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.


3:06 AM | Thoughts on Adderall

FROM NOW UNTIL THE END of my life, I will definitely try my best to capture my thoughts and feelings and then share them. The last part there is the most exciting.

You see, dear reader, I love talking. And if I’m correct, I think I have always loved talking, both about myself and ALL the people around me. Without people, I’d be nothing and without nothing I’d be something I don’t want to come to know.

I find it a genuine duty to myself to record and document my life’s triumphs and battles for two reasons: 1) someday I’d like to share my knowledge with those who come after me, and 2) Imagine Googling yourself on your death bed and seeing what a full and hopefully productive life you had all 85 years before. (I don’t plan on dying at 85, and especially not a day sooner but that seems to be an OK guess.)

I listen to  Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘The Sound of Silence,’ not because I’m sad–least, I hope not–but because we recently watched The Graduate in Bowen’s class. I particulary love the film and even with it’s problematic undertones, I never thought I’d like a movie so much from 1967.

However, I absolutely adore James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause, so I’m conflicted on whether or not I enjoy older movies.

Note: I hate westerns, most black and white films without sound and never in my life will I watch scary movies by choice. Nor will I watch the 1915 version of The Birth of a Nation. 

I’d like to keep typing up a storm for the internet, but I have a Theatre paper to finish and an “experimental video” to edit. Goodnight, good morning, good boy, good life.

Picture 6

title | monday, ADD

she sits in her bathroom. i sit on her bed. watch a movie, watch anything. feeling some type of way, but not sad.

waiting for him to text. nothing’s going on there, but half of me wishes there was, but half of my realizes our differences and doesn’t want to proceed. a third half feels like I’m a wimp and another half feels we’re just incompatible.

another half can’t do math.


westerns disgust me. sorry, but i am 100% NOT sorry.

we kissed.

grandad’s birthday. i didn’t go home. i knew there’d be a party the next day, so I called him and wish him happy 75th.

Bestie’s roommates are throwing a goodbye party for a friend. so, i thought i was invited–which i was, but babe was hanging out with someone, too, and things got mixed up and i didn’t communicate very well.

lines were crossed.

we hang there for a while–just locked away in her room. (long story, but it was kind of cute.)

We end up at my place making rotel dip and having a cute time.

then, i’m loose and starting to touch him. this man, just being nice and gentle–i hope i wasn’t too forward. his fingers were nice to touch, his hand was nice to hold, his hair nice to run fingers through, his…lips tasted great.

surprisingly, because he’d just thrown up.

perhaps i’m disgusting.but that moment was pure magic.

hadn’t felt that way in a while. hadn’t kissed someone like that since i was 18–which, i was also drunk for…


SOMEDAY, i’ll have had a kiss that means more than the alcohol that got me there.

jose cuervo, complete me 

Drink, drank, drunk, gone.

You are the absolute one.

My go to, my flaw, my need, my want…

“If it stays with me, please don’t taunt.”

Last night was different. I texted my mom after having had probably 6 shots of tequila. Not a big deal, I’m used to it, but you can tell how early in the night it was–mom always goes to bed early. 

I’m with my bestie. Her place. We planned for something different, but we always stray from the original plan if it means MORE fun. 

I start the conversation with Mom. “I love you mommy!”

She replies, “I love you, too.”

“Just thinking about you. Night, night.” My text-accuracy is good considering Jose. 

“You know me well. I’m pooped.”

“Jose Cuervo is mean to me.”

“Me too.” She agreed with me. 

I suppose I’ve reached that point in my life: Where drinking isn’t a big deal and that my mom somewhat agrees with it and it’s totally ok that I text her. 

I miss her; it wasn’t a lie, I just hate that I hate her sometimes. She makes me irritated. It’s like she stays mad at the world and blames other for her problems and somehow it get twisted back at me and my family. Maybe it’s like that?? 

The last I heard, she’s not talking to my aunt–her own damn sister.

Here’s the petty part though: my aunt invited their parents to HER anniversary dinner. Not a big deal, right? Well mom hasn’t talked to my grandparents, like REALLY talked to them since I was 13, when I moved out of her place and into theirs. 

So, there’s al this issue of just them not speaking and just things being awkward especially when it’s a certain season when families are expected to be with each other. 

Christmas hasn’t been the same in years. Easter, thanksgiving, Birthday parties…

All that said, there was this really awkward time when I turned 18 and we had a big blow out. My mom was there. My siblings. My bio-dad and his new wife. Grandparents–from both sides. Many friends from school–which is unheard of because I’m fucking anti-social with friends around family.

 And my grandmother spend extra money on 2 cakes. I liked other designs and couldn’t pick, so we got both. I’m a spoiled brat…
But yeah! Thinking about mom sucks because I’m constantly reminded of how alike we are and reminded of the awkward life I’ve lived in her shadow and the shit she causes towards the family. (Don’t even get me started on my step dad.)
So, Jose Cuervo guides me away from those memories and relaxes me from the hard weeks I have at school. 

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like you.

I practice smiling at him like I would want to when we wake up together. It’s the cute, “I think I love you and thanks for last night” smile. 

I imagine that my smile is quite expressive and perhaps persuasive, but as I look into the mirror, I see a huge mess. This is what he was smiling back at? 

Fuck. God, that smile. Did he mean it?

We wouldn’t have fucked that night, we would have made love. Sharing each other’s bodies, open to exporation and expressing our needs and getting them fulfilled–as many times as we each desire.

My thoughts are clouded by his blue eyes and stringy, messy blonde hair–which is long enough to be in a bun but never worn that way. I build castles in the sky a thousand miles high to reach his cloud nine.

We would enjoy the same things. We would enjoy listening to each other talk about things we don’t enjoy ourselves, but soon might because we’re passionate about it. We’d just be there for each other, two peas in a pod that are seamlessly knitted together like stitches of a wounded heart.

“I am here for you, never leaving.”

Who says it? I’m not sure. I’m really not sure.

He is unlike anyone. Completely unlike anyone I’ve met and I want to know more. I get the sense that we would make sense–right?  I want to know more. I need to stop wondering about our future when our present barely exists.
Besides, he’s only there on Mondays and Wednesdays. Sometimes Tuesday. Never Friday.