I'd like a small Sprite, please...

Am I the only one that thinks of a little winged fairy when someone orders a small Sprite? 

I've worked in the movie theatre for quite some time now and every time someone orders a Sprite I giggle.  I just imagine the concessionists pulling from their aprons a beautiful, magical creature and handing it over to the customer for the duration of the movie.  Like we offer a movie companion that will float around your head and sit on your shoulder throughout the film!  The best part is when people ask for a large Sprite.  This makes me laugh.  Could you imagine pulling out this bowling ball sized fairy with tiny wings, huffing and puffing to the theatre behind you?  It's wings on overdrive and sweat pouring into your popcorn as it buzzes around your head in the theatre!  So the next time you order anything from the concession stand know that we have Sprites on loan!

Well, hello there!

I'm just going to jump right into it.  I hate black people.  HA! Kidding.

Yesterday was the install for our first digital projector, 3D capable.  Today is the second install.  Good so far?! 

When I walked upstairs to get to the booth for the first time I witnessed a massacre of the arts.  There were wires hanging and frayed.  Pieces of metal were thrown about and scattered, plastic and bubble wrap all over the floor and sound rack.  The new, compact digital projector was shinning in glory as these workers were scrambling around it to make sure we were on screen by 7:45pm.  And all the while in the corner, all alone, was the old 35MM projector.  He sat there, facing the mayhem with his scope and flat lens pointed at the new guy, slightly cocked to the right and a little puddle was forming under it.  It could have been the lens cleaner.  It might have been the oil streaking, but I'd like to think he was crying.  The rein of the film days are coming to an end and we are force feeding the projectors their must deserves.  I had to walk by the men working numerous times while running the movies and every time I passed the old projector I heard a sigh.  I did have gas, a lot of it.  That poor guy reminded my of Johnny #5 and I really felt like saving it's inanimate life. 

As I threaded all the antique film through the projectors that were still up and running I got this sense of comradery, a silent coming together of sorts.  Then I walked over to #10.  See, this is the other projector to go today.  They are doing one install a day and today is 10's turn to die.  As with #5 yesterday so too will 10 be replaced today.  I had a feeling of failure and broken dreams from #5 as it watched it's life slowly fading away, but with 10, I felt a sheepish, scared little mouse had taken over it's soul and could see it tightening it's bolts to the floor.  It almost looked like it was nudging closer to the port glass window.  Like it was going to hold onto the wall for dear life.  It new we were coming for it.  It might have been the weeps from #5's oil pump or maybe a last attempt to be infamous.  "Go out with a bang, eh, A.J.?", but it was on a mission to be the last remaining 35MM film projector in the world.  I pat his lamp housing and said good boy, threaded Eat, Pray, Love through his well greased sprockets and pushed start.  A sense of uninterrupted respect and satisfaction poured into my bones as the Xenon bulb flickered on.  It took three times to light.  It was his way of deciding to go on, saying thank you, and good bye.  He stood tall that day.  And the other projectors took notice.  A collective wave of honor and accomplishment rolled over the booth at that moment.  The projectors seemed to give a one apeture plate salute while sweet #5 slowly passed away.       

Scoop, Scoop.

Does anyone else find it amusing that we classify one of the deadliest jobs in the world, besides suicide bomber, as deep sea crab fishing?  Really?  The other one that made it high on the list is ice road trucking.  Ummm...I'm not saying they aren't extremely dangerous but, who cares?  I mean think about it.  They're "fishing" for crabs.  Crabs!  Do we really need crabs in our life so badly that we would send burly men out to sea for 3 months of the year to have only a handful return alive or in one piece for a meal that smells like you just sucked what was under your fingernail after scraping the bottom of a fish tank?  They're crabs people.  Get over it.  Pick up an education and be a plumber for god's sake.  At least you won't need to leave your wife at home to worry over the ever cooling plate of the shell fish dinner he risked everything for wondering if the father of her baby will be home with all his appropriate appendages.  Snap into a slim jim mutha bitches and get real.  Have I mentioned that they are just crabs?!  And on the other note of the ice road truckers...why aren't we using their deaths and mutilation as "fuel" for our litigational fires?  We should be lobbying to our government officials saying stop the murder, go green.  The only reason these men and women risk their lives to cross the semi frozen tundra is to take supplies up to the oil farms in Alaska and then ship oil back down to the willing.  Perfect reason to shut those bitches down and take on hydrogen or corn-powered machines.  Am I really the only one thinking about this?  I mean there have been shows on TLC or The History Channel, one of the two, broadcasting these dumb saps' lives.  The ratings go up and the crabs and oil come streaming in.  Is this what we as Americans have become?  Snookie drives the truck over the oil fields as The Desperate Housewives of Pensacola team up against all odds to get their unwed daughters dating again while shucking shell fish into bins?  Tell me you people wouldn't watch that show and then joke about it to try and justify the reason for watching it in the first place?  Makes me sad.  Although, I have to admit I do watch Chelsea Lately, so in a way I'm contributing to the mass hysteria known as our "culture", but I only watch her because I'm jealous of her face.  I like her face, people, is that a crime?! 

The next stranger you see in the world I would like you to do me a favor as you pass them by, smile and say hello to them.  No matter what type of mood you may be in.  Just look them in the eye and say hello.  Truly mean it when you do.  No mocking attitude should scrape past your teeth.  Just honest kindness.  Let me know how it goes.

This isn't even good grammer or interesting to read for such a topic...I apologise

I am almost 30.  This doesn't come as too much of a surprise seeing as I have been living my own life...it's hard not to know your own age at this point in time.  My point being, I have nothing to show for my life.  Now, this is not some silly Brady Bunch attempt to get sympathy or false compliments.  I try not to fish too hard anymore for such shallow meanings, unless it's about my hair, of course!  But it is an eye opening topic that I must sit down and truly address.  I am almost 30.  I live at home with my parents, I have no real job, no insurance, no money, I have debts owed to the government; sister; father; mother, I have no college education or training of any kind.  I am lost in my own uneducated translation...shout out Kever!  And to boot, I have no motivation to change any of it.  I have no goals to strive for, I have no likes to wish into reality.  I am a rotting piece of sunken ship floating to the surface with the current as my only direction of where to go once it's reached. 

I have always said that I just want to be the "normal" housewife and take care of someone, heart and soul.  But I am almost 30.  Those prospects and lack there of are not looking too good.  I know what everyone is thinking, 30 is still so young.  Yes it is, in the straight world.  In gay years 30 is midlife.  Looks are a huge factor in the life of gay men, men in general, but gay men have a different out look on life.  It is instilled in us that we must achieve greatness by 24 and be in the best shape of our lives by 30 otherwise you become that old man creeper hitting on all the young boys at the club...and you just turned 31.  It's no joke, people.  I invite you to sit and watch the goings on at any gay bar after 11pm.  I have always hated gay "culture" ever since I can remember.  I hate drama.  I hate overly exerted displays of attention.  I get sick off the fact that sex is the only motivator.  That you can't just be friends, it has to be including something more, something with maybe down the road I will blow you and you me.  It disgusts me.  But alas, tis what I must endure.  NYC was a little easier to live in than here being gay, obviously, but it still had it's flaws.  Even though the city was only 16 miles long it had so many different worlds combined.  You could be completely comfortable walking hand-in-hand with a boy down Ave. A at 13th st. but just a few blocks over in Union Station you'd be beat in the face with a skate board.  Same as the upper and lower East and West sides.  Upper East; stay inside and cuddle, Lower East be free!  Cleveland is not at all like that.  You just stay inside and pretend to be normal.  It's safer.  I am so exhausted, though.  Acting normal is truly exhausting.  I put on a show everyday.  I guess anyone who knows me would not use the word normal to describe me but the show is more for the people to not believe I'm a horribly depressed human being.  The one thing no one would ever say about me is that I'm sad or depressed, minus my sister or anyone that actually got to know me beyond the superficial level of Hello, Nice To Meet You.  My act, in public, is one of a happy, fun and crazy individual, but my true soul is breaking every time I step out of my bedroom.  I put on my mask along with my clothes.  It is exhausting.  I feel, though, that I wouldn't have anyone around me if I just was my true self.  I am no fun being myself.  I sit in the corner and sulk in self misery.  I don't socialize or make jokes.  At home is my true personality.  When I get home I completely shut down-due to the exhausting day I had being not me- and I crash on the couch or a chair and curl into a ball and stair off into a world I wouldn't wish upon anyone else.  It is my one real reason for the lack of motivation, the anxiety riddled affliction, my dark secret life of an American teenager...it is my heart strings snapping at the roots.  I have only a few left intact.

One love. 

Were you truly waiting for ME?

Mr. Roeper's clothes hamper or Hugh Grant's dental floss?  Which would you rather be if you had to chose one for all eternity? 

Remember, Roeper was an old man in the 70's.  He wore gobs of cologne, polyester and probably has Mrs. Roeper's hella face paint all over his lapels.

Although, spending that amount of time in any one's mouth could start to get nauseating, not to mention the mouth of a Brit.  Cheeky personality mounted on an insufferable entitled accent.

Chose wisely.

seapage.

Have you ever sat in a room with your back turned to a sliding glass door with the curtain open at night?  I do every time I sit down to the computer to write, or masturbate.  The worst part about it is the reflection of the door to the dark outer realm is noticeable when you adjust your eyes to look through the computer screen.  It freaks the shit out of me because I then stare into it and think of all the horrible things that will suddenly pop in the reflection.  I'm doing it right now, actually.  Best part about it is I'm listening to the Lion King's To Die For track and it just got to the part where Simba is walking up to his father's dead corpse.  Now I have images of rotting fetus' etched in my mind.  The reflection in the screen of the reflection of the door looks hazy, almost indiststinguishable as a man's form and it sorta sways slowly right to left, or I guess that would be left to right.  The sway stops a bit when the tear ducts in my eyes go dry and I need to blink to moisten them.  It appears to come closer as I open them again and readjust my sight.  With every breath I take the movement of the form seems to quiver; pulse rapidly at the neck and head until I exhale.  Then it cocks violently to the right; arm dangles, it seems to stare into the back of my skull like it knows something I don't.  The wind blows and it's stagnant arm taps the glass.  With a slow, precise movement it raises it's head back to the upright position while keeping it's vision deadlocked on my back and focuses for a second.  The static surrounding it snaps away like piano wire under strain.  Piece by piece the image is revealed until all I can see are piercing gold eyes.  They are changing a bit...it almost looks like they're bleeding.  The gold is washing out and becoming this deep red that creeps down the front and sides of the face.  The brow bone cracks in and down as blood fills all the gaps in the face.  The slowly flooding eyes turn to tight slights of red and lower at the inner corners.  A waterfall of blood starts to spew out and onto the glass.  A massive globe of swirling black and red is rising behind it now.  The image is completely blurred minus the top of the quivering skull and the growing orb that is starting to surround it.  There is no sound as the blood rapes the glass and shoots shells on the concrete patio.  With a quick jerk of the left hand the figure smacks the glass, the orb implodes like a breath held for days.  It ignites the ground.  The cold, dry hand flexes and tears the blood away from it's line of sight.  My chair starts to turn under it's own force.  I grip the seat, knuckles white.  The wooden legs catch the seams in the hardwood flooring and scrap a sound that could kill a child.  There is a suction restraining my movement and my back is suddenly stiffened against the chair's back.  I cannot blink.  The chair turns 180 degrees with a crunching pull and am forced to stare directly into it's right eye.  In an instant the blood separates from the creature and falls to the ground like a wave off the rocks.  The grey matter falls static again and the haze lifts back to reality.  

I think I shall close the curtain.