Bluntly, My Life
Here lies a synopsis of excruciating memories turned into sarcastic folly.
I was an adopted little girl, dubbed the “Asian tomboy.” Because I was repeatedly mistaken for male I did not mind allowing sports to be an influtential part of my life. During the teenage acne phase I found comfort draping myself in oversized solid colored attire from Russell’s Athletic Wear. These garments combined with my self-punishing weight gain plan successfully warded off all types of sexual advances. My personality was off beat. Politely, “I marched to the beat of my own drummer.” Emphasizing the parts of me that were melodramatic, withdrawn, and sarcastic, I shaped my personality. I had no choice. I was so mentally obese no wardrobe had a chance of furthering my popularity. By joining after school programs I benefited two ways. My lack of social grace were masked and college prospects furthered.
College held many profound and ridiculous memories.
I chose a small private college in upstate New York. I needed anonymity from every existing affiliation I had until this point in my life. I predicted this white suburban atmosphere would be the perfect cushion for my “coming out.” A rash decision. The process was painful. I was befriended by the co-chair of the GLBFN. He only looked to further his own self righteous egotistical political agenda. This was traumatic. I reacted by taking another road in life. I tried drugs with my alcohol. I liked them. I liked them a lot and became quite fond of pot. Combined with my heightened emotional inflated sexual identity crisis I became paranoid. Embarrassing as it may be, I made a Woody Allen character look as stable as Jackie Onasis. So then I tried another road. I tried hallucinogens. I liked them. Yeah, I liked them too. Whatever anyone was generous enough to give me I accepted with thankful humble smiles and blasted off into the comfort zone.
Sophomore year I got really depressed and then fatter and fatter and fatter. Thank God I brought my Russel Athletics Wear to college. I was shamelessly tired of masturbating while craving interactive sex. The only fingers probling my body were mine when I dieted. However my diet/eating disorder was out of control yet effective in shedding the “Asian tomboy” image I fit and loathed. By junior year I finally looked decent by exercising no less than 2.5 hours and ingesting no more than 1000 calories daily. Fashion was now a serious subject.
The next phase of my life took place in bars. Music, alcohol, lights, horny college students, and the loyal townies, were all thrown into the mix. In short, pieces of meat look and feel better under ultraviolet black-out lights and a few drinks.
Oddly enough, I grew sexually comfortable in this environment. My fellow bisexual, lesbian, gay, and the socially inadequate (that believed they identified with us), would get charged up to go to the one gay bar in Ithaca, New York. At The Common Ground we would cruise, dance, drink, flirt, gossip, be catty, and portray to all varying degrees the codes of conduct we believed were attached to this “lifestyle.” The small dark arena, with cheap flicker lights, a disco ball, radio dance music (also sold via 800 number at 3 a.m.), located a few miles past the Jehovah’s Witness compound, was dubbed “The Church.” Pun intended, we went religiously. Ironically, we the patrons seemed to fit into the mix, while not giving a damn what other personality traits any of us had to offer.
Senior year I found an alternative…Rochester. The energy and women better suited my preferences. Rochester will always be sentimental and make me smile for two reasons. I experienced my intoxicatd debut/finale as a go-go dancer at Pandora’s Box, from which I was rescued by the hot dog saleswoman. My second experience was being dumped via internet. This second experience was a huge blow to my ego because I was dumped for a heavy set woman whom I believed was less attractive…with a poem.
Campus life was a saga. I grew comfortable with all the dozens of question and answer sessions my friends put me through. I thought a dorm floor symposium during senior year was not a big request. I was a little nervous. I thought it was best to down a few beers prior to my arrival so I could loosen up. The symposium went fine. While chatting with the lecture stragglers and my les/bi/ga/socially inadequate comrades I felt a little dizzy. My friend Greg was kind enough to catch me as I blacked out.
Proudly I graduated in four years with a Bachelor of Arts.
I went back to New York City.. and lived at home again…with my parents…only older.
I was the prodigal daughter for one year while working as a graphics intern. My bar floozy skills progressed and television did not seem so horrendous. My sister moved out the following summer. I intended on living there another year. Who knows? If my parents had not started the habit of keeping inventory of my whereabouts and the accumulating empty beer bottles then maybe I would have stayed to endure another year of regressing to my childhood.
I fled to San Francisco that same summer.
In San Francisco I kept a happy-go-lucky attitude only to meet a wide variety of tourists who left one week after becoming friendly. As for work, I am temping and have yet to state this without frowning. Stable ground is what I thought I wanted but I am also realizing I don’t think I ever walked on it. So now I just think it is nice to stroll and check out the scenery without hesitation, reservation, or giving a shit.
For me, “coming out” can be interchanged with “growing up.”
I cannot stop it and I ain’t getting any younger.