I’d like to say that I’m here to share my life, but really I haven’t lived. An obedient guy from a farm doesn’t really make for an interesting subject. Sorry. To me, interesting is the safest way to put anything and it doesn’t apply. I’m boring. The whitest of white bread in the buffet of life. I’m not even exhibiting that faux-humble or necessary bleakness which makes for something interesting. I don’t life a very fast or exciting life. More often than not, I’m at home with my husband and cat. If we’re really feeling particularly daring, we’ll play a board game.
So why am I here?
Perhaps I’m here for the possibility of creating something worth writing about. Perhaps this is a cautionary tale to warn younger gays away from being too melancholy or introspective. Or perhaps I’m here because I’m full of shit.
I don’t honestly believe there aren’t stories here. Even if I’ve never been backpacking anywhere interesting, I have things to say. There exist a limited number of scintillating tales of my love life. Dates gone awry. I could talk about the time I got a bj in an Abbey but I figure I’m already too prone to smiting. I could talk about that one time I dated someone with the same name as me, only to find out he thought my name was Steve. I could even write about the 8 years that I’ve been with my now husband. I won’t because I respect our relationship too much.
And I’ve grown accustomed to a certain standard of living which I don’t think I could maintain for too long on half of our (his) stuff.
Perhaps I’m over thinking it. Maybe I only write these things to get people to like me.
No that can’t be it [insert obligatory joke highlighting necessary bleakness for comedic relief].
I wrote this at a writing workshop that I’m taking part of. I hope to be able to share a little bit of what I write there or what I learned. It was written based off the prompt:
Why have you come to share your life or your stories?