The thing I care most about
is money. Not boys not girls not dogs cars or sunsets. It’s dough,
cash, greenbacks. The thing that says love like no touch (or rub) can.
No body, no thing, says it better or proves its sincerity more than the
man who is willing to pay as he says the words, "You are really
worth something."
If I had to write my own
eulogy, I’d say, "Here was a guy whose beautiful eyes
and sincere smile made a difference. The eyes, brown and tender, could
not hide, however, his terrible pain. The pain that stemmed from his
belief that all roads lead to loneliness; that all people care as much
as they can but invariably do what all people do – abandon each other.
When I look at myself in the
mirror each morning, the first thing I think is usually that
my beauty, which is a s deep as my aging skin, is fast becoming overrun
by dryness and wrinkles. I try to calculate the odds of keeping my fast
fading looks one more day and they are not good. Time, the bastard, is
gaining on me.
I know I’m good at
making people feel great about themselves. What I cannot do is sustain
the energy it takes to keep reminding them. This is why friendships and
love interests are so hard for me – I lose interest and the other
party sees me for the fake I am.
I feel incompetent when
I try to understand humans. Their odd and futile ways confuse me. There
are times when I want to smother them all and put them out of their
misery; and there are times when I hate them for I can feel them
swimming in my blood. How did they get there I agonize to myself when
this occurs.
People admire me for
my good nature and the vengeance with which I try to be a good person.
And they are taken aback if I show any signs of weakness or of being
like they are I know I annoy people when I cut myself down. I do it with
a fury that no man or child should have to bear.
A few events from my childhood
that shaped who I am today are:
-- being shuttled around from foster home to foster
home for the first 18 months of my life. there are no memories of
this, of course; merely the residual fear that I must have done
something wrong to deserve it. naturally the best reason I was
turned away -- this is true -- was because I cried too much.
-- Ann W’s death. the fast seizure, the three or
four day lingering; my memory of me punching my pillow when mom
came in to say she was dead. so much for her lovely Jesus Christ.
-- being bullied in school. faggot pansy sissy boy
freak wacky queer momma's boy jerkoff baby we're gonna kill you, you
little bastard fuck who doesn't even have the same last name as his
parents.
-- inept social workers. blue-gray walls of
institutional paint; the smell of rubbing alcohol; little kids with
vacant stares of incomprehension and fear in their eyes; dirty floors;
meeting the siblings; the one-armed blind man who manned the elevator;
the fear of being sent back.
-- adults who expressed love with money. take this but
don't tell your mother. take this but don't tell your father. take
this but don't tell your parents.
-- 30 --
Back to
writings contents