“That doesn’t mean anything, and that’s bullshit to say.”
“You know what? Fine. I can’t hate on that. But how about breaking up with your boyfriend online?”
“You don’t even know if that was real or not.”
“Either fucking way, that’s cold. Why would you even want to pretend like that was okay?”
“I think people put too much weight into that. So what? Everything online is fake anyway.”
“Some people use social media to find community and to find a voice, to amplify people who are oppressed, so they are heard. You can’t just act like the internet is some toilet for you to piss in.”
“I don’t owe anyone anything, and I think it was smart to see something real online.”
“So it was real.”
“Yeah, so what?”
“So that’s fucking terrible! You broke someone’s heart just for the fucking likes!”
“YouTube is my career, okay? I needed to do that. It’s not like every job is always so straight forward.”
“But you could have some integrity or maybe some fucking talent. That’s why you posted your fucking breakup online, because you’re so desperate to be someone without doing any of the work. By stepping on someone’s heart. Being a little prick won’t bring you any happiness.” He slammed the beer and walked away.
I gave him the finger until he was out of sight. I looked at my middle finger in the air; it looked much smaller than I assumed it was.
I took a photo of myself with my middle finger.
Fuck it. #gayboy #instagay #life #love #haters #toronto #fuckit
I hailed a cab, jumped in, and slammed the door.
“You like going to these kind of bars?”
DATE: ____________
Ryan sat on the park bench three feet from the beach concession stand. He was a few minutes early, but he was making sure he would be able to enjoy the sunset on the Seawall.
____________ was running late. The sun balanced just above the ocean.
He apologized for being so late. The sun dipped into the ocean.
He wasn’t going to come. Ryan held his phone in his pocket. Anticipated the phone’s vibration.
I LOVE PIE
“Ruin a sunset.”—Dina Del Bucchia
It’s sunset. I dig my feet into the sand, sip cold wine. Not great wine, but good wine. We share some hummus and bread. Not good hummus and bread; actually, terrible hummus and bread. I look up to see his smiling face.
“This is perfect,” Darryl says.
I shake my head in a way that says yes and no at the same time.
It’s this sunset.
He rolls to his side and asks for a sunset kiss. I agree. I’ve been kind of waiting for this kiss for a while. As his lips press against mine, I notice his tongue pushing quickly through, and then I feel his tongue searching my mouth. Intensely engaging my mouth, almost cleaning my teeth.
“Perfect,” he whispers.
I nod.
He takes a giant bite out of some bread and hummus and rolls back into a sigh of delight, “Oh, yum!” He smiles at me. “This is so good. I can’t believe how good this is. Do you love it?”
I nod in a way that says yes and no at the same time.
He takes out his phone to take a photo of the sunset. I take my phone out too. He snaps a shot of the sunset, and I snap a shot of him taking a photo of the sunset.
“We should go back to my place,” he whispers.
We get back to his place, and everything is clean. The bathroom is spotless, the kitchen is bare, and all the furniture has perfect clean lines. Clean, knee-cutting, shin-breaking lines.
I push him quickly to the bed.
He crawls up my body, smiling, kissing me from toe to face. When he reaches midway, he looks up and says, “oh, yum.”
I think about hummus and bread. I think about my genitals being replaced by hummus and bread. Like I could lie down at any Mediterranean restaurant and customers would say, “What a great appetizer for the whole family, and it’s vegan friendly!” I keep myself quiet. Push the thought out of my head. He backs away from a kiss and sighs. “What are you thinking about?”
I smile and say, “You.”
He puts his head onto my chest and quickly falls asleep. I take out my phone and look up the etymology of the word “yum.” “Yum” is just a word; it’s like any other word. Merriam-Webster agrees that “yum” is a word. In fact, “yum-yum” is also correct word usage.
We wake up the next day, the Saturday of Pride weekend. He’s in the kitchen singing, I’m in the bed and can smell coffee.
“I put some coffee out for you, I know you like coffee.”
“That’s really nice of you,” I say.
“What do you want to do today?”
“Well, it’s Pride weekend, so I was planning on hiding in a straight bar all weekend.”
“And miss Pride?” He looks at me as if I am joking.
“Of course. I always skip Pride. It’s an awful corporate shill masquerading as a festival of equality.”
“But what about the good it does?”
“Yeah, I’m sure it does a lot of good. A bunch of suburbanites looking at us like we’re in a fucking zoo. Or all the hard-bodied men in speedos wearing glitter and logos.”
“I don’t know, that sounds a bit judgmental.”
I feel a sting in my gut and go quiet. “Fine. I’ll go with you.”
The Pride parade comes and goes like a series of commercials fuelled by beer. We slip through beer gardens that turn morning into night and end up at a rooftop Pride party, drinking in the rest of the evening. Darryl is hopping from group to group, engaging everyone in conversation.
I can see him talking to my ex and my other most-recent ex. He’s deeply invested in the conversation. Ryan comes up behind me.
“Are all your exes finally starting a support group?”
“Fuck off.”
“Calm down, queen, it was just a joke.”
A girl stumbles up to me. She looks as if she is having a panic attack.
“Are you okay?”
“No, I don’t feel okay.”
I grab her and pull her into a hug. She calms down.
“You’re high, right?”
“Yes.”
I rub her back until she calms down, tell her she is just feeling weird because of the drugs, and it will all melt away.
I leave her for a moment to refill my beer. My ex pours me a beer. I smile; he looks apologetic.
“I forgive you,” I say.
“What?” He doesn’t hear me—or believe me, I can’t tell which.
“Nothing,” I mumble.
*
“This movie is really interesting,” Darryl says.
“What do you think is interesting about it?” I ask.
“I like how it’s kind of weird, and also that they are spiritually connected to these animals.”
“It’s about capitalism.”
“I don’t think so.”
“No, it’s obviously an allegory for capitalism.”
“I think it can be about that and about animal spirituality.”
I can see the disappointment in his face again. I try to change the subject to Pride, but he becomes quiet. I stay quiet as well. The sound of traffic below is the only conversation between us. I think about the cars, and how the exhaust rises and becomes part of the air we breathe and the dark sticky coating around our lungs. He asks me if I had fun last night. I lie and say yes.
“What was your favourite part?
“I don’t know, the music?”
“Why are you saying that as a question?”
“Because I don’t really know. I can see everyone enjoying the music, and I’m sure it’s good. I just don’t think I’m having fun like everyone else. They all stay out late and get high and dance and I just am not good at those things.”
“It’s easy, just dance. Or maybe have some drinks!”
“But I try that.
I can drink and drink, and I get more annoyed. The more drunk I am, the more I hate everything around me.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“It feels fucking terrible. Then I get jealous. I look around and see everyone happy, and I feel so miserable that I don’t know what that is. I can’t be like you, no matter how hard I try. You love everything.”
“I guess I do love everything … and I love that about myself.”
“I know. I really and honestly am happy for you, but I hate everything, and I hate that about myself.” I kiss him and tell him that I have to leave. He frowns, but even his frown looks like a smile.
*
When I get home, I sit on the couch and try to run through a list of things I love. I love beer, but then again, consuming beer makes me sad or angry. My roommate walks out of her room.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Thinking about stuff I love.”
“Ha, you hate everything. Wait, what about cake?”
“Nah, I fucking hate cake. Too sweet.”
“Well, you lost me.”
When she heads back into her room, something deep in my gut tells me that I need to bake pies, and not just one or two, but eight pies. I make a raspberry and rhubarb, a strawberry, and peach pies.
“I love pies!” I yell out.
My roommate comes out of her room and stares at my pie baking. She stares for a long time without saying anything.
“Why the fuck are you baking pies?”
“Because I like pie.”
“But since when do you bake pies?”
“Now! I bake pies now. This is my new thing. I bake pies, and I give them out to people, because I love pie.”
“This is weird.”
“It’s not weird. I love pies. I’m a pie person.”
By the end of the evening I have baked all eight pies and cooled them off. I take a picture of them and post them online. It gets three likes and someone comments, “you bake pies?”
*
I meet with an ex for lunch. The patio is covered, the sound of cars splashing rain is only lightly dulled. The gas heater warms the space. Uncertain why I am doing this, I panic; small goosebumps rise on my arms. I am twenty minutes early to make sure I’m prepared for him. A cold sweat covers my face. I look up and down the street for him. He texts that he is going to be ten minutes late. I order a third beer and quickly guzzle it down. When he arrives, I pretend that I am checking my phone.
“Why are we meeting here?” he asks.
“I baked you a pie,” I explain.
He stares at me in confusion. “Since when do you bake pies?”
“I bake pies now, okay? Why is that so surprising to people? I look like the type of guy who bakes pies, and I bake pies now. This is my thing.”
“You know I’m dating someone now.”
“Then share the fucking pie with him, I don’t care.”
“It’s a pretty small pie. I’m not sure how we’re going to share it.”
“It’s a nice gesture, okay? It’s a nice thing I’m doing for you. Just say thank you.”
“Are you drunk?”
“I don’t know. Probably. Are you high right now?”
“A little bit.”
We spend the rest of the meal talking about the first time we met. He reminds me of the time we had sex in the alleyway.
“Did you hear about Raymond?” he asks.
“No.”
“He’s doing porn now.”
“That’s so fucking tacky.”
“I always forget how judgmental you are.”
I go silent then excuse myself to go to the bathroom. In the bathroom, I can see the sweat covering my forehead. I remind myself, “You’re okay.” I wipe the sweat from my forehead and walk back to the table.
He brings the conversation back to our sexual encounters over the years and gets that glazed look in his eyes. The bill arrives, and the total comes to $69.69. He laughs at the number and tells our server that we were just talking about this time we were having sixty-nine. She gets uncomfortable and I head off to the bathroom again.
When I get back, he’s got his keys in his hands and asks me to come back to his place. I pretend like I probably won’t but then agree to a quick nightcap. When we get there, he pushes me onto his bed. I don’t bother pretending to resist.
When we’re finished, he rinses off in the bathroom. “You gotta go, though,” he yells. “My boyfriend is coming back soon.”
I nod and grab my clothes. He walks naked over to the pie and takes large bites out of it.
“Good pie, though, eh?”
*
He has my bike. He has my bike, and I need to figure out if I can be with someone as happy about the world as he is. I drive down to his apartment, and I bring along the pies I baked. The first usage of “yum” dates back to the late nineteenth century. It wasn’t popularized until mid-twentieth century. According to some research, the word emerged from the sound of smacking lips. This is debatable.
He takes the pie and quietly eats it in front of the television. I slowly eat my pie as well, looking at him. I can’t seem to finish mine; it tastes old, or like Styrofoam with a hint of jam. He’s quiet and contemplative. He finishes the pie, puts the empty tin on the table, and walks to the kitchen.
“You didn’t say if you enjoyed the pie or not,” I say.
He slowly turns to me with a look of confusion and then a look of despair. “I. Loved. It.” He makes sure to break in between each word. “It was honestly one of the most delicious pies I have ever tasted,” he says, like he’d been drowning and that pie pulled him from the ocean.
I’m thinking about how the pie is already a day old, the crust already soggy at the base. Its flakiness turning to mush. “Oh,” is all I can say.
“You sound disappointed.”
“I just thought maybe you didn’t like it, and you kind of love everything.”
“I don’t love everything.”
“No, you kind of do.”
“I hate stuff too!” he says cheerfully.
“No, you don’t. That’s sweet, but you really don’t.”
He rubs his hands on my back.
“I do! I hate racism.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“I hate inequality!”
“Still not really something that counts.”
“Oh, I really hate spinach! Well, only the weird feeling it gives your teeth after you eat it. But, you know what? When you cook it, that feeling isn’t there. I do love cooked spinach.”
I kiss him, and he pulls me in. He pulls my pants down, and I try to shut my mind off. He has me against the kitchen sink.
He looks up at me and smiles. “Oh, yum.”
Hummus and bread. My genitals turn to hummus and bread, stale unimpressive hummus and bread. I close my eyes, but everything is hummus and bread. The sunset is hummus and bread, the wine and cheese are hummus and bread, the plants and the beautiful ocean are hummus and bread. The pies? The pies are just hummus and bread pies baked in tinfoil pans that will find themselves in a hummus and bread landfill that will clog up this hummus and bread earth.
“I can’t do this,” I blurt out. He looks disappointed but not surprised. “I’m just not a happy positive person, and I just can’t do this.”
“Why don’t you try.”
“I don’t know. I just can’t.”
“I could make you happy.”
“You really couldn’t. And it would make me more miserable to watch you try.”
He nodded in a way that said yes but really meant no.
The word “yum-o” was popularized by a television show starring Rachael Ray. The band Ohio Express had a hit song with the lyrics “yummy yummy yummy, I got love in my tummy.” There is a theory that the sweetness of yams is potentially where the word came from. On Thanksgiving, yams are typically served. My ex used to bake me yams with marshmallows that I pretended to like. I would eat as little as possible t
o save room for pie. He was always very good at baking pie.
He looked at me. “What are you thinking about?”
“Pie.”
“See, you love something. That’s a start. What else?”
i was showing you where my friends were getting married, and you corrected me, said this was the hotel where we used to go for brunch. you drove the car in the wrong direction because the last time we drove up this hill, the car flipped over. this time, we were on a giant cliff and you kept trying to move the car, but we were stuck. the silver car was at the edge, just about to fall into the water, and we had to leave it there or else we might fall in. somehow time leapt ahead, and zio showed us where the car was now. it shrunk and was frozen on the water. when we got into the car, the ice it had settled on broke off, and we floated into the ocean.
CRAIG HAS VERY NICE SKIN
My skin is fitting weirdly on my body today. I woke up this morning, and it felt looser than usual. When I checked the mirror, I could see that there was extra skin drooping from my eyes, some folding around my butt, some gathered around my elbows.
I usually have someone fix this. It would be very embarrassing if my skin were just to fall off. When I was young, my skin was too tight, and everyone would notice. I would make up excuses like, “I have an eating disorder” or “I’m just too big for my body.” Now my excuses are, “I’m too tired,” and “I’m getting old.” It’s becoming harder and harder to keep my skin firmly covering my body. Taping my skin tight with duct tape only works under my clothes, and Botox only lasts so long before my skin begins to loosen all around my face.
Craig was coming over tonight, so I needed to figure out the best way to quickly tighten up my skin. I made several calls, but it was impossible to book an appointment. I decided to wear a hat that sat low on my head. I lined the hat with duct tape so that it would hold my forehead skin up.
Craig arrived early, which wasn’t like him. He had also been drinking. He came very close to my face for a kiss and then stopped. “What’s up with your forehead? You look surprised.” I stared at him until he changed the subject.
Craig has very nice skin. His body is the same age as my human coverings, but his is perfect and fits tightly around all of his body.
Everything Is Awful and You're a Terrible Person Page 4
