Loring Park Episode #13: September's Coming Soon

Typically on the 13^th episode of a TV show’s freshman season, loose ends are tied up because a show is initially only ordered for 13 episodes before the network decides to give it a full 22-episode run. Hell, if this were a cable show, we’d be at the season finale anyway. You would expect something eventful to happen in Episode 13.

I turned down sex three times in one night last week. That should let you know where this is going.

Loring Park Episode #12: Jersey Chaser, Drunk Facebooker, Bad Picker-Upper

The Gay World Series is in town, and as a result my checking account is practically subzero. Jersey chasing is a sport in itself.

But before all that, I went to Peter's apartment in St. Paul. It was a lovely chill night of wine-drinking, and Peter is a delicious source of gossip as he knows all of the names I drop. We are opposites, he and I. At 19, he is already "over" the club scene as he went through his bar-star phase when he was ridiculously young but with a fake ID and connections. I, on the other hand, am 26 but think it's all new and exciting, and therefore have the same wide-eyed lust as a silly, naive, high school junior would. Nevertheless, I instantly had to tell him of my past weekend and summer of love, and his opinions were scorching and hilarious.

"You're friends with Taylor?!"
"What? He was nice to me! He let me have some of his drink!"
"I don't know. He acts like he's hot shit."
"He is kind of hot shit, though. If I looked like that, I wouldn't be nice to anybody."
"Wait, is that PHILIP?!"
"Yes! I don't talk to him, though."
"That bitch is MY age! He goes tanning way too much. He has pock marks everywhere."
"But look at his buff friend! I had to get a picture with him just to prove to myself that I actually met him!"

At this point, I think Chuck had rolled his eyes so far backward they made marks in his brain. I talked about possibly being promoted at work, and  Peter and I discussed name brands for an hour, which made Chuck roll his eyes back AGAIN. I slept on the couch under a blanket with hot shirtless men on it (Peter only has the best things), and in the morning I realized that my car had been towed.

Apparently, you can't park in front of a driveway in St. Paul.

Chuck drove me to the impound lot, rubbing my leg in support and constantly apologizing, but I really wasn't that distraught. I mean, yes, it sucks, and it's another month that The Money Fairy won't come, but when something like that happens, you have two ways to react to it: You can feel like the world is against you and is ending, or you can realize that shit happens. Also, I have a Discover card.

                  ***

Loring Park Episode #11: My Summer of Love

It is my third month in the city.

It is my summer of love.

I don’t put out, but it’s still my summer of love.

Love can mean different things, for example. I met a neighbor girl a month ago at the 19 Bar. She has air conditioning and an adorable kitten. She stays up until 5 in the morning like I do. She moved here from Green Bay, didn’t realize she was in the gayborhood, but we all have adopted her. Her posse is a bit different than mine, but one of her friends, Eric, is a hilarious fedora-sporting African-American gentleman who lives a block away and occasionally bumps into me at The Saloon. We share a love for old-school Mariah Carey and singing about a hot guy, “He can gettttt ittttttttt!”

A lot of them could get it this weekend. But we’ll get to that later.

I stopped at my parents’ house after work on Friday night to drop off some mail and get my Entertainment Weeklys (they still deliver them there! Soooo frustrating). Kevin texted me to let me know that he just bought chocolate cake flavored vodka. How sinful is that? But I was going to be an adult about Kevin this time. I wasn’t going to drop everything and drive to the suburbs. I said I would call him when I got home, because we are friends and nothing more and that is what friends do. Italics.

“My apartment is a sweat hut,” I explained at 10:15 P.M. The fan in the living room read 98 degrees. “Wait, that’s not right, is it?”
“Sweat hut?” he asked.
“Y’know, like they have on those resorts,” I explained.
“A sweat lodge!” he exclaimed.
“Yes!” I said. “Anyway, I’m living in my sweat lodge. It’s like doing bikram yoga only I don’t need to do anything.”
“Hmm,” he said, and then he slipped into that damn fake Southern accent. “That sounds tempting. Well, I just bought a new bottle of chocolate cake vodka.”
Awkward silence.
“This is when you invite me over, Kevin,” I directed. This was 50% because I still like him but the other 50% was really because I wanted to sleep in air conditioning.
He did, and I told him I would be there in half an hour. Because this is me, it took me 45 minutes just to shower, throw together an overnight bag, and leave my apartment. On my way to his estate, it started STORMING, almost torrentially, and that is when I realized I left my apartment windows open. The route there directed me to eight different exits, and I panicked more as the storm got stronger. When I drove into his town, sirens were blaring, and I wasn’t sure if I should have been terrified or turned on.

I arrived at his building and a birthday party/quincenera was going on and a man let me in. “You’re in my building?” Kevin said when he called me. “Only an hour. Not bad. You’re just walking around randomly? That’s smart.”
He was right in front of me then, on the second floor of this suburban palace, and it was the first time I had actually seen him in a month and a half. We’re good now, we’re normal and platonic and drama-free, but I would be lying if I still didn’t feel a little nauseous. His tight tee-shirt effortlessly showed off his swimmer’s build, the well-developed biceps and the slim waist, and I calmed myself down with Absolut Citron.

We played video games. That’s not a metaphor like board games. It was actually a very enjoyable, Monopoly-meets-Mario Party type of game, and I learned a lot about things like stock prices and equity and other grown-up things that Kevin is obsessed with. At 28, his mother is financially dependent on him, and that is when I understood why he is always talking about things like 401(k)s and retirement savings. The conversation made me want to call my mother and tell her that I had two interviews for grown-up jobs and I promise to stop being a screw-up by the time I am 28 so that she can live in my basement.

I did the tutorial for the video game while he read boring work things. He chastised me for not using a coaster, and when I responded with something snarky, he responded with “Aww, you’re trying to be cute, aren’t you?” I was sitting almost off the couch because I need glasses but I am in denial, and he forcefully grabbed my thigh and shoved me so I would lean back, and I felt strange tingly feelings in my urrrrea.

He told me that Joey thinks I cried last week because I had a bad show. Awkward. Also, How dare you? I fucking killed it at Campus Pizza last week. He explained he was self-conscious about his teeth because he was in an accident last fall and the flipper finally came off, and I won the Hypocrite of the Year Award when I told him that he shouldn’t surround himself with superficial people.

We went to his closet to get a board game, but he only has ridiculously nerdy RPG-type ones, or Risk, and I really hate Risk. As I was rambling about something ridiculous, he grabbed me by the waist and made out with me. I tried to push him into his room and onto the bed, but he countered me with his superior upper body strength. Then he continued the conversation as if nothing had happened.

Boys are so dumb.

We finally went to bed at 5 A.M., and he demanded mutual shirtlessness. Thank goodness I remembered to shave my chest. I did not pursue sexy time because I hadn’t Naired my legs. We took melatonin, and that morning I had three different dreams about being in bed with him. In the second one we wrestled. I should be so lucky.

I justified going out on Saturday night because we have a major event at work next weekend and therefore I won’t be at The Saloon until the next paycheck! Oh, horrors!

It’s Gay High School. I know I always say it, but it’s true. Most (but not all) gay men did not do high school the "normal" way -- we didn't openly date, we didn't gossip about who we liked, we didn't unabashedly flirt -- and thus we live it out in our twenties. Let's just say I have an embarrassing amount of school spirit, and I just want everyone to sign my damn yearbook.

Nights blur together. Jared met me there, but he didn’t get there until 1:15, so before his arrival, I mingled. I ran into Eric and he allowed me to hang out with his posse. South Dakota was there and didn’t try to make out with me, and I wasn’t sure if I should have been offended or not. Star Quarterback was brooding. Gay Oprah was there oozing fabulousness. I have Drunk Facebooked half this bar!

Just like in Episode One, I left with South Dakota to go to the secret warehouse after-party. It was different this time because I actually knew where it was, and I was able to convince myself that I belonged. I’m not an A-lister, but I’m certainly up to a C-minus. We were in a group of five, and everyone else was a music major because they kept saying their names while clapping the syllables. Ta tah tee tee tah. JA-KEY.

We arrived, my name wasn’t on the list (they have a list now?! Someone has upped the ante at The Place) and I might have overpaid, but it was all worth it once I got to ride the freight elevator with a man covered in balloons. He explained that tonight’s theme was aquatic. What?? Theme?? In line for the bathroom, I was next to a woman dressed like Kate Winslet from Titanic, and she explained that her house turned 100 years old so she wanted to dress like it was 1912. Clever! I love uptown people.

It was an “Under the Sea” theme, and people covered themselves in body paint. A lovely young woman was giving impromptu pole dancing lessons. Jim Wilson was in his underwear. If I had a body like Jim Wilson, I would go grocery shopping in swim trunks. All the local bartenders were there, and I ran into someone who I met at my very first job from the movie theater when I was 16! I was proud of myself for knowing the only heterosexual male in the venue.

Eric was there, too, and his friend got body painted. After an hour of mingling, I totally forgot there was a roof! Last time I was here it was raining, but tonight it was beautiful. I walked up by myself and absorbed the skyline and took in the moment. This lasted all of two seconds, because then I saw Philip.

Philip is an A-lister that I do not speak to. You could say Philip is good-looking, but that is an understatement. Philip won the genetic lottery, boys and girls. Philip is so good-looking that I, to quote Mariah, get kind of hectic inside. Jet black hair! Cobalt blue eyes! Ridiculously white teeth! Naturally olive skin! A birthdate in the 1990’s! Liam once went on a date with him a few years ago, and they went to a roller rink and held hands! I was so jealous when he told me that I almost kicked him out of my apartment.

Anygay (my new favorite segue), Philip was there with two male friends and a beautiful girl, and they asked me to take their picture. It took me three times and none of them turned out well. Deeeeee-lissssssttttttt. The boys were all nice though, and one of them had a crazy athletic build. In a world of twinks, he was strapping muscles and granite, and, to steal a phrase from Liz Lemon, I wanted to go to there.

At 5:30 AM, it was finally time to go, and South Dakota and I took a cab home. South Dakota! The first boy I ever made out with post-moving! Awwwwwww. I still hadn’t Naired my legs. Was I supposed to put out?

“Just so you know,” South Dakota said, “When we get there I’m gonna immediately pass out.”
“That’s okay,” I smiled. What a relief! We stripped down to our underwear and he wore neon green Andrew Christians.

Jared called the next morning at 8:30. “I lost my phone!” he cried. “I’m outside of your apartment! Let me in!” I buzzed him in, and he entered my apartment looking like he had just got back from the club. He was awake, polished, and energetic.

“JAKEY!” he cried. “I lost my phone! Loring Park is having an art festival and I slept in a tent with these artists! They were so weird! But they were so nice to me! I could have been killed! Where did you go last night?” He kept rambling until he noticed that South Dakota was nearly naked and in the bed with me. “Oh!” Jared cried. “Oh! Ohhhhhh!!!!!!!! JAKEY!”

“Jared, don’t be ridiculous!” I cried with mock embarrassment. I am half naked in bed with a cute boy, how humiliating! The Rhoda Morgenstern to my Mary Richards sashayed out of my apartment (yes, I have decided that I get to be the Mary in our friendship and that never happens), and then I overslept. Oh no!!! I drove South Dakota home as is proper faux one-night stand etiquette, but then I took the wrong freeway! Must you be so confusing, uptown?!

I went to work with that post fake-sex glow. I had slept with Kevin and South Dakota two nights in a row! Granted, we didn’t do anything, but still! How exciting! My summer of love! A man from the Internet wanted to come over and play board games, but I still hadn’t Naired my legs. Then I ordered Jimmy John’s and subsequently locked myself out of my apartment building when I went to retrieve it. That would so not happen to Mary Richards.

I was exhausted! Did I even want to go out? Was this what it is to be old? Should I stay in? But I couldn’t go out next weekend! I had to! It was my duty!

I waltzed into The Saloon and turned the world on with my smile. I immediately ran into Davis, who I went to Stout with! He was there with Jim Wilson and I felt awkward and out of place. Then I realized that as he and Jim were sitting at the corner of the bar, and I was now next to Davis’s friend Taylor, who is tall and of ambiguous descent. Taylor had a million-dollar smile and an American Eagle polo. He was very attractive, but I wasn’t intimidated at all, because I was able to charm him with my wit and grace.

I am so full of shit, y’all. Our initial five minutes were like this:

Davis: “This is my best friend, Taylor. Taylor, this is Jakey.”
Taylor (very nice! Very sweet!): “Hi. Good to meet you!”
Jakey: “……………….” (stands awkwardly next to the cute boy for five minutes until I down my first Three Olives lemonade. YAYYY FOR TWO FOR ONES)

Then I summoned the courage to ask Taylor what he was drinking. His poison was tequila sunrise, and he let me taste it.
“What straw should I use?” I asked.
“I don’t care,” he smiled. Then I asked for his hand in marriage.

I went back to the porch and Eric and his fedora were there again! Yayy!!! We discussed the “Daydream” album and how he is often drawn to skinny white boys as his sidekicks. “We’re a hoot,” I explained.

I walked back inside and Davis and Taylor were talking to a girl who was gorgeous. She had long black hair, popping lip gloss and a glittered piercing under her lip. “You are beautiful,” I said. “And when a gay man tells you that, it’s the truth. We have no reason to lie about it.” She oozed sex. I wanted to make out with her.

“I want to make out with you,” Davis told her.
“Me too,” I said. But then Davis actually did make out with her! For like two minutes! It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen, but I was kind of disappointed because then that meant that I couldn’t make out with her. Davis is classy and handsome, but sloppy seconds is still sloppy seconds. Plus, I’m probably a horrible kisser compared to him. I know my strengths, people.

One of those strengths is schmoozing when I’ve had enough liquid courage! This doesn’t mean that I talked to Philip or Star Quarterback (though the latter and I had the most awkward staredown in front of the bathroom!). I did, however, walk to the back patio and schmooze with Philip’s friend, he of the football player build from the prior evening. He was filling out a blue Abercrombie & Fitch polo and he could gettttt ittttt.

He has family in Manhattan, lives in Madison, is 22, is 230 pounds of solid muscle, and had that magic black hair/blue eye combo that makes the girls melt. I kept trying to lift him up, but he wouldn’t have any of it. The bartender suggested I buy him a drink, but I made him flex his biceps first. I’m only human. I told him my real age. Life is short. I told him he is a gay unicorn and someone like him, an incredibly muscular ‘jock’ with beautiful eyes and dimples, is a very rare breed. I may have even used the term “conventionally attractive”. Life is still short.

We heard rumors of an after-party, but nothing happened, so Football Guy (what a great code name!), his friend and I went to my apartment because I knew Neighbor Girl would be up. She had her man friend over and gave us wine. While in the bathroom she told me she has a lump in her breast. Football Guy and his friend walked me home, and I sobbed hysterically. I called everyone I have ever met before one of my co-workers called me back at 4:30 in the goddamned morning. Boy, do I owe someone a fruit basket.

How does a 24-year-old woman have prospective breast cancer? Is it because I read What Remains by Carole Radziwell and thus I had cancer on the brain? Did I not hear her right? Was this lovely young woman so lonely that she had to create pathological lies for attention? Did she tell me because she had no one else to hear it for her? I thought of the young woman I met at Lush who also told me of her “lady cancer”. Bad things happen to good people. When they do, you question your faith, your God, your belief in concepts like grace, karma and fortune.

I texted Football Guy. He did not write back. Will I ever see him again? Was it all a dream? Thank goodness for Instagram. Neighbor Girl said she would call me today, but maybe the time is too ripe. I will see her at the 19, which does not count as going out.

I was supposed to go to a movie audition today but I totally forgot about it. Dammmmmitttttttttt. So much for my fake show business career. I am going to work at a Walgreen’s until I die. I went to dinner with Chuck and Devin at Psycho Suzi’s, and then I had to tell them about my summer of love. They made gentle fun of me for being such a Prudence McPrude. Chuck is older and wiser, and I told him about the Kevin drive-by kiss at his apartment. “It’s a control thing,” he surmised, and that is why you should always be friends with 31-year-olds who have seen silly boys come and go, when they had their own summers of love and ill-fated emotional affairs.

　

Loring Park Episode #10: My Hair is Full of Secrets

“Sometimes people compare gay men to teenage girls, and they are correct, I realize. I think the reason is because gay men didn’t get to express their crushes in high school.” -Augusten Burroughs, Dry

“So many activists say that Minneapolis needs a gay high school in order to prevent bullying. I just want everyone to know that there already *is* a gay high school. It’s on Hennepin Avenue, and it’s called The Saloon”. -Jakey Emmert, telling yuk ‘em ups to a crowds of at least a dozen, at your local watering hole or pizza place

My life briefly turned into Mean Girls this week. Valleyfair was having Gay Day on Saturday, and I planned to attend with Chuck and Peter. Liam didn’t have anyone to go with and asked if he could come with us provided he slept over Friday night, and I had a “more the merrier” attitude. Chuck and Peter didn’t quite feel the same way as they had planned it to just be the three of us, and for a strange moment I felt like Cady, in the scene when Gretchen and Karen are asking her what they’re going to do this weekend, and panic and excitement reaches her face as she asks:

- So, what are we doing this weekend?

- Yeah, what are we doing?

-Oh, I have to go to Madison with my parents.

-What...?

-We have tickets for this thing.

- What? -

What?

Was I the new queen bee?

Loring Park Episode #9: Are You There, Gay Oprah? It's Me, Jakey

Previously on "Loring Park": Lordy, Lordy, Jakey is 40!

I told myself that I wasn’t going out this week because I had gone out so often during my birthday weekend that I could have been put on a waiting list for a liver transplant. Liam invited me out to the 19 bar on Thursday, and I told myself that was fine, because the 19 doesn’t count. It’s a block away from my apartment, it’s cash only, and you don’t have to dress up.

Lawrence, Markie, and a few others joined us, and we all caught up on delicious gossip. For starters, it turns out that the man I made out with on my birthday is a sex offender and was busted in an FBI sting several years ago because he had gone to a hotel room in hopes of doing lascivious things to a 13-year-old boy.

That is awful.

I am having an identity crisis in which I, at 26, feel washed-up and decrepit, as I am no longer a twink, although I never felt confident when I was at my alleged peak of 19-21, and thus I feel that my ship sailed before it ever came in, and that older gay men in our culture are only sexualized if they are masculine and muscular, and when you are an aging twink you are just old and gross and weird. The fact that I apparently look young enough that the only person who was sexually interested in me was a pedophile is disturbing … but for someone in the identity crisis I'm in, it's also really, really flattering.

I will see you in hell.

Loring Park Episode #8: I Love Birthdees

I don't feel that old because this suit was from the kids' department. $90 DKNY before my discount, bitches.

In Which I Have a Nervous Breakdown

I had a nervous breakdown in the car today. There is nothing more narcissistic than writing about your mental health issues. It does not make you special.

Dashboard Confessional's "Stolen" played and I thought about college. How I was miserable my sophomore year, yet also the happiest, but then miserable again, because I knew that I couldn't stay. I could not stay because I did not have a driver's license. You cannot live in Menomonie without a driver's license. How will you go to Eau Claire for your internship? This is what I had convinced myself, anyway.

My mother and I saw "Magic Mike" the other day. This ties in, I swear. I told her of my Facebook status discussing how we were going to see it together, and how it got 10 likes. "Why do you always refer to me by my first name?" she asked. "Why don't you ever say 'my mother'? My brother always called my mother by her first name because he didn't like her and they had a horrible relationship."

What I wanted to say: Do we have to have this conversation now? We have gotten along better now than we have in 12 years. Do I really want to think about this when Channing Tatum is gyrating? You know I call you by your first name. This is nothing new. Why are you choosing now? I do it to Dad too and he never said that it bothered him, and then there was that night at Big Louie's when his friend Joe called me out on it and said if his son ever did that he would kick his ass, and Dad said "Yes, well, Joe, that's different, my friends actually respect me", and when I look back, I think that I, in character with being a passive-aggressive Cancerian, am still pissed off about that even though it was a year ago.

What I said: "Um, well, it's no secret that I have had Mommy Issues, but I started doing it around ten years ago as a way to emotionally distance myself. You know, that was when I ..."
"...Stopped liking me?" she said.
"I ... Oh, look, Erin Court!" I said as we passed the street that shares the name of my best friend.  "I miss her so much! Why is she in Haiti?
"Erin should live on Erin Court," my mother said.
"She is going to have four boys," I predicted. "No, she will have three boys and her life will be cake and then she will have an 'Oops' baby late in life and it will be a girl, and she will have no idea how to raise a girl and her daughter will drive her crazy."
"Yes, well," my mother said, "Life doesn't always turn out how you think it will."

We were driving to Wynnsong Cinemas. Six years ago, back when I had only known Channing Tatum from "She's the Man" (and MY DREAMS!), I had walked ten miles there from the Walgreens in St. Anthony to go see the midnight show because I *had* to see my husband's new movie at midnight and my mother would not let me take the car. I did not have a license to operate the car. I was 20 years old. At 20 years old, I decided I was old enough to drive anyway and not having a license was beside the point, because I was four years past 16 and it was really fucking ridiculous.

I was suicidal my entire sophomore year. Then I moved to New York City, which was supposed to save me, but I was still angry, and I spent every waking moment in the greatest city in the world being mad at my mother and wishing I was living in the "Henhouse", the home on 20th Avenue in Menomonie where my gal pals were all residing. Then I flunked out/quit Brooklyn College and everyone in my family, including myself, had the audacity to be surprised by my epic failure.

Then the iPod played "I Will Buy You a New Life" and I remembered when I was a freshman at Stout, and back then I was so stupid that I thought I was miserable even though the true misery would not come later, and I randomly finished a LiveJournal entry with "I moved in with the strangest guy/Can you believe he thinks that I am really alive?" Then I felt really poor. I am throwing myself a birthday party next week even though I technically cannot afford it. It is no one's fault but my own that I am poor. No one put a gun to my head and made me drop out of two different colleges (not counting the two seconds I spent at MCTC, and I actually paid for that tuition myself), nobody put a gun to my head and made me spend the first two years of my job constantly tardy and hung over while watching everyone else get promoted, and now nobody is putting a gun to my head and making me crabby and timid while watching everyone else get promoted. I never e-mailed that prospective talent agent because I didn't think I was good enough. I did not enter that national comedy contest because I didn't think I was good enough. I was in rehearsals for a play because I thought maybe I was good enough, but then after seven months of rehearsal the play got cancelled and then I realized that my hair is thinning and there was no chance in hell I could have played a 17-year-old anyway. XCel Energy claimed my check was bogus (whaaaatttt?), my computer crashed and burned, my car is death on wheels, my apartment is 1000 degrees and smells like cat pee BUT IT'S IN LORING PARK I WANTED TO BE A GAY BOY IN THE CITY, my point is that the essence of adulthood is that you can make all the plans you want for your life, but shit happens, and then you just have to figuratively roll with the shit until it turns into fertilizer.

Then the iPod played "That I Would Be Good" and then I just started swearing at the stupid thing. Really, iPod, really? And then I cried about Kevin, even though I said I wouldn't write about him anymore, but I lied, because I had a whorebox epiphany last night at The Saloon that he has probably not thought about me once in the past four weeks while I still think about him every day, and that is what hurt the most: Not that we were never physically intimate (unless spooning counts), not that he invited another boy over when I had driven to the suburbs to his apartment and was already drunk, not that Nora Ephron died a week after we had watched the first hour of "When Harry Met Sally...", not that I had felt tears in the back of my eyeballs when I sat on his couch because I could feel myself falling for him and knowing it wouldn't end well, I just didn't think it was gonna end that quickly and with no actual closure ... No! None of that! What had hurt the most was that he had ultimately meant much more to me than I ever did to him, and perhaps that is the essence of heartbreak.

"GET OVER HIM," Liam told me last night when we were at Lawrence's house (Lawrence was the host of the Recovery Party after Pride Weekend and is a Cancerian in all the best ways -- extroverted, outgoing, loving, and opens his home to anyone).
"I can't!" I cried. "He was my first."
"Oh my god," Liam's jaw dropped. "You were a virgin?"
"No, no, no, we never had sex," I explained. "I mean, he was like my first gay crush. I only fall for straight dudes, bartenders, or guys from the Internet. He was the first actual gay guy, in the flesh, who was on my team, who had been in my bed, and then dropped off the face of the earth."
"You've never dated?"
"No."
"Was this your first Pride?"
"Kind of. I went to the parade last year. But before that, no. When I was 21 and 22 I was moving in and out of New York, and then I would work all weekend...."
"Oh my god," Liam finally said. "When it comes to gay guys, you're like ..... 15."
"I know," I whimpered.
"It's okay," he said. "You look 12."

I kept crying when I was in my apartment. I looked at my phone and saw that I have over 200 contacts. I realized that, out of all 200, I did not know who to call. Then I cried harder. I called my parents' house but they didn't answer, which was probably merciful. I would have screamed and sworn. Nothing would have been resolved. My mother and I are fine. We are Scandinavian. We do not need to talk about issues and feelings and bullshit.

Life was never meant to be the Brooklyn Bridge.