Today is the day of the great 20SB Big Blog Swap! The entry below is written by the Dutchess of Kickball. Just as the word “swap” implies, she’s posting here, and I’m posting on her blog. Should you be interested in reading my post, follow her link, and be sure to check out more on her site.

For years I’ve yearned to sit down and tell this story but for some reason I never fully did. Part of me was always a little embarrassed that I got myself caught up as deep as I did. Part of me just couldn’t explain the gut wrenching pain these life changing events brought to my world. And I’m not entirely sure I’ll be able to delve into as deeply as I would like…

When I was 22 I fell madly, deeply in love besides all my better judgment. He was kind, sincere, enthusiastic and a drug dealer. I used to think that the beginning of our tragic love story was the worst part. That nothing could get worse than three months into our relationship when he was busted be the DEA. I assumed that once we got over that aspect then things would be smooth sailing, because really, how much worse could it get.

The DEA entered his apartment about twenty minutes after I had left under the guise of an AC technician. He learned an old friend had narced him out. His phone had been tapped for two years. The agents said I sounded nice on the phone. I felt raped. But the cops were actually pretty lenient on him, well, if you consider getting yourself into a situation that will get you killed lenient. He was given the option to get off scott free, just wear a wire and buy from his supplier… with mob connections.

He made the buy, and never returned to his apartment.

He spent five years in Oregon after that. His parents and I were the only ones who knew where he was.

Every six months or so one of us would contact the other. Sometimes we acted like nothing ever happened and we were together again if only for a few weeks. Other times it would only be a one off phone call, just to make sure we were both still alive. Every time we spoke he seemed to have fallen deeper and deeper into a depression. He was on the top of the world with $80,000 in cash and now unable to pay the rent. He was somber and melancholy. His once exuberant spirit was broken. He was a different person and yet my heart couldn’t give up on him.

At some random six month period I called and heard the news I had secretly been waiting for, he had come back home. While he was still miserable he was seeing a little light at the end of the tunnel, he had a glimmer of hope for the future. And I was going to be in it. It had taken five years, but it seemed like love does conquer all. It was our hearts that had pulled him through his dark years and brought him back where he belonged. I had helped him.

And then he panicked.

We broke up (again) in a thunderstorm of words. I was terribly angry. I had stood by him through all of his terrible times, all of the horrific situations that ultimately could have gotten me into a world of trouble. I had never wavered from my love and devotion to him. And he throws me away as quickly as he did for reasons I will never understand.

The fight made us say evil, stinging things. But as I couldn’t take it anymore I told him “Your just going to get drunk and high until you get arrested or fall off a cliff” and I hung up. (Important note, he was working at a mountain top resort, hence the falling off a cliff.)

A year and a half later I got an email from an old mutual friend informing me that he had died. Phone calls to his boss and friends confirmed this, and that he had in fact, fallen off a cliff. I will never forgive myself.

Had I put the idea in his head or was it a coincidental accident. I’ll never know.

I used to think he was the love of my life but I haven’t thought that for a long time. He definitely was the great tragedy of my life. But more importantly he unknowingly taught me so much about myself. He taught me how to hold on to what’s important, and to let go of what isn’t safe for myself, physically and psychologically. He taught me to recognize depression, and I did realize that I had been in those mental places in my life, and I got help.

But most importantly, he taught me to live life to the fullest; every day really could be your last.

Here’s some free advice: Never assume that moving will be a perfect process. Not that it ever could be to begin with; by its very nature, moving bites. What I mean is, even when you think you’re moving under the best of all possible circumstances, don’t let that lull you into a false sense of security.

Take me, for instance. I’m so thrilled, this time around, to be moving. And all seems to be going well and, mostly, according to the plan I never really actually laid out. Then today, as I’m busily packing boxes and moving them gradually to my car, Lady Voldemort informs me that the back left tire on my car is low. I’d noticed that too, but hadn’t given it much thought. There just wasn’t enough room in my brain, what with it being full of things from my recent trip and now with the task of getting myself moved.

I made one trip to my new place, then on my way to lunch, I decided to forgo the trip to the gas station to use the air pump, and instead headed to Discount Tire to have them take a look. The decision was based on a combination of laziness, incompetence, and genuine concern.

The tire guy, Dimitri, took a look at my tire and, in a matter of seconds, found the nail that had punctured my little Goodyear. It was exactly what I thought it might have been, only since the nail didn’t reveal itself to me automatically, and I never heard any hissing, I couldn’t be sure. Twenty minutes and $20.00 later, I had a freshly fixed tire and suddenly my car wasn’t tilting dangerously to one side and getting terrible gas mileage. Funny how that works.

Compared to my last move, this one is like a walk in the park. Maybe it’s because I’m only moving 3.5 miles away from where I’m currently at, instead of 800. Maybe it’s because I get to take a few days to make the whole move, and can thus move a little at a time. Maybe it’s because there’s a whole lot less bitching at me for being a big gay disaster. Maybe it’s because I’m almost free from the crazy lesbian roommate who may as well have “666″ tattooed across her chest. Or maybe it’s a combination of all of the above.

This by no means gets me off the hook in terms of moving being a shit ton of work. I’m seriously wiped out. The only reason I’m awake to write this right now is because I took an hour-long nap earlier today. After carrying a box that I had mistakenly packed too full of textbooks and other large volumes, thus making it very fucking heavy, and actually managing to carry the thing into my new place, only to have the thing burst open as soon as I got it in the door, I figured I deserved the shuteye. Not to mention license to write lengthy and confusing run-on sentences.

I can’t believe it, but I’m literally down to less than 72 hours left under the reign of Lady Lucifer. I was thrilled to learn, upon my return, that when I stopped my incoming mail due to my extended absence from LA, it stopped ALL the mail to the house; she actually had to be the one to go to the main post office and pick up all the mail. The fact that she made it a point to inform me of this occurrence the moment I walked in the door indicated that she wasn’t too thrilled about the ordeal. I took it as a testament to my awesomeness. Aw, yeah!

Today was the big day when I flew back to Los Angeles. The whole thing was rather unceremonious, and not unlike pulling teeth. I’ve discovered that the more you love someone, the harder it is to part ways, even if it is just temporary. Everything seems that much more lackluster when that certain someone isn’t there to share in the moment with you.

Here’s a quick and dirty list of some cool aspects of the trip:

• I ran into some Albuquerque friends at the airport, so it was cool to catch up with them.
• On the flight to Phoenix I sat next to a chatty female who talked a mile a minute and said “yes” when I asked if I could get a discount for talking to her before booking a stay at her pueblo’s new resort.
• In Phoenix, I got a high five from the cutest pre-toddler ever.

Here’s a quick and dirty list of things that, well, sucked:

• I had to sit next to one Mr. Business Card Strip-Club-Lover on the flight from Phoenix in to Burbank. Although he did provide for interesting text message conversation:

Phil: Not liking my seatmate… hetero businessman chauvinist. Ew.
Robert: Butch it up a bit!
Phil: Oh yeah, so butch in my musical* t-shirt. We’ll knock a few back and talk about chicks, I’m sure.

• I had to return to the house of ill fame that, upon pulling up to at the curb, I realized I loathe with ever fiber of my soul.

Cool news: I got to see some of my friends tonight and we even went for dinner (a perfect excuse to avoid returning to my current place of residence). I also got to see my friend Letizia’s one-week-old daughter! She’s cute and fabulous, let me tell you.

Other cool news: the house was not burned down, as I was half-expecting. What I wasn’t expecting was to arrive home and find my roommate home and back together with the girlfriend who, mere weeks ago, she’d tried to choke with her bare hands. Not that it’s cool that they’re back together, mind; I’m just thrilled that all my stuff is still here, and more than that, I can’t fucking wait to get out of this hellhole. Bitch, I am so done with this place.

*I was wearing my brand spanking new Spamalot t-shirt. Strangely enough, as we were exiting the plane, the dude actually asked me about the show and said he wanted to see it because “I love Monty Python.” Sure he does.

I’ve been the proud owner of a digital camera for something like nine months now. I really love it, and I’ve taken all sorts of pictures with it. What I’m bad about, though, is actually uploading the pictures onto my computer and then clearing out my memory card so I can start it fresh.

Worse, every time we leave the house I always muse aloud about whether or not I should bring my camera. Whenever I don’t have it, I always see something of which I absolutely must have a picture. Conversely, whenever I DO have it, I always forget to take pictures. I’ll carry the thing around in my hand and talk Robert’s ear off about all the fabulous pictures I can take, but it’s rare for me to actually take any pictures.

What this all comes down to is that there are, in my opinion, some pretty snazzy pictures on my camera. But, because I’m so lousy when it comes to making full use of said camera, those pictures are currently restricted to the confines of the LCD display on the back of the camera.

We were at a friend’s house today and it got all cloudy and started thundering outside. I was sitting there staring out the window, thinking about how I find thunderstorms uniquely relaxing, when it occurred to me that maybe I should whip out my camera and go take some pictures. And by “some” I mean three.

Well, it’s a start. Next on the agenda: tackling Photoshop. My current skill level with that shit is “Prehistoric Cave Man”, so I’ve got a long way to go.

Whenever I get a good idea for something to write about, I do one of two things. 1) Let it ruminate in my consciousness until I sit down at my computer and can let the words flow. 2) Write it down somehow, be it by writing on a post-it note, saving a little “note” on my phone, or texting myself an email. This little system of mine has proven effective probably about 50% of the time. And that’s my current average, which means that in the past, all sorts of great things have occurred to me at one point or another, only to get lost in the depths of great thoughts that will never be thought again.

Tuesday may well be a huge mark of change, however. I’ve long thought about getting a little notepad of some kind to jot things down, and for the last two weeks I’ve told Robert I wanted to get one every single time we left the house. Only by the time we got to any place that potentially sold such notepads, I’d totally space the fact that I wanted to buy one.

We went to the mall on Tuesday for a chance to escape for a bit and walk around. While there, we visited one of the evil giant corporate bookstores, Barnes & Noble, and lo and behold, I struck gold. Gold in the form of an old-style leather notebook that can fit in my pocket and even has lined paper.

I’ve currently got two notes jotted down:

Tuesday 6/24/08
I just bought this beauty of a notepad.

Wednesday 6/25/08
I just forged the Tuesday entry above. For no reason other than because I could.

I can’t wait to see what sort of journey my new notebook and I take. I’ve never kept anything like it before, but I think I’m off to a pretty good start.

I picked up a copy of The Hot Zone today at Title Wave Books, one of my favorite Albuquerque bookstores. I was first introduced to the book nearly ten years ago. My freshman biology teacher had brought it to class and read us the first chapter. I remember sitting in class, riveted, listening to her read about the guy who picked up a tropical virus and went from health to doom in a matter of weeks.

I found a copy of it at the bookstore and pulled it off the shelves and started reading. Ever since, I’ve been hard-pressed to put the thing down. It doesn’t matter that the explicit detail with which the author describes the affect of the viruses is terrifying. And even though the events covered thus far (I’m about 70 pages in already) all happened over twenty years ago, I’m still sitting on the edge of my seat, hating that no matter how fast I read, it’s never fast enough to settle that burning desire to learn what happens next. Hello, Ring of Mordor. I never imagined I could be so morbidly fascinated. Holy shit.

While I’ve been in Albuquerque, I’ve been sort of quasi-working on several new ideas I’ve been kicking around. Some stuff involves pictures and some stuff doesn’t, but due to the fact that I’m working on my poor iBook (which isn’t functioning as well as it used to), all that must wait. Hence, I give you: a list of Monday mayhem.

• Today as Robert and I were driving around town, we narrowly avoided being broadsided by a big, ugly minivan. A minivan that was probably going 50 miles per hour, being driven by a guy who likes to break the rules, evidently. He decided completely ignore the light that turned red a full five seconds before he even reached the solid white lines approaching the intersection. I laid on the horn and Robert flipped him off. The bitch didn’t even notice.

• I’m on a quest to become a financial guru. Nothing is quite as motivating as an impending move and another semester of school to awaken the inner accountant. In order to receive any money through my university, be it via loans or scholarships, every student has to go through “financial counseling.” I completed it online today. In an effort to make it entertaining, the company running the show designed the thing to be loosely based on a board game. Basically, it consisted of raw information, in the form of text, against a green tree-scaped background that had a rainbow zig-zag path. Some of the spaces on the board had sayings, like “Graduate high school = qualify for financial aid!” and “Begin paying off loans early, move two spaces ahead!” So while it wasn’t much of an actual game, it ended up being pretty handy.

• I was so bummed to hear about George Carlin this morning. It was one of those things I never imagined happening, mostly because I never wanted it to. I will always admire that he never stopped thinking, and that he loved to push the limits. Like when he performed his version of the famous Aristocrats joke in that documentary? Holy shit. Here’s to you, George: SHIT, PISS, FUCK, CUNT, COCKSUCKER, MOTHERFUCKER, and… TITS.

Saturday, June 21, 2008, marks a special day in history. The original plan for the day was to hop on a plane and head back to Los Angeles. Instead, I opted out of traveling a couple of days ago by extending my trip through next Friday. One of the best side effects of this decision? I got to attend my first ever book signing.

The author was none other than David Sedaris (whom I shall refer to as “David” from now on, since it’s easier to type than his full name or Mr. Sedaris, and also since I got to shake his hand and talk to him for a few minutes, so we’re practically old friends anyway; plus, all the employees kept calling him Mr. Sedaris, and since they got on my nerves, I’m refraining from typing anything that reminds me of them), the fabulous and observant humor writer who stole my literary heart with a short story called Go Carolina. I was in my second year of college when I heard this story, and suddenly, at the tender age of 19, it hit me that all those feelings inside that spelled “gay” should be met with humor instead of fear. Such is the power of the written word.

While waiting for the book reading to start, Robert and I took up residence near where David was to present. We had asked, when we arrived just under two hours early, where he would be standing: on the second floor, by a railing overlooking the first floor. Because Barnes & Noble has shit for lecture space. We were very nearby, and had a sort of side view from which to spectate. I found it odd that they were going to make the poor writer stand behind a table display of books, and mentioned that to someone when I was waiting in line to get my book signed before the official reading started. I was wrong though, and ten minutes before the event commenced, a flurry of B&N staff rushed to the area, cordoned it off, and went about setting up the microphone and podium. Which prompted me to butcher a famous butchered joke: “How many Barnes & Noble employees does it take to set up a podium and microphone?” The answer is: I don’t know, I lost count of how many there were.

While we waited for everything to officially start, I found myself people-watching uncontrollably. I saw old high school classmates I never really knew, and wondered if they didn’t recognize me on account of the fact that I now sport facial hair. The scariest person I saw, hands down, was this woman who was probably in her mid-60’s. She had tall red hair that was more maroon than red, and curls that measured five inches in diameter each. My time in LA helped me pick out some evidence of plastic surgery on her face, too. (This made me proud at first, and then horrified.) And she also showcased a spaghetti strap top and shorts that read “US Body”, which did nothing to help her.

As my first ever book signing event, I of course wanted to get a book signed. I’ve not yet purchased the newest book, When You Are Engulfed in Flames, but luckily I’d left behind my favorite one, Me Talk Pretty One Day, for Robert to read. So I snagged it and brought it with me, throwing caution to the wind for the whole “IF YOU BRING YOUR OWN BOOK YOU MUST HAVE A RECEIPT TO PROVE IT’S YOURS” rule.

Though the book signing was technically scheduled for after the reading, David Sedaris is awesome and showed up early to get a jump start. So I jumped in line and eagerly awaited my turn to get my book signed. I felt it especially appropriate that the book I was having signed was the first book I’d read by him. While in line, a silver-haired woman in black pants and a black-and-white designer top walked up and down the line handing out sticky notes. “Open your books to the title page and fold the dust jacket over to make it easy for Mr. Sedaris to find the page to sign.” Then she’d take names and slap the stickies into the books. When she got to me, she stopped.

Silver-Haired Woman: What’s this one?
Phil: Me Talk Pretty One Day.
SHW: I’ve never read it.
Phil: What do you mean you’ve never read it?
SHW: I don’t know it.
Phil: But you work for the guy. Surely you jest.

But she didn’t jest. So I did the only thing I could do: I discredited her completely. Anything she said to me from that moment on was like it had never been spoken at all. And when I saw her later, sitting on the floor just behind David, I imagined I could see right through her and read the titles of the books against which she was leaning on the shelves.

I’ve not had many brushes with fame. Though I recently met some pretty well-known stand-up comics, I consider it a tad different because I had no idea who they were beforehand. David Sedaris is a writer I’ve long enjoyed reading. Hence, I was thrilled at the prospect of getting to say hello and have a book signed, and just generally be in the presence of such awesomeness for a while.

While waiting in line, I ended up chatting amicably with a very fun group of people in front of me. I say “very fun” because that’s the only way to describe conversation with complete strangers that consists of colostomy bags, prostitutes, and illegal valet parking.

As I got closer to the table to get books signed, I could overhear bits and pieces of conversation between fans and David Sedaris. The writer had fun little quips and banter with everyone, it seemed. He’d ask questions like “Oooh, what’s that you’re drinking there?” or “What kind of sunglasses do you own?”, and then he’d sign the book, shake the hand, and greet the next person in line. I wasn’t having anything to drink and I was wearing a green polo shirt, so I presented no obvious conversation starters. Here’s how it went:

David Sedaris: So, are you with this gang?
Phil: I am now. They adopted me as their new friend.
Group of new friends: He’s ours now, yeah.
David Sedaris: Oh. Okay, uh, well, what do you do?
Phil: You’ll either love this or hate this, but I’m studying to be a speech pathologist.
David Sedaris: Okay.
Phil: I’ll be the gayest speech pathologist ever.
David Sedaris: Well good. The world could really benefit from a homosexual speech pathologist.
Phil: I thought so too.

And then he signed my book and sent me on my way. Mine says “To Phil,” then has a stamp that reads “AKYPO” in red, and then he signed his signature. Looking at it now, his signature looks like an O with a handlebar mustache for his first name, and a fucked up Greek Epsilon followed by a vertical line and a strange cursive “m” for his last name. It’s awesome. I asked him what the AKYPO was about, and he explained that it means “invalid” in Latin or some other dead language. Cool.

At 7 or so, David took to the podium and read a couple of stories from his new book. Then he read parts of his diary that he’d brought along to share, which was the real icing on the cake. And he ended with a brief question-answer session. Several of the questions asked were the same questions that had been used for an interview for a local publication, The Weekly Alibi. Original.

Though I’d gotten my book signed, Robert didn’t yet have a book to be signed, and we weren’t exactly keen to jump in line behind the mass of people who suddenly appeared in line and starting arguing about whose numbered ticket got to go first. So when David said that any grown men who were 5′6″ or shorter could skip right to the front of the line, we had our ticket in. And it wasn’t on account of my 6′1″ frame.

To David Sedaris: thank you for being real, and for being an inspiration.

This entry is total mind-spew. I’ve got a million thoughts whirring through my head and nothing cohesive in there. In the spirit of lists (I’m on such a roll with these puppies), here’s a list of things that I want off my mind. Hence, I’m chronicling them here so I don’t have to think about them.

• I think the best way to describe my Thursday would be “confused.” It wasn’t a bad day, by any means; just a little bit off. I spent a good part of the day watching episodes of Kathy Griffin’s My Life on the D List, while simultaneously trying to find ways to avoid going homeless. I’m eager to get myself moved into my new place, and know that it’s not only awesome, but necessary. Things have deteriorated so much at my current California residence that I figure I would be forced out anyway by the warring lesbians.

• The good news is that once moved, I’ll be way happy, and also employed once again. The bad news is that my next semester of grad school is looming ahead. And grad school costs money. Hence, I’m whoring myself out for scholarships, because I dread student loans and don’t want to take out more than I already have. Scruples be damned, I say! L. Ron Hubbard Foundation offering scholarships for submitting original short stories? Sign me up, bitches! Dell Computers wants to know why I deserve a scholarship? Who cares that I’m a Macophile, I’ll write that essay! Though I can’t promise any of it will be good.

• I’m thoroughly confused by my folks at the moment, too. We’ve had pretty rocky times as of late. They say they’re 100% accepting and that they love gay people! Then they turn around and talk about what a “pansy” that one guy is and that because he said “hello” he was hitting on them. Then I get accused of divorcing my family from me. And they shake their heads in complete and utter incomprehension when I say that I hate having to constantly defend my own nature to them and apologize for being who I am.

Hopefully it works and I can dream of sheep grazing in luscious green fields of wind-blown grasses. Hopefully.