Face Like a Gremlin

I was doing my best to avoid eye-contact with people in the unlikely case that someone I know saw me and wanted to chat. I was in no mood to be social as the day had thoroughly sapped my will to be a real person. Instead, I fixated on one of the beers waiting for me in the fridge at home. At least I was fixated on that, until a woman with short maroon hair began walking towards me on the seawall.

She had a face like a gremlin. Continue reading

Living Regretfully: My Life as Liz Lemon

Some people say that they have no regrets. That they live their lives with abandon and seize the day. They justify this with the explanashame that you only regret the things you hadn’t done. I will point out their face tattoo or that you’re right dead people don’t have regrets. I find regret useful. Like guilt or losing at board games, it is a necessary and instructive part of life. I carry regrets around with me in that place where a heart should be. Regret guides me the way that morality ought to (but doesn’t because I’m an atheist). Continue reading

Save Me

My side projects, which are actually projects since they’re for work, have taken over so I cheated a bit today. I’m using part of a story that I wrote a million years ago. It’s rough so please, pardon my parlance.

It’s unnerving whenever you wake up in a strange setting, but when that setting is a bumpy ambulance and you have a stranger flashing a light in your eyes, the stress is a bit much for anyone.

“Where am I?” I asked out of reflex, but the oxygen mask muffled my question.

“You were in a boating accident. Can you tell me your name?”

Boating accident? I didn’t like boats. Not just because the paramedic told me that I had been in an accident, rather because they seemed so unsafe. Obviously. What was I doing on a boat? Continue reading

Why are you here?

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?