#6: Six Months and I’m Still Sober


A lot of things have changed.

I’m in my new room, at my new place of residence. Also known as my family’s house. I decided to move in with my family because I had virtually no money, needed a place to stay and save up and start school, and also because my roommate’s passive aggressive control issues were becoming unmanageable. I didn’t even like going home to my own personal space because my own space was really just my room, and I felt trapped there.

I suppose part of it is that I lived there with him for two years, so it made it more difficult to move on, being in a place that still held so many memories of us. No matter how many guys I invited over or had sex with or snuggled up to, it was still our bedroom and I was still bringing other boys into it. I didn’t feel comfortable, I didn’t even feel like myself. Weird as it is, I felt more like myself being at my family’s house, so even though I have an incredibly checkered past with living here, I’m giving it a try right now.

It’s hot in my new bedroom, which is actually a closed-in backporch that was made into an office. It’s a very cozy room, the only problems with it are that the door to the living room (which used to be the backdoor) doesn’t lock, and there is no air condition. The culmination of these two issues make it so that it’s necessary for me to walk around my room naked a lot, but I can’t lock my door and these heathens love to barge into people’s rooms unannounced. Jacking off is also a risky venture, so I have to wait until very late at night.

But there’s a desk. I really like that there’s a desk. I feel productive with a desk. I’ve got books on my desk. I have a selection of my favorite CDs on my desk. There’s a cork board where I can put up notes. I’m like, a real writer, because I was a proper desk at which to sit.

I got a ticket to see Amanda Palmer in Georgia. I didn’t get to go. Predictable. I had a feeling I wouldn’t get to go, I don’t know why. My truck broke. I didn’t know my way to the meetup spot where I would meet my ride. I gave my ticket to someone on Twitter, who enjoyed themselves and bought me a copy of The Art of Asking and had it dedicated to me. So at least someone got to have a good time, and I did get a signed book out of it.

I don’t have a lot of friends. I’ve never had an awful lot of friends, but it’s mostly down to two now. One is a straight guy who I absolutely adore, another is a slightly younger gay guy who likes me as much as I like him, only he lives in another state and has a boyfriend. On a somewhat related note, I think I’ve decided that monogamy is just not for me. It’s never felt right whenever I’ve been in a monogamous relationship and now I think I know why: I’m just not wired that way. I don’t feel the need to be possessive. I don’t mind my lover having other lovers. This does mean that the “always wear a condom rule” will apply to me doubly so, though. Still, I’d have to get a single date to put any of this into practice anyway.

I want to start school soon. Sometime this weekend I’m going to call and find out about enrolling this summer. I’m hopeful I’ll be able to make friends there. Maybe I’ll meet a nice guy. I’m not looking for a new boyfriend, but I am looking for a new friend who is a boy, and who hopefully is cute and will let me snuggle, kiss, and fuck them. Is that so much to ask? I’m not going to be shamed for it: I like being with people, I like holding and being sweet with people and feeling connected to them. I refuse to limit myself to only one person for the rest of my life.

I don’t mean for every topic to keep veering back to polyamory. I guess I’m scatterbrained tonight. I got a guy’s number today in a gas station. He’s straight, though. Still, he’s cute and he might be fun to hang out with. I could definitely use a friend.

I suppose since I titled this entry after it, I may as well also mentioned that I talked to him again today. Last time we talked, I told him I needed to delete him from my social media accounts and break off contact with him, so that I could move on. I thought I was ready to talk to him again. I was unexpectedly hit with melancholy when we spoke. I guess I should have seen it coming. It’s alright. I don’t want him back. It just still hurts to talk to him.
And on and on and on.


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