So i get home from a rushed and out of nowhere on-call shift at work, which interrupted my bf time, and what do I find? Two chorizo con juevo burritos waiting for me in the microwave, with a note making sure I knew they were there even though he’d already called me at work to let me know. I fucking love my boyfriend. And I miss him right now because we didn’t get to hang out today. So I want to write about him. And the truth is, I always want to write about him, just like I used to. But there’s something about blogging about your boyfriend, that just seems so, I don’t know, 3rd period just after nutrition break. I mean, I’m kinda liking life these days, and as great as that is, its no fun to read about. People want to read about the fucked up things in life. People want to read about why their lives are better than yours. Well at least I do, a little, as long as you’re not to Morrissey about it. Why would anyone want to read about chorizo and egg burritos when they could be reading about the love triangles and psycho 4am phone calls that happen to be a specialty of mine.
I’ve been writing lately. I have. I just haven’t been posting because I don’t know, nothing seems relevant. Not that I think anything I’ve already posted seems particularly topical, but at least at the moment I clicked the post button it was of some importance to me; not to mention all the times I clicked the refresh button to see if anyone had commented on them. Its just that lately I have good ideas and interesting shit happens and I’ll write about it, but I don’t maintain interest long enough to edit it, which is important to me if I can help it. I don’t know why I’m even explaining this. Ok yes I do, its for myself. But the point is, I have a lot to write, but I have little to post.
That’s where the bf comes in. I am the first to say, I think we’ve had a damn interesting good few years of knowing each other. Even now as comfortable cat owning, Ikea shopping lesbians, we find ourselves getting into the kind of trouble that holds over the adventurer in me, or both of us, until the next mishap to crash land into our meager attempts at cultivating a strong relationship. I could easily write about our past and our present and even make up some sort of future, and I’m sure it would humor at least a handful of people. But at the same time, some part of it feels, like a word I couldn’t find in a thesaurus, but it would be something like emotionally whorish. You know?
One great thing, among many, about being with my boyfriend is that it’s really like hanging out with a buddy that you get to have sex with. And I don’t want to be airing this guy’s laundry, dirty or not, all over the blogosphere. I mean don’t get me wrong, a story is a story, and they are everywhere ripe for the picking. And believe me at the first hint of an opening in a conversation at a bar I am the first to chime in with “that reminds me of a time when…” Yeah I’m that guy. But blogging, that shit is forever. Do I really need a virtual tramp stamp of the silly things I felt oh so long ago? yeah I guess I do.
I know, in fact he has told me, that he would never get in the way of my art. And I know and have told him, that he is one of my greatest muses, I just hope he doesn’t mind everyone else knowing why…