Journal Entry No. 41311

I love pictures. Like me, they hardly ever tell the truth. Look at this picture of me. Lots of things could be farther from the truth, but I think this far enough.

For one, I don't really have a beard. All my uncles do but Mother Nature and Charles Darwin conspired to make me smooth as a baby butt with a few bristles here and there. Also, I'm not really cross eyed.

More importantly, in this picture I've bared almost everything when the naked truth is that I am back in the closet. It still feels somewhat comfortable, like I've never left, but having to watch what I say and do and the faux machismo I have to keep up with is grating.

Why the fuck do salesmen have to be so straight? Last week we had an area meeting and team building and boy you couldn't go an hour without someone bringing up the topic of sex and girls and other straight shit.

The worst part is that I want so bad to be part of it. I want to be straight and unaware that almost every guy in my team is hot as hell. Or failing that, I wish I could just be cool. I wish I could be a bro and just shoot the shit with these guys.

But damn if I don't know how. I'm too quiet, too awkward, too distant, or too saddled with a boner that just won't let me be cool damn it.

God I wish I wasn't such a dork.

Journal Entry No. 40211

Sit in the park and watch fish glide across the lagoon like iron filings tracing a magnetic field.

Sit in the park in the early evening when the breeze doesn't know yet that it's summer and still pebbles the skin.

Sit in the park while distant amplifiers blast disco records at each other.

Sit in the park listening to a stranger beside you introduce himself and desperately attempt conversation.

Sit in the park and watch lonely men, hungry men with searching eyes, play the game.


Welcome to Bacolod.