irony, etc., so I wanted to try my hand at some of those forms. And, of course, funny like homo, funny like queer, funny like strange.

Question 3: I mean the book is funny, and it had a few laugh out loud moments and offered some smiles but what I really like was the originality of the thinking, fascinating. I thought a better title would’ve been "Original." (***So what?) Tell me the story behind the title?

      See above.

Question 4: Let me quote some of my favorite lines ever. I will be using them. Which is your favorite and explain the story behind it?

"My dick is exactly one inch long." (***It is, ask my last lover.)

"There are those brothers who can’t get our of the "Bemadfightfuck" role…black men who only like to be mad, fight, and fuck." (***You like it because it describes you.)

"One of my latest sports is to pick up some young thing with body and face, work him, pat him on the butt, and then send him on his merry way." (***My humble contribution to the community.)

"I wanted someone, anyone, to accidentally stumble on my genius and freak the fuck out." (***This is the result of poor self-esteem.)

"I was booted out the gay club. But that was fine with me, because I started that fight on purpose." (***Gays are an abomination.)

"I fucking amaze me!" (***I do. I’m amazingly gifted.)

The last one, for sure. Back then I had a very high opinion of myself and today it’s much higher. Considerably higher, actually. In fact, I have to go look in the mirror right now. Be back in a second.

Question 5: In the introduction, at first I thought your humor was going to be sort of absurd like Edward Albee or cartoons like Ren and Stimpy. I found out that you are really silly. Really funny. It’s more ironic humor. It’s not David Sedaris, Lewis Black or Woody Allen. At some points, it’s more political, sort of a diet Chris Rock not vulgarity of David Chappelle but a Paul Money. You wrote a humor book so who were your influences? Do you see yourself as a humorist? What humorist have you read?

My influences include but are not limited to Dorothy Parker, who I would describe at as wit, rather than a humorist. Then there’s Anne Lamott, Cynthia Heimel, George Carlin. I’m inspired by Dick Gregory because he’s crazy funny, very down to Earth and matter- of-fact. Carla Robinson, my best friend since I was in high school, is probably the funniest woman on Earth, so I often steal from her.

Question 6: Your book reminds me of a writing exercise (that wasn’t edited.) In undergrad, I was told writers need to write down the demons to let them go. It’s how we as writers when we sit down at our computers, typewriters or whatever, how that which is haunting us the most needs attention before we can get to the actual story telling. The demons can sometimes be a distraction like if your boyfriend just broke up with you and you’re trying to write a story on love. But that’s what I liked the most about your book. Tell me about your demons. Or in your case because you "hate god" and don’t believe in conventional religion, tell me about your frustrations with being Steven G. Fullwood?

It’s not me I have the frustrations with – it’s with the world I’ve created around me. It gets scary sometimes.

Question 7: What is this fantasy of Stevenites? I guess I'm one.

They are real, trust me. I get letters and occasionally someone will fall to his feet and thank his good fortune that he’s met me, which is a surreal experience, let me tell you. It happens when I don’t expect it and I generally stand there wondering if the Steven this guy likes or sees is the same one standing before him, and if I had anything to do with it. Probably not.

Question 8: Now what I really loved. I fucking loved the essay "Livin’ the Single Life" and think it should be published in the New Yorker or a topic on the Oprah show. How have you’ve gotten comfortable with your self, loneliness, and are you still a warrior for "self-love" even if it means never being in a couple.

I got comfortable with being alone by acknowledging and celebrating beliefs I held about myself. One is that I need space. You know why I’m an A- in bed? It’s because I like to sleep alone. Another belief is that whatever I want I can get so why the fuck worry? When I want a mate, I’ll conjure one. Money? It’s on its way. Still another belief is that just around the corner is another adventure, romantic or otherwise, waiting for me. All I have to do is show up. Finally, nothing feels quite as good as being on your own side, and for me this is a skill I only recently learned.

Question 10: And let’s talk about fucking hilarious. I mean I missed my train reading the essay "Attention Homophobes." Is it a true story? I can imagine you chasing down some allegedly heterosexual afraid of what he really wants, but how do you feel about rape?

Rape is great. Try it today. If you aren’t satisfied with your rape, then return it for a full refund. But if you act now, I’ll double your rape, absolutely free! But wait, there’s more. If you order in the next sixty seconds, as a bonus I’ll throw a set of gensew knives absolutely free. Sharp enough to cut through anything. Except rape.

Question 11: I think your book is great for new writers. It’s really an urban gay book on how to be a sane urban gay writer. I saw myself so much in your book. I’m from a small town that I left for something better because like you I could put up with the racism, poverty or whatever but I couldn’t deal with the boredom. Are you still bored? What would you say about being a teacher? Or the messenger?

Not really bored. Boredom seems like an excuse not to create, and I create all the time. Being a teacher for me means you should know your shit, and I am still learning my shit. I’ve worked as an adjunct English teacher about seven years ago and frankly I’m still sore from the experience. Messengers can get their point across over a nice dinner. I can be a messenger.

Question 12: What would you say to the phrase, "You can’t teach a person to write, but you can allow them to scream, bitch and throw sissy fits?"

What’s a sissy fit?

Question 13: Can you be in love with someone who doesn’t like your writing; in a fire, what books in your home would you save; what can you go the longest without…sex, food, liquor or writing…? If god gave you the deal that you can be a famous writer but you had to die in the next two years, would you take it? What is the one thing you like about yourself as a writer?

I have been and will probably be in the near future. That ought to be fun. None. I’m saving my black-ass. Good question for a Capricorn. Feels like a dare. I fast, I abstain, and I’ve never been much of drinker, but there have been few periods in my adult life where I haven’t been writing. I don’t believe in god. But the death thing sounds like a delight. Make it one year and then you got yourself a deal! I like a lot of things about myself as writer. I’m talented, tenacious, and I tickle myself.

Question 14: If you were a tree, what type of tree would you be and why?

Any kind. They are all pretty fab to this writer. (I was hoping he said a Christmas tree or what firewood? LOL)

Question 15: Finally, what’s next for the reluctant Steven G. Fullwood?

Never heard the word reluctant used to describe me. Not once. Got a new book coming at the end of the year.

At the last black gay pride in DC, I witnessed him trying to sell his book to some young gay boy who complained, what’s funny about "Funny" and why you still selling it since it came out in 2005. Steven, in that turtle in a shell look just replied because it’s still Funny, now give me money. I think it’s because its still relevant. I officially put "Funny" on my shelf with my other literary references like "Writing Down the Bones" by Natalie Goldberg, "On becoming a Novelist" by John Gardner, "Making of a Literary Life" by Caroyln See and "Bird by Bird" by Anne Lamont.

I believe it’s a book for any urban gay writer trying to remain sane as an urban gay writer, not necessary a "How To" book but a writer speaking to the mirror on "How it is." I know that probably wasn’t his intent, but the great thing about art, once it’s released and I paid my money, I can interpret it however the fuck I want, and I saw it as a book on writing. I got the humor it in it as being a fearless original and okay with the loneliness. I saw it as a book when I get insecure I would go back to stories like "You’re going to be so disappointed" and not feel so alone. "Funny" is a writers book and every writer should have because in the process of art, we all get lonely, horny, have to deal with insecurity, constantly trying to explain ourselves to our so call groups (us), those who don’t understand (them) and finally to ourselves (me).

Don't sing, tell you my song

for you, "I CAN"T SING, my soul" the poem book i wanted dedicate to my best friend, how we were once Rock Stars. I still remember us, it's eight years now, and i think about all the stuff you miss. Still, speak to you parents. They still miss you. I miss you too. Always thinking about you.

I will fucking love how you like they play that Whitney Houston song

I can’t sing, but this is my soul

No money for the credit card

We getting evicted

The heat got cut off in the worse winter of us

I have nothing to give you but this poem

My soul

It’s how we’ve become betrayed by our dicks

And pussy

And when you pull me closer you tell me never to let you go

Until the rent is paid

And how they lied to us

Isn’t no Santa Claus

Isn’t no love

isn't sexuality

just souls

Just war and poverty

If you love me let me know

Tell me I’m dying for something

Too many of are used to dying for nothing

Some tell me I’m too damn romantic

For a kid of crack mama and drug dealer father

can never trust him, me

I have nothing to give you

The full moon has been given before

Belong too many damn lovers in pain

Trying to get their dicks sucked or proved their parents wrong

All the starts in the sky

Has been claimed by ignorance

Like a rose

Too much decapitation.

Just being plucked when

It belong to nobody

But itself

I see red every time I see you

Is it my blood pumping to my dick?

Which they always told me not to touch

But I did it anyway; maybe that’s why I’m so sexy

Maybe if more women touched

They understand the pleasure of men instant of the duty

Isn’t nobody being saved?

If we keep sending our poor to war

I ain’t got no expensive gift

Could only kiss you

Some child, how we all come into this world stripped

Of pretensions

Yea I got credit

Yea I got some job I hate

Yea if you want that poison I will feed it too you

But I ain’t got shit

Just lint in my pocket and a hard dick

That likes the warmth in your eyes

And the promise I will always protect you

And it’s so sad

Me so fucking pathetic

That kid of crack whore and drug dealer father

With tears in his eyes

All I have is the dream god has for us

Why you won’t accept it

You can’t take it to no bank

You can’t buy groceries with it, but it will feed you

It’s like a plant, I might as well given you a dandelion to blow out

How it affects in the right situation

So I’m a weed

No good

Everybody going to tell you to leave me alone

And I ain’t got nothing to give you

But another nigga’s dream

Yes, I still use that word, cuz I’m black and poor

But in love

Tried to find religion

Been told I got too many words

I breathe you, make me okay

Don’t make me that kid of crack whore and drug dealer

They had souls too

My mama and daddy

Loneliness don’t get  know flowers

Nor does it know money

It just knows loneliness

And those who don’t want to be alone anymore

This is my soul,

I sing if I could

I make you believe if you could see me beyond my past

And it’s so fucking unfair

So fucking unfair I can’t be what they taught you

Made you fear, does your mother still suck your daddies dick

Like a ghetto boy like me can never feel love

Can’t never be trusted

Read my shit and tell me I ‘m

Shit

And it’s so unfair

Because damnitt I FEEEEEEL

And I have nothing to give you but this

Pathetic poem

Stop hurting me, like everybody has hurt me

And then act crazy when I retaliated

This is my soul

Ask for it

It’s yours

i fucking love you

will prove it wil every fight

will prove it with every kiss

will prove it with my hard dick

will prove it without saying like waking

and taking out the trash, cleaning the gutters

going to my job

scratching you back when it itches

carrying you when you weak

making sure we have heath insurance

making sure our kids don't starve

making sure you don't complain about me to your friends

i fucking love you

so what if i'm gay

and you're straight

we could be happy

i could be a lesbian