ninety-two

gay-chronicles


92.


I CAN ONLY IMAGINE what I’m feeling with my hair parted on the left and the majority of my curly, black mane hanging on the right.

In my hand, I hold an iPhone 5 fit with a light blue Apple brand phone case–silicone, because it feels the best.

I take a bathroom selfie in the bathroom of my 3rd floor apartment on my university’s campus. I’m looking good. I’m sure I feel cute and comfortable in my 4XL baggy shirt. This royal blue “robe” of mine is easily recognized as 1 out of the 5 or so shirts I stole from my mom at age 13 when I moved out. Even at age 20, I brood over the thoughts of stealing them in hopes to have something to remember her. I had been using them to sleep in for years, but it felt different in that moment. You see, in that moment I didn’t know for sure if I would ever see her again.

I’ve seen her plenty since.

And now I admit I’ve seen her more than I’m comfortable with at times.


Without a doubt, my intentions are to show friends the possibilities of my hair via Snapchat. It’s sophomore year of college, my hair has been steadily growing since the year before and I’ve not yet yearned to cut it. (At 20, I have my thoughts.)

I meticulously twist my locks around a thermal brush in hopes my hair will curl into, well, something similar to this:

 

October 4, 2015 @ 12:22 AM.

 

Yes, this is the picture. If I know myself, I’ve just sucked in my stomach in attempt to hide behind the guilt of being a large boy just long enough to snap the shot. I want to feel like the cute gay boys I see in Tumblr.

I crave to be an over-edited Tumblr boy.

I do not send the picture. Not right away.

Staring seems to be a waste of time, doesn’t it? Whenever I stare at something, I get lost in thought and as soon as I’m taken out of that thought, I can’t remember what I was thinking about.

I look at the photo. Then, I stare at the photo. I loose my train of thoughts. I’m lost, and I forget about the photo.

My roommate walks in to use the restroom. (The shower and toilet are in a small, separate space.) His entrance reminds me that this isn’t just a world I live in…

I swipe right on the photo, instantly adding a slightly orange filter that I suppose thought complimented my caramel skin. I rate the picture worth 6 seconds on view time–not cute enough for 10, but different enough for more than 3. After all, I worked fairly hard at those curls. But, just before I send, I save it.

12:22 turns into 1:22 as Netflix plays in the background.

Then, 1:22 AM turns into blackness.

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