jpbrammer:

My original intent for this article was to write a thoughtful analysis of the craziness that was Chick-Fil-A appreciation day. But nope. You will get none of that from me. Because I am frustrated, very frustrated, with how this all went down.

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fuckablefool:

When I was 18 my parents found out I was gay. I came home from a graduation party to find my mother chain smoking on the front porch. She was holding the diary I kept hidden in the floorboards under my bed. I was paralyzed with fear knowing exactly what my mother was holding.

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selectivecynicism:

I Want A Tuesday Kind Of Love « Thought Catalog

synthvox:

I want a Tuesday kind of love. The sort of thing that involves little dreaming and scheming; the sort of thing that comes paired with too-strong coffee and too-loud songbirds and the drone of the news at 6 a.m. or any time before the sky finds its identity, really. A Tuesday kind of love that isn’t indulgent, one that doesn’t stop the earth from spinning but maybe keeps us grounded in spite of all that uncontrollable movement.

I want to split the bill and pay the bills and not get lost in some unsustainable delusion where the rest of our lives become inconsequential. I want us to be human, I want to argue, I want to take too long in the shower. I want to hear about the horrific lines at the DMV, about a boss who doesn’t get it, about plans to pick up the laundry after work. I want stories of strangers on the bus, of a child who looked lost but turned out not to be, of chance encounters with high school classmates because these seemingly colorless instances are meaningful when filtered through the eyes of someone I care about. A Tuesday kind of love, breathing relevance into otherwise monotonous moments.

A Tuesday kind of love is this: commuting to work knowing that someone cares about what you’re going to have for lunch; understanding that you do not have to be your dynamic, charming, weekend self this time; this time you can butcher sentences and make bad jokes and trip over thin air and it won’t change anything. A Tuesday kind of love is when weekends and weekdays are one and the same, expanses of time where unpredictable, irreplaceable closeness exists, swells, bursts. Tuesday is directionless conversation about things that happened five hours or five years ago; it’s knowing where he keeps his receipts and when he has a doctor appointment; it’s ordering Chinese food or taking his parents out for dinner because they’re in town or forgetting to eat because you’re full of each other’s words and there’s just no room for anything else.

I don’t want to dream through our lives together, don’t want to sleep in, don’t want to put on my sunglasses and pretend that life’s a vacation. The fantasy is that I want to exist in reality; the fantasy is to be there for someone on a Sunday morning but also on a Tuesday night, when the haze and laze of the weekend has worn thin and seems far away as ever. I want a Tuesday kind of love.

I just want someone to love me.

Maybe that’s melodramatic. There are people who love me, I know. My family. A few of my friends, maybe. They never say it. Is that something that’s not done? I dunno. I feel like a beginner when it comes personal relationships.

But that’s not the love I’m talking about, obviously.

I’ve met guys on here, or other places, and it’s almost always the same. I’m interesting for a few weeks. They’re fun to talk to. And then they just go away. Or they don’t go away, but they start treating you like you’re as interesting the proverbial wall of drying paint.

I’m not the most socially outgoing of people, I know. I never have been. Crowds bother me. I shut down in them when I’m alone. I hate parties, partly because of the crowds, yes, but also because I don’t like enclosed dark spaces, or really loud music. So clubs are out. Bars are okay, I guess. If they’re more laid back.  And I hate going with someone because I hate feeling like I have to be babysat.

I know I’m not a boring person. I’m shy, yes. But I make people laugh. I’m supportive and caring. I’m intelligent and knowledgeable.

So I don’t understand what the problem is.

I just want someone, for once, to put his arms around me. Not to initiate sex, as was so often the case with Ruben. Or to let me touch him(lay my head on his shoulder, rest my hand on his leg, etc.) when *gasp* other people are in the room. Someone who isn’t using me just so they can have a boyfriend, or until the person they actually want to be with is available.

Is that so much to ask for?

I don’t think it is.

At least, I never did. Now I’m starting to believe it is.