For approximately a week, I think about what to write for a first entry that would be worthy of commencing this blog. Perhaps I should write about my unhealthy relationship with my parents / God / everyone I’ve ever met / food. Perhaps I should recap my entire miserable life thus far. Perhaps I should describe the grim outlook on my future. But I dismiss all of these options as cliché, contrived, or some combination of the two. So I continue spending my days pulling my hair out and my nights lying awake with my eyes wide open like a bush baby. And suddenly it comes to me. Since this blog is anonymous, (or so I desperately hope), I decide to write about something that I’ve never shared with anyone before.
It seems as though everyone else’s “I first realized I was gay” story occurs while they are lying in bed in the dead of the night. They clutch desperately to their sheets and their eyes are shut tightly to keep the tears from trickling down their pallid faces as they cry themselves to sleep. That’s not how it happened for me. I first knew I was gay sometime in the 7th grade when, in the mid-afternoon, I was staring at my best friend's crotch through his basketball shorts and I realized I’d rather be blowing him than listening to him talk about his ugly girlfriend who probably didn’t even know what a blowjob was. (Clearly we weren’t best friends for very much longer) But that night, I did cling desperately to my own sheets praying, “Dear God, I have never asked you for anything before. Correction. You have never given anything to me before. So would you please remove this nuisance from my life so I can join the football team and we can make a deal to never speak of it again." God must have been watching Will & Grace that night because my prayers were unanswered.
Truth be told, if God were to ungay somebody, I would be as good a candidate as any. Don't get me wrong, I'm vain and superficial and I go to the gym way too often and I think Edith Piaf is a glorious singer. But my ungaying deservedness isn’t merit based as much as it’s need based. Which is to say, I literally cannot be gay. Because in my opinion, there are a number of different species of gay. There’s the Midwest gay, whose father is some sort of preacher and as soon as he stupidly comes out to his family, they tie him to a fence post and beat him to death with a shovel. I’ll count myself lucky that I’m not in that group. But I’m unlucky in that I’m not in the next group, the everywhere else gay.
The everywhere else gays make up the majority of the gay population. He inevitably has a life story about how difficult it was living in the closet and how painful it was to come out. But I have no sympathy for the everywhere else gay because in the end, his parents and friends are understanding and everyone just wants him to be happy. The ethnic gay resides somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. While we don’t fear for our lives, we find it hard to concern ourselves with issues of pride, self-identity, and “wanting our parents to know who we really are before they die,” like the everywhere else gays. Mostly because if our parents knew who we really were, they would die. After all, the only happiness our parents want us to achieve is the kind of happiness they imagine for themselves. So if we come out, our mother isn’t going to go to the sink to do the dishes and cry and come back 15 minutes later and tell us she still loves us like the everywhere else gays' mother. Our mother will fall to the ground convulsing and cursing the dishonor we have brought to the family name. Our father isn't going to give us the silent treatment for a week but end up inviting us on a fishing trip where he tells us he still loves us like the everywhere else gays’ father. Our father will hand us a big sweaty wad of cash and tell us he never wants to see us again.
In the Asian community, the only reason why people have children in the first place is so that they can brag to the other parents at the local Chinese school (and eventually take 30% of their children’s taxable income). And if you don’t have a child that you can brag about, well, you might as well not have a child at all. So far in my life, I’ve worked very hard so that my parents can say I am better than their friends’ kids. I suspect that's the only reason why they still feed me and keep my cage clean. However, I find myself in the midst of a quarter life crisis. Because I have been doing what my parents want for so long, I don’t really know what I want anymore. Maybe I do know what I want. I’m just too afraid to do anything about it because inevitably the stupid fuckers at Chinese school will talk.
But before I get any more existential, what I’m really trying to say is that my life sucks. The only way I can truly be myself is if my parents were dead. Until then, I continue to put on this charade where I turn off America’s Next Top Model whenever somebody walks in the room and I go out with girls that annoy me so much that I feel urges to drive my car into the highway barrier.Anyway, as a closing remark for my first entry, I just hope that this blog will serve as an outlet for my emotions, (as opposed to drowning my sorrows in a pint of Haagen Dazs while watching Brokeback Mountain or something equally disturbing). And I have faith that when I look back on this entry in five years, I will laugh at my teenage anxiety and be thankful that my life turned out perfectly fine.
...or perhaps I will scoff at my childish optimism as I roll my still alone and quite obese self out of bed to refill a syringe of heroin and eat two entire Chipotle burritos.