In case of the Happily Ever After
Who wants to be happy? It’s creepy. Ever walk in a room and see a person smiling, it’s disturbing. You’re automatically suspicious. If you’re too happy people think you’re on drugs or joined a religious cult; either way it’s the human instinct to kill the buzz. When I was a young boy, I asked my mama when I grow up will I be good looking, will I be happy, will I be loved and she said shut your black ass up, don’t you see I’m trying to smoke my crack pipe.
It was supposed to be so easy, the happily ever after. I was supposed to grow up, get a good job, marry a good Christian girl, buy a house and go to church every Sunday according to my grandfather. There were so many things wrong with that picture since I was a Buddhist and allergic to pussy. In the fairy tale I was supposed to be the Prince, ride up on my great white house, saved the damsel whiny Princess, and then ride off to the sunset and live happily ever after. Yet history has shown royalty (king, queens, prince and princes) never really have a good life. If they are good looking it usually ends in tragedy. In Egypt Ramesses III and Amenemhat I were assassinated, Nefertiti went missing and Cleopatra committed suicide. Let’s not forget the Marie Antoinette who got her head cut off, Grace Kelly drove off a mountainside and lastly Princess Di crashed into a wall chased down by her fame. Not even American Royalty unofficial had it better. Need I say more, the Kennedys, shot in the head and plane crashes. It seemed not even the real Prince Charming and damsel Princess lived happily ever, just the opposite, life only got more complicated or tragic.
Yet it happens to the best of us--that need to try and make some sort of sense out of our lives. I called it the last chance for happiness. It’s the age when most of us begin the adult negotiations. It usually happens when we start approaching thirty years old. There’s an innate panic of high school reunions and fear of failure. It’s usually the time when alcoholic friends suddenly find Jesus and strippers become soccer moms. It’s the last chance. I’ve seen it happened so many times. My sister was fat and approaching thirty years old when she met her husband. She was a college drop out and working as a receptionist for a law firm. One day she disappeared. All I was told was that she met some guy at work and was no longer speaking to the family, especially me because she blamed me for her last failed relationship. She ignored the fact that guy was a deadbeat meth addict. In the beginning I was insulted because I didn’t want to be a dirty little secret like herpes. My older sister had always had anger management problems but the day she met her soon to be husband she turned into an uber-BITCH. She stopped answering her phone. She wouldn’t loan me money. I felt as if she abandoned my irresponsibility. I didn’t meet the mystery man until the day of her wedding. I was only invited because I promised to bring a gift and not show up drunk. I brought a present. It was very difficult for me to be happy for her since she excluded me from possibly ruining her happily ever after. But I understood. It was her last chance to be somebody. She was pushing thirty years old. She wasn’t so cute anymore. She was used. She had a life time of fast food jobs. She had too many secrets. It was her last chance to be the bride and not the bridesmaid. Women take that shit serious. She was beginning to feel the pressure of loneliness. She met the guy and six months later they were man and wife. It turned out he was already married and never got a divorce.
A happy ending is an ending of the plot of a work of fiction in which most everything turns out for the best for the hero or heroine, their sidekicks, and just about everyone but the villains.. A happy ending at the China Town Massage therapist is getting the dick jacked off. I rather get my dick jacked off. Growing up I fell in love with fairytales I fell in love with family sitcoms on television. I fell in love with idea of the happy ending or happily ever after where problems can be solved in thirty minutes. I watched shows like Leave it to Beaver, Family Ties and the Cosby show like it was the bible. I guess because my real life was such a mess. Daddy got himself killed when I five years old. Mama got addicted to drugs. We were dirt poor. It was a lot of reality for a child deal with so I fell in love with the television. I fell in love with romantic comedies.
I based my life on a fantasy. I believed so much in it I refused to face reality. I based love on that lie. I based friendships on that lie. I based my life success on that lie. I couldn’t understand the implausibility of Rachel on the show Friends, a high school graduate and waitress could just one day be a buyer for Gucci. That’s doesn’t happen in reality. And I couldn’t figure out why nothing was working for me. I was trying to live the life of what some drug addict writer wrote on a binge like West Wing. I should’ve known better because I’m a writer. I thought love was “When Harry Met Sally” and didn’t know love was “When Harry tried to kill Sally.”
I had to pretend to be this good boy that came from a good family, a mom and dad with a good job, so that I could grow and have a good life. The truth was haunting. I was from the ghetto. I was from the back of the ghetto, not the front, but the back where the crack heads passed out and drug dealers played dice. I was from the bottom of the pudding cup; life wasn’t going to be so easy for me like Theo on the Cosby Show. The more I surrendered to the fantasy, the addictions begin to happen. I needed to drink more. I needed to abuse more. I needed drugs. I needed more sex. And I’m a stubborn person who refused to be wrong, so I couldn’t see I wasn’t happy. I was fucking miserable. I grew up to be a liar. I grew up to be a hustler. I grew up to be the villain. I wanted to be Prince Charming but name itself sounds like gigolo or gay rapper.
And being gay didn’t help coming from where I come from. It’s such a fantasy of young hot boys with great bodies and big dicks. As a homosexual it seemed that the first thing I learned was to lie. I had to hide it. I had to be convincing when I hid it. I had to create some personality that was a lie. I had to pretend to like women. And then lying didn’t stop when I came out. That day in church when I was recruited to be gay, it all seemed like a fantasy. I was told I never have to worry about getting anyone pregnant. I was promised techno-colored drinks, all the sex I could handle and dancing all night. It seemed so much fun that rainbow flag flickering in the wind. It seemed so tempting, the intoxicating lights, the basing music, nobody ever said I had to grow up. Yet, we do grow up. I came out when I was fifteen years old. I am now thirty years old. I lived five lives in that fifteen years old. But the lying didn’t stop. It was still about sex. Men lie. Show me a man that doesn’t lie and I show you a third nipple, they are that rare. And how was I to know when I came out that I was on my own. My family didn’t ask any questions about my life anymore. I was alone. Nobody told me. All I knew at the beginning of my gay existence I starting lying. I didn’t know how to stop. I lied in my online profiles. I lied about my age. I lied just to sleep with a guy. I lied to myself. I told myself my youth would last forever. It didn’t.
Yet, the happily ever is haunting. I still wanted love. I still wanted a home to call my own. It didn’t matter that I was gay. I was still going to have to grow up. A friend of mine called me at three o’clock in the morning. He wanted to go to a park and cruise. I thought the idea was silly since we both were thirty years old. I only went because he promised weed. In the park at three in the morning on a Wednesday night, it seemed ridiculous riding around in the car in circles looking for dick. Everyone seemed so young. I felt I was dressed inappropriately in beach sandals, cargo shorts and a t-shirt that asked “Who would Jesus Do?” I looked more like I was going to a yard sale than looking to get my dick sick behind a tree in a gay park. I knew I had a nice bed at home and I suddenly wanted to be in it. I couldn’t lie anymore. I couldn’t conjure that desperate spark in my eyes. I couldn’t pretend that it was all so damn unnecessary and hilarious grown ass men sniffing around each other like common street dogs. I wanted more. I wasn’t so young any more.
I was still going to have to become a man that scared the shit out of me. I guess because I was afraid to say that I still wanted to be happy. I thought I had given up on the fairytale with my first STD. I’d seen how it worked out for some of my friends and relatives but I still wanted the American dream. I still wanted the advertisement. I felt I was owed it. When I was twenty one years old, I couldn’t see my life past Friday and Saturday night and now at thirty years old, I was saving for my down payment for my dream home. It’s because it’s called “the life” not “my life.” In that park cruising with my friend I suddenly knew when I’m gone the liquor stores will still be there, so will the drug dealers, the bathhouses, the clubs, the bars, none of them won’t close down because I’m no longer dancing on the dance floor. It’s called “the life” not “my life.” I wanted my life. When I was recruited that day in church and signed the contract to be a promiscuous homosexual I should’ve read the fine print. I decided to hire me a drag queen. I needed a need contract. I didn’t want to be the old man in the park flashing teenagers. I didn’t want to be the botox tragic fag with ass implants and fake teeth trying to pretend I was still in my twenties. I wanted to be home watching television with my lover. I wanted the fantasy of growing old with him on the porch and sweet tea. I was still a romantic no matter how many bathhouses and orgies I’ve attended. I was still a boy standing in front of a boy and asking him to love me.
I don’t’ understand why it has to be called happily ever after. It sounds like a place where the Easter Bunnies and Santa Claus go to commit suicide. It sounds so damn final. I don’t want to ride off into the sunset. I want to wake up to sun rises. I can’t understand why the story can’t end “the two lovers did the best the good.” Why couldn’t it be called “good enough?” I didn’t want my story to end that I lived happily ever after because I know that’s another lie. I’m TIRED OF LIES. I want my story to end that I did the best I could every day and practiced forgiveness. I think that’s the key to a happy life. It’s hard work. You have to constantly learn how to rebuild. You have to learn how to start over and keep forgiving your past. I am not my past. I am now. I am not happy. That’s creepy.
Who wants to be happy? It’s creepy. Ever walk in a room and see a person smiling, it’s disturbing. You’re automatically suspicious. If you’re too happy people think you’re on drugs or joined a religious cult; either way it’s the human instinct to kill the buzz. When I was a young boy, I asked my mama when I grow up will I be good looking, will I be happy, will I be loved and she said shut your black ass up, don’t you see I’m trying to smoke my crack pipe.
It was supposed to be so easy, the happily ever after. I was supposed to grow up, get a good job, marry a good Christian girl, buy a house and go to church every Sunday according to my grandfather. There were so many things wrong with that picture since I was a Buddhist and allergic to pussy. In the fairy tale I was supposed to be the Prince, ride up on my great white house, saved the damsel whiny Princess, and then ride off to the sunset and live happily ever after. Yet history has shown royalty (king, queens, prince and princes) never really have a good life. If they are good looking it usually ends in tragedy. In Egypt Ramesses III and Amenemhat I were assassinated, Nefertiti went missing and Cleopatra committed suicide. Let’s not forget the Marie Antoinette who got her head cut off, Grace Kelly drove off a mountainside and lastly Princess Di crashed into a wall chased down by her fame. Not even American Royalty unofficial had it better. Need I say more, the Kennedys, shot in the head and plane crashes. It seemed not even the real Prince Charming and damsel Princess lived happily ever, just the opposite, life only got more complicated or tragic.
Yet it happens to the best of us--that need to try and make some sort of sense out of our lives. I called it the last chance for happiness. It’s the age when most of us begin the adult negotiations. It usually happens when we start approaching thirty years old. There’s an innate panic of high school reunions and fear of failure. It’s usually the time when alcoholic friends suddenly find Jesus and strippers become soccer moms. It’s the last chance. I’ve seen it happened so many times. My sister was fat and approaching thirty years old when she met her husband. She was a college drop out and working as a receptionist for a law firm. One day she disappeared. All I was told was that she met some guy at work and was no longer speaking to the family, especially me because she blamed me for her last failed relationship. She ignored the fact that guy was a deadbeat meth addict. In the beginning I was insulted because I didn’t want to be a dirty little secret like herpes. My older sister had always had anger management problems but the day she met her soon to be husband she turned into an uber-BITCH. She stopped answering her phone. She wouldn’t loan me money. I felt as if she abandoned my irresponsibility. I didn’t meet the mystery man until the day of her wedding. I was only invited because I promised to bring a gift and not show up drunk. I brought a present. It was very difficult for me to be happy for her since she excluded me from possibly ruining her happily ever after. But I understood. It was her last chance to be somebody. She was pushing thirty years old. She wasn’t so cute anymore. She was used. She had a life time of fast food jobs. She had too many secrets. It was her last chance to be the bride and not the bridesmaid. Women take that shit serious. She was beginning to feel the pressure of loneliness. She met the guy and six months later they were man and wife. It turned out he was already married and never got a divorce.
A happy ending is an ending of the plot of a work of fiction in which most everything turns out for the best for the hero or heroine, their sidekicks, and just about everyone but the villains.. A happy ending at the China Town Massage therapist is getting the dick jacked off. I rather get my dick jacked off. Growing up I fell in love with fairytales I fell in love with family sitcoms on television. I fell in love with idea of the happy ending or happily ever after where problems can be solved in thirty minutes. I watched shows like Leave it to Beaver, Family Ties and the Cosby show like it was the bible. I guess because my real life was such a mess. Daddy got himself killed when I five years old. Mama got addicted to drugs. We were dirt poor. It was a lot of reality for a child deal with so I fell in love with the television. I fell in love with romantic comedies.
I based my life on a fantasy. I believed so much in it I refused to face reality. I based love on that lie. I based friendships on that lie. I based my life success on that lie. I couldn’t understand the implausibility of Rachel on the show Friends, a high school graduate and waitress could just one day be a buyer for Gucci. That’s doesn’t happen in reality. And I couldn’t figure out why nothing was working for me. I was trying to live the life of what some drug addict writer wrote on a binge like West Wing. I should’ve known better because I’m a writer. I thought love was “When Harry Met Sally” and didn’t know love was “When Harry tried to kill Sally.”
I had to pretend to be this good boy that came from a good family, a mom and dad with a good job, so that I could grow and have a good life. The truth was haunting. I was from the ghetto. I was from the back of the ghetto, not the front, but the back where the crack heads passed out and drug dealers played dice. I was from the bottom of the pudding cup; life wasn’t going to be so easy for me like Theo on the Cosby Show. The more I surrendered to the fantasy, the addictions begin to happen. I needed to drink more. I needed to abuse more. I needed drugs. I needed more sex. And I’m a stubborn person who refused to be wrong, so I couldn’t see I wasn’t happy. I was fucking miserable. I grew up to be a liar. I grew up to be a hustler. I grew up to be the villain. I wanted to be Prince Charming but name itself sounds like gigolo or gay rapper.
And being gay didn’t help coming from where I come from. It’s such a fantasy of young hot boys with great bodies and big dicks. As a homosexual it seemed that the first thing I learned was to lie. I had to hide it. I had to be convincing when I hid it. I had to create some personality that was a lie. I had to pretend to like women. And then lying didn’t stop when I came out. That day in church when I was recruited to be gay, it all seemed like a fantasy. I was told I never have to worry about getting anyone pregnant. I was promised techno-colored drinks, all the sex I could handle and dancing all night. It seemed so much fun that rainbow flag flickering in the wind. It seemed so tempting, the intoxicating lights, the basing music, nobody ever said I had to grow up. Yet, we do grow up. I came out when I was fifteen years old. I am now thirty years old. I lived five lives in that fifteen years old. But the lying didn’t stop. It was still about sex. Men lie. Show me a man that doesn’t lie and I show you a third nipple, they are that rare. And how was I to know when I came out that I was on my own. My family didn’t ask any questions about my life anymore. I was alone. Nobody told me. All I knew at the beginning of my gay existence I starting lying. I didn’t know how to stop. I lied in my online profiles. I lied about my age. I lied just to sleep with a guy. I lied to myself. I told myself my youth would last forever. It didn’t.
Yet, the happily ever is haunting. I still wanted love. I still wanted a home to call my own. It didn’t matter that I was gay. I was still going to have to grow up. A friend of mine called me at three o’clock in the morning. He wanted to go to a park and cruise. I thought the idea was silly since we both were thirty years old. I only went because he promised weed. In the park at three in the morning on a Wednesday night, it seemed ridiculous riding around in the car in circles looking for dick. Everyone seemed so young. I felt I was dressed inappropriately in beach sandals, cargo shorts and a t-shirt that asked “Who would Jesus Do?” I looked more like I was going to a yard sale than looking to get my dick sick behind a tree in a gay park. I knew I had a nice bed at home and I suddenly wanted to be in it. I couldn’t lie anymore. I couldn’t conjure that desperate spark in my eyes. I couldn’t pretend that it was all so damn unnecessary and hilarious grown ass men sniffing around each other like common street dogs. I wanted more. I wasn’t so young any more.
I was still going to have to become a man that scared the shit out of me. I guess because I was afraid to say that I still wanted to be happy. I thought I had given up on the fairytale with my first STD. I’d seen how it worked out for some of my friends and relatives but I still wanted the American dream. I still wanted the advertisement. I felt I was owed it. When I was twenty one years old, I couldn’t see my life past Friday and Saturday night and now at thirty years old, I was saving for my down payment for my dream home. It’s because it’s called “the life” not “my life.” In that park cruising with my friend I suddenly knew when I’m gone the liquor stores will still be there, so will the drug dealers, the bathhouses, the clubs, the bars, none of them won’t close down because I’m no longer dancing on the dance floor. It’s called “the life” not “my life.” I wanted my life. When I was recruited that day in church and signed the contract to be a promiscuous homosexual I should’ve read the fine print. I decided to hire me a drag queen. I needed a need contract. I didn’t want to be the old man in the park flashing teenagers. I didn’t want to be the botox tragic fag with ass implants and fake teeth trying to pretend I was still in my twenties. I wanted to be home watching television with my lover. I wanted the fantasy of growing old with him on the porch and sweet tea. I was still a romantic no matter how many bathhouses and orgies I’ve attended. I was still a boy standing in front of a boy and asking him to love me.
I don’t’ understand why it has to be called happily ever after. It sounds like a place where the Easter Bunnies and Santa Claus go to commit suicide. It sounds so damn final. I don’t want to ride off into the sunset. I want to wake up to sun rises. I can’t understand why the story can’t end “the two lovers did the best the good.” Why couldn’t it be called “good enough?” I didn’t want my story to end that I lived happily ever after because I know that’s another lie. I’m TIRED OF LIES. I want my story to end that I did the best I could every day and practiced forgiveness. I think that’s the key to a happy life. It’s hard work. You have to constantly learn how to rebuild. You have to learn how to start over and keep forgiving your past. I am not my past. I am now. I am not happy. That’s creepy.
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