twenty-something

Today, on my way to work, on the nine mile drive that can take, like this morning did, well over an hour to complete, there was a big, blue SUV in front of me for a few fleeting moments, an SUV with a bumper sticker slogan that stuck with me all day. "Wag More, Bark Less," it read.

Wag More. Bark Less.

Brilliant.

I spend a lot of time barking -- at my alarm clock, then at other cars or the PC I'm forced to use at work, sometimes at my family, sometimes over boys and often over bills. This adult stuff -- too much barking, man. Sometimes I get stressed out over how stressed out I am.

But there was this moment last weekend... I found myself in a random park in Arlington overlooking the city of Boston. Whiffleball bat in hand, new madras shoes on feet, foolish smile on my face, I was swinging away at pitches from my best friend and laughing my ass off.

Moments like these are fleeting. I don't remember the last time I'd had that much fun or been that happy. That's wagging, man.

I gotta start wagging more.

Ah, 2007. We hardly knew ye.

Another year, come and gone, and I can't find the words, cliché or not, to commemorate the passing of another 365 days. It's not that 2007 wasn't a formative or momentous year. It went by quickly, sure -- but it was important and worthy of remarks. It's just that I seriously can't find the words.

I suppose in a year when I could only muster a mere sixteen public and unsubstantial blog posts (and few bits of other writings that weren't published here), it's to be expected. The quantity and quality of my writing suffered in '07 (and - who am I kidding? - the latter half of 2006). Suffered? Hardly. My writing practically died. I'm out of practice. I'm lazy. I'm largely uninspired. I've had writer's block so crippling that I don't know that I can even call myself a writer anymore.

Am I finally, finally out of words?

Ah, symmetry.

Hard to believe that, one year ago, I was counting down the days before I left Vermont to move in with my best friend in Manhattan. One year ago, I was four days away from that big move. One year later, I'm four days away from another big move -- this one to a newly-renovated-but-very-familiar apartment five minutes north of downtown Boston with my other best friend. Yes, after three months living on E. 14th Street, a block from Union Square, I'm fully settled in Red Sox Nation and ready -- not just ready, wicked psyched -- for my next move to, technically, the 'burbs.

Is this where I would have foreseen myself when I left the Green Mountains for the Big City last year? Not a chance. My life's not particularly glamorous and it's far from perfect, but I'm a heck of a lot happier than I've been in a long time. And that, ultimately, is why I left Vermont -- which, for the record, I miss desperately, but I was desperately unhappy there. Those three months in New York and the last nine months here in Boston have been exactly what I needed, full of those things that my old life was so devoid of -- experience, excitement, mistakes, old friends and new blood -- and missing the things that took so much energy -- drama, stress, Duncan. And after a year of moving around, of new people and places, of practically non-stop dating, a year of good-byes and hellos and more good-byes, I am ready to settle down. To stop and smell the summer. To stop jumping and finally let myself fall.

Am I satisfied yet? Hell no. But I'm living a happier, healthier life here, one virtually free of oppressive blood drives, Chicken Charlie's, and a certain bad ex-boyfriend, and that's worth celebrating.

This morning I was watching television with my brother and sister (what else is there to do a beautiful Saturday morning?) when I was attacked by the most horrible, disgusting, and offensive ad I've ever seen.

That's right. I saw the ad for "Buzz Ballads."

Yes, from the fine folks who brought us "Monster Ballads" and "Monsters of Rock" comes "Buzz Ballads," a collection of "32 rockin' buzz ballads on 2 CDs!" Also? It's a reminder of my impending mortality.

See, "Buzz Ballads" is a collection of alt-rock mega-hits from the past twelve or so years. It reaches way back to my middle and early high school days and extends into my more recent mid-to-late college days.

Hole is on this CD. So is Live. Better Than Ezra. Bush. Tonic. Poe. Gin Blossoms. Cranberries. The Counting Crows. Toad the muthafukin' Wet Sproket.

My Lord, Tori Amos' version of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" is on here.

These were the Gods of my formative years. Once upon a time, they were my favorite artists. Now their biggest -- and, in some cases, only -- hits are packaged together with such recent trash as Lifehouse and Default.

Granted, all these songs lost what little cred they may have had years ago and have by now have become cliches. You hear half of 'em at the dentists office now. We've already been subjected to the "Livin' in the 90s" song collection and VH1's "I Love The 90s" (twice), but still -- there was some shred of hope and dignity I could hold onto with this music. And now that's gone.

Why? I remember it distinctly. I was a Freshman in college, at the University of Rhode Island in 1999. It was Oozeball Weekend, a fact that will mean nothing to most in my reading audience. And on TV came an add for a little collection called "Monster Ballads." Finally you could get "Every Rose Has It's Thorn," "More Than Words," and "The Flame" in the same two-disc set!

We sang along. I went on Napster. I downloaded "High Enough" by Damn Yankees. I played it in WinAmp and I labeled the genre "80s Cheese."

Today, as my sister sang along with "Doll Parts," like it was the latest Ashlee Simpson single. She then asked me if I had it on my iTunes. She wanted it on her iPod.

If she was as anal about labeling her music as I am, she'd probably file it under "90s Cheese."

I died a little inside.

This is some of the music I came of age to, with. And now I realize I've passed into my mid-to-late mid-twenties. This is just wrong.

So that settles it. I'm done. Done trying to stay in the loop, trying to be hip. I'm deleting my music collection. I'm going to throw out my iPod and switch back to PC. Hell, maybe I'll even marry a woman. Any edginess from my youth is now packaged into a two-disc direct market collection with a horrible title. It's time I started listening to Top 40 radio anyway.

My life is over.

Sublime and Candlebox are on the same CD as Staind and Everlast? I mean - come on.

No, not the W Hotel in Union Square -- but here in Manhattan. Do I want to live here past the summer?

That's the question that's been hovering. I've been living here, here in New York City, for 46 days now. The summer is, essentially, past it's half-way mark and I am here on a trial basis, afterall. Soon, very soon, a decision will have to be made about the future.

I've done a lot of living here in 46 days. I've kept busy, perhaps a bit too busy, and had some good times. I've eaten well. Drank my share. I've watched a Red Sox game in a gay sports bar. I've been out a bunch. Been out for my birthday. Been on some dates. Walked many miles, met many new people. Seen some good theater, lots of random celebrities. Seen Superman in IMAX. Twice.

There's a lot to love here. But there's also a lot to hate.

I will say this -- the honeymoon is over. New York is kicking my ass. The concrete and flesh have gotten to me. To me, it's not the size of New York that's daunting, it's what's crammed into the space. And the people here -- not just the quantity, but the quality... I've met some very nice people here, but I've also encountered many, many not-so-nice people. Seen them do some not-so-nice things. Been the brunt of some of that, too. And I, of course, take it all to heart.

Just this morning my nose was assaulted by human urine, donuts, ammonia, and teriyaki sauce -- all while sitting in tiny Madison Square Park for about ten minutes before work.

I miss the smell of fresh-cut grass and cow shit. I'm so completely homesick it's beyond that, it's moved to heartbreak. I'm mourning the loss of so much, my old life, my old home, my old love...

But I am happy I am here. For now. I have absolutely no regrets. This is the experience I wanted, that I needed, and I've learned so much already. It's the start of a journey -- whether that's one here in New York, or in Boston, or elsewhere -- a journey that is not taking me back to Vermont, at least not yet. But the next step is my call and I'm not having fun making it.

Break out The Clash, baby. "Should I stay or should I go?"

I quit my job today.

While it still doesn't quite seem real, and while it wasn't easy, it certainly seems right.

As of June 30th -- or perhaps sooner -- I will no longer be an employee of the University of Vermont, an institution that has been my home for six and a half years, as a student and then as a staff member. I resigned of my own free will, not due to blogging or other controversy. My reasons for leaving now are both personal and political, and while I may reveal them here at a later date, for now those reasons will remain my own.

This news also means that I'll be leaving my home state of Vermont. For my friends and longtime readers of this blog, this news should hardly come as a shock. I've had a conflicted relationship with Burlington for years. I've longed for something new, different, more urban. I haven't been able to thrive as a gay man or a twenty-something at UVM or in Vermont for some time. In fact, I've been downright unhappy with many aspects of my life, particularly in the past year. It was time for a change.

So it would appear that, after years of thinking, longing, and whining, I've finally taken action. My resignation letter has been handed in.

At long last I am taking the next step. I am moving to Boston this spring or summer. No turning back now.

I know that leaving won't solve all my problems. In fact, it won't solve any, really, and will probably cause more. I'm a little scared to leave a good job and a decent life -- comfort -- for who knows what, but I'm more excited. After six years at UVM, and over twenty in Vermont, it's time to go.

I was born here -- literally on the UVM campus, in what is now known as the Fletcher Allen Medical Center. I like to think that I began my life here twice -- first as a ruddy, redheaded newborn in 1980, and again as a transfer student in 2000. I think I learned more in the past six and a half years than in the nineteen before them, not necessarily from my studies, but from life. There have been great victories and crushing defeats, highs and lows... This place made me the man I am today.

I'm leaving now because I can still say that I love this place. I'll leave behind friends and family, a good job in an excellent department, and a city that feels like a part of me. I'll leave behind a life and many, many memories. In Burlington and UVM, I found, for the first time since I was nine years old, a place to truly call home. It's been an interesting ride -- amazing, conflicted, tumultuous. I leave now because I can still call this place home, because I know will always be able to, even as I search for a new place to belong.

Wish me luck. A new chapter -- a new direction -- for this twenty-something officially begins today.

Tonight I defer to Guster:

To tell you truth I've said it before tomorrow I start in a new direction
I know I've been half asleep I'm never doing that again
I look straight at what's coming ahead and soon it's gonna change in a new direction
Every night as I'm falling asleep these words repeated in my head...

I've had the pleasure of working with one of my best friends for the past six months. Keith, whom I have known for four-and-a-half years now, since he was a freshman and I was a junior, has been my co-worker since August and tomorrow is his last day as such. His temporary position officially ends, and he heads off to Oakland, CA sometime next month for bigger and better things.

Needless to say, tomorrow will be a strange, sad day. Though he's not leaving Vermont quite yet, and though I'll see him a few times before he leaves, it's still a very meaningful occasion. He's done, and I've just realized that I'm going to desperately miss him.

Keith has been a "little brother" of sorts over the years. When I met him, he was just a scared closeted kid and I helped him come out. He heard "It's Raining Men" for the first time in my dorm room and it was all downhill from there. Since then I've seen him grow into a confident gay man and a strong leader. That is -- more or less, certainly less Weathergirls -- what I write about him when he asks for letters of reference, and its what I'll write here because, well, it's the truth. Our friendship has gone various intervals, with times of intense closeness and times of cool, temporary distance, but this is the first time he'll be gone -- not in Vermont, and not coming back. I wish him all the best, but I am totally bummed.

Keith's departure will essentially mark the last of my close college friends to leave Vermont -- an exodus that began en masse when I graduated in 2003. Since then, I've often felt like the last person left here in Burlington and, after tomorrow, that will pretty much be true. Faced with this reality, I'm starting to think that my own desire to leave town isn't based upon a yearning for adventure, but for the sense of friendship, support, and community that's been lacking in my life since graduation. I don't miss college that much, but I do miss having many of my friends close by. And I think that has less to do with being a twenty-something in Vermont, and more to do with being a twenty-something period. All part of that wacky quarter-life crisis...

Best of luck, Keith. May you find friendship, support, and community in California in addition to adventure. You will be missed here in Vermont!

After a busy week and a good Thursday night, I woke this morning, like much of New England, to a snow storm. It didn't look too bad when I left the house and hit the road, but it was. The roads were terrible and my car wasn't happy. It was so not happy, in fact, that within a mile of the house, while driving up a steep hill, it decided to simply stop working.

With my foot to the floor and a battle cry in my throat, I tried not to give up. It sputtered, spun, and inched its way to the crest of the hill. And then it decided it wasn't moving another foot.

A tow and a trip to Burlington's Volvo dealer later, I found out that new snow tires are going to cost $200 each. When totalled with the bigger problem -- something called an oxygen sensor -- the car's trip to the doctor is going to cost me well over $1,000 (and won't be ready until Tuesday). I don't know what that means for my planned New Year's vacation to the Big Apple, but I can only assume it's not good news.

This is why I don't like owning a car.

Perhaps my Volvo read my mind. For a couple weeks now, I've been thinking of rebelling against the station wagon and trading it in for something a more fun. Or perhaps-- another thought of recent weeks -- I should just ditch the car altogether and move some place with public transportation. Thanks for crapping out on me, car. One step closer to making a big, scary decision...

Once upon a time, I was a blogger.

Yes, I spent hours each week -- sometimes each day -- immersed in the blog-world, not just writing for my own site, but tweaking its template, and reading other's sites with voracity, commenting, and making cyber-friends from all over. At one point, I was posting multiple times per day, serializing my life story, receiving nearly a thousand visitors a day, and participating in a blogging reality show.

And now? I've posted exactly twice in the entire month of November, which ends tomorrow.

What happened?

Life, I suppose. All of the big changes I was writing about before my hiatus took their toll. I've been busy, stressed, and largely unsatisfied. "Twenty-Something" was one of the things that suffered most. I'd thought of writing a post acknowledging my lack of activity, but I never found the words or the time. And I've contemplated pulling the plug on the blog altogether a few times, but ultimately felt it was too dramatic for something I hoped to resurrect anyway.

So instead, tonight, I made up my mind that I was going to write a post, a post that had nothing to do with Superman or iTunes. And here we are.

I'm so far removed from my old 20sum routine that I don't even know where to begin when I think I might want to write a new post. And I do think about writing, a lot, but generally it's during my half-hour commute to or from work, which is a less than ideal time to whip out a notepad or laptop to record my thoughts. And so the thoughts, and feelings, come and go, unrecorded and, in my opinion, wasted. I haven't written much of anything at all this fall -- something that's shameful, really, for someone who's seriously considering heading back to school to get his MFA in Creative Writing soon.

It's been too long. The Blogger interface, my old friend, is suddenly almost alien. What are backlinks? That's new. I hadn't checked my stats in about a month, and I was surprised to learn that I've had 112,384 visitors since March. Many thanks to those who've stuck with the site and continue to visit. It's nice to have made it past the 100,000 mark this month.

But I digress... (Forgive the unpolished post. It's been a while.)

For nearly forty-eight hours last week, I dropped off the face of the earth. Literally no one in my life knew specifically where I was -- they still don't. But I needed to escape the day-to-day of this new life. I needed to escape some boy drama. I needed some solitude for two days.

So, spur of the moment, I checked into a hotel all by myself. I hid. I wrote. I soul searched. And I figured out what's missing from my life:

The time to write. Adventure. And someone to love.

And so I'm going to make the time to write. Which could mean more blogging. It could mean new 90s-Something. It could mean something else. But there will be writing, and I will be involved.

Adventure? It's coming. There's only so much you can learn in one place...

And love? Something tells me that's the last thing I need right now, but it's the one thing I miss the most.

Something wasn't right. I could feel it in my gut. And by that, I mean literally. In my gut. I'd been in pain since Tuesday, an unpleasant, constant pain, knotted up in one spot right below and just over from my belly button. I tried not to complain but, damn, it hurt, lots and lots, and let's face it, I'm a pussy when it comes to being hurt.

Friday I finally got in to see a doctor. After lots of poking and prodding, after many yelps and moans from me, after a quite unpleasant hernia exam, and after I almost punched him in automatic self-defense, it turns out that I "just" have a badly torn muscle in my left lower abdomen.

Yes, that's right. My insides are torn.

Torn.

After the August that was, that seems about right. I feel like I've been torn in thirty different directions since the beginning of last month, and with each passing day, my life seems to get busier and more hectic. A new status quo promises to spring up soon, and I wait, hopeful, for the day when I wake up and feel it, comfortable within my new life, with everything under control.

But for now? I find myself anxious, stressed out, and more than a bit lost. Everything -- including myself -- is familiar but alien. Some days, I just wish I could just leave work behind and walk home to my old place on North Street, order some take-out from Chicken Charlie's, and veg for hours watching Degrassi in my underwear. I miss the comfort of my tiny and gross old apartment, the solace of my relationship with Duncan, and the ease of my old position. Now, even though I think I'll be overall happier and more satisfied by these changes, I'm overwhelmed by it all.

But such is the nature of change. And I'm trying to remember that, keep everything in perspective, and breathe.

I am torn between wanting to kiss Duncan and wanting to punch him, instead settling for a neutered, passionless, and at times tedious "friendship." Some days I'm ready to start dating and get over him, and other days I'm sad not to find him in the bed next to me when I wake up. Most days, however, I'm too goddamned busy with work to even think about him, or our "status." I'm caught between my old job and new, and it's just been taking its toll. It takes up so much of my time and energy that it just doesn't quite seem fair, and yet I can't bring myself to cut back or be less committed. When I do get to leave work, I'm grateful that I get to come home to a beautiful house and great housemates, but it's all still a bit awkward. The move just sort of happened, suddenly and frantically, and trying to make this new space my home is hard, when I don't feel there's enough hours in the day, with everything else, to settle in.

I miss writing. I miss this blog, and having time and energy to post regularly. Hell, I don't think I've even checked my traffic stats in two weeks.

I want more time and less stuff demanding it. And, really, I want perspective. I realize that things will settle, and this change is stressful because that's its nature. I realize that I have it so good compared to others in this world, especially in the wake of all that has happened in the world this week. And, after viewing Crash for the first time this past Wednesday, I want to be less wrapped up in the unimportant aspects of my life and the velocity at which it all travels. I want to stop. I want to stop and think, observe, be less selfish, and be myself again. I want to live.

I want to be present in this new life and in the world around me, rather than just reacting to problems, doing my job, going to the doctor when I hurt, and coming home just to sleep and get up the next day to do it all over again.

And so my insides are torn. Of course, I realize that I probably just hurt myself moving out of my apartment, but still, in some ways, it feels like a physical manifestation of all that has been swirling both outside and inside of me for the past month. And that's kind of beautiful.

Torn between my old life and all that is new, there's not much to do but heal and deal.

The heat is oppressive today as August -- and all that comes with August -- sets in. I sit here, sweating, sweating from just sitting, as I am bombarded by the hot rays of the afternoon sunshine. Despite this, despite wishing for a break in this sticky misery, summer is nearly over, for me at least, and I am not happy about it. But I can't say that I'm sad either. The changing of the seasons brings with it many changes for me, both personally and professionally, most of which I'm excited to face and some that have my palms sweating, and not due to the heat. Everything sinks in a little more each day -- the life-altering events of this summer, the life-altering decisions I've made, the smaller, quieter bits of my life that are new or different -- and I start to get an imagined image of my new life as a twenty-five-year-old.

I'm getting ahead of myself, of course (that is what I do). But realistically? It's here. Duncan moves out -- and I begin moving myself -- on August 15. And, despite temporarily cohabiting within the same space (known in some circles as "living together"), he is still very much my ex-boyfriend. Work is crazy -- and gets more so with each passing day. I still own a Volvo. And the annual "Baustin Pub Crawl," the highlight of my late-summer social calendar, is right around the corner, officially heralding the end of the season for me...

Despite this heat, my fall is practically here. And I look forward to it with a new outlook and, in many ways, a whole new life.

This will be only the second fall in five years that I face as a single guy, the first since '02. I'm excited and optimistic to begin dating again -- until the reality sets in that I will be gay dating in Vermont. Then comes a bit of dread. I'm for the challenge though -- I suppose I'll have to be.

Things have settled a bit with Duncan. Despite having removed, for now at least, my angry post from last week regarding his return, I have neither forgiven nor forgotten what happened this summer -- but I am now at a place where my anger has been tamed and I can properly deal with the end of our relationship. At this point, feeling less intense about things, I can remember and reflect upon what was wrong between us before the lying and betrayal. That doesn't mean I'm not still angry, and it doesn't mean I don't still love him in many ways -- but it does mean that I can make my peace with this ending, on my own terms, and deal with it without simply blaming it on his mistakes. It's a lot easier to blame it on actions and hurt, easier just to hate, but that's not me. Not my style. Things are bittersweet -- but I think I am making healthy choices now, regarding him.

Beyond my love life, I'm dreading the act of moving. Packing, hauling, painting -- all that stuff. Yuck. But I am quite excited to be finally settled. I look forward to my new place as I think it's the perfect fit for me, right now, in this moment of my life, and I think it could wind up feeling more like home than any place I've been in many, many years.

I choose not to write specifically about my job here on my blog, but I will say that I am approaching it's "busy season." There are also some changes coming about within it that I'm cautiously excited for. All of this movement and change will be great for my career, but I wonder about my sanity.

Speaking of sanity -- and it might just be heatstroke talking here -- but that Quarter-Life Crisis thing that I dealt with this summer? It was worth it. I feel a bit more prepared for all of these changes, this growth. As I sit here, still writing, still sweating, as the sunshine momentarily bows behind some clouds, I realize that I'm in a good place, that I'm right where I'm supposed to be.

In eight hours, his plane will land and, for the first time in five weeks, for the first time since we broke up, I will have to face my now-ex-boyfriend.

To say that I'm anxious would be a understandment of some hyperbole that I can't even think of right now.

Five weeks ago, when I dropped him at the airport, it was with a heavy heart. We had spent an amazing week together and I couldn't wait for those five weeks -- then supposed to be six -- to be over, to have my boyfriend back with me. After two-and-a-half years together, we were in a good place. We were to move in together that fall. We'd be separated for a long, hard six weeks while he took a job in New York City -- but upon his return, we were to be better than ever.

Now I find it hard to believe that five weeks have passed. That I have been single for a month. I find myself dreading the moment I have to lay my eyes upon him again, and the moment after that, and all the moments that are to come in this new world where we're not together and he's coming out. Things are so messy that I don't know how I'm going to look at him -- but I know that I have to.

What happened? It's easy to point to the big stuff, the stuff that pushed us over the edge. The lying and cheating and betrayal. It's easy to just point to that, to not look at those things as a symptom of trouble elsewhere in the relationship, of the baggage that two people brought to the table over and over in this attempt to be together. There's not enough distance for me to truly, in my heart, recognize that we are in two different places and we broke up because of that. We broke up -- or we should have broken up -- because, at 25, I'm clearer each day with what I want out of life and love, and I wasn't getting those things from my partner. I couldn't get those things from my partner.

I wish it had ended like that. I wish we could've been too mature adults and talked about all of this, and come to a mature conclusion, before things go so horribly, horribly messy.

I still hurt because of what he did. All I can do is point to it, his sins. And what he did? Perhaps someday, after all the smoke has cleared, I can understand it. Perhaps I can forgive it. But right now? It torments me every day. It makes me sick in my stomach, in my soul. I write of this now only because... well, I feel I need to.

What did he do?

He lied and he cheated. Within an open relationship, he found a way to cheat. Again. He hooked up with two men in New York and denied it. What's worse, I asked him directly about it, giving him an easy option to come clean. I asked him to tell me anything he might have to clear the air about -- I asked him because I was willing, for the last time, to put my trust issues aside. To give him one more chance, to trust him. If he lied to me again, I told him, we would be over.

"Are you sure there is nothing that you have to tell me?" I asked one last time.

He said no. He swore to God.

I gave an uncharacteristic ultimatum, and he still lied to my face -- err, ear. It took some cyber-trickery on my part, but a few days later, he admitted to sleeping with these men and lying about it. He cried and carried on, begged for forgiveness.

And I dumped him.

He wrote me a poem that night. And beyond that, he continually professed his love, saying how much he wanted and needed me, over the phone, in emails, and in text messages. It was a tough time, but soon we slipped easily into a kind of friendship. We casually, and through the distance, allowed each other back into our lives as cautious friends.

But I would later learn that, within a week of our break-up, he had staged a betrayal of a... brutality I had thought only existed in soap operas. He let some aging actor, a stranger, one of those he cheated on me with -- he let him take something that I was never allowed, not really, in our years together. He let this stranger, on their second meeting, fuck him. And then he told me all about it.

To think of it still makes my fists clench. Makes me want to cry. Makes my heart sink, and break a little more. I don't think I've ever felt anything stronger than the anger I felt when he told me, anger which was just poorly masked pain. I screamed and howled into the phone at him as he sobbed, begging for forgiveness.

It was not a pretty sight.

And despite his vow to never see this man again, he's continued to. They appear to be dating. Of all the thousands of gay men in New York, he had to chose to pursue something with this one -- one that, technically, brought about the end of our relationship, and the one that he let fuck him. He could have fucked half the city, behind my back, while we were still together, and it wouldn't have hurt as much as this does.

I wonder if I can ever get over this. I mean, I know I will get over him, over us, but this betrayal, it's sort of shaken me to the core. I know I will get over this, all of it -- I have to -- but right now, I can't help but wonder how...

He returns, tonight, farther along in his process than at any point in our relationship. He returns a betrayer, not a friend, not the boy that tried but couldn't give me what I needed. He returns from five weeks in the Big Apple a new man, leaving behind a new "friend" in the city along with the remains of our relationship. Two and a half years later, he's coming out -- and, just as I feared, away from me. After all this time, after all that work, I've lost my best friend and my truest love. I feel like I'm left with nothing but a few good memories that are overshadowed by a really big hurt.

I need to face him. Tonight, at the airport. I'm as prepared to do this as I'll ever be, and it's on my terms as much as I can muster. Maybe, once I see his face, I can leave him -- and all of this hurt -- behind me. I don't expect closure, not tonight, maybe not ever... I don't even expect confrontation. I just expect it to happen.

I just need to see him again. Then I'll know my fate.

As some readers and friends have noted, in supportive emails and IMs, things here at 20sum have slowed in the past few weeks -- nearly to a hault.

Why is that? some wonder. Is everything OK?

My answer? You got a new 90s-Something last week, for the first time this month. What more do you want?

But seriously, folks -- Everything is OK. Not everything is great, but I am doing fine. Obviously, as regular readers know, a lot has happened in the past few weeks. A lot of things that start with the letter B. Birthday. Break-up. Baby-Mobile. Boston, and a Boy that gives me hope. These and other changes have me on the edge of a new world -- one that's not quite brave yet, and a little too scary.

I haven't been posting because, well, I've been busy -- but, really, all I want to do is write about Duncan. About the break-up. About all the shit that comes along with this. OR -- I want to write about a new guy who makes me smile, but who may have come too soon, and it certainly seems like I'd be jumping the gun to gush about him on here, let alone be starting something with him.

I have been writing a bit about it all, but posting what I come up with feels wrong. It feels too vulnerable. It feels to angry or attacking. This blog has always been about expression and honesty -- but right now I think I've been doing a lowsy job of that with the people I care about, in my real life. I need to start there

I desperately do not want to be in the midst of a breakup or a breakdown right now. This is a process, a process I want to be done with yesterday. I want to be over Duncan and this relationship immediately, even though I know it doesn't work that way.

Lately, I feel like I'm walking around every day with the mantra of I'm Fine, I'm Fine -- trying really hard to convince everybody, especially myself. I don't want to be a needy sadsack in the midst of a messy break-up, don't want to be that friend, who's fragile, high-maintence. I guess the bright side is that I really am fine 90% of the time -- but that's still a long way from 100%. If I am going to be that "needy sadsack," it should be with real people in my real life.

II don't want this to be a crutch. (I also don't want these posts, even this one, to seem like passive-aggressive jabs at Duncan, or a "call for help" friends who read 20sum.) If anybody gets to see me vulnerable, it should be my loved ones. If I'm going to be talking about this stuff, I should be doing it with my real friends. With my family. With Duncan, even. Not semi-anonymously on the internet. Much as I love the hundreds of strangers that visit this site daily...

Besides, I don't want this to be one of those blogs. Bitter. Angry. Bitchy. Well, any more than it's always been...

My life is changing, evolving. So am I. And so, too, will this blog.

Stay tuned, won't you?

[Warning to readers: Another post-breakup post follows. If you are a reader who dislikes these -- saaaaay, from Philadelphia, with an IP Address of 170.115.25.13, who likes to comment -- you may not wish to read further.]

Note to self: Don't watch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind again for at least six months. It may have quickly become one of your favorite movies in recent months, but if you continue to watch it, you may find it so unbearable that you simply hate it.

I couldn't function at work yesterday afternoon so I took off (surprise surprise) and ended up with said DVD in my player. I thought it might help with post-breakup feelings, but instead it fed into them. In hindsight, all I can say is "DUH!"

My relationship with "Duncan" is dead. Any hope of sustaining a friendship? Looking increasingly unlikely. And increasingly undesirable. Things are messy, so very messy. And I chose to watch a movie about two fucked-up, tortured souls with a love so warped that's its perfect? A movie about two people who love each other so much but can't help but hurt each other? Sometimes, I am a mashocist.

So the question of the day -- If I lived in the world of Eternal Sunshine, would I subject myself to the procedure and erase him from my memory?

Right now, right this very instant, my answer is a very strong yes.

Ah, the process of breaking up. In case you hadn't guessed, of the Five Stages, I'm slipping out of "Denial" and right heading towards "Anger." At 95mph.

Yesterday, while I was still at work, before watching the film, Duncan revealed something so... "evil, selfish, [and] cruel" (his words - not mine) that it pushed me for the edge. I felt a rage stronger than anything I've felt in my life. Stronger than love or happiness, stronger than loneliness or sadness. Stronger than any anger or jealous I'd ever felt. For few, very long moments, it was raw, unrestrained, and utterly primal -- and I was completely overcome. Perhaps the only thing that could overshadow it is the terror that followed it -- I scared myself, bad -- and maybe the regret for making myself so vulnerable and expressing such disturbing emotion to him, Duncan, over the phone.

I'm starting to realize that it wasn't really anger. It was raw pain just manifesting itself like that. It's what I do, how I work.

I'm also realizing that this breakup is a big deal. And I'm not really allowing it to be. "I'm fine. I'm fine." I'm not. I'm functioning. I'm not a total mess. But there is pain that I have to deal with. There is shit. And it's not going to be pleasant. The most important relationship of my life is over. This isn't the I've lost my best friend. And it's been in a horrible, horrible hurtful way. Sure, I dumped him but only because he gave me no choice. I'm still the fool. I've been betrayed and, fuck, I hurt. And just when I think I can't be pushed any lower by him? You guessed it.

I didn't think I would be back here again. I just want to be at the end of this process. To be over it. Him. But it doesn't work that way.

Today, without hestitation, I would erase him.

I hate this.

Well, I bought the Volvo. I like it. I'm happy. Don't make fun of me.

It is nice to have one piece of the bigger puzzle of my life in place. And it's nice to know that I made something that I wanted, something fairly big, happen fairly quickly. I decided I wanted a car and within a week, I am the proud owner of a very sensible "family" station wagon. I feel accomplished. Independent. Protected by side-curtain airbags. Part of me does worry if this is all a reaction to turning 25 and to my recent breakup, but then I just remind myself I'm trying too hard to be self-aware. I bought a car -- not that big of a deal.

But I do have wheels for the first time in two years. That's huge.

Having a car again opens all sorts of new doors. I suspect I will make a decision regarding my new living situation this week. It's nice to have options on the table and be able to chose. I'm thrilled to finally settle on something, and to soon move and settle into a new place. But, being my neurotic self, I am nervous too. Change is exciting, but scary.

I mean, I've been in the same very comfortable place for the past two years -- carless, in the same tiny and haunted apartment, in the same relationship -- and all that's changed, or soon will. New opportunities. New friends. New car. New home. Inevitably I'll start dating new people. I didn't think I'd be here a month ago -- figuring out my life goals, taking on new loan payments, and moving without my boyfriend -- but I am kind of glad to be here. It's terrifying sometimes, and sad others -- but overall, it's an adventure I'm ready to embark on. I'm looking forward to learning more about my new Volvo, and myself, in the coming months.

On my drive back home with my new car yesterday, in the rain, I popped in the copy of Radiohead's OK Computer borrowed from my increasingly music-savvy fourteen-year-old brother. Inevitably, the trippy computer-voiced track "Fitter Happier" came on. I was instantly tempted to skip ahead, but for some reason I stuck with it. I just leaned back in my comfy leather seat and took in the jittery robot lyrics.

Fitter, happier, more productive
Comfortable
Not drinking too much
Regular exercise at the gym
(3 days a week)
Getting on better with your associate employee contemporaries
At ease
Eating well
(No more microwave dinners and saturated fats)
A patient better driver
A safer car
(Baby smiling in back seat)
Sleeping well
(No bad dreams)
No paranoia
Careful to all animals
(Never washing spiders down the plughole)
Keep in contact with old friends
(Enjoy a drink now and then)
Will frequently check credit at (moral) bank (hole in the wall)
Favours for favours
Fond but not in love
Charity standing orders
On Sundays ring road supermarket
(No killing moths or putting boiling water on the ants)
Car wash
(Also on Sundays)
No longer afraid of the dark or midday shadows
Nothing so ridiculously teenage and desperate
Nothing so childish - at a better pace
Slower and more calculated
No chance of escape
Now self-employed
Concerned (but powerless)
An empowered and informed member of society
(Pragmatism not idealism)
Will not cry in public
Less chance of illness
Tires that grip in the wet
(Shot of baby strapped in back seat)
A good memory
Still cries at a good film
Still kisses with saliva
No longer empty and frantic like a cat tied to a stick
That's driven into frozen winter shit
(The ability to laugh at weakness)
Calm
Fitter
Healthier and more productive
A pig in a cage on antibiotics

What a long, strange, wonderful, sad week it's been... They say "Quarter Life Crisis." I used to say, "Fuck you, Mayer-poser." But now...

My life is different than it was a week ago. I am different. And it's not just new glasses, a haircut, different facial hair, those lost five pounds. It's deeper. It's more profound. It's not just another birthday. It is a milestone.

I feel like I am -- or I'm at least becoming -- a whole person for the first time... in a long time? Ever? A change is gonna come. A change has happened, is happening.

But this change, it's not without it's growing pains.

"Duncan" and I broke up last night. 2 1/2 years. Over. Gone. Done. And though we've all heard it all before, this time is for real. The details? They don't matter. Not here. I hesitate to even write about this "news," to post it. But I realize I have to. Not for your sake, dear readers. And not for yours, Dunc. But for my own.

I am deeply sad and deeply hurt but, somehow, inside me, I know it is what needed to happen. Despite the pain, I made the right choice -- for both of us. I still love him -- that doesn't just stop instantly -- and I still want to believe in him. That he can come out, figure himself out, and become a whole person. That he can realize how great he really is and believe in himself. That I can do the same. And that, maybe, we can reconnect -- maybe not in love, but in friendship. Someday.

Belief. Makes things real. Makes things feel... feel alright.

Last night at 2a.m., restless, I found myself parked outside of his old dorm, the one he lived in our first months together. I found myself gazing up at his old window, remembering all the days I gazed out onto warm spring mornings while he still slept, the sun shining, the shuttle-buses noisy as they passed.

On the cosmic radio in his car, the album rock station I listened to played "Under the Milky Way" by The Church.

Wish I knew what you were looking for
Might have known what you would find...

I grimaced, hit SEEK. It found Alanis.

You live you learn
You love you learn
You cry you learn
You lose you --

I teared up. SEEK.

Jack Johnson.

I can't always be waiting waiting on you
I can't always be playing playing your fool

What the fuck? Fed up with this creepy radio, I hit CD. It resumed in the middle of a song.

It was the Garden State soundtrack. The one I bought him at the Target in Minneapolis.

So let go, Jump in
Oh well whatcha waiting for?
It's alright
'Cause there's beauty
In the breakdown.

I shut the stereo off. I didn't cry, but I should have. Instead I made a noise, something so guttural it scared me. It was short and deep, so deep that it didn't sound like something that could ever come out of me. It felt like somebody's stabbed me in the gut.

I half expected the stereo to come to life. To play Hedwig.

That's the pain,
Cuts a straight line
Down through the heart;
We called it love.

I sat there in the car, my chest tight and my stomach sick. But I was numb on the outside, only tiny tingles of realization touching my skin, the tips just barely grazing me. It's over. I wanted to let loose that guttural howl, to scream out into the night, out at that dorm, out at the past, but I couldn't. I just couldn't. Instead, I headed home to my empty apartment, feeling truly alone for the first time in over two years.

But, despite all this... 2 1/2 years. Not wasted. I wish it could've ended better, differently, but...

But?

Absolutely no regrets.

Four years ago, during my second summer in Burlington, at the age of twenty-one, I would often take long drives on the long, less-traveled Vermont roads to cool down and to clear my head at night.

Four years ago, I was in the midst of my first real relationship, the one with my rarely mentioned ex, Joe. We had started dating that January and fell in love shortly thereafter. That summer, he graduated from college and things became... complicated. I'll save the sordid details for whatever comes after 90s-Something, but needless to say, I was in Burlington while he was home in Massachusetts, and I was caught in a cloud of turmoil and confusion.

I would often find myself on those Vermont roads, driving without a destination, stretching out in to the evening and night, easily three times a week. I explored Spear Street and the like, speeding though Shelburne, Charlotte, Hinesburg, Richmond, Essex... hypnotized by the pavement and all the green, taking in the smells, escaping all that was weighing me down back in Burlington, and Massachusetts, the trappings of my life. Every night I would ask questions but never find answers from the roads or the trees, wondering both "What am I going to do?" and "What the hell am I doing?"

Tonight, the world suddenly cooled from our recent "heat wave," all still covered in rain though the showers had stopped a while before, a fog rolling in with dusk, I hopped in the borrowed car sitting outside my apartment and drove to see where it would take me.

I ended up on Spear Street, of course, and I ended up in a trance. Still too reflective of my quarter-of-a-century milestone yesterday, still contemplating future moves, both literal and figurative, I found myself in a much more stable place than I was some four years ago, but still, maybe, just as confused. The new question was "Where do I go from here?" The answer was as unclear as my direction or destination on that drive as I whizzed down the road, more inside my head than in the car, leaving new mansions and old trees in my wake.

Before long, I found myself at a place I'd been many times before -- a four-way stop in the town of Charlotte, eyeing the sad-looking gas station across the way. As I woke from my driving trance, I remembered that every time I've come to that place, that very stop sign, on all my many drives that have lead me to Charlotte in the past four years, I could never decide which way to go. I think I'd gone each way at least once, but all I could think of were all the times I just turned around in the gas station's parking lot and headed back towards Burlington.

At the crossroads I'd been many times before...

It started to sink in as I realized that Kelly Clarkson's "Breakaway" was actually playing, at that very moment, on the radio.

I just stared ahead and blinked.

Take a chance, Make a change, And break-aaaaaaa-way...

And then I said aloud, "You've got to be kidding me."

So unbelievably cheesy, all of it, and I had to groan. So symbolic that I almost gagged. Yet I still found myself frozen, aware of my path for the first time since leaving my apartment, unable to decide whether to go left, right, or straight.

A car honked behind me and, flustered, I quickly chose left.

Left brought me down a long road I didn't remember and, eventually, I found myself pulling over at the first appropriate spot I could. I had intended just to turn around, but I felt compelled to stop for a second and dig my water bottle out of my bag. In doing so, I realized that everything had turned to night and, in the bushes right outside my open window, were a swarm of fireflies. Now, I don't know that fireflies swarm, but that's what it felt like. There were just dozens of them right there, blinking away at me, so beautiful.

I hadn't seen that many since I was five. For a moment, I considered dumping out my water and collecting them in my empty bottle, bringing them back to my apartment, and waiting for them to magically turn into pennies while I slept.

I didn't take any fireflies with me, but I left after a couple more minutes of watching them. In those minutes, I realized I've got to stop taking myself so seriously. That way leads melodrama and making Kelly Clarkson profound. No, I gotta do more that makes me feel like I'm five years old again. With a smile and a three-point turn, I hit the long road back to my place.

I'm glad I turned left.

Haven't you heard? I turn 25 on Tuesday. Happy Birthday to me.

25 marks the official end of adolescence, or so I've come to understand. The frontal lobe of my brain has (or soon will) finish its development. I will, physiologically, neurologically, finally, be a man.

Frontal lobe? What's that? Well, it's considered "our emotional control center and home to our personality" [neuroskills]. It sounds like a pretty cool part of the brain. Perhaps the coolest. And I was glad to learn that mine is finally complete. Let's take a closer look, shall we?

Frontal lobes have been found to play a part in impulse control, judgement, language, memory, motor function, problem solving, sexual behavior, socialization and spontaneity. Frontal lobes assist in planning, coordinating, controlling and executing behavior. [wikipedia]

...our mental ability to think beyond the moment, to remember the past or muse about the future, is a function of the frontal lobes. "A central feature of consciousness is the ability to control the fourth dimension, time. Humans can effortlessly move their internal mental set from the present moment to a past remembrance and just as easily project themselves into a future event." [Writing World]

It is, and that's what this is about. In short, a fully developed frontal lobe allows adults to fully and maturely see what's possible, today and tomorrow, and to make decisions based upon this.

Possibilities. Funny thing, I used to think that all I've ever seen was possibilities.

454 days, 4 hours, and 54 minutes ago, I lamented this dreaded birthday because, for me, once upon a time, it was more ominous than 30, 40, or even 75. All my life, I lived by the motto "Married by 25, Kids by 30" -- when I was straight, when I was gay, when I was single, when I was partnered -- that was the big plan. Thankfully I abandoned that strict mantra a while back, even rebelled against it. Rejecting one rigid path -- marriage -- for another -- not marriage, never. Man, was I ever a foolish early twenty-something!

At twenty-five, see... at twenty-five, I have the sudden clarity of a fully developed frontal lobe. It's all very Zen or Matrix or something. I see it all. I see the error in my ways.

I might get hitched. I might not. It's that simple.

Not very profound, huh?

But what's new is that I'm starting to figure out what I want, what I value, truly. It's a process that's been going on for a while, but it's all starting to make sense a little better. It's like I just got a new pair of glasses, the prescription just a little stronger, and I'm seeing the world just a little clearer. [Ed. Note: Please excuse this poor imagery, as I did, indeed, get new glasses today.]

Dust is settling, lobes are finishing. And I'm learning what kind of man I want to be. What kind of life I want to live. What kind of man I want to love.

And I know I want a true partner, a realistic relationship like those I envy. I want to write. I want a dog. I want a kid. I want a house -- no, a home, finally a home -- to settle in. And I think I want it to be in Vermont, maybe back here after years away, perhaps never leaving. And I'm learning that there are many ways to achieve all of this -- to be happy.

What else do I know?

Shit.

I don't want this all tomorrow. Tomorrow, after all, is my birthday. And tonight? In another life, tonight might've been my Bachelor Party. But come Tuesday, if I have a cake, what might I wish for as I blow out the candles? Now that would be telling...

None of this is new ground, really. I'm not going to kid myself and pretend I know anything about any of this. I have no wisdom, really, only my honesty. And though, sometimes, 25 feels old, even to an "old soul" like me, I know I've got miles to go. And that's actually pretty damn exciting.

My frontal lobe is telling me all sorts of ways to end this post -- thoughtful, insightful, perhaps profound conclusions -- but all I want to say?

It's getting late. I love my boyfriend and I love my friends. Happy 25th to me!

Another perk of being a twenty-something: "US will 'have to face' military draft dilemma: senator". [Via my boss, and Yahoo! News.]

A BIG, quick Twenty-Something "Happy Birthday" goes out to the beautiful, blonde, buxom Yelli!

Her birthday is today, not yesterday as I, still in a post-vacation brain haze, thought when I called her "belately" this morn.

She turns 26 today. I just listened to the Jamie Cullum song in her honor.

Happy birthday, baby! Love ya!

Happy St. Me's Day.

That's right, loyal readers. You tricked me into revealing my real name.

I'm Patrick. Nice to meet you.

I wish it were under better circumstances, however. See I'm in a foul mood. I'm finally re-hydrated and feeling somewhat better -- but because I called into work today, I'm trapped in my apartment all night. No celebration for me.

Of course, the more depressing part is, even if I could go out, I wouldn't be doing so -- I have nobody to go out with. My usual "going out buddy" here in Burlington is away and Duncan is otherwise occupied. And that is all I got, apparently. When it comes down to that, it makes my life seem really small.

Save the pity party, please. It's really not a big deal to me. As much as I have every drop of Irish blood that my family had to offer (which isn't much, outside the name and the increasingly-less-reddish hair), I'm not much for Irish Pride (deserved or not) anymore. I'm actually kind of relieved that I didn't have to wear green today and that I didn't get (much) of the usual, "Hey, you're name's Patrick! It's your day!" crap that I usually get on this "holiday." You don't know what it's like for we Patricks out there. It's like your birthday, only more annoying, and there are no presents or cake. Just annoying comments. And sometimes beer.

But still, I do feel like I'm missing out on something today. Just a look at my friend's away messages -- well, the friend's that are lame enough to have them up (oh, snap!) -- reveals that they're all already getting their St. Paddy's Day groove on. As much as I complain, I really just feel left out.

It's my day, afterall.

Ally McBeal. Ever seen it? Now that was, at one time, once upon a time, a quality television show. Recently, I caught one of its season finales in reruns, one I caught first run back in 1999. The episode spotlighted the disillusionment of the titular character and the deterioration of her long-held dream of finding the man of her dreams, her soulmate, "The One." Will she ever find him, or will she have to settle for less, like the rest of her world is telling her to do? That question doesn't limit itself to a season finale cliffhanger or a TV show premise -- it's a bigger question, for my own life, if not the lives of every human being on this planet.

Seeing the show transplanted me to 1999, when I saw myself the nineteen-year-old gay male counterpart to Ms. McBeal. In my head, I was young and optimistic in the face of great adversity and disappointment. Hoping, wishing, praying that there's someone out there for you, made for you, and yet knowing, deep down, that it's an unlikelihood. I thought, like all nineteen year olds, that I knew everything.

Now I sit here, a twenty-something, who, like all twenty-somethings, pretends that I don't think I know everything. I sit here and say that I'm lost and directionless, a fool, but still, I look back at 19 and think that I am so much older, so much wiser, so much better due to the passing of just five years.

I didn't know shit then, I don't know shit now.

I write a lot, here and in my "unpublished" works, about life and love, and sometimes I think I'm smart and I get it. But overall, in the pit of the hole that is me, I know I don't. And maybe I never will.

A few nights ago, I had a dream, one in a series of very vivid, memorable dreams that came to me over a few nights. But this particular dream lingered more than the other. None of it will make sense to you, of course, but someone impersonating writer Augusten Burroughs was there, and he was lecturing me on my mistakes. About not having kids or something. I woke up feeling kind of shitty. Augusten was just as much of a dick as he comes off in his new book, and it wasn't really him. But still, the Ally-in-my-soul was affected. Or something.

It's been a long time since I've thought about baby names or a wedding guest list. In fact, in rummaging through old files on my old computer, I found an actual wedding guest list I started when I was 20, maybe 21. It's so silly I just wanted to delete it and never mention it to another person. But there it was, a list of these people that were part of that life with that other guy. There were a lot of people on it, and I didn't immediately recognize at least a dozen names. But there was everybody I knew in my life back then, and I do mean everybody. It was like a desperate person's Friendster or Facebook profile, lots of acquaintances, few real connections. And I wanted all these people to share in the day when I was to become --"Mr. Patrick Kelleher"?

If that wasn't enough to make me want to send a cyborg back in time to shoot my 20yo self in the head, I also found a Word Doc with baby names:
Boys: Riley Andrew, Liam Marcus, Noel Phillip, Noah Benjamin, Ira Allen
Girls: Susan Martha, Serena Anne, Jillian Emily

...How fucking gay.

In-group. It's OK.

*ahem* Well, it was 2001 the last time I changed either file. And it was probably late 2002 the last time I seriously thought about getting hitched or naming babies.

I remember one fall day in '02, strolling along the Waterfront with my friend Dan. I was still pretty shattered by the break up, but I was keeping it in. There was a gay couple, kid in a stroller, and it just triggered me to open up, just a little, to my friend. "I have less than three years to get married," my then-22 self said. "And then I have to have kids by the time I'm thirty. How's that going to happen without Joe?"

Dan, in his gay bitch sort of way, verbally slapped me in the face and back to reality. "Are you kidding me?" he said. And we talked. And I dealt. And, seriously, I think that was the last time I really thought about that whole timeline. Last time I thought, "Hey, I'm gonna get hitched! Hey I'm gonna have babies!" The last time I was a Charlotte.

God, I have changed. I'm still neurotic and needy, just like Ally. But do I still believe in love? Abso-fucking-lutely. I'm just more realistic about it. And much less "Civil Unions and Chinese Baby."

But, God, I do have this thing that pops into my head every once in a while. It's silly, maybe more embarrassing than those lists. Whenever I hear "In My Life" by the Beatles, I picture my wedding reception. And it's not Joe there, I don't know who it is.

I'm such a fucking girl.

There's too much sky, not enough blue
There's too many questions to why I love you
There's too many clouds, not enough sun
The rain must fall on everyone

Last night, Home Movies, one of my favorite TV shows and certainly one of the highlights of my week, aired its final new episode. I didn't know this until after the episode finished, and I felt overwhelmingly and pathetically sad. Sure, it's a cartoon. Sure, it's silly. But it's been a clever, amazingly smart silly, squiggly cartoon that has had an extremely excellent season. I think what upset me that most was its sudden, unexpectedness. I didn't have time to prepare.

The quiet passing of Home Movies just adds another loss to quality TV and, even sadder, to my life. My new love, Wonderfalls, was axed after just 4 quality episodes. Angel bows next month after five seasons, just one year after its sire, perhaps my favorite show ever, Buffy, went off the air. Friends, a show that premiered when I was a freshman in high school, and has been an odd constant in an often unstable life. I watched the first episode with my grandmother when I was 14. I watched many more episodes in college gathered with various friends. And I'm not sure where I'll be for the grand finale next month.

And, of course, my beloved Sex and the City. *snif* That loss still cuts deep.

I think Will & Grace just did an episode on this, where Jack and Karen mourn the loss of their favorite shows -- but I didn't really pay attention because that show will be back next year.

So I watch a lot of TV. And I feel loss for TV shows. Pathetic? Maybe. Have I become so superficially and shallow that these comedy and dramas have become my art, my friends, my life? Maybe a little. But I still am a senstive, sentimental schmuck, so there's some depth there.

See, I think that these feelings aren't about the TV shows. No, not really. They are something deeper. I do still have a soul. I attach sentimentality to each of these shows, and thus that's why I'm sad. Friends was once a weekly ritual for me and my best friends, a tradition that sadly passed away a few years ago. Sex and the City came to me in a time of need -- not only the post-9/11 world, but my early 20s coming of age with life and, more importantly, love. The characters became friends and helped me bond even better with my real life friends.

Home Movies, like most of Cartoon Network's late nightAdult Swim, has become a nightly ritual with me and Duncan. We watch Futurama and Family Guy at 11, almost every night we're together. And Home Movies had become the crown jewel of that routine, a highlight of quality Sunday Night Television. We could crack up and cuddle, and quote the show all week. It had been better than ever. And now it's over.

Here's where I go deep. I'm upset about Home Movies' end because I worry that my relationship might be headed towards the same fate, soon. And that scares me.

Things have always been tough for us. A closeted relationship is near, if not completely, impossible. And from the beginning, there have been ups and downs. But its always been worth it. There's always been a pay off. I've always, without a doubt, wanted to be with my man, and no one else. Since I feel in love with him, I've often doubted the relationship, but never, really, my love, never my desire, never my commitment to being with him.

But lately -- I don't know. Stuff has happened, and I hurt. Bad. And I don't know how to deal with some of that stuff. It's like not going away. I can usually talk through my feelings, solve my problems, but I just can't right now. I'm stressed at work, all my shows are over, and my relationship isn't working -- and I don't know how to fix it.

My resolution to recommit, to trust, to believe in him, its being tested big time. There's a point when belief becomes foolishness, when faith becomes blindness, when love can become unbearable heartache. There's a point when living in the moment becomes a rut, a defense, because you're too afraid to look ahead, to change, to be realistic. Am I at that point? I've been wondering that lately, and I'm not sure of the answer. I'm not sure if I'm being supportive or being used. I'm not sure if we're in a rough patch, or if we're over.

There's too much doubt and not enough dare
There's too much decision everywhere
There's too much talk and not enough time
Let's close our eyes and not our minds

But last night -- last night was nice. We had a nice homemade dinner. Watched TV and hung out together. And everything was good. Everything was just as I wanted. I could ignore the future and have a good time. Be with him and be happy -- something I hadn't truly felt in a couple weeks. I felt better, I felt like everything was back to normal, healed. I was myself again -- not so hurt, not so confused -- and he was too -- nice, respectful -- and we were us, same as ever -- in our little relationship, in our little love.

But, by the harsh light of day, everything seems to creep back to the surface. All the bad stuff could be ignored in the dark, but in the day, I have to take it as part of the whole, mix it in with the good. And with that mix, I have to decide what to do -- try and salvage it, sweeten it, or chuck it out? I get the feeling he doesn't want out, so it's up to me. FUCK.

So, yeah, we're back to "You're The Ocean." Teitur. Good shit. Fitting.

You look for leads, I follow clues
You love to win, I dare to lose
Mostly you're a mind game in my head
You are earth, I am water
I can give you what you're after
You can be the word...I can be the rhyme...

He needs me, and that's always been enough. But what about my needs, my wants? And what does he really want? Words -- questions -- that's what this relationship's been about from day one. But he was the one who saved me from myself, from my darkness, over a year ago - but who's gonna to save me, and us, now?

Are we just in an angsty rough patch, or are we nearing the end? One thing's for sure - we're gearing up for one hell of a season - if not series - finale. Is it better to go out on top, like Seinfeld, to leave everybody wanting more? Do you change up the formula, spin-off into something new and different, like Fraiser? Or should you stick it out for a couple more seasons to see if it can work? That sometimes works (The Practice) and sometimes its heartbreaking (X-Files).

I'm talking in TV terms. I'm a geek, yes. But I'm no TV exec. I'm not one to make these kind of decisions. I don't want to live with the consequences. I'm too afraid to making the wrong choice. Where's the story going to lead me?

To paraphrase my TV alter-ego, Sammy: He has meant more to me than any man I've ever known.

I love him. I just don't know what to do.

There's really nothing you can do
You're going where I'm going too
Stay beside me, stay beside me
I want you

So I turn 25 in 454 days, 4 hours, and 54 minutes... In that time, I not only need to get engaged, but married -- gay-married. Or so the plan I've had in my head for as long as I can remember dictates: married by 25, kids by 30. All my life, I've wanted to be normal -- to achieve that idyllic and very, very cliched white-picket crap that most of us buy into, the sort of life I never had when I was a kid. I think this was the biggest obsticle in conciously acknowledging my homosexuality for the first sixteen years, and caused some of the biggest internal struggles in accepting it. How could I be "normal" and be gay? How could I have a wife, kids, great job, success, that fucking fence -- if I was a deviant?

Well, I started looking around -- on the Internet when I was 16 -- for anything. And what I found were sketchy chatrooms, lots of porn -- and the homepage of one 32-year-old Australian doctor. He liked the same TV shows, movies, and music as I did -- he also happened to be gay, well-adjusted, and practically married to another man. He was a normal guy with a normal life. And that gave me hope.

It's funny, because up until almost exactly two years ago, I still bought into all that whole-heartedly. There were times, in the moment, during our relationship, that I thought Joe, my first serious boyfriend, could be "The One." That we'd get hitched -- Civil Unioned or whatnot -- adopt, live happily ever after -- just like our other couple friends. The slightly distorted mirror image of heterosexuality was sort of expected of us by others -- our friends and, to some extent, my family -- and so I guess we sort of fell into it. We were a cute couple and, at first, we had a picturesque, "perfect" relationship. But time, situations, graduations, and ACL surgeries complicated things a wee bit. We ended up on the tail end of one-year-and-three-months together both sort of hating each other. Forget gay-marriage -- we were practically gay-divorced.

But, I guess, even up to the day we broke up, I sort of bought into that idea that was forced on us by our liberal and supportive friends in BVT. PC terms like "partner." The go-to question -- "How's Joe?" -- which was like this conversation failsafe. Deeper questions about the relationship, the future, our plans... They forced it on me, but part of me was into it. Part of me sorta thought I might really marry Joe. And here's a confession: if we had made it to my senior year, part of me had it in my head that I'd buy a ring and propose right 'round my graduation day.

How the hell did I go from THAT to a quiet, closeted relationship with my current beau? I really don't know. Part of it is the "Golden Retriver" in me -- I got burned by the last one, and I wanted something completely different. But I think that was only a small part of my transformation between Joe and Duncan, my current beau.

I can speculate that I fell into this relationship and found what I needed -- and that didn't include showing off my new boyfriend, double-dating, or most of that horrid couples stuff. Because the relationship existed, especially at first, only behind closed doors, I learned that I could meet my needs and be happy, truly happy, without any of the trappings that they have always told me I need. Sure, it was (and is) hard to have a closeted relationship -- but its refreshing not to have family members always asking home my boyfriend is and wondering if we'll get a civil union -- and that's in large part because many don't know Duncan even exists.

But the topic of cohabitation has been breached. And it's opened some combination of Pandora's Box and Trojan Horse. I don't know what I want, but I think I know what he does -- or doesn't -- want, or isn't ready for. And maybe the fact that I can't have it, but some days, I think it's an awesome idea. I think about how easy things could be, how nice it would be to come home to him every night, how practical it would be to be "roommate" instead of just closeted lovers. But what the hell do I know? I don't know what I want or what I'm ready for in this moment I'm living in.

But I do want it, eventually, in some form. To live with somebody, to share my life. As a best friend -- but more. A companion. And that might not include coming up with new vows or creative solutions to the whole two dads thing. I'm pretty much resigned to the fact that I won't be married by 25, and that's OK. Because I don't really know what I want. Now. Tomorrow. Two years from now. Twenty. But I think it's somewhere between the two men I've loved.

I want love. I want my kind of love. And I'm starting to figure out that it's not going to be the kind of love that the straights want me to have, and it might not be the kind of love my supportive, liberal-ish friends and family want for me -- but it's going to be what's right for me and my man.

This is my relationship, and this is my terms. And, for now, it's good enough for me.

I'm thinking of a number between 22 and 24. Any guesses?

So in this New Year of 2004, I've been thinking a lot about being twenty-something. I'm going to philosophize on being the ripe-ole age of 23 and reflect from the lofty platform of wisdom such an age brings me.

Gag me.

But really, I'm thinking about the specific age of 23 and the strange new phenomenon that my bud Greg and I seem to have discovered -- the 23-year-old gay male.

What is the 23-year-old gay male, you ask? Well, we hypothesize, it's akin to a second coming out, if you will, a rebirth of a young man's homosexual self as they enter a new phase of their life. Gone are the ideals that these men held in their teens and early 20s -- thoughts of true love, meaningful sex, yadda yadda. Innocence is gone. All of a sudden, it's ok to be non-monogomous. It's ok to have emotionless casual sex. Yadda yadda. I don't remember exactly. But we developed the idea, and it made perfect sense a couple month ago.

I went through the phase at 22, as I bounced from one LTR to another. It was fairly brief, and it was fun, but it wasn't. I wasn't a whore, per se, but I really didn't care. For a brief moment, I could've been really bad -- but luckily, I live in Burlington, Vermont, home of one gay bar, where the pickings are so slim you really don't have a choice.

I watch as a friend (Tommy) in the "big city" sinks further and further into being in this phase. He's deep into drinking, drugs, clubbing, and fucking. But he's being stupid, unsafe. And I'm loosing him to the dark side of all that -- intoxication, unprotected sex, and having "boifriends" with names like "Fabio." It's sad. He's hardly my friend any more.

To state the obvious -- the twenty-somethings are a time of turmoil and change, and I'm in the midst of it. We're talking almost-quarter-life crisis here. And who better to speak on that idea than Jessica Simpson? "Twenty-three is old. It's almost twenty-five, which is almost mid-twenties." Immortal words, from an immortal airhead.

My immortal ass will be 24 in a couple months. Now that's almost mid-twenties. Yikes.

Now, onto a fitting forward from Yelli:

Being Twenty-Something

They call it the "Quarter-life Crisis." It is when you stop going along with the crowd and start realizing that there are a lot of things about yourself that you didn't know and may not like.

You start feeling insecure and wonder where you will be in a year or two, but then get scared because you barely know where you are now.

You start realizing that people are selfish and that, maybe, those friends that you thought you were so close to aren't exactly the greatest people you have ever met and the people you have lost touch with are some of the most important ones.

What you do not realize is that they are realizing that too and are not really cold or catty or mean or insincere, but that they are as confused as you.

You look at your job. It is not even close to what you thought you would be doing or maybe you are looking for one and realizing that you are going to have to start at the bottom and are scared.

You miss the comforts of college, of groups, of socializing with the same people on a constant basis. But then you realize that maybe they weren't so great after all. You are beginning to understand yourself and what you want and do not want.

Your opinions have gotten stronger. You see what others are doing and find yourself judging a bit more than usual because suddenly you realize that you have certain boundaries in your life and add things to your list of what is acceptable and what is not.
You are insecure and then secure. You laugh and cry with the greatest force of your life. You feel alone and scared and confused. Suddenly change is the enemy and you try and cling on to the past with dear life but soon realize that the past is drifting further and further away and there is nothing to do but stay where you are or move forward.

You get your heart broken and wonder how someone you loved could do such damage to you or you lay in bed and wonder why you can't meet anyone decent enough to get to know better. You love someone but maybe love someone else too and cannot figure out why you are doing this because you are not a bad person.

One night stands and random hook ups start to look cheap and getting wasted and acting like an idiot starts to look pathetic.

You go through the same emotions and questions over and over and talk with your friends about the same topics because you cannot seem to make a decision.

You worry about loans and money and the future and making a life for yourself and while winning the race would be great, right now you'd just like to be a contender!

What you may not realize is that everyone reading this relates to it. We are in our best of times and our worst of times, trying as hard as we can to figure this whole thing out.

So this week, V-Day came and went without much of a bang this year. Did the dinner thing earlier in the week, since I left Saturday (2/14) for a conference in Ohio (more on that later)... No cards or gifts, and nearly no utterance of the V-Word. I did come to the realization that, out of the last four years, I've had a boyfriend on this Hallmark Holiday. I tend to notice things like that more than most people. Since 2001, I've had two serious boyfriends -- Mr. Ex, Joe, who lasted nearly a year and a half, and Mr. X, Duncan, the mystery man I've been with since last January. Somehow the fact that I've had built-in Valentines for the past four years carries more weight than the fact that I've had two long-ass-term relationships, each lasting over a year, since turning 20. Perception is a fickle little bitch.

Regardless of Valentine's Day, this past week was full of tiny celebrations of love, and one big celebration item: a clean bill of health.

Remember the gloominess that was the last entry? Yeah... the Big Bad was a cancer scare. Testicular lump. Which now isn't looking to be cancerous, so I get to keep the ball and skip the sickness. Rock on.

I'm ok.

Song of the week? Damien Rice's "Volcano." Thanks to the fabulous Yelli (indeed, I seem to be using the "F" word with increasing frequency) for turning me back onto the song and putting it back into heavy rotation here at Radio Free Roscoe (for your sake, I hope you don't get the sad, sad reference).

Not much happened since Laundry Bowl. My new IKEA dressers are all together, and my apartment is a disorganized mess, filled with boxes upon boxes. Work's been busy, but I thankfully had no event this Friday, so I was able to kick back a bit. I continue to like my job a whole lot, which is something I'm grateful for. It's not perfect but, eh, what is?

So Friday rolled around, and I found myself without an event to work, and without alternate plans. 'Twas a lonely weekend here at Chez Crash. One that made me realize how far my best friends are from me. How much my social life is lacking here in Burlington. It was a weekend for drinking Bud Light and eating frosting from the can. It was a weekend for worrying. It was a weekend for thinking about up and leaving Burlington.

The other day, on the way to work, my iPod randomly played Jesus Jones' one-hit wonder from 1991, "Right Here Right Now." Yeah, I know -- Jesus Jones. Not only do I have "Right Here Right Now" on my computer, I have it on my iPod. And my iPod thinks that I want to hear it as I walk up North Street to work in sub-zero temperatures.

But ya know what? As I get closer to my new 'Pod, as we move past our honeymoon period, I learn that it's not unlike all my relationships. There are good days (and playlists), and bad days (and songs I should just delete). And sometimes, sometimes, 'Poddy gives me not what I want, but what I need.

Strangely enough, Jesus Jones was just what I needed.

See, last week was a big week. There were milestones -- anniversaries, reunions, visits, big events -- all in the span of about 7 days. Here's the quick rundown:

On Friday, I had my first big, big event with work -- a big-ass concert that was the bane of my existence for about two months -- and a visit from my bestest best friend Danielle, for the show, and for her annual weekend Vermont visit. A few days earlier -- the 21st -- would've marked three years for me and Joe, had we not broken up sometime after year one. The same day was my Mom's 41st birthday, which means that (A) I have a young mother and (B) in nine years, she'll be 50 and I'll be 32. And a few days before that, my boyfriend returned to me after a short geographical break and, coincidentally, then celebrated our one-year anniversary in Montreal. And, last but not least, I passed one more marker last week. I have called Burlington, specifically The University of Vermont, my home for exactly four years now.

Lots going on -- past and present -- in my little life here in Vermont.

And you know what I realized, as I walked through the frozen tundra that is Burlington in January, as my 'Pod's wires stiffened and my beard became frosty, as Jesus Jones provided a soundtrack...?

Right here, right now -- there is no other place I want to be.

At 23, there are big weeks and little weeks. They go by so fast and I pass milestones -- graduations, moves, births and deaths -- along the way. I've settled into a groove, a life, here in Burlington, since graduating, moving, and returning.

I have a job that doesn't pay much. A cheap, tiny, cold apartment that gets lonely sometimes. All of my best friends are far away. But I do feel closer to many of those friends, closer than I've felt in a long time. My apartment's becoming a cozy, comfy home. My job is fun and I'm excelling at it. And my relationship continues to surprise me -- in good ways -- as time goes on.

I have a life. I know that most of this, maybe all of it, isn't forever. But it's now. And for now, it's more than good enough. Funny thing is, I'm not thinking about next semester much. Next year. The next step. I do sometimes, but it's not this constant voice in my head, like it's been almost my entire life. For the first time, I am in the moment.

And I am pretty much happy.

I know there will be changes. I know there will be grad school. I figure there'll be Boston. I know that, sooner or later, there will be conversations that decide the future. But right now there are no plans. No expectations...

Life isn't perfect, and I don't think it's supposed to be. And if being a diehard fan of Sex and the City for the past four years has taught me nothing else, it's this: "That's the key to having it all: Stop expecting it to look like what you thought it was going to look like. That's true of the fall lines, and that's true of relationships."

I don't know much about fall lines (c'mon, I'm not that gay), and I may know even less about relationships, but I'm learning. At 23, I'm learning that I may not be married by 25, and I may not have kids by 30. I may not have all my friends physically in my life everyday. I may not be rich. I may not be where I thought I'd be at 23, but I think I finally get it. I wasn't where I thought I'd be at 18, at 19, 20, and so on. And I made myself miserable about it. It was only in hindsight that I realized, in almost every case, what I had in those moments. What I took for granted, what I missed, all because I didn't slow down, stop, savor...

Someday, I'll have it all -- whatever that means. There's plenty of time for the future, for the plans and the conversations, for the now or nevers. But right here, right now...

If you can be happy in a moment -- whether it be during a Gavin DeGraw concert, a cheesy 80s movie with funny cameos and a horrible soundtrack, random sing-alongs with obscure pop mp3s, or a quiet, drunken moment on an uncomfy futon in a overheated loft -- that's a start. And if you can be happy in many (maybe even most) moments, you've got something special. Something to savor. Something to believe in.

Right here, right now...

There is no other place I want to be.