Part Deux...

The venti Sumatra with a shot of espresso is not pulling me out of this fog this morning. It is like a quagmire of Tylenol PM, human emotions, drama, and questions. I'm about to move onto yet another protein shake, which added to my already nautious stomach is about as fun as shoving a pencil in my eye.

The questions is, where do I start. Do I fire my agent for dropping the ball on what was potentially going to take my career into the public eye, by becoming greedy? Or do I just give my father the rude awakening he so deserves by putting him in his place, and reminding him that he dropped the ball with me one too many times for his trite advice to really make a difference in my life. Is it senility that he is suffering from, or is it once again his constant crafty need to try and control my life via his capitalistic lawyerly ways. Do I make the effort to reach out and communicate with my mother's side of the family, knowing full well that most likely that it will invite negativity and those inevitable questions; "Have you heard from your mother? (No), What about your brothers, do you know how they are? (Not since 1993, you know that) What do you think went wrong? (I dunno, maybe because she is FUCKING CRAZY???) What they hell?? I am the one that got the bum deal, the beatings and the mental aguish, all along they knew this was going on, and NOW they need to know answers why their sister/daughter behaved the way she did. Answer is simple. She took the easy route. It is soooo much easier to make others suffer than to suffer yourself. Interesting how my father 2 months ago, on the verge of having his second marriage dissolve because he controls and does not communicate, cried and cried for advice and help in saving his marriage. And when my sage advice and rude awakening came he took it and bettered his life. Yet missed that I was hurting. Odd how humans do that, huh?

And what about "him"? The one I let get to me dispite the fact my friends and my own little devil and angel on the shoulder told me RUN DAMN IT, RUN!! He is HIV+ and there is nothing I can do to take that away. Sorry, but I am also not putting my life at risk any more. Being negative after all this time dispite all the horrible shit that happened to me, and I am amazed I have even considered being in a relationship with this person up until this point. I alway tell people, that you need to think for yourself because you only have you to lean on when things get shitty. And frankly I have been, but now I have to think about him. What about his emotions which are all over the place due to the meds. He tells me he shouldn't be alive. He tells me that he is falling in love with me. I tell him not to hang on, cause even if he wasn't positive, I am a piece of work. Dark and brooding just barely covers it. I hate having to explain what that scar is for, or what that burn mark is from. Puts me in an point of internal rage. Yet, he hangs on. Maybe he just needs someone to snuggle up against late at night when he is scared. Is it fair of me to let him do it?

So once again, I am back to living and loving and fighting and screaming internally. Which person do I address first, and how do I keep all the emotions separate even though all those lines are a little blurry. I feel like that caged cougar at the zoo, all black and fiercely determine to pace back and forth with anxiety, waiting for that moment to spring into action. Run wild and free, or maul to death my oppressors. Until then, I just have to wait for 7 and 4 when they slide the chopped up meat in the cage to abate my hunger and until that day I am free again.

Random Blllaaaahhhhhh....

I love the smell of newsprint. I love cloud watching at night. Especially on a full moon. I hate when people read over my shoulder on the train. I love the smell of freshly baked croissants. Reminds me of Paris. I don't understand why people don't use turn signals. Is it that hard to "flick". I love the smell of fresh sea spray. But only from the coast of Spain or Miami Beach. Anything north of Ft. Lauderdale makes me sick. I hate platinum bleached hair, no matter what is does to the features. I love little old people. I just want to snatch them up in my six foot four frame and give them smootches. I love Black Cubans. I mean those amazing Afro-Carib people that just fucking LIVE. I love the sounds of a great Cuban jazz band. I hate Regaeton. I mean really, even if I understand the Spanish slang, it all sounds the same to me. I love other people's success. I hate that sometimes it doesn't translate to me. I want a man that will take care of me. I love being a hopeless romantic. I hate that I can't achieve it. I am not a big fan of New Orleans, dispite all their travesty I frankly could care less. I hate that it sounds so shallow that I say that. I love that I can be honest enough to do so. I hate that I was able to open up and be receptive to date an HIV positive man. I hate that he hates himself so much that he feels it was ok to date behind my back. Well maybe not hate, that is too harsh. I dislike it. There I said it. What? I love that I can make a mean ass crepe. I hate that I can't make a mean ass omlet to save my life. And by gawd I live by that stove. I love that I can actually cook on a stove, instead of a pile of crates and newspaper. I love that I can let my former life be...my former life. I love that I can reflect on my past mistakes. I hate that sometimes I miss the lessons. I love that I can have a crush on someone 3000 miles away and know nothing will ever happen. I hate that I can't jump on a plane run crying like a big queen and tell him how I feel. I love that I know that it is best that I don't. I love to drink good wine and hold it in, so you can feel that soft pressure of a full bladder. Makes you somehow feel alive. I hate when you "break the seal" and by God you pee 500 time in an hour. I hate hangovers. Yet, I give them to myself all the time. I love the feel off really cold sheet when you have a buzz. I love it even better when I am sober. I miss a good hug. I love a deep one. I don't do it enough. I hate that I am too afraid to touch. I hate that I am too afraid to hug. I hate that I am afraid that others won't love. I hate that I am scared to love myself. I love slugs. So gross I know. I love this weird fascination with slobbery dogs. Makes me feel like a boy. I love being mischevious. I love the fact that people see me as a being dark and brooding. I hate why people don't understand why I am. I love being alive damn it. I just freaking love it.

Yeah, Yeah. I know...

Ok so yes I haven't been posting. I have been traveling the world. Trying to find myself and help those I encounter in the process. Below is the transcript from a recent reading from Willing Warrior. Brad is expanding his horizons and trying his hardest to encompass the world. I have been blessed to be a part of that. Thank you Brad, and those of you who are beginging to realize we need to fight. Joshua

Part one:
September 27th, 10:38 pm. Brooklyn. Black Chevy Impala. I tell Guillemo to look at the license plate. Yes, this is the real time and date. I will never forget that date. The scar under my chin, or the one on my cheek will not let me forget. I have been on the street thirteen days. I try every few hours to call my mom to get me home. Home that is non existent cause frankly she doesn’t want me there. Twenty five bucks for head. Seventy five for more. I have 250 saved up, which isn’t bad since I eat like a pig. He seems normal. Cute, blonde hair, chocolate brown eyes. The wedding band on his finger threw me for a loop, but shit, I’m eighteen. And new to the game. He takes me to Eldert. Not so good. Little sketchy, near a beer distribution plant but good lighting. Something bugs me. Not the sketchy area, not the car, but how cute and young he is. I ask him what he wants, still not sure of the trick/whore etiquette yet. Everything. All right! Closer to my goal to get off these shit filled, scary ass streets. Despite my position, I am still acting like an elitist snob. I am too good for this. I am too cute for this. He is sensual at first. Sensing my apprehension he goes into machismo control. Not to bad at first, but a little grabby. Not my cup of tea, being the hopeless romantic that I am. Maybe, I’ve seen Pretty Woman too many times but of course in my position who doesn’t want the wealthy hottie to take me away from this? He bites. Hard. Not my cup of tea. But, I stay. Again with the biting. Are you kidding me with this. What kind of foreplay is this? Now I am apprehensive and say...”You need to calm down!” That was the wrong thing to say. The knife is not what I expected. I was expecting that whole Crocodile Dundee butch mammoth knife to come out. HA! I was actually shocked at the travesty of it. A fucking serrated kitchen knife. You know the one that does a bad job cutting a bad cut of steak? I’ll be damned if it didn’t leave a mark though. Its amazing how much blood comes out of a wound above the neck. It is amazing how much pain something no more than the length of a calculator can cause INSIDE you. Its amazing how much pain being pushed out of a Chevy Impala with a work book causes to your spirit.

Three little letters. HIV. Six months of wondering if the man that raped me so hard that I required 7 stitches “down there” gave me those three little letters. A death warrant. When the final word came that I was free and clear the emotions that overwhelmed me was surprising. I wanted to die. I did not deserve what my mother did to me. I did not want to face the world with the complete and utter lack of knowledge of how humans could take such and ugly turn. The easy turn. It was easy to rape me, because by his standards I was gutter trash. He didn’t need to know that I actually used to live on the top floor of a luxury home, or that my intelligence got me accepted partial scholarship into Yale. He took all that away and took my doubt of a higher being, or a belief in myself.

Flash forward to 2006. I have fallen for a boy. Man, really. He makes me laugh. He is scared to hear about my past because he sees me as this god that can defeat the world. His friends are in awe of my advice. Nothing compared to living on the street. Everyone has given me the nickname Prophet. Ironic since I can’t tell the future, but I can spot an evil person 100 yards away. I have managed to stay HIV negative despite the coke habit, and the GHB overdoses. Negative despite the times I have tried to die by someone else's hands. I have fallen for a wonderful boy who makes me happy. A boy that told me 3 weeks ago to the day that he is HIV positive. Are you kidding me? Did I get a defective deck of cards? What is more surprising is that the second he told me, I ran out and got my test. Anonymously, so not to be put on a list. And here I am 15 days (business days) still waiting. It seems that where I live HIV is not a big concern. I live in a city that men that are HIV come to die. My results are lost in the mail. POOF, gone. And all I want to know is if the person I have fallen for supposed to be the one I am with for life. What if I am negative? What does that mean to us? What if I am positive, what does that mean to me? My life will change...again! Why do I keep getting these challenges damn it?? I have a good heart and I care for everyone. Why do these people keep telling me “Call us tomorrow” Is it normal for me to question my existence? Why am I so scared that I might be positive due to some asshole that raped me, or cheated on me, or the fact I have not been 100% safe 100% of the time. Why am I so ashamed that my country feels it is more PROFITABLE to treat the disease than to cure it, despite every 15 minutes someone, man or woman is infected. America hs 1.2 million people infected with the disease, Africa almost 3 million. That number includes CHILDREN. Why does my President feel that cutting the funding for education and prevention is going to benefit anyone? Why have I been so lucky up until this point, despite my previous death wish. Do you care? Do you fight for this travesty, this pandemic? There is a beautiful word in the English dictionary that encompasses so many issues. The word is ROAR. Why, God damn it aren’t enough of you out there using this beautiful word for our cause. ROAR damn it! Roar.