FROM 'THE SERPENT'

I GUESS WHEN YOU HAVE A CERTAIN EXPERIENCE, AND YOU HAVE A FEELING, AND YOU RECOGNIZE IT
AS BEING PRETTY UNIVERSAL, YOU WANT TO DEMONSTRATE THAT YES, YOU MIGHT HAVE HAD IT TOO,
HERE IT IS
IDENTIFYING WITH SOME THING OR ANOTHER, CAN BE PRETTY POWERFUL AS REINFORCEMENT
I ALWAYS WISHED TO BE ABLE TO WRITE STUFF LIKE THIS, WHO KNOWS WHY

youareanobject:

fuckyeahphilip:(via unencumbered)

“You are my best friend. You get drunk and act like a knucklehead, taking off your shirt cuz you’re the beefiest out of us all, but maybe not necessarily in the best shape. You look good, is the point, and when you drink you just want the eyes on you. Doesn’t matter whose they are. I love that about you. That and your honesty and loyalty. You like Adam Sandler movies and the Killers…wish I could change that about you, but these are minor things, at least within the grand context of the universe. It’s a party. You sit next to me. I put my hand on your head and we pose for a picture for Shelly, my ex. I’m about as drunk as you but I have inhibitions to spare. Wish I could be as free as you. You smell good and I get ashamed of myself for noticing. This has been happening to me lately. So I comment on Shelly’s tits and she walks away. You look me in the face and talk about how many credits you have left and I could probably kiss you, but I’ve never kissed a guy before. Honestly, I’ve never wanted to. Before you, I mean. So screw it—I give you a peck on the lips—our lips touch for exactly 2.4 seconds. You look me in the eye, then, after a brief pause, you laugh softly, mush my face gently. You won’t remember this happened. You won’t let yourself. I open my mouth to explain, but they call you into the kitchen for a shot of Jaeger and you howl your approval and get up and go. I sigh a chuckle. I could never date you. My life would be turned upside down, my parents, by brothers and sisters, my exes, my friends and co-workers…and if we broke up and I went back to chicks, since you’re the only guy I’ve felt this way about…what would that leave me? Nah, we’ll be friends, and I’ll ignore this phase or whatever it is. We’ll graduate and move on. We’ll be buds til then. Bros til then. And I’ll wait for the bullshit/pretend fight we’ll force ourselves to have with each other, to make separating easier. That’s how it works, so that’s how it will be.”

youareanobject:

A few months ago, you got really drunk and told me you had become friends with this guy at school. You had recently started opening up to more people, started being yourself more, as you were probably a little too shy before (the kind of shy where I wondered if you were going to be afraid of leaving the house or something when you get older), and though you had started making new friends, this was the first one you seemed really excited about. Like making this friend made you a better person. Mom and Dad were out of state on one of their Save Our Marriage mini-vacations, and we had people over. Maybe just about ten people we knew. Maybe just a couple cases of beer. When they left, when we were done cleaning, you told me about him. You told me that he was different from other people—that he didn’t seem to do things just because it would make him look cool, but because he actually seemed to want to, which you said probably sounded weird, but is rarer than I would think, and I said that I know it is. You said that we’re usually just projecting our needs onto other people, and that your personality and his fit like electrical plug and a wall outlet—he had the things that you did not, and vice versa. You told me this person was named Don, and I asked Don Elliot?, and you said yes, and I said, dude. Be careful. You said it’s not like that, but I knew you were either lying to me or lying to yourself, and I knew that you knew that as well. I knew Don from middle school. I told you that I thought Don wanted different things from life than you, and that it was nice that you guys found a connection with each other, but that it was important you be realistic about how much of yourself you can invest in another person, and that simply caring about someone will not always be enough, especially if the person doesn’t get you as much you think they do. I could tell I was bumming you out, so we heat up some Hot Pockets and passed out watching Adult Swim.

A few months later, Dad went away again, this time with Diana, the woman he was cheating on Mom with, who now lives with us. We had another get-together in his absence. Don was there, and he was discreetly trying to get with Stacy Addison, which I pretended not to notice, as I am over her bullshit, and you are in the midst of his. Everyone was having a pretty chill time, though, me included, you included. When everyone left, and it was time to clean, I found you slumped on the floor in the downstairs bathroom. I was alarmed, but you were not bleeding, so I did not panic. Your eyes were barely open. I crouched down in front of you and asked if you were okay. You lied and said you were fine, and I laughed. I asked if you took something, and you said that you made a mistake. I asked you if it was a prescription pill or something harder, and you shook your head and said that you made a different kind of mistake. You said that, sometimes, when you’ve met someone a few times and take a liking to them, you’ll pretend you matter more to them than you actually do, and, as time goes on, you will forget that this affection was fabricated to make you feel like your was changing, and you’ll start to get upset because the other person isn’t living up to this promise that they never actually made in the first place. That Don told you, tonight, that you were not really his friend, that you were not what he signed up for, that he hated you sometimes, because you didn’t know when to stop, when to shut up. When to keep your thoughts to yourself. That he’d see you around, and you guys could be friendly, but that you should stop calling him to make plans. That you need to grow up and live in the world as it really is instead whatever it is you are pretending it is. Then you threw up in the toilet. I flushed it for you and handed you the bottle of water I was sipping on. I told you that Don had a point, but you should never be ashamed of yourself for needing what every living thing needs, for not knowing where to get it, or what to do with the love that you’re walking around with like a million dollars in a world without stores. I told you, just the same, there will be things, endless things, that you cannot afford. Not just things that are for sale, for money, but things that require you to pony up your heart, or your respect, for yourself, or, just, like, your health, your reputation… I asked if you thought you could afford Don and you sobbed and shook your head no, and cried into my t-shirt, and you said that you just wanted him to know how special he was. You said that the last thing Don said before leaving your house was that he loved you more than he thought he was going to, but that you made it hard for someone to love you, and so there would be these rules now, and you said that he did too, make it hard to love him, but that his version of hard meant he was getting laid a lot and not opening up about his feelings, and your version was like the complete opposite, on both counts. You said that Don told you that he can’t be around someone who feels sorry for themselves as much as you do. It’s not the kind of person he thought you were. You said it was funny that the people who need someone project a vibe that others tend to reject. Making it worse. For you. We were still hugging. I pulled you away and told you that people like Don can sometimes look happier than they really are, that they do not often thing about life as deeply as you might wish they did, and constantly showing him how sad you are, how mad you are, is only gonna make him pull away more. I told you that I was sorry you had to be the type of thing that scares so many people. What you needed, I said, was to become the parts of yourself that you were using Don to maintain. That maybe Don was right about that. You nodded and began to drift off to sleep, sitting there on the bathroom floor. Eyes closed, you told me that, if you became those things, you would not need Don anymore, and I said, that’s kinda the point. I carried you upstairs and dropped you off into your room. On the way out, you mumbled something. I said, what? You cleared your throat. You said, How do you know when you can trust how you feel? I look into the upstairs hallway—it is dark and empty. I look back into your room—you lie in bed with your eyes closed. I stand there, trying to come up with an answer, until you fall asleep, and I no longer need one. I’ll figure it out, I say, then shut off your light, shut your door. I finish cleaning the house, delete Stacy Addison’s number from my phone, pass out in the living room, watching cartoons.

(Source: fuckyeahgaycouples, via youareanobject)