I find myself practically in a relationship, in love against better judgment, with a boy.
Shoot went well. Apparently, I am like a "breath of fresh air."
We had our first lil' tiff, if you want to call it that, tonight.
My boy started complaining how his millionaire father doesn't give him enough money. I mentioned maybe his dad should have died when he was eight so he could live off the life insurance (until it runs out your sophomore year of college)/(so your mom can buy a new house and promptly move in the boyfriend you hate and the boyfriend's son you hate even more, but the boyfriend's son has a dick, and he wants you to suck it, so you do because you are eleven and hot and horny and it is all you can get. When you are not sucking your dick you are trying to make his head catch on fire or at least implode... layers of skin fall off to reveal mucles and tendons falling off to reveal bones and joints and... SLUGS? THAT IS WHAT WAS UNDERNEATH THERE? SLUGS?) money, until it runs out before it is convenient for it to run out.
I started doing that thing that one should never do. What would my life be like now if my dad had never died. I would be gay, that is for sure... but I'm not sure if I would have pushed my boundaries of gayness as far as I did. I don't think I would have pushed myself so far in any way. It's so weird to understand my father never heard me play my sax (I studied with a jazz saxophonist for about ten years... he wanted me to carry on the legacy of old jazz masters like himself) or bassoon (my bassoon teacher, the studio bassoonist for Disney, told me once of a fifteen year old girl [I was sixteen, and slacking hard] who was performing a bassoon concerto. He told me that I had more musicality in my right pinkie than she had in her entire body and it killed him to know she was getting a concerto and I was fucking my talent away when clearly my future lied in the realm of bassoon, and I should quit sax, quit sports, and devote the rest of my life to this dying art--bassson is considered one of the most difficult instruments to master. They are as expensive as luxury automobiles, have wait lists, and the craftsmanship of something as simple as a double reed could take a lifetime to master), and I really thought that was where my life was headed until I was sixteen and my house burned down at 4am, my father's birthday... just a few hours before I was to catch the train to go to all-state honor choir (I was a 2nd bass, and had scored highest from my school. My voice doesn't really sound good, but my perfect pitch, ability to sight read, transpose keys, etc. but me at a serious advantage). I gave everything that had to do with music up. It was not my thing.
Neither was the ridiculously delicious food I was learning to cook, with the opportunity to learn the business of owning a restaurant from the inside out. It was not my thing.
I don't even want to talk about the fashion thing. The dude that moved me to NYC and I decided it was better for me to quit my fierce restaurant jobs and gigs around time as the hot new piece of ass in NYC nightlife to assist him. That lead to an old, dear, dear friend from Berkeley/restaurant days working at a magazine to get me to intern for that magazine. Six months later I was hired as Fashion Market Editor, with no experience, no college education, no nothing. Just. Something. I was believed in. I don't know. I guess I've had a lot of daddies. A year later, I'm working with people I idolized when I was a kid and they are asking my opinion about their fashion line; I'm fast on my way to becoming HOT SHIT. It was not my thing.
If my dad had been there and forced me not to give up, would I have, every time, for either fear of success or fear of failure?
Would my mom still be in the same fucking hopeless threadbare relationship with the same fucking asshole that I still fucking hate (let's not forget his disgusting hairdresser date-raping son)?
Would my sister's husband have killed himself ("this is because of you, bitch [BANG]")?
Would I have become an HIV+ escort, go-go boy, stripper, and future bareback porn star for the good part of a decade?
I'M AN ARTIST GODDAMNIT!
Everyone has it. It's what you make of it, right?
Just for the record, I think I would have ended up owning a successful chain of old-school pharmacies/ soda counter with treats/variety/gift stores, on the lower end, and on the higher end completely changing the way western medicine looks at prescription drugs and drug companies and their role in our continued/future illnesses, after a stint as a symphony musician/cool cat in a jazz band. At the very least I would have graduated college.
I love you Frankie. I am not completely sure why, but I don't think I need to know yet.
If this doesn't work out I will still love you. I refuse to begin loving anything that I may regret loving/not love in the future. That is not worth it for me. If we stop being active lovers, know I still love you all the same.
Is this what I'm really trying to say?
Love is eternal?