Friday, July 17, 2009

When There are No Words

Thank God I was warned about this before, because if the first time I saw this was in the break room at work, I would have just embarrassed myself.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Nobody Likes You When You're 23

Nobody Likes You When You're 23

I hate birthdays.

I love other people's birthdays -- the parties, the drinks, the mingling, the celebration -- but I hate my birthday. Maybe it's because it's in the summer, so I never had the joy of celebrating it with classmates. Maybe because I'm a twin, so it never felt like my own. Maybe it's because ever since I was 20 I was convinced that I was too damn old to go after my goals, even when I didn't always know what they were.

23 is not old, of course, and I don't look a day over 17, but it reminds me that time is measured. At 20, I was in between my Wisconsin years, and I remember being unsure about life but I still had a zest for it -- the depressive episode didn't start until the following August. By 21 I was ready to move to New York, but I had been depressed for a good 11 months at that point and I didn't feel [i]anything[/i] by that point. By 22 I had fucked up the New York thing and had recently moved back home, peeing in a cup so I could get rehired at Walgreens. Now I am 23, and I am still at home, because instead of saving money for an apartment I blew it all on a year-long gym membership for Operation Get that Shit Tight.

I haven't decided how I feel about 23. 21 is your first year of legal drinking age in America, and you spend the whole year bar-hopping and feeling young, and the bartenders give you free tokens because you are cute and a good tipper. 22 still feels young and it's a fun number with the matching digits. 23 is weird. It's a prime number, but I don't feel like I'm in my prime. By my next prime number I will be 29, and if I am still living at home it will be in an urn.

I am hoping that 23 will be when my life makes sense, when I stop having fear and regret and instead have courage and gusto, even if I found a wrinkle under my left eye yesterday.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

On Crushing on Personal Trainers

Remember three months ago when I started at the gym, and I worked out with Doug, who was all muscles and dimples and was like "Jake Jake Jake c'mon c'mon c'mon UGGGGGHHHH" but then he left after I signed my life away for a year of personal training? Lately I have been working out with Douche Trainer, who is younger than me and calls me Cagefighter and I have grown to like him as a person but I still don't think I'm attracted to him, unless we were ever in a college bar in Dinkytown.

Anyway, I worked out with a DIFFERENT trainer today, named Southie. Southie has blonde hair and a very nice smile and is also a certified nutritonist. Even though I was not a fan of the exercises Southie would make me do, I was getting the trainer to laugh at my jokes.

"You're so funny," Southie says. When I mention that 3 P.M. is early, Southie asks if I drink a lot.

While we are in the aerobics gym, Douche Trainer walks in with his current client, a fortysomething housewife-type! "Keep it goin', Cagefighter," Douche Trainer says.
"Shut UP," I say, because I don't think I like him which means I do, but I am not in love with him the way I am now in love with SOUTHIE.
"Jake's my new favorite client," Southie laughs, and Southie has a really tight body.
"Thanks for laughing me so much," Southie says when I leave the gym.

I suppose I should stop delaying the point, which is that SOUTHIE IS A GIRL. I'm confused.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

On Life

I made this new blog so I would write in it, and now I never do. I suck at life.

I am learning there is more to life than talking to porn stars on Twitter. I do not know why I do it. In my defense, I only talk to straight porn stars, as if somehow this makes me less of a loser. Truth be told I do not enjoy a lot of gay porn because I either obsess about how the performers got into the business, or about how they got those eight-pack stomachs when I am still working on mine. And really, it does not mean shit that James Deen builds jokes upon my jokes or that Mick Blue told me I am two years old, but it makes the day go by.

I turn 23 in two weeks. I still feel 13. I work at the mall. I live at home (I didn't ALWAYS live at home, shit just happens). Cute boys piss me off. I still say "boys" and not "men". I don't want to do R-rated things with these boys, it is just that when they come into my work and flirt with me but they know I am this way and they are that way, it confuses the hell out of me and makes me want to eat a lot of mozarella sticks. For the past week I feel as if I have been on this roller coaster and my emotions and feelings go up-down up-down up-down and I think I just want to get off for a little bit.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

On Tanning

I'm having an identity crisis. For the past week or so, I have been obsessed with the idea of tanning.

And most people would decide, instincitvely, to go to the tanning booth or not. But I am Jakey, and therefore I have to internalize all of this into something much greater.

I have always been pale. I knew this as a child, when I was fixated on the olive skin of a Black Irish classmate named Danny (I would call him "Tanny" as a nickname), and when I was at a pool party for a friend's birthday and he, at age nine, told me "Go in the sun, Jacob! You're white as a sheet!"

I signed up for a gym recently (I am paying way too much for personal training services, which means I won't move out of my parents' house until I'm 30, but I will get that shit tight). I am enjoying the results I am getting, but maybe I will never be satisfied. Everytime I see my arms in the giant mirrors I cringe at how pasty I am compared to everyone else.

Alas, here is where a moral dilemma comes into play. I was friends with a douchebag once. He was in the famousphere of Hollywood, where apperance is everything, and I understand that. He was also a gay man living in a world of masculine ideals and, in this world, you had to be a certain way to be happy. "If you want to ever make it to California," he once told me, "You have to be tan and buff."


And I'm not fine with that, but if I do go tanning, then am I making him right, by subscribing to this beauty myth? And what if I do it wrong and show up at work looking like an oompa-loompa? It all greatly confuses me.