It’s not all about you, except for the times that it is.

I will never love you again.

You didn’t believe me when I said that I didn’t hate you before, in that time in between, but I didn’t. You couldn’t seem to understand me when I said to you that the only thing that ever made me hate anyone, that ever made me unstitch someone from the fabric of my life was a very simple thing.

Don’t ever lie to me, I said simply. Clearly.

Don’t ever lie to me, and I won’t hate you. I’ll be sad, I’ll mourn your loss, but I won’t hate you.

You nodded like you understood- swore that there had never been a false word spoken. You, who lie to yourself so completely and so constantly that I know you will never be happy in your own skin for it. And I believed you, because love makes me blind.

Blind, deaf, dumb and stupid.

Trusting, and what you and everyone else has taught me is that is the worst thing a person can be.

Trusting.

But, sweetheart. Lies of omission are still lies, and they’re the worst sort. I didn’t ask, but you should have told.

Because if she wasn’t a thought in your head already sometime in late June, the heat of summer pressing against us as we argued and discussed and walked ourselves in circles…?

I’ll prostrate myself in front of you and beg forgiveness for the world to see.

Because you lie to yourself so constantly that I don’t know if you even see it. If you even know the truth of yourself the way I could see it so clear.

You’re better than what you’ve done to me. You’re better than what you do to yourself on a daily basis. So hide behind your booze, and your grand delusions, and your un-fucking-ending rhetoric and just watch this fall apart around you.

Karma’s a bitch. And it is, finally, your loss and not mine.

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Etymology, or, words that make me go “Grr…”

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Can we talk about homophobia?

Not the act. The word.

I hate this word. This word makes me angry. Wikipedia (the all-seeing, all-knowing) tells me the word was coined by psychologist George Weinberg, but was first used in print in a porno mag to describe a heterosexual man’s fear that others might think he’s gay.

I just.

I can’t. This. It just rubs me the wrong way. Labeling this act- this hatefulness, with a word that singles it out and classifies it as a fear? No, thank you. You don’t get to sit under that privileged little umbrella, spewing your hateful rhetoric. Nope nope nope.

Or if you do, you should be sent to counseling. Have some  immersion therapy sessions and face your fear, head on.

Of course, nobody wants to make out with a bigot, so I can’t really see that sort of program getting up and running-

I mean, surely you’re just experimenting with hate? It’s just a phase you’re going through- everyone does it, usually in college.

Maybe you can go to camp? Yes! A religious camp, where you and all of your “confused” peers can “Pray away the gay fear!” Genius! You’ll come out of the program refreshed, with your mind set straight, ready to love and accept your fellow man-

Wait. That actually sounds like a good thing.

Can we do this? I think, as a society, we are, little by little. The journey of a thousand miles starts with one step, after all. Can we just be better people? Is that so much to ask?

Can we start by getting rid of this one word? This one word that manages to label an entire group of people as something to be feared and takes some of the blame from those of us who hate them, who want them gone, all in one little breath? Can we do that?

There are plenty of other words that work. Words that don’t soften things for these perpetrators of hate by suggesting a fear, a phobia, a goddamn psychological issue.

Sexually Prejudiced.

Bigoted.

Anti-gay.

Of course, in this day and age, can’t we just call it like it is?

Can’t we just call an asshole and asshole?

Fine.

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I don’t like being asked how I’m doing by strangers.

How’re you? the kid asks, sliding his purchases across the counter towards me. I can feel my lips thinning in annoyance, but I let it go. It’s a college kid, being polite, although the disinterest is written all over his face.

Fine, I say. How’re you?

Neither of us cares. I doubt that either one of us is honest, either, and that’s the thing about this particular social nicety that makes me crazy- it forces you to lie, several times a day, to friends and strangers alike. I hate it. But this is the South, so what can you do? So I’m forced, more times than I can count today, to lie to someone.

Fine. I’m fine.

What does that even mean? I give up on it, after a while, and start saying: Eh, well, you know… to people I know. I find it confuses them, and that amuses me. They weren’t looking for a real answer. They were looking for an Okay or a Good! or a Great! or, at the lowest point of social acceptance-

Fine. I’m just fine.

I’m not. I am not fine, but who wants to hear that, going about their day, making the smallest of talk with everyone they meet?¬† No one wants to hear the truth, but the truth is this:

I’m not doing great. But I’m trying really hard at doing better. I had a very hard time getting out of bed this morning, but once I did my morning was good- I drank my coffee, listened to some TED talks, and went to work. Work wasn’t as bad as Saturday, when I couldn’t seem to stop from crying every five seconds, so I feel a little better about things. Of course, later on when I get home I decide to clean out my fridge and break down a little over a half a loaf of french bread, left over from the last time S and I had ‘french dinner’ (A wedge of brie, melted in the oven and eaten with warm french bread and apple slices. It’s heaven). I had a wild moment of over emotional panic- I wanted to take everything in the fridge and throw it out- all of it, every. single. bit.

But I didn’t.

I just threw away the things that were old, the things that were stale. I cuddled up on the couch with Clover the wonder dog and opened my computer and began to write. No one here to ask me how I am, and that’s okay.

Because I’m fine, right?