Depression in a recession.

I have a confession. I've been more than just a bit depressed lately. And not in a "listen to sad music and cry" kind of way. I mean "full on, balls to the wall, face down in the bathtub surrounded by Girl Scout cookies and ice cream" kind of way. Or the "my friends staged an intervention to get me to wear something other than sweatpants" kind of way. Let's just say it hasn't been pretty. But, after doing a lot of thinking, (and drinking) I've realized that the best thing to do would be to let my feelings out. And thankfully my blog here was looking all malnourished and sad. It's like a match made in heaven.

Those of you who follow me on Twitter and actually read my tweets are probably aware of the source of my sorrows. For the benefit of those who don't follow me (who totally should or they are dead to me), I'll summarize quickly: Met boy. Fell in love. Boy moved in. Boy moved out. Boy dumped me. Met calories. Fell in love. Calories stayed. That pretty much sums it up. And since then, I've been wallowing in self-pity, anger, sorrow, and all those other emotions I usually drown with Bud Lite. Unfortunately, my beer budget is currently zero, I had to try and find a new way to get my happy back.

It hasn't been easy so far. Little things, like a song on the radio we used to like or making dinner for just myself, make me feel a bit down still. And certain things I outright just can't do because they trigger a thought. But, it lessens a bit more everyday. I've been tweeting like a man possessed, I've started doing things I enjoyed again, and I've stopped focusing on the bad so much. Eventually I'll be able to fully let go and get back to the high points. And soar on to live my life...

But first, I think it's time me and Calories had a chat...

Twenty-three Skidoo!

I have a confession to make. It's my 23rd birthday and it's a big deal. You see, 23 in gay years is actually about 48.7 years old. Meaning I'm damn near middle age. So, in the interest of my blog and to free up time for drinking myself young again, I'm gonna start my mid-life crisis now. Since I already drive a purple convertible and have a trophy boyfriend who's younger than me, I guess the only thing left to do is complain about my lost youth. And because I'm classy, I shall do it with dignity and honor.

Ahem. *Clears throat*

*Begins emoting like Faye Dunaway in Mommy Dearest*

It's not fair! Why are you doing this to me?! I used to be young and beautiful! Look at this! See this hairline?! No? Because it's being eaten by my forehead! See these eyes? They're carrying more baggage than the queens on RuPaul's Drag Race! I have bills to pay! Rent to make! I'm monogamous!!! When did this happen?! How did I go from ravishing heart-breaker to bloated, old, bald queen?! Why?! WHY!?!?

Ahem. *Pats down hair* *Settles*

Whew. That was cathartic. In all honesty, I'm truly blessed to have made it this far in life and to have done as well as I have, considering how many big mistakes I've made. While it sucks to look back and realize I'm one year closer to being "that creepy old guy at the club", it's amazing how far I've come. And how many people supported me and guided me along the way. And I think I may be ready for the next 23. After all, I still have plenty of confessions left to make.

From A+ to F-

I have a confession to make. I'm a high school drop out. I made it through school up to my junior year, then I left. Most people find this hard to believe for some reason. Apparently, it's impossible to be an articulate, funny drop out. Even worse, it's impossible to be an intelligent drop out with a future. In all honesty, I've gotten a bit tired of the stigma, and I'd like to set some things straight.

First, let's clear the air. No, school wasn't too hard for me. Yes, I understood everything I was taught. No, I didn't get anyone pregnant. No, I didn't have to help support my starving family. School just didn't work for me. I showed up to class when my friend didn't feel like driving all over creation. I usually spent the periods sleeping or talking. (Please, at least try to look surprised about that last part.) Assignments were done when I wanted, if I wanted. Homework was just out of the question.

I know I wasn't the easiest student to teach, but I do feel like part of my problem was school itself. I loved learning, always have, always will. But being forced to learn the date the Magna Carta was first drafted and with what hand seemed pointless. Teachers could only inspire me to do work when it was something I already enjoyed, like learning about Shakespeare. Otherwise, they just didn't know how to reach me. And in their defense, it wasn't their fault. The educational system is flawed at best, with teachers over-worked and under-paid. They didn't have time to figure out how to get to me and the other 30+ students for my one class.

The one regret I have about dropping out was robbing my parents of the chance to see me walk across the stage and get my diploma. That hurts, and it's something I'll never be able to change. But even then, I wouldn't have changed my mind about leaving school. Since I quit, I've worked almost constantly, gotten my GED and scored flawlessly, helped guide my brother by teaching him how to work the school system his way, and more importantly, grown into an adult. I'm looking at schools right now to instruct me in my dream job, and I know now how to make it school work for me. Dropping out was not, and will not, be the end of my future. It was the beginning. What everyone else views as a "kiss of death" I see as a breath of life.

I may have dropped out, but my star is still rising.

Honestly, I'd rather lie.

I have a confession to make. I haven't posted on my blog, and it's no one's fault but my own. I know, I lead a busy and hectic life, but that's hardly an excuse. In all reality, it's been for one simple reason. I started this blog knowing that it would have to get personal. I knew I would be talking about things I'd rather keep inside, instead of spewing them across the internet. And that meant doing this post. It's not easy, and it's scary, but it must be done.

Here goes. Hi, my name is Kyle. I'm a gay man. And I'm a coward.

I don't say that to be self-deprecating, although Lord knows I can be at times. It's just that... I've been out of the closet for almost 8 years now. And I don't count from when I first told one of my friends. I count from when I told my parents. So, it's not exactly new news. And those of you I force to read this blog (all of my readers) of course already knew. So, why did it take me so long to admit it on here?

I can sum up my hang ups about being out with two words: my brother. He's 12 years younger than me and he's my entire world. Most people know I treat him more like a son than I do a brother. And he's the one person who doesn't know his big brother is homosexual. He's met gay friends of mine, one of them transgendered, and been nothing but excepting. But I know that if I told that little man the truth and he reacted badly it would kill me. I know I wouldn't be strong enough to handle it. But, I know it'll have to come some time.

I count this post as the first stepping stone. From here on out, this blog will hopefully be funny, educational, and above all, open and honest. If I could get over my fear of putting my business on the web for the whole world to see, maybe I'll soon muster up the strength to tell him. And maybe it'll turn out just fine.

If it does, I'll have a confession or two about overcoming your worrying ways.

*Block*!

I have a confession to make. I have no topic for this post. Most people in they're lives have suffered from writer's block. Me? I have the opposite. Writer's flood. I have so many ideas floating around in my head that I just can't choose one. And to make matters worse, none of them are very good. Sure, they could be buffed up and worked on, but you know what they say about lipstick on a pig. (If you don't, you shouldn't try Googling it. Trust me.) And at times like this I, as both the author of this blog and a self-convinced writer, have a few choices to make.

I could try posting one of the many topics in my head, but I won't. Why? Because I have an obligation to you my readers to produce only the best quality posts I can! And I am aware that a small handful of people are reading this blog. And I am aware that they are doing it out of threat of physical injury. But, there is a chance that one day this blog will be read by thousands of people a day, and I don't want to receive comments in the future that read "I really love your writing now that you've sobered up".

I could, as implied in several posts now, drink to inspire myself, but it's a double-edged sword. To narrow the field down to a few decent post ideas I would have to drink quite a bit. And by the time I was done the topics would include toilets with chin-rests and my liver, which would be running screaming down the street. Not only that, the post would either be full of spelling and grammatical errors or else I would have to wait until I've sobered up. Frankly, I'm having a hard enough time squeaking these posts in before midnight as is, so neither is really an option.

Of course, there is one final way. I could take this swirling mass of ideas in my head and use my frustration in a positive manner. I could focus the lack of focus into something so different from all the others that it will practically write itself! Yes, I can see it now. Hunched over in front of my monitor, sweat forming on my brow as I type furiously. The keys keeping pace only with the fluttering of my heart as I breathe life into a masterpiece! A miracle!

... Or a post about having nothing to post. Same thing.

Gourmet Or Not Gourmet...

I have a confession to make. I take food a bit too seriously. That's not to say I don't enjoy it. In fact, as one could probably tell just by look at me, I like food a lot. The problem is that I like to cook and watch lots of cooking shows. It seems this has me convinced that I'm a food critic and that all things I eat must be judged. Today alone I explained that while I think certain mushrooms are yummy, they feel all gross when I eat them. Not unusual by any means. Surely average people talk about food being mushy and too tough. But not Kyle the Tungsten Tournant (Look it up. I can't spoon feed ya people!)! To me, the taste is tantalizing and decedent, while the texture is far below my liking.

When you put my father and I together, it gets even worse. We both love Food Network, especially the competitions. So, naturally, we began using the judges' jargon in our own culinary endeavors. Only, it spread beyond our own cooking. Now we dine in restaurants and dissect the meal as we're eating it! It's no more a "How's your food?"/"Good" exchange. It's "How's your food?"/"Well, the attempt is there, but the execution is less than cohesive and lacks refinement." It's as if our tearing the food to shreds with our words is how we let out our hunter/gatherer instinct. And heaven forbid we disagree.

There's only one thing that I see wrong with this whole exchange, and it's not the massive snobbyness we show judging things we can't make. Hell, that's the whole appeal of reality shows like "Project Runway" and "Top Chef". The real problem is that we don't seem to enjoy the food as much anymore. Everything, even foods once adored, is now less than satisfactory. I even have to put effort and time into making a ham and cheese sandwich to be semi-happy with it. Maybe if I turn off the cooking shows now and then, I can get back to the simpler things I enjoys scarfing down before.

... Although, I do make the best damned ham and cheese, if I do say so myself.

Shakespeare behind the wheel

I have a confession to make. I have road rage. Bad. I have been known to use words that aren't said in polite company, combine them in new and unthought of ways, and sometimes invent my own. Many a friend with straight hair has stepped out of my car with an afro due to the heat of my anger. It's a spectacle to say the least.

Now, I know what my triggers are. Well, what my trigger is. Stupidity. Let me explain. Attempting a right turn with no signal? Not smart, but forgivable. Attempting a right turn from the left lane with no signal? Flames shoot from my mouth. Speeding up and passing instead of yielding when entering the highway? Irritation, but no real harm done. Maintaining your current speed while staying parallel to the car that has the right of way until one of you is forced to slam on the brakes and let the other one pass? I break my steering wheel from the effort of trying to set you on fire with my mind.

When I have passengers in the car, it gets worse, shockingly enough. At that point, it's no longer solely my life that is in jeopardy, it's also my friends/family/random hillbilly hitchhiker. And if my brother, whom I am already freakishly over protective of, is in the car, heaven help the stupid that day. I have found myself freaking out more and more as my "parenting instinct" enhances. Which invariably leads to me calling a person something that translates out to "devious burglar of a part of the female anatomy". Which invariably leads to me telling my brother to never repeat what he just heard. Something he has so far stuck to.

And people wonder why I chain-smoke while I drive...