Gay on a Budget // For When You're Feeling Like A Loser

I’m feeling all over the place lately. I’m not sure what the eff to do with my life or with myself. I’m losing my shine. Losing my sheen. And losing control.

I’m realizing that I can’t ki-ki my way to sanity. Or hair-flip myself to happiness. Progress isn’t cute or fun. It’s dark, and it hurts.

Some days it’s hard to smile, but I still pose and sissy the house down because it’s all I know how to do lately. I fake it. In hopes that I’ll eventually make it.

But is this character a form of strength or just a defense mechanism protecting me from dealing? Do I rely on it because I’m afraid of showing everyone my ugly self? Or do I do it because everyone expects it?

I don’t have answers, nor have I made any decisions. Right now, I’m content to float around in this bubble of personal misery and confusion.

I’m not going to pretend that I’ve found my path, or that I know where I’m going from here. Because I don’t. I’m lost. HELLA lost.

This is what depression feels like to me. Feeling unsure. Feeling weak. Feeling like I’m not living up to my potential. Feeling like I’m a loser. Feeling like I’m both out of my mind, and trapped inside it.

I just want some peace for a little while. And a boost in my confidence would be nice. I want to be able to take a photo without having to pose or do a stupid ass face. I want to talk without having to take it to level 20. I just want to be me, and be happy about being me. No gimmicks. No tongue. No stickers. No gurlllll. Just me.

An Open Letter To My Dog // Gay on a Budget

Dear King,

I’ve never written a letter to a dog before, so excuse me if this is a super weirdo-weird thing to do. It just seemed like the best way to show you love since we’re all out of Milk-Bones.

Where do I start? Well, you wait at the door when I leave, and jump around like a bucking bronco–totally oblivious to your power–when I return. That feels pretty cool. You stay with me at night even though I know there are more comfortable places to sleep. For that I’m uber grateful, because your big ol’ dog self keeps the bed extra cozy and toasty.

I’m also totally okay with the fact that you don’t recognize other animals on TV, no matter how stupid I look fervently I pointing them out to you.

I don’t mind that you don’t always listen, and that you sometimes need to be told things three to four times before you get it. And I REALLY don’t mind when you get in trouble and run to my side, knowing that I am the weakest disciplinarian in the house, and that 10 times out of 10 I’ll let you get away with whatever you’re doing. You’re a little bad, but so am I. The only difference is that I’m not as cute as you when I’m not listening.

From your stinky dog farts, to your wettest kisses I love you. I want to make your life as beautiful as it can be, not only for you, but for all the dogs that never get to experience love.

I only wish you could understand these expressions and sentiments. But since you can’t, I’ll settle for spoiling you with hugs, pets, treats, and unlimited attention. I want to make every moment of your life a party. You may not have the life span of the far less cute, kind, and selfless creature known as a human being, but you will live on just as long–because you’re only truly gone when the last person that remembers you forgets your name. I’ll never forget my King, my Bing Bing, my Ging Ging, or whatever other weird name I start calling you.




PS. I am well aware that my Superman underwear are showing in this picture, but they’re super cute, so I’m not even mad.

A recent trip around scenic Roosevelt Mall has led me to the already realized realization that I will never be a model or iconic style blogger. This is a big no-duh for anyone that’s seen me, because lord knows I’m not the cutest or most stylish boy in the entire world, and I’m definitely on the shorter end of the height spectrum. But I don’t say these things to be self-deprecating. I say them because they’re things that I’ve already accepted.

Just take a look at my attempted photo shoot below.

Gay on a Budget // Why I Could Never Be A Model

Take 1: Got caught mid-sentence because I talk a lot when I’m nervous or embarrassed.

Gay on a Budget // Why I Could Never Be A Model

Take 2: Laughing because I realized the first picture was gonna be busted. Also, because laughing is another nervous tic of mine.

Gay on a Budget // Why I Could Never Be A Model

Take 3: Covering my mouth because I can’t stop laughing.

Gay on a Budget // Why I Could Never Be A Model

Take 4: Finally managed to pull something together… although, I struck my most overused pose (not that I plan on stopping anytime soon).

I only managed to take four photos, because I was sufficiently convinced that I wasn’t going to get a good shot. It was admittedly hard to pose the house down when I was posing across the street from Party City. I should’ve just taken Phi Phi O’Hara’s advice and gone right on back to Party City where I belong. I won’t be putting any professional “style bloggers” to shame, or have any modeling agencies reaching for their phones. I’m just not poised enough–at least not yet.

Gay on a Budget // Why I Could Never Be A Model

But there are much (emphasis on much) worse crosses to bear in this world than not being a gorgeous, gifted poser, trust.

Plus, I live for imperfection! I hate the idea of being experienced, seasoned, or polished. Those words suggest to me that a person has already learned a whole hell of a lot, and would probably be a better teacher than student.

That’s totally not me. Whatever the setting or study, I constantly feel like I’m surrounded by people who are better than I am. I’m never sure how much of this perception is reality, and how much I create in my own little twisted mind, but what I do know is that it helps keep me on my toes.

There’s a certain level of empowerment in feeling like the lesser. For one, you get to play the role of the underdog or the grasshopper–both of which ultimately end up matching or surpassing their opponent or mentor. This state of mind has always been comforting to me, because if I fail as the underdog, people will understand, but most importantly, I’ll understand.

But I guess the downside of feeling like I’m not very great is that it makes me give up. My photo shoot, for example, was only four pictures long because I felt awkward, silly, and ugly. I didn’t think I had the chops to get a decent photo, so I quit, just that fast. It’s a double-edged sword, really, but I plan on trimming down the negative end and making it into a sword that I use to take down haters, obstacles, and basement dwelling, Call of Duty playing, and Doritos and Mountain Dew consuming trolls.