one last time

I know that there is no such thing as one last time. If one is to quit something, he or she must do it immediately, like ripping off a Band-Aid off to minimize the pain. One of my close friends told me we always ask for one last time because sometimes gay men don’t like for things to be over, especially our youth. I’m preparing myself for a life change, like Maya Angelou whose mother turned to her one day and told her that she was going to be somebody, and Maya knew that if that was true, she would have to change, stop her life as she knew it and prepare. I’m trying to be a little more serious about my life or at least more sober. I feel like I spent the last five or six years, since I graduated college in some club fog with the flashing neon lights, pumping music, too many cocktails and pretty big dick boys. And when you’re having that much fun for six years, five or six times a week, you can become desensitized. I don’t know what feels good anymore. I used to be this good guy when I started college, so much trivial pursuit or word scrabble fun, outgoing, intelligent, museum fanatic, art house movie junkie, at every concert and traveling hostel king. I got caught up. I see the same people every week, have the same conversation with this drag queen, get drunk, end up in somebody’s bed, and so forth for five or six days a week. With a life full of debaucheries, of course I got fired from a lot of jobs from calling in two or three times a week. I don’t care about losing the jobs, the bad credit and bill collectors, fuck them, what I care about is now I have focus, understand what is that I’m suppose to be doing with my life, if I’m serious about becoming a novelist. I want out of the fog. So the next month, I’m going cold turkey. 28 days I tell myself, mostly because of the Sandra Bullock movie, but it’s also the fertile cycle, the chance for life to begin. I am more than my cute smile, tight jeans, flat stomach, phat ass and tempting dick. What if I am extra-ordinary, truly talented, and special? I know I am, or at least willing to test the theory.

But I keep asking for one last time. I’ve been asking for one last time for the last year, because the fucking, sucking, drinking, bed hopping can be so much motherfucking fun, but I am more. I’m not trying to become Nancy Regan, right wing or a soccer mom who’s the president of MAAD. I just want a whole life that includes theater, intelligent conversations, and whatever.

No more one last time, it starts now. I just don’t trust myself, because I’ve tried it so many times before, but I see my life and there’s a fork in the road, and one direction I know where everything remains the same and the other road means growth, it’s scary as hell because I’m so insecure, but what if I am extra-ordinary, I keep telling myself, like a kid who starts his first day of school, I have to believe they will like me, accept me, the sober people. I can change.