Free to say what I want, any old time.

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54)and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.

I tend to dwell on shit. My family, my life, the fact that my little brother has two inches on me. But reflection only goes so far in this world. That’s why I have been forcing myself to take action. To explore the great unknown. I was a pretty boring mother fucker before I started this blog. And at times, I still am. Today, being one of those times.

I thought I would break narrative and take a moment to reflect on my current state-of-mind. There have been some inspired comments filled with insight, structure and support. They allow me to go places I might not explore under my own pretense. They remind me that although these are missions, I do have certain responsibilities to myself and others. They remind me that I am as much human as I am guinea pig.

Over the past few weeks, I have secured a gainful respect for the gay lifestyle. Reliving the coming out days has made me very self-reflective. My main goal for this time with my parents was to not desensitize a serious situation by being haphazard in my efforts. But rather, to see where something like this would take me. Because, when I was in the heart of the coming out circus with my parents, I couldn’t help to think about the people who do this out of necessity. Sure, their parents probably didn’t try to convert them with porn and golf, but family dysfunction aside, they didn’t have the caveat in my possession. I wasn’t gay.

By being able to relive and document my experiences here, I have been able to get through a trying period, relatively intact. I weed through the pain to find the humor. That is the beauty of self-publishing. It is a natural course to non-obscured self-expression.

But, I have no intention of allowing anyone to come between the words in my head and the words on the page. For Christ’s sake, how often do you get to say exactly what is on your mind? How often are you allowed the courage to talk about your fears, to talk about your blogcrushes, to talk about your laundry? How often do you get to live life through words?

Personally speaking, if anyone wants mine, they need to come here to get them. Because my words are free. They are personal. They are real.

They are my life.

And words like these do not belong next to a Chanel ad or a table of contents. They do not deserve to be slayed by the ill-gotten hand of an editor looking to paint a picture that is less dreary, less reflective. Less fucking offensive. It’s a brave new world of non-commercial expressionism, and bloggers are leading the way.

Let’s get the fuck out of here and do some laundry, eat some chinese and tell the world every dreary and God-awful detail. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a blogcrush to attend to.