What it feels like...

Not a millionaire playboy.

Walking home from another sexual escapade, it was an early Monday morning just before the sun, and I had nothing planned to do that day but sleep until six o’clock that evening. I got home, drank some orange juice before I crashed. When I awoke, it was around four in the evening for me which meant Oprah; I was slightly hung-over so I decided to have a rum and coke for a late afternoon breakfast. I knew I shouldn’t had done that because Mondays were my cleaning days, but after the rum settled in my stomach, I had another one, ordered a pizza, had another rum and coke, listened to some music, got on the internet and started looking for sex. My Monday was ruined which meant my Tuesday was going to be ruined getting over my Monday hangover, but Mondays were for getting over my weekend hangover that started that previous Wednesday. My life always began in the middle of the week because Wednesday were shirtless men drink free night and Thursday was men in their underwear drink free and Friday was hip hop night at the black club and Saturday was when I got with my freaky fuck buddy for kinky fun, and Sunday was afternoon brunch which only meant more liquor and then going to the bar and I always ended up in some strangers bed. So Mondays and Tuesdays were my only free days, but half of Monday was getting over the hangover, so if I fucked up Monday, Tuesday was fucked up, and it all started over again on Wednesday. And that was my life.

Honestly, I don’t feel embarrassed or regretful for my life, just the opposite. I don’t mind the parties, the great sex, the laughing, the dancing until five o’clock in the morning five days a week, shit I don’t even mind the hangovers, that my body always feels tired, that I now understand why certain celebrities check themselves in the hospital for “dehydration.” I don’t even mind the often meaningless of my life, that I never remember their names, that I’ve known people in the clubs for years and I don’t know their names, that it all seems to be rushing, and when I’m just about to catch my breathe it starts back over again. I don’t mind. I just wish I could love it more, own it more, but I’m poor.

Waking up in panic on Tuesday afternoon, I feel like shit, my reality begins crashing down all around me, I’m still unemployed, I have no money, I have a cracked tooth that needs attention but I have no dental insurance, I got too many bills, my house looks a mess, I think my boyfriend is going to kick me out which means I would be homeless, I’m almost thirty years old, my family found out that I dropped out of grad school, my friend thinks I’m using them and it’s all one big fucking mess that I pray for one more day for the rug not to pulled from underneath my feet.

I don’t think I’m an addict, I just think I’m romantic. I don’t think I’m irresponsible, I just believe in instant happiness. I’m a very impatient person.

I guess it was a fantasy, and it probably started right after high school when I headed to college. I guess I was tired of working, had been struggling too damn long, when I was five years old I swept the parking of lot of the local grocery store, collected cans and bottles and in the winter it was pecans to sell, and that back breaking type of work continued way into high school. Shit my senior year in high school, I had three jobs because I needed to save up as much money as possible for college. I guess that’s when the fantasy started, that one day I wouldn’t have to work so damn hard.

“Come back to the world”

I stare in the mirror at my front crack tooth and wonder how long before it falls out and I’m snaggle tooth. The thought just makes me want to cry. I yell at the mirror that I’m not a millionaire playboy, that I have to worry about money and its money that’s ruining my life and I was never the type who wanted a fancy car, expensive clothes, lots of jewelry or a big house. All I really needed was a cool small studio apartment with cable and enough money for clubbing, liquor, weed, and my sex. I just needed enough money to keep the partying going. It was definitely money that was running my life because I would've probably left my boyfriend a long time ago, and I wouldn’t have to lie so damn much or pretend so damn much. It’s my lack of money that’s made me a hustler, that I prostitute my dream, that I can’t just be a writer but I have to be a writer that can keep a job and bring in a steady paycheck. I yell at myself that I’m not rich; I’m just a poor black kid with no job or real direction.

I get up from the bed on Tuesday, I clean the apartment, I cook dinner, I work on my book, and I send letters to agents. I get on the internet and look for a job, when my boyfriend arrives home from his ten hour job, I kiss him on the lips, I fix his plate, I rub his back, I hope that he’s not mad at me from disappearing the last couple of days but he is much older than me and stopped caring about my unfaith shenanigans a long time ago but still threatens to kick me out every other month. I make love to him that night, its security sex, if he’s happy for one more day; I get a week to be a fool. I don’t drink on Tuesday, I try to get in as much reading as possible, I wash clothes, I work on my book but it seems pathetic because my book doesn’t bring in money yet, I want to cry, I want to have a cocktail, but I wait. On Wednesday morning I go to an interview, I get the job but I question if I would show up the first day, I know I probably wont, I hate fucking jobs. Wednesday night, I have my first couple of cocktails before heading to the bar. I’m not sober, sane, or responsible again until that Monday.

I keep telling myself that I got to get it together, that I’m getting older and I need things like heath and dental insurance, that I need things like vitamins and water, but I don’t hate my life, that’s the problem, I just hate stressing about it.

My life is a ticking time bomb and I know that, I’m just hoping for a few more tricks up my sleeve. But I know it all ends the same, because adults who refuse to comply usually end up homeless or in rehab, and then reborn Christians. I’m beginning to realize there is something worse than death and it’s called growing up. And I’m in overtime.

YOUNG BLACK AND GAY IN DC

sometimes it’s jungle, don’t understand how I don’t keep from going under. I hate writing impromptu blogs because my grammar is so damn bad. anyways, I just had to get this off my chest. last night was some bullshit.

First, I never thought I would get over the word nigga. I never thought another black person would just abuse the word. I mean, I’ve read boondocks and I’ve watched the show on the cartoon channel on Sundays, but how the creator uses “nigga” is political, but I always thought of the term as a sociological experiment with black people. But last night, this asshole, I swear with every sentence and an exclamation point he kept calling me a nigga. “Do you want another cocktail nigga?” “So nigga, how was your day?” “Nigga can you pass the napkin?” “So nigga what you do for fun?”

And it just got to me after thirty minutes. I was like nigga, stop using the word nigga, because you over using it nigga!!! I mean, damn!!! I was like, I understand that I’m black and you're black, so why do you keep calling me nigga, nigga! And then finally I said look African American, if you call me a nigga one more god damn time, I’m going to hit you in your jaw. Because it stop being a term of endearment and became a term of hostility. I swear some niggas would just fuck it up for everyone. Now I really hate that fucking word and if anyone calls me a nigga again, black or white, I’m going to stomp their nigga ass.

sometimes I swear just being black, gay, attractive and young in DC makes me a hustler. I see those old white men lurking. I see those old black men lurking. Shit, I even see those old Latinos lurking. Last night I got sixty dollars just for being cute, that’s what he said. And I see how white men have those young black boys on the tip of their wallets. And it’s so easy to get a reputation in DC. If I cared, it would be an issue. But I don’t care. So, shouldn’t I not take the money, because I always take the money? My mama was a crack whore and I learned from an early age to always take the money. I remember the first time it felt dirty. I was at the bar, and this old white guy, and I don’t just mean he was in his fifties and fat, but he was old, like sucking on oxygen from a mask. He offered to buy me a drink, and of course I accepted, that’s one thing I never do is turn down a free cocktail, so while I was sipping my drink he stuck a twenty in my pocket and winked.

I didn’t understand why he did that. I mean I was just at the bar drinking and so what if I had my shirt off. Do I not suppose to take the money?

And I hate that hustler feeling? I swear some white guys, and I mean the ugliest white guys go to black bars to pick up black boys like we’re free trade. Do they really think we're that easy? Do they really think becaus they waive a twenty we will show them our supposely mandingo dicks. I love taking the money and disappointing. I don't have a big dick. I just have a cute face. i love making old white guys spend their money for nothing. i mean, do they really think we're that easy, should feel flattered, think that we're special because they're white and we're black, and it's annoying, fucking annoying, but i always take the money.

I wondered what slavery was like for black gay boys? Did we get raped constantly?

I just had to get that shit off my chest.

Love means....

dainvisible24: well i'm going to make my photo essay once again about you
dainvisible24: it's confidence, love is confidence
rimbaudsl: awww, you be makin me love letters

dainvisible24: i don't care if the world thinks i'm beautiful, i only want to be beautiful to specific people
rimbaudsl: hmmm
rimbaudsl: interesting
rimbaudsl: i kinda dig that
dainvisible24: ergo my confidence
rimbaudsl:
dainvisible24: when you say i carry myself like the best fuck, that's only because i only fuck people i'm great with
dainvisible24: fuck the haters
rimbaudsl: LOL
rimbaudsl: right!

I wrote this so emotional, so I will clean up the grammar tomorrow

Every day i have to awake and wonder why i should continue, why i should try to love, why i should go to work or look for another job after being fired or quitting, why i have to throw a motherfucker in it so ignorant niggas could feel me, why i still love my family, why i'm still trying to prove to my family, why i still stick with stupid friends, but more importantly, why do i still want to be a writer, when i'm smart and could be a really great accountant. Let me do your taxes.

And the “why,” there has never been an easy answer, more emotion, something in the soul that had to be realized or protested. My “why” was simple: no one got to decide me but me.

I awoke one morning just over a year ago and I didn’t want to live anymore. I just wanted to stop existing. I didn’t want to go though the mess of suicide: the gun to head, the swallowing of pills, hanging from a rope or cutting my veins. Instead, I just wanted to lie in bed, close my eyes, and never get up again, sleep forever. I didn’t believe in anything or anyone, not even myself, because my life felt like it had no meaning, that I could’ve died that exact moment and my job would’ve just replaced me but I didn’t care because I hated it, my friends would’ve pitied me and used my death for an unprotected one-night stand or another reason to get high or drunk, my family had already given up on me, and I was alone. My life had just become fucking and getting high. I was desperately trying to feel some sense of existence even if it was just flesh. I was in my mid-twenties, and the illusion had unraveled, whatever I thought I would be when I grew up in middle school had unraveled, and I had gotten so numb that I couldn’t get angry anymore, just didn’t want to care, believed it was all bullshit, but lying in the bed trying to disappear I needed to know the “why” and I wasn’t going to move until I figured it out. My soul was on protest.

The burning monk: “The man sits impassively in the central market square; he has set himself on fire performing a ritual suicide in protest against governmental anti-Buddhist policies. Crowds gathered to protest in

Hue

after the South Vietnamese government prohibited Buddhists from carrying flags on Buddha's birthday. Government troops opened fire to disperse the dissidents, killing nine people; Diems government blamed the incident on the Vietcong and never admitted responsibility. The Buddhist leadership quickly organized demonstrations that eventually led to seven monks burning themselves to death.”

I’m always amazed by that picture of the burning monk. He sat so still, even when the flames have engulfed and begin to chew at his skin like a ravenous wild wolf. He didn’t cry, yell, or changed his mind because he was serious. He knew he was going to die, the point of the protest, but his last act on earth was defiant.  He used his life so that he would be remembered, his meaning remembered. He didn’t live for nothing. He believed in something so hardcore he died for it. It gave new meaning to the saying “if you knew it was your last day on earth, what would you do with it?” What do you stand for? When the illusion unravels, and it always does, when the house burns down, when you lose that great job, when they don’t scream your name anymore, when he cheats or beats on you, when you outgrow your friends, when you realize you never going to be what you family wants, when you realize you’re never going to be what you thought you were going to be, when you find out the world sucks and its hard to believe, when you realize not everybody is honest, when you realize you’re going to have to live the rest of your life black, a woman, gay, in a wheelchair, or poor. When the illusion unravels, all that is left is what you stand for, and as I lay in bed that day just wanted to die, all that was left was what I stood for. I had nothing left but my soul. I was going to have to realize I could live with nothing but my values.

My best friend and I were having a conversation about life, every since his mother died he’s been in a stagnated place, all his illusions unraveled, and he was desperately trying to believe in life again. I was telling him about my blog, my upcoming website and trying to find a place for my book signing party. I could feel the tension in his voice, I wanted to believe he was happy for me, but I knew he didn’t really understand why I was still holding on to such a slippery dream. I’d known him since our freshman year in college, since we were seventeen years old, and that’s why he commented that I always needed that attention; that I’d always chased fame and popularity, but he was wrong, I’d never chased fame or money, I chased existence.

In a matter of fact voice, he asked me why it was so damn important to me. He wanted to know why I self published my book and was going through the cruel task of trying to sell it. He wanted to know why I sent my resume to agents. He wanted to know why I started my comic series and tried to sell it in the club. It seemed so pathetic to him. It seemed so desperate. But it was desperate in the sense of a person fighting for his life. He didn’t understand the fight. He didn’t understand, I’d known a meaningless life and I didn’t want to go back there. I wanted to die like that burning monk, so damn defiant to the very last moment that no one got to decide my life but me.

My best friend in the recent years, specifically after his mother died went through some dramatic changes, he ended a relationship and changed the locks, he dropped out of the PhD program, he quit his job and found Christ, cocaine and ecstasy in that order. When he was on his Jesus Christ soapbox, life was supposedly all about serving god, fulfilling one’s higher purpose, but I knew he had no higher purpose, he was empty, had been empty a long time. I feared for him, because I knew that emptiness too damn well, how it swallows a life.

another long rant: “I had spent the first 25 years of my life proving that I was good enough, graduating grade school, taking tests, getting into college, taking more tests, getting good, trying to be the smart boy the system decided I was, going to church, hiding my secrets from my family so they would still think I was a good boy, getting the good job in the big city, proving to my boss I was loyal, overcompensating, trying to be the best love, trying to be the best friend, and all that time I thought they were going to find out, the world was going to find out that I wasn’t good enough, that I was a fraud, that I was pretending to be liked, that deep down I wasn’t a good person, I was selfish, flawed, vain, that I didn’t like anything or anyone, that I was pretending to be smart, that I was pretending to be attractive, when I knew I was ugly, that all I wanted to do was feel good because life was a joyless burden of responsibility and bills and friends borrowing money and all I wanted to do was feel good, have great sex, do great drugs, get drunk and just sit in front of the television, but ironically it was the same selfishness and vanity that refused me to die without drama. I couldn’t just stop existing, and for the first time in my life I could feel anger, I wanted my boss to know how much I hated her, I wanted my family to know I wasn’t perfect, I was so damn flawed, I wanted my lovers to know how much a freak I was, and I wanted my friends to know I wasn’t so agreeable, my entire life had been just about keeping the illusion alive that I forgot anger, my entire life had been keeping the illusion alive, an illusion I didn’t even create but given it to me, why was I constantly trying to be the nice guy when I knew deep down I was an asshole, why was I constantly apologizing for shit, I didn’t like sex with my boyfriend so why was I still faking it, why was I still faking it, why was I still faking it, and I hated myself for faking, knew I was going to die a fraud, so what if my sister found out I liked to get high and drink and go to bathhouse, so what if the family found out that I dropped out of grad school and didn’t want to be a fucking Lawyer or business man, I wanted to be a writer, I wanted to be broke and tragic and feeling my soul and not buying them expensive Christmas gifts so they could love me, so what if my friends found out I like kinky sex, I liked dressing up in leather, who was I faking for and were any of those bitches going to give me an award for pretending, so I stopped. I just fucking stopped. And then I got really fucking scared, could I be as defiant as that burning monk?”

Funny, I never asked my best friend why he chose Christianity, why did he need his soul to be saved or get into heaven. In college I wouldn’t had never guessed he would go the religious route, but I respected it from the beginning, maybe because I knew he needed to believe in something. We were the same.

It’s so hard to believe, have faith, I admire those religious fanatics even though some are murderers, they believe, and one must ask themselves “Why” why do those Jehovah witnesses go door to door, why do Muslims pray five times a day, why are Christians so damn judgmental, why do Jews believe they are the chosen ones, but more importantly why do human-beings go through so much drama to deal with their inevitable death.

the “why” is death, because life is hard, the right now is hard, happiness right now is so damn hard, so the “why” is death, how you would be remembered, if it was a meaningless life, if god will remember you in heaven or will they celebrate you after you long gone, it’s what we choose to leave behind, our argument for existence, that’s the why.

Rejection is a process

When I decided to become a serious writing, i mean make a living at it, i went out and bought every damn book about writing I could find. I attended every workshop and listened to so many damn lectures. But the best book I found on writing and the best advice was from a lady named Carolyn See who wrote the book "Making a literary life."

In her best chapter, making rejection a process, she talks about, obviously, how to deal with rejection. As a writer it's 90 percent of the job. I don't expect to be published anytime soon, because I'm still in the polishing stage of my writing career, learnign query letters and how to sell myself.

Because of Carolyn See, I no longer fear rejection, I make it part of my process, and one way is to take the power back. To be rejected is an aweful sensation, it's like getting kicked in the nuts, nobody likes getting kicked in the nuts or even seeing it, but to take the power back, you don't retialate, you just smile and use your words. LOL. There's what called the rejection reply letter. When  I am rejected, I send them a Thank you letter. I take the power back. I appreciate thier job and hopefully if my letter is funny and smart enough, they wouldn't forget me. Maybe they would give me a second chance. I'm tryign to make a friend not an enemy.

Here's another rejection of my book:

Hey Michael,

I appreciate the look, but I'm afraid this isn't striking magic with me... I'll step aside with all good wishes,

Dan Lazar
Writers House

My thank you letter:

Hey Dan,

Thank you for your prompt response and unfortunate bracing rejection. Your wise word, "Magic" has made me rethink the charisma of my book, so not only am I going out today and buy a hip David Blane illusion kit, but I will also re-arrange, delete and add new stories hopefully to create a more appealing sensation. I'll be sending you another version of "Sleep no More" in three weeks or so. Because it's my greatest dream to see my work in print like most literary illusionists. Maybe next time, you like the look and importance of the story. Maybe you'll say yes. Wouldn't that be cool?

Abracadabra, Michael Whitley.

this post is for tyler

there are days when i love black men, when i can lay next to something so close to me that understands and appreciates my essence. this is for you tyler and you loving my pretty brown eyes.