tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68323623060613949412024-03-07T02:32:13.254-08:00exboyfriendmaterial.comRyan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.comBlogger169125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-60053900682581903542021-06-09T16:04:00.002-07:002021-06-09T16:04:27.852-07:00Longing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50m47JKDvOK5PsdMC4qSTKfTgkoznbLkozOZByxTiYuKvosQDm7kBZgSHBAfsGdpLYcMo1t9bzishqBS-LtnzWfqNO_G2M958TYUDMTDCS5b2D3u0ToLob9VKZpQKzDpg_GuRuIuMjh8/s1624/127236630_10105071898487050_5451308309195659455_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1624" data-original-width="1624" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50m47JKDvOK5PsdMC4qSTKfTgkoznbLkozOZByxTiYuKvosQDm7kBZgSHBAfsGdpLYcMo1t9bzishqBS-LtnzWfqNO_G2M958TYUDMTDCS5b2D3u0ToLob9VKZpQKzDpg_GuRuIuMjh8/s320/127236630_10105071898487050_5451308309195659455_n.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div>The story of us is the only one like it. Of this, I’m certain.</div><div><br /></div><div>There’s been no relationship like the one we share in history, and I don’t think any two people could ever replicate it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, there are stories of relationships moving fast, the distance between two people, queer intimacy, sexual chemistry, beautiful weddings, addiction, the struggle to communicate, disappointment, hardship, sacrifice, transcendence, and even convergence. But only our story has all of these elements, and infinitely more.</div><div><br /></div><div>But at the core of our story; at the very beginning; in bold type in the preface – is longing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Well before we collided, we spent our entire lives longing for a setting that suited us. We longed for the assurance of good work. We longed for community and found family. We even longed for someone to love us, even if we both thought we’d probably never find it. And four years later, in our everyday interactions, we long for the other to deliver all of these comforts, even after we stuck wedding bands on our fingers.</div><div><br /></div><div>I see in you what I see in me: the longing to be understood, accepted, loved, and most importantly, valued. And sometimes that longing takes different shapes. Holding each other under the sheets for another 15 minutes while the alarm blares [over and over]. Reaching for your hand while we walk from the car into the restaurant. Asking if now is a good time to have sex. Desperately pleading for attention. Manic, distressing expressions of fear. Shouting matches across the living room. Closing our eyes and embracing; signaling a deeply needed reconciliation.</div><div><br /></div><div>And sometimes, longing can happen in reverse. Wanting to connect so badly that we turn our bodies away and stretch in the other direction. For me, my longing for a sense of belonging extends beyond our bond. It’s something that lives in my body; the smallest Russian doll of myself tucked below my sternum. This tiny keyhole space longs for something so paradoxical it disrupts the rest of the system. This little empty void cries out for the vaguest sense of “more.”</div><div><br /></div><div>This is an absence of self. And my entire life, I’ve tried to fill this space with beer, vodka, food, vomit, men, women, hookup apps, cocaine, weed, vape smoke, cigarettes, art, TV, podcasts, commitments, promises, infidelities, fantasies, and anything that could potentially, finally make me entirely whole. This is the truth – traced back to infancy where a baby with respiratory issues sensed his body could turn against him in a snap. It’s an in-utero entanglement of my body’s deficiencies and my mind’s chemicals. My longing was born when I was born.</div><div><br /></div><div>And that’s a historical problem for those to whom I grant proximity. Who wants to be one of many wires fighting for a single plug in the switchboard?</div><div><br /></div><div>This is where you reenter the story. Our story.</div><div><br /></div><div>The pinprick echo chamber inside of me brought me to you. But over time (as your boyfriend, fiancé, and husband), sometimes you fit and sometimes you didn’t. Which must’ve hurt you in unsettling ways – maybe feeling like you could easily be jettisoned in favor of something intoxicating, delicious, or numbing. I don’t know how you feel in those moments, but I imagine it feels something like human collateral. Human debris. And that can’t feel good.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I want you to know something: with focused intent (not just flighty compulsion), this little voice that cries out can be hushed to a whisper. Though I’m not sure it’ll ever go away. It’s an inherent part of me. It’s my very own language of longing. But it can be repurposed. Reshaped from a void into a furnace – fed by purpose, not substance. This reshaping will be its own journey, reversing a lifetime of picking up & checking out. It’ll probably be the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, but I believe in the power of clarity, and the desperate need for support. Your support. You, Drew Prestridge.</div><div><br /></div><div>The first few chapters of our story are littered with the wreckage of misunderstandings and misdirections. The flotsam and jetsam left behind by two people struggling to describe their nature, shortcomings, and trauma. But that doesn’t have to be our story anymore. No more longing to be understood, accepted, loved, [and most importantly, valued] anymore.</div><div><br /></div><div>We can’t start over. But we can literally and figuratively write a new chapter, right now. One that’s entirely based on truth, and not the wild tales that brought us to winding side-streets and dead ends. So let this letter be the opening passage of this new chapter.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let it begin with these words.</div><div><br /></div><div>At this very moment, my longing reaches out from the tiny keyhole underneath my sternum; a taut suspension cord of negative space. It’s tethered to you, my love.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wherever you are right now.<br /><br />Wherever you go. </div>Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-2162415431856262582020-03-22T13:36:00.000-07:002020-03-22T13:36:04.457-07:00ink & water<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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He needed space, so he just started walking away from their apartment.<div>
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When the fights escalated to the point of screaming, distance and time helped. Their therapist called it “emotional flooding;” the moment in an argument when you pass the point of reason because you’re seeing red. Now, when he felt emotionally flooded, he’d just slip on a pair of shoes, ballpark an estimated return time, and head out the door.<div>
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He was nearly ten blocks from their apartment when he hit the intersection of 19th and Valencia. Making a right, he passed a shop with colorful backpacks and art supplies in the window. Since he wasn’t headed anywhere in particular, he turned on his heel and crossed the threshold. Inside, rows of fanny packs and duffles lined the walls – color-blocked from floor to ceiling in chunks of magenta, beige, and other hues left-of-center for the sake of fashion. Running through the center of the store was a banquet table piled high with plain journals and cheeky activity books. Walking absently, he ran his fingers across adult coloring books and thought-starters inviting the reader to write “one line a day.” And then, his gaze found its way to the back wall, where he saw it; a typewriter. He thought of the device as “camera-ready” because it looked like a movie prop – almost too pristine for an antiquated relic. The typewriter plopped itself in the center of a mid-century writing desk – occupying space like a pumpkin on a fireplace mantle. Next to it was a cardboard box stacked to the brim with paper. The blank pages, just like everything else in the shop, were arranged by color; one layer resting idly upon another. He noticed a squatty waste bin on the ground, gurgling crumpled fists of discarded paper. He reached down and picked up a pink one that looked aggressively crinkled, like whoever threw it away wanted it to suffer. In faded blue-black ink, it read, “Hi dad I misss you everyday & wish we had more timee togethe.r”</div>
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A sudden wave of shame overcame him, so he crushed the note between his palms and returned it to the bin. “I’m trespassing,” he thought.</div>
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He wasn’t a particular good typist. In fact, most texts were followed with a correction and an asterisk. He’d also never used a typewriter before, but he knew each movement should be firm and intentional. “What would I say?,” he wondered. “Do I have anything to say?” Two pens stood crossed in a yellow, ceramic cup – cracked around the edges like chapped lips. He grabbed a pen and scribbled down a few test sentiments. “I’m sorry,” he wrote. “You’re my best friend.” “There should be more time.” “I didn’t mean it when I said you were an asshole because you’re not an asshole.” “You’re so beautiful, and I’m fucking this up.” Finally, he grabbed a page the color of eggshell and fed it through the machine. When he finished typing his message, he folded it up and tucked it away.</div>
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Outside on the sidewalk, the sun was warm – uncluttered by the everpresent clouds hanging in the San Francisco sky. He turned left, making his way back to their apartment where he would present the note as a peace offering. He knew it wasn’t enough to repair the damage between them; a collapsing dam overrun with an ocean. But he believed in his heart the waters of an emotional flood will always recede.</div>
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He reached into his pocket and ran his finger across the creases of the page emblazoned with the words, “Life is a nightmare. The world is corrupt. But you make it livable. I love you so much.”<div>
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Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-78181292977497560242020-01-07T12:36:00.000-08:002020-01-07T12:36:49.803-08:00you.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Of all the time we spend together in a day, the morning's my favorite part.<br /><br />When we're in different cities, your voice on the other end of the phone kickstarts my day and gives me energy, like a solar panel absorbing sunshine. When we're together, squirming under the sheets and discovering new ways to fit together, mornings are euphoric. I inhale your smell and graze your skin with my lips and fingertips. And then there's your smile. "Hi," you'll say – soft and high. "Hi babe."<br /><br /><div>
I've never seen a smile like yours; it takes up your entire face. Accented by the glow of a skylight, your smile is its own creature, waking and coming anew– reaching and stretching towards your eyes. When you smile, I can't help but smile myself. In those moments, at the onset of something new, I'm the happiest I'll be all day.<br /><br />I want you to have every opportunity to be happy. And not just in moments of intimate, closed-off-from-the-world togetherness. Because I made a promise to you, and I'm going to keep it. Do what makes you happy and I will be there. <br /><br />The next morning is imminent. And I'll be with you when it comes. Always.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
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“I love a skyline,” you said, nodding towards the cluster of buildings in the distance.<br /><br />“The Cathedral, Hotel Monteleone, Harrah’s, the aquarium.” Like a seek-and-find game in Highlights Magazine, I scanned the buildings and located every landmark you named, realizing [for the first time] that the Monteleone was left of St. Louis Cathedral. Weird, I thought. I never knew that.<br /><br />When you visited San Francisco the first time, you said the same thing. “I love a skyline.” Here, I was able to point out Salesforce Tower and Google’s Spear Street Office. I was still learning, but proud of myself for knowing two of the infinite buildings that make up the Financial District.<br /><br />In my mind, I filed away skylines along with craft breweries, Teen Wolf, Drake, Nike stores, blackjack, and grilled cheese sandwiches.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />Last night, we fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms and breathing only the air between us.<br /><br />Every few hours, I was awoken by the soft touch of your fingertips across my face.<br /><br />“Hey,” you said in a whisper. “I love you.”<br /><br />Briefly breaking the surface of my dreams, I said, “I love you.”<br /><br />And then I slipped back under – returning to the depth of my own personal twilight.<div>
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Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-1778379270488580942020-01-07T12:00:00.001-08:002020-01-07T12:40:14.777-08:00Visit Vancouver<div class="_1dwg _1w_m _q7o" data-vc-ignore-dynamic="1" style="padding: 12px 12px 0px;">
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Last night, I dreamt I attended a surprise birthday party that turned out to be a surprise sex party.<br />
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Quickly after disrobing and entering the pile, I lost my wallet and phone. I spent the rest of the dream searching – eventually finding my wallet (missing everything including my Clipper Card), and tracking my iPhone across the border to Vancouver where it disappeared upon dying.<br />
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Waking up, I see my phone lying mere inches from my face on the pillow.<br />
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At the top of my inbox, there's an ad from Airbnb; "Visit Vancouver."</div>
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Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-43609617155856998942017-10-16T11:14:00.002-07:002020-01-07T12:39:32.930-08:00Moving Hands<div style="text-align: center;">
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Everyone has a clock inside them that ticks away the minutes.<br />
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It takes nine months to wind itself up, and the minute you enter the world, the little hand jumps forward.</div>
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When you do something good for yourself, the clock slows down. And when you do something harmful, the clock speeds up. That way, you're always in control of how much time you've got.</div>
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But when I look at you, my clock stops.</div>
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It takes a little break.<br />
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It lets me live outside of my timeline, just for a moment.</div>
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Because whether my time here is long or short, my clock knows that every moment with you is time well spent.</div>
Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-50702156777948932862017-10-13T08:28:00.003-07:002020-01-07T12:39:38.569-08:00Men Wearing Rings<div style="text-align: center;">
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There's a guy sitting across from me on the Google shuttle from Mountain View to San Francisco. Good-looking Asian man in a henley and tortoise shell frames. On his left hand, he's wearing a wedding ring.<br />
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A few months ago, I had a conversation with Emily at Tsunami in New Orleans. "I never notice that kind of thing," I said. "When women are pregnant or when men wear rings. Breezes right by me. But women seem ridiculously in-tune to it—like on a primal level. Every single one of my girlfriends can spot a ring from across a crowded room. But when they call it to my attention, I feel blindsided. What the fuck, I think. I can't even find myself in a group photo."<br />
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But at Coffee Culture in late-July, I noticed a wedding band on a man pointing at a breakfast pastry inside a glass display case. "Cheese," he said. "Now does that mean cream cheese or like provolone or something?"<br />
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My friend Matt's friend Brett was wearing a gold ring on his left hand while plucking ramen from a bowl at Chow on Church. I noticed it almost immediately, and then I noticed I noticed.<br />
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At this moment, there's a guy reclining across from me on the GBus, wearing a simple band around his ring finger. And if I'm being honest, I noticed the ring before I saw his face.<br />
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Part of me feels like I never noticed pregnant women or married men because I didn't live in their world. It's not in the cards, so why would I notice at all?<br />
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But now—with you—I'm sharing my present and building our future. Browsing for rings isn't a fantasy. It's something I did this morning while listening to the playlist you made me. Size 8, yeah?<br />
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Being your partner gives everything more context.<br />
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Suddenly, I've got more options; more possibilities.<br />
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You've cracked open the world.<br />
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The shuttle creaks to a stop at Market and 9th, and everyone rises to their feet. In a single-file line, we descend the steps and land on the busy, rush hour street. I watch the handsome, be-speckled Asian guy disappear into the crowd navigating the crosswalk. And then I turn away and march down 9th towards my apartment, passing exactly 12 men wearing rings.</div>
Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-5391226030302159892017-10-04T10:46:00.002-07:002017-10-04T10:46:41.959-07:00What I Wouldn't Change<div style="text-align: center;">
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I wouldn’t change my legs. There’s always room for improvement, but I think my thighs and my calves are pretty sexy as is, especially in athletic shorts and crew socks. Legs are an easy default for folks to hang their self confidence upon, but my toned runner’s legs, covered in trim waves of blond hair, are objectively hot. And that’s my stance on that.<br />
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I wouldn't change anything about my face, except for a few hard lines etched into my forehead and around my smile. In my reflection, I see my mom’s eyes and my dad’s mouth. I like being reminded of where I come from. Thank God they’re not terrible assholes.</div>
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I wouldn’t change my carrier service. $130 a month seems like I’m overpaying, but just the thought of leaving AT&T seems like a nightmare. Avoiding the hold time alone is worth whatever cash is being swindled away from me.</div>
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I wouldn’t change my lisp. Since I was a little kid, people have poked fun at the way I talk. Inching towards 30, I still struggle to be taken seriously in a conversation. My wide tongue grapples with fricatives like a clown fish trying to escape the jaws of a hammerhead. But I wouldn’t change my lisp because it’s mine and no one talks like I do. Plus, it’s forced me to cultivate a personality that projects beyond my speech—even if I’ll never know the joys of a tongue ring.</div>
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I wouldn’t change my apartment. The rent’s sky-high for a studio loft, but I don’t mind because it’s right smack in the middle of the city. From my fourth-floor balcony to my tiny, pocket-door closet, I like everything the way it is. It’s the first place I’ve lived alone. It’s my first big claim to independence. It’s my haven in this sparkling, bustling city. Though it would be nice to have a Subway inside the building. Hoofing my way down Mission five times a week for my Oven-Roasted Chicken on Italian Herb & Cheese is getting old. Even if it’s right around the corner.</div>
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I wouldn’t change my childhood. I can’t change my childhood. But if I could, I wouldn't.</div>
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Speaking of things I can’t change but wouldn’t if I could: my ability to forgive. I can take in a painful experience and channel it through a filter of forgiveness—almost immediately. It can be jarring when the person with whom I’m arguing watches my shoulders and the corners of my mouth relax, right after saying some bitchy and below-the-belt. “You’ve got a body like Whoopi Goldberg!” or “Fuck you, your sister’s in rehab!” maybe. But in the same breath, I can step outside of the disagreement and move along. “I’m sorry,” I’ll say. “Where can we go from here?” And the other party—stunned, mouth agape—will typically stutter and get in a few final jabs before moving along with me. I don’t want to lose that talent. It's necessary and hilarious.</div>
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I wouldn’t change my eyebrows. I’ve never tweezed them, shaped them, threaded them, or otherwise. Subtle and low-maintenance. Nothing like me. But everything I aspire to be.</div>
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And I wouldn’t change you.</div>
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I wouldn’t change the patterns of hair on your chest, or your heavy eyes when you’re drunk, or the volume of your voice when you rap Drake lyrics at me in the car.</div>
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I wouldn’t change the way you dress—actually, I love the way you dress. Even the rubber flip flops you wear with nice clothes. Even your Adidas gym shorts with the worn-out waistband. Even that time you wore a tank top to the House of Blues. Actually, we should talk about that.</div>
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I wouldn’t change the fact that I missed my shuttle to work today because you were having a bad morning and you desperately needed to talk to me. And I lied. I missed two shuttles. But I would do it again because I’m your partner and there’s always another shuttle.</div>
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I wouldn’t change the hours we said we lost with fighting. We didn’t lose them at all. Sure, we could’ve been saying nicer things instead and yelling, but now we’re here. And our time together is more valuable than anything I’ll ever own. Because life is short and even hours spent fighting are hours spent with you.</div>
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I wouldn’t change anything about you.</div>
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Not a thing.</div>
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So don’t alter anything.</div>
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Please stay the same.</div>
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And don’t move.</div>
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Stay right there.</div>
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I’m on my way.</div>
Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-10490921983218587502017-08-18T09:26:00.001-07:002017-08-18T09:53:58.519-07:00What Are Your Plans?<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIop1Gmbmqxk7mpajmuCSpwcoAibUM9uHckSTBTWC2KUJNt27EobZHPmia5Yq0UK41dxrKuAhxkUO0WsfcPaNjo-w7sJCKTEAzSC1y4Id3tdA9UawNJDNKiy0cWezQhQTfxlcem-2XjXU/s1600/IMG_0641.PNG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIop1Gmbmqxk7mpajmuCSpwcoAibUM9uHckSTBTWC2KUJNt27EobZHPmia5Yq0UK41dxrKuAhxkUO0WsfcPaNjo-w7sJCKTEAzSC1y4Id3tdA9UawNJDNKiy0cWezQhQTfxlcem-2XjXU/s320/IMG_0641.PNG" width="320" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was planning on grad school.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Eventually, I’d re-enroll and finish up my Master’s degree.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My resume says I have a M.S. in Communications, but that’s not exactly true. I bailed with one semester left </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">— choosing my budding career as a Junior Copywriter over 3-hour weekly Comm. Theory labs</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. But honestly, I always planned on going back and knocking it out. I’ve gotten far enough without it, but it’s an integrity thing, you know?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was planning on staying in New Orleans for just a little longer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I had one foot out the door, but I didn’t really have anywhere to go.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">My role as a Senior Copywriter was fine, I guess. I advanced relatively quickly, but after that first promotion, it felt like years before the next one would come along. Still, I could’ve hung on for a bit before moving onto elsewhere else, which happened all of sudden, pulling my complacent life out from under me. My future was a dead end, but thankfully, it didn’t extend beyond summer 2017. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was planning on moving to Europe.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This wasn’t really a plan, so much as a vague, paper-thin aspiration. But still, it was an option.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Writers can live anywhere, right? I imagined saving enough cash to hold me over for a few months and then taking my bullshit across the Atlantic </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">— writing website copy for American companies while sipping espresso [which I hate] and taking a shine to infinity scarves [please don’t make me]. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Paris is cliché, but it was my first choice. I know I’d feel isolated in Dublin. And Italy feels more like New Orleans than France. So maybe I’d backpack around for a bit before finding something I liked. Then I’d return to the states and create a six-month plan for my new life abroad. It was lofty, but it could’ve worked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I thought about starting a business.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Like a </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">real</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> business. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve got my copywriter sidehustle now, but I planned on taking it off the ground into a full-blown agency. Being my boss wasn’t [isn’t?] important to me, but I like the idea of kicking ass on my own terms. Plus, I’ve already got the logo and letterhead. Can’t let that go to waste.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What about my life as a mixed media artist?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I could always abandon writing altogether, and return to my first true love: making art.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Maybe I’d have enough cash in a decade or so to jumpstart my career. Oil. Watercolor. Black and white charcoal on craft paper. Meeting my friends for happy hour with pastel wedged underneath my fingernails. Wearing </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; white-space: pre-wrap;">acrylic </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">stains like badges of honor.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But if that didn’t work out, I still had my body of work.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I imagined myself at 30, with my vibrant, extensive portfolio and the world at my fingertips.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I saw myself at 40, owning one or two things of value. A Creative Director with a mortgage. Pets? Probably not. I’m allergic to cats and dogs. Some people might hear this and think, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">bummer</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. But I don’t really know what I’m missing. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At 50?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I never considered what my life might be at 50.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After 50? Not a clue.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No plans. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I saw the fabric of my life fraying out at the edges and then creating new patterns in every direction </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">— </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">spreading out across oceans and along parallel paths of time. No endpoint in sight, but definitely plans. Plan A. Plan B. Back-up plans. Tertiary plans. Worst case scenarios. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At 28, I had no tethers. No anchors. Infinite options. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No one but me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">And then there was you. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And then there was you and me. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And then us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">My plans?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hopefully, I spend hours, upon hours, upon hours listening to music with you.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hopefully, I have to learn to cook the things you like. I know you’ve got the palette of a fifth grader, but I still want to make the best chicken tenders you’ve ever eaten.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hopefully, I’m forced to make small talk with your parents. But just so we’re clear, they’re wonderful parents and every moment spent discussing our shared love of Lafayette, Gretna, or Buc-ee’s is time well spent.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hopefully, my future is a series of conversations, and pictures, and pockets of time where everything stops because I haven’t seen you in weeks, so I savor the smell of your skin in baggage claim. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hopefully, the days ahead are spent compromising dinner spots, and picking out furniture, and discussing real estate.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hopefully, my plans are making a family with you. Whether that means just the two of us or more, I want to create a family worthy of our individual upbringings.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hopefully, I can wrap this up soon and we can talk.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hopefully, you’ll leave the gym in a few minutes and I can tell you that I love waking up to a slew of texts from you. Then morning FaceTime in bed. Then morning phone brief in transit. Then constant Snaps, Insta DMs, texts, and mid-day phone check-ins. Then afternoon phone debrief in transit. Then evening affirmations. Then nighttime FaceTime in bed.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hopefully, you’re the only plans I have for the rest of my life. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
<hr style="text-align: left;" />
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In just a few minutes, I’m going to call you. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And let you know that I’ve got a plan.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Come with me.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Let’s go somewhere.</span></div>
</div>
Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-13194467953570067192017-07-11T07:55:00.000-07:002017-07-11T07:58:52.739-07:00To Be In Love<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSsttnW2m20aYBOvSy0RomNGcyMxR0cjobdrc2F7fHsSwuQB7lPxKocMpnQCYF-Ioq0i-j1dxrdqn8yNqSjYMewdZaiY-H7mjHoV4gzuCeyCZBWCuZy-fMgfsXurjKW1zOcUOYwvR6S00/s1600/IMG_8146.PNG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSsttnW2m20aYBOvSy0RomNGcyMxR0cjobdrc2F7fHsSwuQB7lPxKocMpnQCYF-Ioq0i-j1dxrdqn8yNqSjYMewdZaiY-H7mjHoV4gzuCeyCZBWCuZy-fMgfsXurjKW1zOcUOYwvR6S00/s320/IMG_8146.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Right now, you're asleep in my bed and I'm sitting on my balcony at 4:51AM on Sunday, July 2, 2017.<br />
<br />
Yesterday felt like the hottest day of the year, thus far. But at this moment, the breeze making its way across the Lower Garden District could fool any local into believing it’s a typical September dawn in New Orleans.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I’ve been awake for hours — restlessly shifting from one position to another and renegotiating the symmetries of our bodies. In my arms, I watched you dose off, and then eventually lapse into a natural pattern of calm and steady breathing. I willed myself to sleep shortly thereafter so I could join you, wherever you went. So I can find you and continue our conversation, in some other state of consciousness.</div>
<div>
<br />
A few days ago, you asked me what it was like to be in love. “It’s excruciating,” I said. “It’s nagging anxiety that you’re going to fuck something up. It distracts you from getting work done and from keeping up with your day-to-day routine. It’s being terrified that someone is going to notice your imperfections and then hate you for being imperfect. In your head, you turn over impossible scenarios, over and over again. You lose sleep over it. You reprioritize your life for it. And none of it makes any sense."<br />
<br />
"But,” I said. “You endure it anyway because it’s worth it.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It took me 29 years to write my own definition of "what it’s like to be in love.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But today, I changed my mind.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Today, staring at you on the rooftop of The Ponchartrain Hotel, my clunky, acidic definition of love came undone.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Go ahead.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Ask me a second time.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If you did, I’d tell that being in love is wonderful. It’s like being happy all the time. It’s like seeing the best in someone when you’re not even looking. It’s admiring the pores across your face because they’re your pores. It's the need to be a kinder, more thoughtful person. </div>
<div>
<br />
What’s it like to be in love? It’s fun as shit. It’s being excited about tomorrow instead of worrying if someone is going to answer your texts. It’s wanting to be a part of the family without having met anyone. It's being with you and looking forward to the next time I see you.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I go back inside the apartment, I’m going to slam the balcony door a little harder than usual.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Hopefully, the sound will wake you up.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then, I can quietly reenter my bedroom and find you shaking off slumber.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And we can talk.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I can’t wait to talk to you.</div>
Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-11608449320843731282017-06-26T21:36:00.002-07:002017-06-27T06:16:54.810-07:00Scotty Goes To Heaven<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG7l1-RRWUOOYDuJKxlQPe3xhprxABgb7tfqPJPTt5VgqmHYj9l1cN54cLHKQQOKQkH3a_gOXGc9dX5AsPGUv6WqMBcyB7qn9BihPCy4JgAj_llEgrpXXeCGm7iMbl5H00rNzZmTUR0mI/s1600/IMG_7872.PNG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG7l1-RRWUOOYDuJKxlQPe3xhprxABgb7tfqPJPTt5VgqmHYj9l1cN54cLHKQQOKQkH3a_gOXGc9dX5AsPGUv6WqMBcyB7qn9BihPCy4JgAj_llEgrpXXeCGm7iMbl5H00rNzZmTUR0mI/s320/IMG_7872.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When Scotty arrived in Heaven, the first place he went was a gay bar.</div>
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
The text notification told him that orientation began in half an hour, so he figured he’d get a little hammered in the mean time. He certainly had a lot of process, being an atheist and all.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The bar was called Ascend and it was located on the corner of a busy intersection between a fast-casual poke restaurant and one of those aerial fitness studios. Scotty rolled his eyes. "Great," he scoffed. "Annoying white girls go to Heaven, too."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
With its wide, dark windows and crumbling stoop, Ascend was relatively unassuming, except for the giant rainbow flag hanging over the door. Scotty jumped up and slapped it before walking inside, an impulsive habit like flipping off a yellow light or crossing yourself in front of a church. Just within the doorframe, Scotty stood frozen and slack-jawed, positively stunned by what he witness. Ascend was a maze of bicep tattoos and trendy haircuts where chiseled, statuesque men of various ethnicities sipped vodka cocktails and body-rolled to what Scotty immediately recognized as a vintage Fedde Le Grand beat. Just outside the door, it was a normal weekday afternoon. But inside Ascend, it was peak Saturday night.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Scotty eased his way through the crowd, attracting the attention of every man he passed like a magnet. When he finally reached the bar, he heaved himself onto a stool and exhaled a sigh of exhaustion. He covered his face with him palms and rubbed his temples. “Fuck me,” he muttered under his breath. The reality of his situation was finally settling in, like a delayed hangover. “I’m legit dead, aren’t I?”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Suddenly there was a gust of wind and a shower of glitter. “You sure are girl,” said a voice. “You’re deader than Whitney, Amy, Aaliyah, Lindsay, Amanda Bynes, etcetera.” Scotty looked up to see a tiny Asian man wearing a black tank top, emblazed with the Ascend logo. The bartender flicked his wrist and a bottle of Carlsberg appeared. With his other hand, he gestured a fanning motion and an ornate bottle opener appeared. He cracked open the beer and placed it in front of Scotty, under which a coaster materialized. “That’s my favorite beer,” said Scotty in disbelief. To the bartender, it sounded like Scotty was more impressed by the beer than Heavenly magic. Without hesitation, he scooped up the beer and chugged it. The bartender propped himself onto his elbows and leaned in close. “How’s your night, little baby cherub?” Scotty belched and wiped his lips with the sleeve of his shirt. “Never felt more alive.” Above the music, someone screamed in Scotty’s direction.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Scotty spun on his barstool and faced the man sitting next to him. The guy was trim with a cropped fade and a white T-shirt that clung to his torso. From his angular chin, a shadow cast all the way down to his navel. His eyes were deep-set with two bright green irises that radiated light from inside his skull. Scotty scanned the stranger’s face then found a gentle gaze on his hulking forearms. He recognized this gentleman, but didn't know how or from where. "Hi," said Scotty. "I know you." The stranger tossed back the rest of his drink and rolled his eyes with distain. “Barely,” he sneered. Scotty contorted his face. “Did we fuck or something?” The stranger ignored Scotty’s question and looked down at his phone — vacantly scrolling through Instagram. “There are infinite gay bars in Heaven,” he said without meeting Scotty’s eyes. “But this one is my favorite. So I’d be extremely relieved if you found somewhere else to grace with your particular brand of assholery. Given the fact that you don't have a soul, I can’t even begin to understand how you made it through the pearly rope. Also, I’ve been dead for five years, so I’ve got seniority here and I call dibs!”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Suddenly, above their heads, CO2 cannons blasted streams of thick, cold fog onto the crowd. Immediately, Scotty was lost in the bulky expanse of the ghostly white mist that imposed itself upon the entirety of Ascend. “Just tell me,” he yelled into the synthetic cumulus cloud. “How do we know each other?!” Green lights shot through the fog like snipers in the dark. “You met me at Club Pink in Downtown Philly!” yelled the disembodied stranger. “You said I was the hottest guy in the bar! Then, you suggested I close my tab and bring you back to my place! I admired your confidence so I thought, ‘Sure what the hell!’ Then, when we finally got to my apartment, you said you were going to step outside and smoke a cigarette! Five minutes later, I went to check on you, and you were gone! I died in a car crash the next morning! You dick!”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The fog thinned and Scotty got another good look at the man’s face. “Ellis,” he said flatly. “Your name’s Ellis.” The man crossed his arms and looked away. “If I can explain myself,” Scotty continued. “When we finally got to your apartment, the place was covered in cat hair,” said Scotty, fumbling over his words. “I’m allergic to cat hair, but I still wanted to sleep with you. But then, you took off your shirt and there was a…” Scotty stopped himself mid-sentence, a distressed look painted across his face. “There was a what?” demanded Ellis, still seething. “Tell me!” Scotty took a long gulp of his beer, then he belched and said, “There was a bellybutton ring, okay? Your bellybutton ring. I saw it and I bailed. My actions were impulsive and cowardly, but like. I mean, c’mon. You get that, right?! A bellybutton ring for Christ’s sake!”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ellis looked like he was about to burst into tears, so Scotty reached over and put his hand on the man’s knee. Scotty assumed Ellis would slap it away, but to his surprise, Ellis didn’t react at all. Instead, after a few wordless moments, Ellis took his hand and gingerly touched the middle of his own stomach. “They took out my bellybutton ring,” he said above a whisper. “For the funeral. Apparently, my dad hated it too.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The world around them buzzed with Heaven’s circuit party. But between them, there was stillness and sadness. “I’m sorry,” said Scotty. “I’m an asshole and I’ve always been an asshole. But now I’m dead. And every one-night-stand I ever had, and every short-term relationship I ever ruined, and everyone I pretended to love is back on Earth — living their lives without me. And the worst part is that the only thing I left behind is a body that’ll probably go undiscovered for another week because I live alone. So if you give me the opportunity, I would love to make it up to you. Because I’m new to this place and I don’t really know anyone and I can use a friend right now. Any chance you want to go somewhere with me? So we can talk more?”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ellis understood exactly how Scotty felt. The isolation of dying young. The agony of Heaven with its curated Earthly pleasures, repurposed for comfort but ubiquitous reminders of everything left behind. It was window-dressing. It was a Radiohead song.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Okay,” said Ellis. “We can go to my place. And lucky for you, cats don’t go to Heaven.” Scotty breathed a sigh of relief and gripped Ellis by the knee, one last time. “Thank you,” he said. “Go ahead and put our drinks on my tab, then meet me outside. I need a cigarette.” Ellis smiled. “There are no tabs in Heaven, but I need to use the restroom, so I’ll see you outside. And if you need a cigarette, just make a ‘V’ with your fingers. A lighter will appear in the other hand.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
On the street in front of Ascend, Scotty enjoyed his first cigarette in Heaven. He’d already missed orientation, but he wasn’t terribly worried about it. He figured the programming authorities in Heaven had to be lenient. Day had turned to night and the chilly electric wind reminded him of Maui. He’d taken a vacation there with his father when he was a child. He took a drag and recalled walking out onto the beach after dark just to enjoy the wind. It was special. And it was the same brand of wind in Heaven. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
All at once, he was thrilled. Sure he was dead, but Heaven had infinite gay bars. It had men who seemed genuinely interested in him when he walk through crowds. It had wind that smelled and tasted like Hawaii. It was completely devoid of cats!</div>
<div>
<br />
Before him, Heaven spread out in every direction, faster then he could fathom. Heart beating in his throat, Scotty reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He was going to order an Uber and take it anywhere. Heaven was his next big adventure. He had to go. Right now.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But then a voice called out from behind him. “Hey,” chirped Ellis. “We can walk to my place from here.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ellis wrapped his arm through Scotty’s and nodded in a direction that suggested “this way.” Scotty look down at their intertwined arms, and like a spark of divine inspiration, realized he had all the time in the world. Heaven wasn’t going anywhere. And neither was he.</div>
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Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-13049884204251783232017-05-08T22:44:00.002-07:002017-05-09T07:47:35.451-07:00I'm Not Your Buddy<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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<br />
I’ve never liked the term “fuck buddy.” It’s crass, it sounds inappropriate, and it generally doesn’t feel like a label one adult should assign to another adult. But mostly, it bugs me because it feels like a misrepresentation of the relationship, at least in my limited experience.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A few years ago, on a weekly basis, I’d leave my office and go to the movies. Here, in the mid-morning weekday seclusion of AMC Westbank Palace 16, I’d work my way to the bottom of a large popcorn and feast on horror and sci-fi films. One morning, while leaving the day’s first screening of The Babadook, I crossed an attractive guy the lobby, who was also by himself. As we continued on, we both looked back at one other before he walked into his theatre and I walked out into the sunlight. Later that evening, I saw him again, thanks to Facebook’s creepy <i>People You May Know</i> algorithm. I friended him and we exchanged numbers. It happened that fast.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He was a litigation attorney with a gorgeous townhome in Mid-City. I liked him enough, but after the first date, there was a tangible unspoken understanding that neither thought the other was boyfriend material. But that didn’t stop us from regularly having sex. And almost instantly, we carved out a routine. The standard text and response; a brief, straight-to-the-point dialogue in two-word sentiments.<br />
<br />
>What’s up?<br />
>>Home, you?<br />
>Out. Busy?<br />
>>Working. Blah.<br />
>Hang out?<br />
>>Sure. C’mon.<br />
<br />
When The Litigator came down to meet me, he never wore shoes, which only drew more attention to his calves, which were bulbous and meaty. He was a small guy, lean on top and muscular on the bottom. Part jockey, part swimmer, part rugger.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Even though I could [and have] navigate his home in a full blackout, The Litigator always led the way. We made the kind of vacant small talk that required no attention from either party. But it was part of our ritual and it had to be practiced.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Inside his room, I unbuttoned my shirt and scanned the bookshelf for new novels. Behold, the complete works of Brett Easton Ellis peppered with Palaniuk, Vonnegut — and obviously — Salinger. I’d swear he was the most boring straight white guy ever, if wasn’t already sleeping with him. I wondered if he stopped reading fiction after high school as I kicked off my shoes and stripped away my socks. “Want anything to drink?” he’d ask, switching on a lamp and turning down the TV. “I’m okay,” I’d say, fluffing a pillow and making myself comfortable.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We’ve been here before. We’ve run these exact lines and blocked this exact scene. We were rehearsing for a play we would never perform for an audience.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The sex, like the rest of our relationship, was scripted. We didn’t kiss on the mouth. We didn’t hold hands. We didn’t get creative. Three positions max. When we were ready, he would go before me. When I finished, I’d lay there with my chest rising and falling. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Immediately following sex, there’s a brief moment of worldless, heavy breathing where both parties re-enter the present. I love this moment. No matter how wonderful, mediocre, or terrible the sex, you can always undercut the weight of reality with a dumb, offhanded comment. “Meh, C+” is a go-to favorite of mine.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If The Litigator were someone else, I might take this opportunity to make him laugh. But we didn’t really do that. So I’d pay him an arbitrary, meaningless compliment. <i>“That was awesome.”</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To fill the silence, we asked insipid questions without making eye contact. My podiatrist and I discuss weekend plans with exponentially more genuine interest than The Litigator and myself trying to cobble together something that passes for a conversation after sex. We shuffled around, picking up garments, turning them inside out, and wrestling them onto our bodies, respectively. Then, I’d head straight for the door, sometimes with shoes in-hand, sometimes with pants unbuttoned, but always with the disheveled urgency of someone leaving jail after a night in holding.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Finally, he would walk me to the front gate where we would have our final scene together. This part, for some inexplicable reason, was never scripted. We improvised, and inevitably, it was hasty and incoherent. “Talk to ya later!” with an awkward side hug. “Peace!” with a bro handshake, followed by an unnatural bro pat on the back. One time, I went in for a fist bump, but he went in for a side hug, so we tried to compromise with a high-five and both missed.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The Litigator moved to Chicago nearly six months ago, and we haven’t spoken since. Then yesterday, I saw a photo of him with another guy — standing on a beach in Cabo San Lucas — wearing matching Ray-Bans and matching H&M swim trunks. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Happy 5 years, baby!!!” the caption read. “You’ve always been the love of my life and I look forward to our infinite future together!!!”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I rolled my eyes and continued scrolling.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I’ve never liked the phrase “love of my life.” It’s cliché, it's maudlin, and it generally doesn’t feel like a label one adult should assign to another adult.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But mostly, it bugs me because it feels like a misrepresentation of the relationship.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
At least in my limited experience.<style>
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Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-5215214404941938702017-05-08T14:22:00.001-07:002017-05-09T07:49:30.112-07:00Out Of Home<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
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<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
My flight from JFK to MSY got in around midnight.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was delayed more than two and a half hours, with no explanation from Delta. Catching an Uber from the airport to the Lower Garden District would cost me $33 and some change. It sounded steep, until I remembered I don't really have anyone I can call for a ride, especially at this hour on a Monday.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The driver was listening to some satellite radio station that played instrumental versions of 80s and 90s pop songs. A lyricless, vaguely Tejano version of "Fast Car" drifted out the open windows and into the sticky, desperate-for-something-to-happen New Orleans night.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As we finally arrived at the edges of the Central Business District, I looked up from my phone and noticed something familiar.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was a billboard. Your billboard.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'd seen on your laptop screen about a month ago when you smoked me out in your apartment. You were working on a new campaign — designing a series of clever, headline-driven creative. It was entirely your concept, and apparently, your client loved it enough to buy ad space around the city. I was reaching for my phone to take a picture when something suddenly grabbed my attention.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
On the other side of the highway, facing your billboard, was another billboard. And I recognized it immediately, because I wrote its headline. My billboard.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I could have screamed. And frankly, I'm not sure I didn't. I am always proud of you, but I felt especially proud in that moment.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Your billboard was advertising a locally beloved restaurant, while mine was announcing a new type of hot sauce.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The boards are digital, so they rotate in blink-and-you-miss-it intervals along with other ads. But for just a few moments, suspended high above the expressway that separates Downtown from Uptown, our work was displayed at the exact same time. Our work, together. In the wild.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We haven't spoken in more than a month.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I think about you all the time.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I miss you.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know you've been a little bummed out lately — feeling homesick and needing some time to recalibrate. I can't imagine what it's like for you. And I want you to know that you never have to think twice about calling me.<br />
<br />
The billboards are running right now, but eventually, the buys will come to an end. As you know, ad placements (even for digital out-of-home boards) are costly and fleeting. Make a few meaningful impressions, and then go away. If you're lucky, you'll reach someone and inspire them to action. That's what we do for a living. It's how you and me pay our bills. It's funny how two people who consider themselves artists can make something impersonal, send it out the world, and then fully let go of it, at the whim of a media buy. It's counterintuitive to the way you and me are naturally hardwired.<br />
<br />
Still, the billboards are really beautiful, especially at nighttime.<br />
<br />
If you catch them before they stop running, shoot me a text.<br />
<br />
It would be really nice to hear from you.<br />
<br />
And If you need me, I'll be around.<br />
<br />
I'm not going anywhere.</div>
Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-55961587104804160312017-05-08T09:00:00.003-07:002017-05-08T09:00:55.561-07:00I Want To Believe<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
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<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
You told me it was the best you ever had.<br /><br />Sometimes you would say it while sitting across from me on my bed, Indian-style, naked and out of breath.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sometimes you'd say it just above a whisper, lying right next to me with our sides touching and your arm draped over my shoulders.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And sometimes you would say it during sex, just because you knew it would make me cum.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I always believed you.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Because I knew exactly why you felt that way.<br /><br />And I want you to know that I felt that way, too.<br /><br />I don't believe in religion.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't believe in mysticism.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't believe in witchcraft or healing crystals or Bigfoot.<br /><br />But I believed in that crackling spark that happened in my core when we were together.<br /><br />It made me feel awake.<br /><br />One day, I'll wake up again.<style type="text/css">
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Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-67904339416735190262017-05-08T08:46:00.006-07:002017-05-09T07:53:17.866-07:00space<div style="text-align: center;">
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<br />
Sometimes I leave work and head straight home, just to think about you.<br />
<br />
Sure, you drift in and out of my consciousness during the day (almost every day, sometimes all day). But I typically keep you at arm's length until I can be alone in my apartment, locked behind my bedroom door.<br />
<br />
I draw the curtains, undress to my underwear, and lay down in bed. Then, I close my eyes and turn my body away from the window, just so I can find you in the space where no one else can. About four feet of dark, empty space between the wall and me. That's our space.<br />
<br />
This bed. This bed used to be our space, too. In fact, right here, right where I'm laying. This is where you slept. On the left side. On a plot of memory foam you claimed the first time you slept over. Overnight, my bed became our bed.<br />
<br />
I live with a roommate in a small, third-floor apartment in the Lower Garden District with a balcony overlooking the skyline anchored by the Superdome. The view is worth the rent, but common space is limited. So my bedroom (and the bed that imposed on more than half the square footage) was our only sanctuary.<br />
<br />
<div>
Here, on a weekday afternoon in October, we fucked for the first time. I won’t say we made love because that would come after — almost immediately after — when we fell in love. Weeks later, on a frigid December night, you wrapped me in your hulking arms and traced your nose along the crest of my neck. In the muted moonlight, I could see the tattoos winding and weaving across your hands and forearms. Here, for the first time, suspended in the moments before sleep, I felt myself loving you. It slid up from the foot of the bed and covered the both of us.<br />
<br />
I inhale and I can smell you. Old Spice deodorant and menthol cigarettes. Then suddenly, my phone buzzes and I’m alone in the dark again. I twist and slap around until I touch vibrating glass. I absently click buttons until the buzzing stops, then softly lob the phone onto the floor.</div>
<div>
<br />
Today is Wednesday, which means trivia night at Finn McCool’s. Also, Torres is playing at One Eyed Jacks in a few hours. I should probably text Kylie back. I’m not going to make happy hour at Tsunami.<br />
<br />
I’ll make plans later. Maybe I’ll catch up on TV. Or do some writing or some laundry or both.<br />
<br />
But right now, I just want to relive the moments when I first knew I loved you.<br />
<br />
In the space where it was just you and me.</div>
Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-10991452634161067512017-02-27T10:19:00.001-08:002017-02-27T23:21:54.881-08:00Jake<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
I've had your hair caught between my teeth all day.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's a single, wiry hair lodged between my two front teeth — the size and texture of a price tag fastener.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Rest assured it's not from your crotch. It's from your beard, which I used to like [but now I hate].</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Last night, when you called, I was almost asleep.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Are you home?" you asked. I could barely hear you over the noises in the background. Girls and rap music. "Can I come over?" You sounded like me on a bad day, but I’d wanted to sleep with you since we matched on Tinder. "Sure," I said. "Come over." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When you finally showed up, you were inexplicably wearing a Christmas sweater with red velvet sweatpants. But somehow, I still found you painfully attractive.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We made out, you said you couldn’t get hard, and then you excused yourself to the balcony for a smoke. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Alone in my room, I grazed the tip of my tongue against the backs of my teeth and felt your hair between my lower central incisors.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When you returned, I suggested we reschedule for another time. "I’m not really feeling it tonight. Plus, you’re a lot drunker than I thought you were." You stared at me, vacantly. "But I Ubered here," you said. "I know," I sighed. "And I’ll pay for your Uber home. I’m sorry." There was a full half-minute of silence between us. Then finally, you said, "I hate the fact that you’re circumcised. Plus, you should do some squats."</div>
<div>
<br />
I must’ve looked stunned, because I was.<br />
<br />
I felt my mouth fall open and my eyebrows rise to mid-forehead.<br />
<br />
Then, without saying a word, you pulled on your sweater, grabbed your keys and stormed out of the apartment — slamming the door behind you.<br />
<br />
This morning, I am sitting at a café on Magazine called Mojo.<br />
<br />
I am sipping a caramel latte from an oversized mug and watching a pair of red-haired women split a muffin. <br />
<br />
And I am flicking my tongue against the single, springy hair that’s wedged between my teeth.<br />
<br />
A ribbon wrapped around my finger — reminding me to get my flat ass to the gym later.<style>
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Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-30529759037709968982017-01-17T07:54:00.000-08:002017-01-17T09:28:30.872-08:00Life’s Work<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi53_peX2FiQgXS_n8t8yAkubPDyRxuNgB1zdJGhF_rwuj0QctuLWXdw2nLV4L6TX85bUaxO2gJLGcktYOV0Zo6K6e93Q4ZfozySV7ty_l83T53RQojJb3hG4ujdbxQJygDu3H7xCthCqM/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi53_peX2FiQgXS_n8t8yAkubPDyRxuNgB1zdJGhF_rwuj0QctuLWXdw2nLV4L6TX85bUaxO2gJLGcktYOV0Zo6K6e93Q4ZfozySV7ty_l83T53RQojJb3hG4ujdbxQJygDu3H7xCthCqM/s320/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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My first relationship began when I was 15, and lasted more than three years. Kourtney was a whip-smart, plucky blond who was an objective catch. She pitched softball and earned the nickname “Rocket” for her cannon of an arm. She sang “Unbreak My Heart” at a school talent show and moved people to tears. She was valedictorian of her class, an honor she worked tirelessly towards every day I knew her. After dating for a year and a half, we lost our virginities to one another in my bedroom on a Saturday night while “Linger” by The Cranberries played in the background. When high school ended, we went to different colleges, but continued dating. I was standing on the balcony of my friend Matt’s dorm when Kourtney called and told me she’d met someone else. She hung up the phone, and I dropped to my knees and cried for a solid 30 minutes. I genuinely loved her, but I knew the end was inevitable. In my heart, I was gay (or at least bisexual) and I desperately needed to explore this uncultivated side of me. So the next day, in October 2006, I kissed a man for the very first time.<br />
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When summer came, I moved back to New Orleans from Lafayette and got a job waiting tables at a Mexican restaurant called Cuco’s. One night after closing, I went to a gay bar in the French Quarter with my friend Lesly. From the balcony above the dance floor, I noticed an incredibly cute boy in a blue polo who was fending off a shirtless dude in acid-washed jeans. I bolted down the stairs and pushed my way through the crowd to find him. “Do you need some help?” I yelled above the music. “Yes please,” he said. “Pretend to be my boyfriend.” Then three days later, I asked Chad to be my real-life boyfriend. Chad was the first guy with whom I had sex, and for me, nothing had ever felt more right. I was definitely gay, and truly in love with this person. But when Chad stopped taking his anti-depressants, he decided he didn’t want to be with me anymore. The week Chad dumped me, my parents and siblings were at the beach and I was home in New Orleans, being looked over by my godmother. She could tell I was devastated about something, so she phoned my mom and told her something was wrong. So my family cut their vacation abruptly short and drove back to New Orleans immediately. That night, I told them I was gay. It was my nineteenth birthday.</div>
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In the fall of 2007, I moved back to Lafayette and met a guy named Jason through mutual friends. Jason was working on his Master’s Degree at Texas A&M, which put 300 miles between us. Even though he was a few years my senior, Jason was a virgin, which surprised me because he was very good looking albeit woefully idiosyncratic. I can admit this now, but at the age of 19, I was not ready to be in an exclusive, long distance relationship with anyone. And over the course of several months, I cheated on Jason with a number of other guys. Then, Jason moved back to Lafayette in early June 2008 and I broke up with him almost instantly. I believed I couldn’t take the pressure of having my older, successful, loving boyfriend move to the town where I’d slept with other men behind his back. Of course, he found out about everything and it took years to earn back his trust and friendship. I’m proud to still have him in my life.</div>
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During that summer, my best friend Trey and I worked every freshman orientation. Trey was an orientation leader and I hosted pep rallies on behalf of the University Program Council. We had a weekly tradition of going out on the night of orientation to The Keg, a hotspot for underclassmen to get obliteration, and picking up freshly orientated homosexuals. One night, only days after I ended things with Jason, this guy walks through the door of The Keg and I turn to Trey and say, “That is, without a doubt, the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life. Too bad he’s straight.” Trey looks at me like I’m crazy. “He’s not straight,” he says bluntly. “He was in my group today. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.” His name was Barrett and we dated for three years.</div>
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Even though our relationship spanned a sizable chunk of time, I’m not going to say too much about him. We were a toxic pairing, and with him, I learned firsthand about the human capacity to hurt and be hurt. I also learned about our capacity to be so madly in love that you can’t think straight.</div>
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The day we broke up, I went to a going-out-of-business party at a downtown gay bar. It was here that I met Ronald Eyer, mere hours after my three-year relationship came to an end. Ronnie drove in from Lake Charles for our first date and we had sex before dinner. A few days later, I woke up to use the bathroom and felt an intense burning sensation emanating from the tip of my dick. I called Ronnie and screamed at him through tears. “I liked you a lot!” I yelled. “And you gave me an STD!” A trip to the ER revealed a simple UTI, so I immediately called Ronnie to apologize. He soon after dropped out of McNeese and moved out of his fraternity house — just to be with me, his first boyfriend, in Lafayette. Ronnie moved into a studio apartment near mine and I got him a job waiting tables with me at Johnny Carino’s, a casual Italian restaurant that served dishes like “Spicy Shrimp & Chicken” and “Sicilian Firesticks.” We worked together, ate every meal together, and had sex as often as possible. He was nothing like anyone I’d ever dated before — tan, rail-thin, simple, and country — but I loved his East Texas accent and the way he filtered the word through his infinite sense of wonder and amazement. It lasted eight months before his mother suggested he move back home. I was heartbroken when he told me, and demanded we break up immediately. So he left my apartment and then left for Hitchcock, Texas a couple days later. A week after that, I received an envelope in the mail with a Hitchcock return address. When I opened it, a silver ring slid out and fell into my palm. When I held it up to the light, I noticed that it was engraved with the words, “The First, The Last.” He was going to ask me to marry him.</div>
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In Ronnie’s wake, I finally started taking stock of my dating life. Since I was a sophomore in high school, I pretty much always had a partner. And in the pockets between boyfriends, I’d managed to continue casually dating and fucking. Ronnie was the nineteenth person with whom I’d had sex and my fervent opportunism didn’t suggest he’d be the last. But in terms of serious relationships, I felt like the first era was behind me. I started to see each relationship as an episode, with a definitive beginning and ending. Though Barrett and I would continue having sex after Ronnie left, he was still a character from an earlier season. A few years ago, when Jason and I spent an entire Saturday night walking the streets of New Orleans and snuggling on a bench overlooking the Mississippi, it felt like a guest starring role on a very special episode.</div>
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I started my blog, ExboyfriendMaterial.com, and wrote essays about where and how these relationships began and ended. I never saw the point in kicking anything into the long grass, so I kept everything. People think true beauty is in nuance, but sometimes, beauty is obvious. It’s a wide-angle shot of an endless landscape. So that’s the way I started seeing myself with other men; it was the moments in bed just before he wakes up and [at the exact same time], it was days folding into months, folding into years.</div>
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This morning, waking from a dream, I realized I am single. I’ve been single before, but the difference between then and now is the palpable intuition that something else is right around the corner — beckoning me into some new, doomed union. But I don’t feel that. I don’t feel anything at all.</div>
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While most people compartmentalize the past in years, I define personal history by my relationship status. Since Ronnie, I’ve had seven serious relationships: Kyle, Cody, Nick, Jacob, James, Andy, and Jeffrey. If you’ve been keeping track, that’s 12 boyfriends and one girlfriend — spanning 13 years. Each relationship can be spun into an infinite narrative and reduced to a single sentence. And for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m standing on the last period of an ellipsis. </div>
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Half of me wonders who will love me next, but the other half thinks I’m being selfish. I’ve made love my life’s work, and I’m not unsatisfied with what I’ve got to show for it. I’ve got all these photographs and totems and memories. A bottomless ocean of memories in which I often find myself at night, when I’m alone in bed, sinking. Drowning.</div>
Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-32127980431872108712017-01-04T06:45:00.000-08:002017-01-04T06:45:04.618-08:00Kidnapped And Taken Somewhere Familiar<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW5zmlnlm8nyzlR1ddS0pw2R87nzyVih9zBB93e6zSQ2XW5CfySC9dwPpP4AdPh9RO-HgQ5xfVCDPQhSx0lq6rhjPTq5y_kZZKbcSBLutekECVdMeq5OTZga7O0g2zyxqu5fUPTcz-JFE/s1600/IMG_4012.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW5zmlnlm8nyzlR1ddS0pw2R87nzyVih9zBB93e6zSQ2XW5CfySC9dwPpP4AdPh9RO-HgQ5xfVCDPQhSx0lq6rhjPTq5y_kZZKbcSBLutekECVdMeq5OTZga7O0g2zyxqu5fUPTcz-JFE/s320/IMG_4012.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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My office closed between Christmas and New Years, so I flew to Seattle with my best friend Joey to escape the blistering South Louisiana winter. In the month leading up to our trip, I struck up a relationship with a skinny, tattooed aspiring rocker and gainfully employed stockboy named Pete.<br />
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We'd known each other for years, but finally started to take our potential seriously. He convinced me to open up and be vulnerable with him, so I became comfortable and sincere. I sent him pictures from the top of the Space Needle and Snapchats of Dim Sum from Chinatown. In pockets of downtime, we'd have long, meaningful discussions about our insecurities and how we liked to fuck.</div>
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Then, the day before I returned to New Orleans, he ghosted. No response for more than 36 hours until this: "Hey. Been really busy. My bad." Joey and I were having dinner at the Airport Marriott bar when he sent his apology text. I read it and reread it. Then I excused myself, marched directly to our room, and vomited — learning immediately that clam chowder tastes exactly the same on the way up.</div>
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A few hours earlier, Joey and I were sitting on the waterfront eating the chowder I'd later projectile against the back of the toilet bowl. "What's one thing you've learned?" asked Joey. "Like if you had once piece of wisdom to impart on the world, what would it be?" The breeze off the sound picked up, so I pulled the piping hot bowl around my nose and mouth. "I don't know anything," I said. "Except that everyone has conflicting desires and everyone is capable of anything." A guy and a girl walked by and together we ogled the guy's ass until he was out of sight. I don't remember asking Joey what he'd learned.</div>
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After wiping the toilet rim clean, I draw a bath — cranking the gauge to scalding hot. Then I put on the new Run The Jewels album and wedge in my earbuds. I slide down so the steaming water rises around my throat.</div>
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When I wake, there's no music because I've cycled through the entire album. I can hear the TV in the other room, which means Joey must've returned from the bar. I ruffle through the pile of towels on the floor and locate my phone. Then I text the words "fuck you" and swipe the thread clean. No evidence.</div>
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Everyone is capable of anything and that leaves hearts, even the strongest hearts, open to bruises and breaks. Even worse, your heart registers disappointment before the rest of you, which means it gets a double-barrel shotgun blast of anger and hopelessness. It doesn't matter how many times the muscle in my chest tears apart and mends itself back together, I can still find myself here. It's like being kidnapped and taken somewhere familiar.</div>
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I towel off and slip on a robe. Then I crawl into bed next to Joey and together we watch the lights flicker on and off in the buildings that cluster into the Seattle skyline.</div>
Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-2297279182774891672017-01-03T08:55:00.002-08:002017-01-03T11:30:42.664-08:00Chex After Sex<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOzuMn56EcCx9_3IxNP2tRAU1KUOQDLi1ooe4ip8PE7omcM06K4HkuqIuxTRixR0I2gmhjMN6KCF5yY1RrlV1WKilJ-xiWYVrtWR-IdedhKUmgU3sxY5H7yYBMyHOniRT5nQZXVWqhDpg/s1600/IMG_4010.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOzuMn56EcCx9_3IxNP2tRAU1KUOQDLi1ooe4ip8PE7omcM06K4HkuqIuxTRixR0I2gmhjMN6KCF5yY1RrlV1WKilJ-xiWYVrtWR-IdedhKUmgU3sxY5H7yYBMyHOniRT5nQZXVWqhDpg/s320/IMG_4010.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Some people like a cigarette after sex, but I prefer cereal.</div>
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I like to stand in the kitchen [wearing either briefs, a T-shirt, or nothing], and shotgun one bowl of cereal after another until I feel fulfilled by grain and dairy in ways a man cannot facilitate.</div>
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To me, it's fascinating how someone can achieve orgasm and immediately, impulsively crave something else. Isn't that the whole point of sex? To scratch an itch? To satisfy an impulse? And yet here I am, hunched over a bowl of cereal with one hand gripping my spoon and the other reaching for the box, ready to pour another bowl.</div>
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More than anything, it's about savoring texture; dry, crunchy cereal mixing with thick, ice-cold 2% milk. When it comes to category preference, I don't like the sugary stuff. I like the bland stuff: Corn Flakes, Kix, Rice Krispies, and most of all, Chex. Eating Chex is a truly remarkable culinary experience: the structural fragility, how it retains milk in the cross-stitching, the way each crispy pillow breaks between the tip of my tongue and the roof of my mouth. A mouthful of Chex is a well-earned reward that makes sex all the more enjoyable.</div>
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This afternoon, I received a text from a guy with whom I haven't had sex in more than five years. His name is Trey and we often see each other at the bars, though we rarely chitchat or even nod in the other's direction. He asked me if I wanted to hang out, and since I'd spent my entire Sunday rewatching episodes of Bojack Horseman and washing piles of dirty laundry with no intention of actually hanging anything up, I said yes. We drank beers at his kitchen table (Bud Lite by the can), and then he asked if I wanted to watch TV in his bed. "I don't have cable or Netflix or anything," he added while leading me down a hallway. I felt myself frown.</div>
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When it was over, he walked me all the way downstairs and right up to front gate, which I thought was nice because I wouldn't have even left the bed, had the hosting duties been reversed. If we were at my apartment, it's highly likely I'd say something like, "So you know how to get out of here, right?" without moving a muscle or putting on underwear. I didn't read into his small act of gentlemanly kindness, but I noted it for future reference; how it made me feel like a douche because I wouldn't have done the same for him.</div>
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On the way home, I listened to "My Favorite Murder" and thought about my fully stocked pantry. I'd gone to the grocery the day before in a futile effort to keep myself away from restaurants. I don't cook, which means virtually every meal is delivered by server or driver or Subway Sandwich Artist. But at the moment, there were tons of food at my house, including two brand-new boxes of Chex.</div>
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I'm more aware of my emotional shortcomings and physical imperfections when I'm having sex [even within someone I love, especially with someone I love]. But for just a few minutes after engaging in something that makes me feel alive and enriched and disappointed and self-aware and moved and drained and excited and conflicted, I can have a bowl of cereal and feel like a kid again.</div>
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Sex is such an adult thing and cereal is the opposite; uncomplicated and easy to manage. There are no apps involved or issues of tone to be misunderstood. No friend zones or bios to write about yourself. No stakes. No shame. Just the simple joys of childhood, best enjoyed with cartoons.</div>
Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-89982562097391826042016-11-30T16:30:00.002-08:002016-11-30T16:42:31.102-08:00Claudia<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMi-odRU-vQu-RghuU2VyfN_VQmzXM2XVu1dXQJ5el2byg1waHve6p3OSvTj1yhyphenhyphenkDT4S3X5ghFVdEpCvJiioemuKNI8dVRrmBOEev5KKFwwaRxPJgKN8eB4soPJBGbTfYCsHtLeo1KYk/s1600/Caudia.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMi-odRU-vQu-RghuU2VyfN_VQmzXM2XVu1dXQJ5el2byg1waHve6p3OSvTj1yhyphenhyphenkDT4S3X5ghFVdEpCvJiioemuKNI8dVRrmBOEev5KKFwwaRxPJgKN8eB4soPJBGbTfYCsHtLeo1KYk/s320/Caudia.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I have to use Uber's GPS locator because I don't really know where I am.<br />
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So many New Orleans neighborhoods look exactly like this one. Potholes shotgun-blasted across gravelly streets, lined with shotgun homes painted in dull pastels. The app says I'm in Riverbend, just a few blocks from South Carrollton. I request a ride and settle onto a porch, finally becoming aware of my appearance. My camera shows me what I look like; the beginning of a daylong recovery. Uber says my driver's name is Claudia and she drives a Hyundai Santa Fe.</div>
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Here she is now.</div>
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"Hey there, good morning," Claudia says cheerfully as I heave my body into the backseat. "Hi," I say. "I feel like shit. Please don't look at me." She laughs. "Rough night?" she asks my reflection in the rearview. "Rough life," I say. "I got hammered in the Quarter and went home with some guy.”<br />
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Outside, the endless ribbon of houses cuts away and we're on Carrollton.</div>
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In age, Claudia hovers someone between my mom and my grandma. She has all the trappings of a young mother from her top bun to her stylish warm-up jacket, but the lines around her mouth and eyes give her away. "Was he cute?" she asks. “Didn’t get a good look,” I say, squinting into the sunlight.</div>
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Gay men have an inborn talent to disarm women. This can be used selfishly to gain the favor of a bitchy female hostess or a busy female flight attendant. But most of the time, it just helps break the threat barrier. <i>I am gay and I am not going to hurt you. Let’s grab brunch.</i></div>
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“Well I’m seeing a really cute guy myself,” says Claudia. I wave my hand in the air next to her head. “Show me pics!” I say, gesturing for her phone. “Oh,” she says. “He’s not on Facebook.” She smiles at me in the mirror. “Good for him,” I say. “How’d you meet?” I drop my hand into my lap and stare out the window. Up here on I-10, the New Orleans skyline is so close I can almost touch it. I’ve rounded the Superdome on this same stretch of overpass for 28 years, but I still take a moment to marvel at it when I swoop past. People often say the Superdome looks like a spaceship, but to me, it looks like a megachurch. I think the Saints would appreciate that sentiment.</div>
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“We work together,” she says. “When I’m not driving Uber, I work in the Philanthropy Department at a big hospital in town. Matthew’s our IT guy. That’s his name, by the way. Matthew.” She lights up when she says his name. I can hear her grinning from ear to ear. “Girl, good for you!” I say with exaggerated gay inflections. She’s opening up because she likes me and she feels comfortable, and suddenly I want to know more about her.</div>
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There’s a branded Ochsner Hospital badge hanging from her visor that reads, “Claudia” and no last name. I pull out my phone and go straight for the Ochsner website and search the name “Claudia.” Her employee bio appears with the same headshot from her badge. With her last name in-hand, I head to Facebook and search “Claudia Caulder.” There she is. I stare down at her profile picture and then I glance up and catch her looking back at me in the mirror. She winks and I smile. I pull my phone to my chest for extra measure, even though there’s absolutely no way she can see what I’m looking at: Claudia Caulder’s Facebook account, emblazoned with a photograph of her family.</div>
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In the picture, everyone is wearing shades of blue and standing on a beach in (what I’m guessing is) Destin or Santa Rosa or somewhere in the Florida panhandle. Backlit by the setting sun, Claudia stares lovingly at her husband while two ginger-haired girls cheese it up for the camera. They look exactly like their dad. I press the home button and Facebook shrinks away.</div>
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Even though I smoked all night and my tongue is dried out like a welcome mat, the craving for a cigarette makes my mouth water. Then I hear myself ask, “Do you have any kids?” She looks back at me, and this time, she isn’t smiling. “Yes,” she said, flatly. “Two girls.” I nod. “Have they met the new guy yet?” I grapple with my boldness and wonder why I’m fucking with this woman. But in my carefree hungover state, I can’t help myself. “No,” she says, throwing her response away through the hollow tunnel between us.</div>
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We glide in silence through the Lower Garden District and I think about last night. I lied to Claudia when I told her I didn’t get a good look at the guy. His name was Cody and he was incredibly handsome. We’re in the same kickball league and after ogling him for an entire season, I built up the courage to ask him out and he said yes. Last night, when he kissed me, I wanted him to like it — my head buzzing with hyper awareness of my own body. This morning, when he walked me to the door, I took a picture of him from behind and sent it to a few friends. I feel bad about doing that but not bad enough to delete it. Then I send it to a few more people.</div>
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We pull into the horseshoe of my apartment complex and Claudia turns down the music. “I lied to you earlier,” I say, suddenly. “I actually like the guy I slept with last night. I hope he texts me. He’s really cute and he’s very sweet.” Claudia turns and looks me directly in the eyes. The lines around her mouth and eyes soften and she looks instantly looks 10 years younger. “I’m having an affair with the IT guy,” she says. “And every day I feel like I’m losing the woman I was.” I look back at her and bite my bottom lip as a gesture of sympathy. “The woman I am,” she corrects herself. “There’s nothing sexy about this,” she continues. “I walk around the office scared shitless that one of my co-workers knows. And every afternoon, on my drive home, I have to remember to delete his text thread. Sometimes we have dinner at the Applebee’s in Algiers because it’s 45 minutes away from my house.” She blinks hard to suppress the tears, but it doesn’t work. “And I fucking hate Applebee’s!”</div>
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I look down and realize I’m holding her hand. On the corner, at a coffee shop, a man opens the door for his female companion and I decide that he’s a gentleman and that they should get married if they haven’t already. I want to ask Claudia what she’s going to do about this, but I don’t. Instead, I tell her that I’ve never been married and I’m not going to pretend to know what that’s like. “It’s really hard to keep a secret, especially from the people you love,” I say. Then I don’t say anything at all. We sit together in wordless solitude while New Orleans wakes up around us.</div>
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I yank my shirtsleeve over my hand and wipe away Claudia’s runny mascara. “I hope that boy calls you, sweetheart,” she says, turning around and running her fingers over her face in the mirror. “If you ever feel like doing this again,” I say. “You know where I live.” She laughs and winks at me in the mirror while I open the door and step outside.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The fall weather is unseasonably warm, even for New Orleans. I decide that as soon as I get inside, I’m taking the longest shower of my life and tossing this entire outfit in the washer. “I hope you have a great day,” I say, actually meaning it. “Take care, sweetheart,” she says. Then, Claudia closes the door and pulls away, out of the horseshoe and onto Annunciation and out of sight.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Anyway, Uber, this was one of the most emotionally draining rides I’ve ever experienced. I’m not looking for anything, but I just thought you should know that one of your drivers is going through a tough time. Obviously, I rated her five stars, but frankly, she was a lot to deal with. As an advertising professional, I don’t want consumers believing that Uber aligns itself with adulterers who discuss their infidelities with passengers. Please keep an eye on Claudia for the sake of the brand.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sincerely,</div>
<div>
Ryan Rogers<style>
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Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-37796836953503921422016-11-22T15:57:00.003-08:002016-11-22T19:34:04.689-08:00SECOND ENDING<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHkdGgl-kBPzZHffX6_isiDOHhzru5hfljzK4M013LZYRghjwRH_lX9n5ZxKK3SEKr-Yp3S8u4E-Zod0rFMjPP7uw0b0pzET_WKmsCa9A7A1fLlqwtPO91m4pmo6rvrBA9r5l_dSwzJPk/s1600/Image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHkdGgl-kBPzZHffX6_isiDOHhzru5hfljzK4M013LZYRghjwRH_lX9n5ZxKK3SEKr-Yp3S8u4E-Zod0rFMjPP7uw0b0pzET_WKmsCa9A7A1fLlqwtPO91m4pmo6rvrBA9r5l_dSwzJPk/s320/Image.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The hardest part about breaking up with Jeffrey was not the actual break-up. It was four days later, when I noticed his toothbrush.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I’m not sure how I missed it, but today, I stepped out the shower and there it was. This might sound stupid, but I always liked seeing our toothbrushes leaning together in the highball glass, next to the sink. His toothbrush was certainly not the first to share occupancy with mine, but this particular union charmed me — maybe because they were both hot pink.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
---</div>
</div>
<div>
<i><br /></i>
<i>Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them </i>was released last week. I figured I’d grab a pair of tickets to the earliest screening on opening night, and then have dinner at Chipotle. Jeffery’s a picky eater, but he loves Chipotle. So I texted him and asked if he wanted to go. He responded immediately, “I think we need to talk tonight.” Without panicking, I suggested we meet at my apartment around eight, to which he agreed. Then, I spent the afternoon compulsively checking my phone and sitting with my face in my hands.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
On the drive home, I changed my mind and asked him to call me, two hours and thirty-nine minutes before he was supposed to show up. “Let’s just chat now,” I said. <i>Chat</i>, I thought to myself. <i>Like we’re going to enjoy this.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The chat lasted 14 minutes and was, all things considered, pleasant. We spoke in level voices and shared supportive sentiments and related to one another. At the end, I asked if there was anything else he’d like to say before we hung up. “I love you,” he said. “Always will.” And then I hung up and hurried out the door to make my yoga class on time.<br />
<br />
I didn’t think about it much the next day — except for the occasional phantom impulse to text him. Waiting in line at Subway, I typed, “Getting lunch. What are you eating?” before realizing I didn’t have to do that anymore.<br />
<br />
After work, I got a haircut from Paul, my barber. I stared blankly at my reflection and asked, “Do people sometimes cry in your chair?”<br />
“Sometimes,” he said. Sure.”<br />
I nodded. “Do guys cry in your chair?”<br />
His eyes met mine in the mirror. “Do you need to cry, man? Go ahead. It’s all good.”<br />
I blew a freshly cut curl off my forehead. “No,” I lied. “I’m okay.”<br />
<br />
A break-up happens and you want to be angry about everything you wasted: the time, the money, the headspace. All those songs you memorized because they reminded you of him. All the effort you spent learning the names of his siblings and their kids and how the nuances of his family factor into his personality. All the social media real estate you share. So many pictures together. All those nights you stayed home with him when you could’ve been out there in the world, living life. All the times you conceded an argument [when you were absolutely right], because it was easier to say “You’re right. I’m sorry.” You hate yourself for compromising so much. You hate yourself for not standing on your principles. Now, you’re standing in a ruin with nothing but a body you’re unhappy with and prospect of dating new people looming in the distance.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
---</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This morning, when I saw his toothbrush, I tossed it into the trash and placed the highball glass in the dishwasher. I laid my own toothbrush on the edge of the sink because I thought it would look sad standing upright, alone in another glass.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I’m bound to find more little relics of our relationship here and there; gym shorts and handwritten cards and memories that I’ll romanticize with filters and soundtracks. But right now, I won’t go looking for them.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Instead, I’ll wait for them to find me again. And there, I’ll savor the opportunity to be angry, resigned, and close to him for just a moment.<br />
<div>
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Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-57059725000830962542016-10-12T15:42:00.002-07:002016-10-13T09:55:59.878-07:00The Way David Eats Pizza<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="Exboyfriend Material" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ggdG-lzKrLCcZnc1ewE-mDo2xb6aYjjgpV3r8Gn7QJd16ZFFRMuEBCs_et5ICXep792JuA10Xos3N7m2ufc24Zftx_dWSaHWHLrO-zWfhIBOGBaeiT4tv_TxPAu_t1PwaRji69MShls/s320/IMG_2054.JPG" title="The Way David Eats Pizza" width="320" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
It’s three a.m. on the 27th floor of an apartment building on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen, and I am sitting across from David Lafuente, watching him eat pizza.<br />
<br />
I arrived in Manhattan two days ago and caught an Uber straight to David’s apartment. He greeted me at the door and ushered me inside. Upon entering, my eyes were drawn across the living room to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city beyond 37th Street, framing a breathtaking landscape of towers. Standing there, looking out over Midtown West, I wished for a dry erase marker. The view begged for contextual labels: arrows addressing the names of buildings and dividing lines along neighborhood borders. Now, days later, the world behind the glass feels less dioramatic and more like flat wallpaper. The New York skyline has become a vinyl cling from Urban Outfitters, in front of which David and me eat pizza.<br />
<div>
<br />
Earlier this evening, we were walking home from a bar when David nodded to a bright red awning several blocks away. “You wanted some really good pizza, no?” David always punctuates his questions with a firmly inflected “no,” which I find charmingly European, even though he’s Mexican. I was still stuffed from dinner, but I was also drunk, which means I was starving. David launches into Spanish with the man behind the counter and I allow my mind to drift while he takes care of business. I bend at the waist to inspect the giant display pizzas. Each one is pale and unappetizing, which makes me feel sad for the slices that don't get to reanimate in the oven. My pizza grief takes an upswing when David shoves a warm cardboard box into my hands and says, “Let’s go home.”<br />
<br />
Back at the apartment, the living room is dense with pot. When David opens a window, the faraway noises of New York travel on cool air and reach me at the coffee table. He walks into the kitchen then returns with plates, silverware, napkins, stemware, and wine. He sets places for the two of us and settles in.<br />
<br />
I’ve never seen anyone eat pizza the way David eats pizza. First, he uses a knife and fork to remove all the toppings — rolling and piling pepperoni, Italian sausage, and gobs of cheese into a meaty queso fundido. This heap sits alongside the flat triangle crust, which, for lack of a better euphemism, appears skinned alive. He spins his plate around and saws off a small segment of the crust. Then, with knife and fork, he rolls the half-inch of crust in the molten cheese mixture and pops it into his mouth. He repeats this process over and over with elegant precision — coating bite-size morsels of crust with mozzarella and huge pieces of meat. He does not eat the body of the pizza (the wide, doughy triangle lacquered with marinara), but instead, he sets it aside and moves on the next slice. I can only stare in rapt bewilderment while I attempt to shotgun my entire slice.<br />
<br />
It’s funny how uncovering a small quirk — a little oddity just under the surface — can completely change the way you see a person. It’s why I don’t discuss porn with my best friends. And now, here I am, re-framing the way I think about David Lafuente while he meticulous scrapes the toppings off his second slice of pizza before chopping up the crust.<br />
<br />
I used to think he was incredibly handsome, back when we met in Playa del Carmen. During sex, I would stare at his face, studying his strong chin and dark chocolate eyes. I liked the way he told stories about growing up in Mexico City and about running a restaurant in Manhattan’s Upper East Side. I stood with him on our balcony and watched the star-scattered sky over Playa del Carmen before kissing his lips and falling into his arms. When he left the next morning, I cried because I never thought I’d see him again.<br />
<br />
Over the years, I remembered our time together romantically. We fell out of touch, but regularly liked pictures on Instagram and posts on Facebook, small gestures to remind the other of his existence. Months ago, when an opportunity to visit New York popped up, he was the first person that came to mind.<br />
<br />
Lately, my boyfriend and I haven't been getting along.<br />
<br />
In fact, we got in a very serious argument before I boarded the plane.<br />
<br />
I try calling him every few minutes and he doesn't pick up. In his texts, he says it's over.<br />
<br />
So earlier this evening, I decided to get fucked up and have sex with David, just to spite my boyfriend. I got obliterated at dinner and then continued to pound one vodka tonic after another at the gay bar. My flirting was shameless and obvious, but I didn't have anything to lose, so I didn't care how it looked. Finally, I suggested we head home because his bed was the only place in Manhattan I wanted to be. And on the way back, we stopped for pizza.<br />
<br />
Everything was going according to plan, until he started this weird, mystifying ritual with his food. I want to ask him why he's doing this, but I bet his response will annoy me.<br />
<br />
Right now, he's watching me cram a second slice down my throat and I can see a tinge of horror in his face. He thinks I'm gross and I think he's an asshole for dismembering perfectly fine pizza. "It's good, no?" he says. Suddenly, I don't find the way he punctuates his questions with a firmly inflected “no" charmingly European. I find it ridiculous. "It's fucking great!" I say, only it sounds completely muffled because I have a whole slice of pepperoni and sausage pizza lodged into my mouth like an oversized duffle bag in an overhead compartment. His eyebrows furrow and the mood changes dramatically. We are both wading in a river of wine, vodka, marinara sauce, and sudden contempt for one another.<br />
<br />
When we finish, he clears the dishes and I curl up on the couch with a brand new joint. "Are you coming to bed?" he asks from the doorway of his room. "Nah," I say, lighting the joint and inhaling deeply. "I'll crash here tonight." He almost looks relieved. "Sweet," he says. "Night!" And just like that, he closes the door and leaves me alone in the living room.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A cool breeze turns the pages of an open book on the coffee table. Through the window, I can see an army of giants stalking me; a million glowing eyes watching the loneliest man in New York.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow, I will call my boyfriend again.<br />
<br />
I will call him over and over.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And when I get back to New Orleans that evening, I will try to work this out because he is the <i>real</i> man of my dreams.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I will ask him to meet me at my apartment in the heart of the Lower Garden District.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When he gets there, I will have his favorite pizza waiting for him.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then, we will sit on my bed, across from one another, and eat each slice from tip to crust, like two normal people who also happen to be in love.</div>
Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-30988400701891559342016-10-10T06:38:00.000-07:002016-10-10T06:38:15.378-07:00Jeffrey<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxBrDQaVCPZP5U533FjtTO86E6qoCn3egWZdC_sZcpkKcNFmTziovqT5YcywUBGiQCkBToiPtgYoZGN9jCjHkp9mLzjfuedCn8NGfJ5KwTzS36-thx4Zxq-mxey7gl_3ACQcsxwEBvJu4/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxBrDQaVCPZP5U533FjtTO86E6qoCn3egWZdC_sZcpkKcNFmTziovqT5YcywUBGiQCkBToiPtgYoZGN9jCjHkp9mLzjfuedCn8NGfJ5KwTzS36-thx4Zxq-mxey7gl_3ACQcsxwEBvJu4/s320/Unknown.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I’ve never told you this, but in the morning, when you’re still asleep, I put my face as close as I can to yours. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I lay next to you in intimate, wordless solitude, the tips of our noses nearly touching. I gage your breathing and adjusting mine so that we’re alternating breaths. When you breathe out, I breathe in.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sometimes I keep my eyes closed and sometimes I watch you — taking in your face, feature to feature. When I look at you from across the dinner table or in the mirror when you’re brushing your teeth, I can clearly see that you have the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. But at close range [at a distance where I can feel your breath and your body heat and the life buzzing around your face], you are somehow even more breathtaking. Up close, you are a perfect collage of shapes and colors. Sharp black punctures, soft angular shadows, and a pale rosy glow just under your skin.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When you stir or tussle, I run my fingertips through your thick blond hair or lay my palm flatly across the side of your face, just to reassure you that I’m here.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sometimes I kiss you on the forehead or right on the lips. I press my lips softly against your face and hope it reaches you, wherever you are in your dreams.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
On days when we have to be up early for work, I savor your nearness intensely. On weekends, I can do this for hours. And it’s always my favorite part of the day.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sometimes, in the quiet stillness of my bedroom, I tell you I’m sorry.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I tell you I’m sorry for not always being a great boyfriend.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I tell you I’m sorry for fraying the friable trust we’ve built with my crippling insecurities.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I tell you I’m sorry for continually breaking your heart.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I tell you I’m sorry within inches from your face, while you are sleeping because your silence and beauty feel the same as forgiveness.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In my heart, I want to stay with you and work this out. Because I love you so much that I enjoy the simple pleasure of breathing the same air as you.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But you can go.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I can let you go.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The future won’t be so painful with all these memories I have — treasuring your face in the moments before you wake up, sleepily look me in the eyes and say, “I love you.”</div>
Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-72470793021935477572016-09-06T07:10:00.001-07:002016-09-06T13:41:47.304-07:0017 Easy Steps To Prepare For A First Date<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfBpxWMKG_1mJi783LXly_ikeoY4MV2f3R3T_QDDg5N1hXHgP2p8s58KupDnACzv75mXq5IZ9pVN1fO4XAB44oBNs7GfW9ELPMMnrzROEXSvJGTIHBQqxTvKA26NIC5twh4-k9feemVxQ/s1600/17_Easy_Steps.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfBpxWMKG_1mJi783LXly_ikeoY4MV2f3R3T_QDDg5N1hXHgP2p8s58KupDnACzv75mXq5IZ9pVN1fO4XAB44oBNs7GfW9ELPMMnrzROEXSvJGTIHBQqxTvKA26NIC5twh4-k9feemVxQ/s320/17_Easy_Steps.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Step 1. Pick out an outfit.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Step 2. Shave your face.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Step 3. Treat yourself to a compulsive psychological episode. In the getting-ready process, most micro-breakdowns manifest when you’re taking a shower. So strip down, put on some tunes, and brace yourself. Speaking of music selection, there’s a pre-made Spotify playlist called “Night At The Strip Club,” and it’s an excellent choice for background music when preparing for a romantic night on the town. So press play and body-roll your way through the entire Ying Yang Twins catalog. Then experience the sudden, overwhelming dick-punch of reality when you think to yourself, Oh God! I’m about to go on a date with someone for the first time! What am I doing?!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Step 4. Towel off and blow-dry your hair. Pro Tip: Your hair should be 60-to-65 percent dry before blow-drying with a brush.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Step 5. Direct a series of questions at yourself. Some should be practical, like “Do I have money in my checking account?” And some can be more existential, like “How did I fuck up my life so dramatically?” But each one should be accompanied by a palpable rush of terror and self-deprecating anger.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Step 6. Amplify this episode by giving yourself insufficient time to get ready. Never get ready too early. This will help you avoid downtime to mull over new worries. This also backfires when you end up sprinting from room to room — trying to make your face and body pass for fuckable.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Step 7. Stand in front of a full-length vertical mirror. Here, you will study your reflection and question how you achieved this toneless, adolescent build. With the possibility of sex looming in the near future, take this opportunity to yell at yourself for all the drugs, alcohol, and Taco Bell you’ve consumed over the course of a lifetime. Pinch every flab. Blame your parents for shitty genetics. Curse God for letting you develop into someone who’s perpetually recovering from the night before. You look fat and skinny. You look too young and too old. You are a physical paradox. And somehow you have a date tonight.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Step 8. FUCK! YOU HAVE A DATE TONIGHT! Get your shit together! No time for crying. Crying can wait ‘til later when you’re drunk and alone.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Step 9. Have a drink. Right now. Slip on your underwear and yank up your socks, then hustle to the kitchen and shotgun a Michelob Ultra. That’s better, you’ll think to yourself. You’re going to be fine.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Step 10. Spend the next few minutes ironing your outfit in hurried brush strokes. At this point, you won’t necessarily feel calm but you will feel like you’re going to make it.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Step 11. Return to the mirror, fully dressed.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Step 12. Look at yourself. Take it all in. Then, feel yourself come undone. There’s discoloration on your sleeves and a stain on your collar. You generally hate the outfit. Grit your teeth and cover your face with your hands so you don’t have to see what’s in front of you.</div>
<div>
<br />
Nothing fits.<br />
<br />
Nothing’s new.<br />
<br />
You wish you had nicer things.<br />
<br />
You wish you made more money.<br />
<br />
You wish this wasn't you.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Step 13. Go ahead, treat yourself to a nice, long cry.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Step 14. Snap out of it! Run cold water and dab your eyes and cheeks. Then find the clothes you wore to work yesterday and toss them into the dryer with a Bounce Sheet and an ice cube. Open Spotify and change “Night At The Strip Club” to “Angry Workout Jamz.” Turn the music all the way up as you latch your knock-off Rolex and mist a Birchbox cologne sample across your neck. Then tell yourself, Fuck. This. I did not spend two days trying to convince some boy on Grindr — who works in retail no less — to be interested in me, just to break down in overtime. This is happening. Right. Fucking Now.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Step 15. Moisturize.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Step 16. Somehow muster the confidence to leave the house and go to dinner with someone you barely know.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And finally…</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Step 17. Later, when you’re sitting across the table from a perfect stranger, experience an entirely new dimension of horror as you agree with ideas you don’t believe and pretend to be someone you’re not.</div>
Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-67880813305508876862016-07-12T23:46:00.004-07:002016-07-13T10:30:39.104-07:00BRAND NEW PERSON<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv5QNVmNsajqViw36n28pzjOaX5Gpr3cP7Rue1zZltyz9w7Cq9X7NPKo_rH1NGNyjfSQCHu8NFYwCtrODkw41h_Usrp3grK-uQk2gmRpbm3ECIvhX87i6knVwtWdRC5SDsGy57SGv71qw/s1600/image1.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv5QNVmNsajqViw36n28pzjOaX5Gpr3cP7Rue1zZltyz9w7Cq9X7NPKo_rH1NGNyjfSQCHu8NFYwCtrODkw41h_Usrp3grK-uQk2gmRpbm3ECIvhX87i6knVwtWdRC5SDsGy57SGv71qw/s320/image1.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>-I-</b></div>
<br />
When you texted me that it was over, I was having dinner at Juan’s Flying Burrito with Brian and Anna.<br />
<br />
I read what you wrote and then I looked at my phone like it was trying to hurt me.<br />
<div>
<br />
Anna asked if everything was okay.<br />
<br />
I turned to her and said simply, “No.”<br />
<br />
Behind me, someone laughed and I imagined smashing one of those large glass margarita goblets against his head.<br />
<br />
The food arrived. I ate, but with every bite I grew more anxious to throw up when I returned home.<br />
<br />
Brian and Anna assured me that I was misinterpreting the message. “He says he just wants time to sort things out. He’s not ending the relationship.”<br />
<br />
I knew better.<br />
<br />
Because I know you.<br />
<br />
And it’s exactly what you would say — so you didn’t have to tell me the truth.</div>
<div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>-II-</b></div>
<br />
I wish I could remember the last thing I said to you.<br />
<br />
But after you told me, “I just need some time,” everything went black.<br />
<br />
At some point in the night, I deleted the text thread and erased your number.<br />
<br />
I’m sure I responded, because I always need to have the last word.<br />
<br />
But it doesn’t matter. <br />
<br />
I lost anyway.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>-III-</b></div>
</div>
<div>
<br />
I feel embarrassed wasting my words on you.<br />
<br />
But I can’t stop myself.<br />
<br />
The worst part is that, I can’t stop giving to you — handing over huge chunks of my time and my most vulnerable emotions.<br />
<br />
Watch me stumble away.<br />
<br />
A disfigured corpse of someone who used to look just like me.
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Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6832362306061394941.post-62379802051884004652016-07-01T11:12:00.000-07:002016-07-01T11:16:00.945-07:00Just Me<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPIi6i9fTXS3tAdn4C8CehjBpvD8nIAvQqaKghsx7dObas5rs-xiK_tGs4zPW4ZQUk7CkArHNzTJRklkpyGzBkwLVifZKIosp4-vmOId61leRdT3ucjFs6hz9Rs2j5aiwFDKd48XkC0vI/s1600/Image+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPIi6i9fTXS3tAdn4C8CehjBpvD8nIAvQqaKghsx7dObas5rs-xiK_tGs4zPW4ZQUk7CkArHNzTJRklkpyGzBkwLVifZKIosp4-vmOId61leRdT3ucjFs6hz9Rs2j5aiwFDKd48XkC0vI/s320/Image+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10pt;">I would’ve been content just lying with Jaime in naked,
wordless company all night, but then he says, "I want to know everything
about you."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.0pt;">It is 4:37AM
on a Monday and Jamie Saracino's plane leaves for Mexico City in exactly three
hours and twenty-three minutes. I pull him away from my neck by shifting my
shoulder around so we face each other. But we are so close that I can only see
the crest of his cheek. My periphery fills in the rest of his sleepless, wild face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Outside,
the full moon over Playa del Carmen becomes a dull glow behind the breaking
dawn. Last night, it brought Jaime and I (two perfect strangers) together. Now,
it’s retreating and I feel weird asking the moon to stick around a bit longer.
But in this light, I can see everything I need to see. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.0pt;">First, he asks about my family and then he asks about my
biggest regret, which I find to be an unusual follow-up, but I answer honestly,
anyway. Then it's my turn.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">"What scares you the most?" I ask,
feeling the platitudinous nature of the question while still aching to know his
answer. "I'm afraid of being alone," he says, eyes trained on mine.</span></span><span style="background: white; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">"Everyone's afraid of being alone,"</span>
<span style="background: white;">I say. "Yeah," he whispers. "But
I'm really afraid of being alone. Like not just dying alone; I'm afraid of
being alone right now. I can't stand the solitude. I have this trainer, you
know? He's this giant, blond monster and he's ripped and he's gorgeous as fuck.
But he's the stupidest person on the planet. And my other friends don't
understand why we spend so much time together outside of the gym, and I can't
just come out and confess why. It's because he's always available. We have
nothing in common and he couldn't hold a conversation at gunpoint, but whenever
I'm hungry, he's always down to meet me."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">After a beat of silence, he leans in and kisses
me. Mouths dry from hours of this same repetitive gesture, I know this kiss
should feel like two mannequins pressing their plastic lips together, but I
deeply savor him anyway. "Go on," I tell him. Jaime exhales and
whispers, "I've never eaten alone in public. I can't stand the idea of it.
So when my real friends are tied up, I text my stupid trainer or my vapid
hairdresser or whoever will have dinner with me. It's better to be with someone
I'm indifferent about than to be alone with myself. It's too painful."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Outside the window, a rustle of palm fronds
underscores this highly vulnerable moment, so I pull him in tightly. His head
fits perfectly in the valley of my collarbone and shoulder. Here, I tell him I
understand his fear because I rarely publicly eat alone. "I like going to
the movies by myself, but restaurants are a whole different thing. After
waiting tables for seven years, I have a sensitivity for people who dine alone.
But it's not pity. Maybe it's my own insecurity that I can't do the same.
They've got something I don't."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">We sit here in this moment until it lapses into
other moments; separate moments and the same moment with scattering, reaching
edges like a growing heatwave.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.0pt;">And then, it's time for Jaime to leave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“You
don’t have to walk me downstairs,” he whispers into my ear before softly
kissing my neck. “I can get to the cabs alright on my own.” We stare into each
other’s faces, gathering and hoarding every line and shadow and shape. This might
be the last time we have this luxury, so we study each other with intense
concentration. Then the edges of his eyes relax and I study this entirely new
expression. “I’ll walk you to the gate,” I say. Then I press my body solidly
into his and roll him on top of me one last time.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.0pt;">You
never anticipate the end of the night or the morning after — when you say
goodbye then kiss one more time because that one final, bonus kiss has the
power to inspire an entirely new future. When you walk him partway to wherever
he’s going and turn to walk back to wherever you came from. When you go your
separate ways down different ends of the same street. </span><span style="background: white; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.0pt;">In this
moment, you are heavy. This moment dredges forward with the cargo of frivolity
and fear and insecurity and something about, “easy come, easy go.” This moment
is riddled with the lead of a dozen bullets — freshly fired right through your
mediocre reality and lodged stubbornly into your heart and your dick and your
fingers and every place in your body that knows he exists.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I walk
him to the cabs (a half-mile up the road), and then head back. When I arrive at
the condo, I turn away from the security guard so he won’t see that I’ve been
crying. He’s noticed Jaime and I coming and going and I don’t want him to know
things are over. It’s just not fair for one more person to be mopey about this
mess.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 10pt;">On my last night in Playa del Carmen, I walk the
streets alone, listening to Warm Brew's "Ghetto Beach Boys," which
turns out to be the perfect soundtrack for aimless summer night wanderings
around the Mayan Riviera. Jaime is long gone, but he isn't far from my
thoughts. In my backpack, I carry around a postcard; ready to send to his
apartment in Manhattan as soon as I find a stamp, and a mailbox, and the right
words. On 5th Avenue, I pass a sushi place with a crowded patio and a
completely vacant bar. I haven't eaten anything all day, and Mexican-inspired
sushi seems unmissable. "Just me," I tell the hostess, who leads me
across the floor and over to the bar. I order two rolls, a bottle of sake, and
a Michelob Ultra. The food arrives and I take my time, pacing out each bite and
consciously profiling the flavors.</span></div>
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<br />
<span style="background: white;">Here I am.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Eating alone at a restaurant.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">And then I think of Jaime.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">And I completely understand what he meant.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">It's too painful.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">It's all too painful.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ryan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862185620696940036noreply@blogger.com0