Well, here’s the first installment of my new blog----a non HIV specific one at that. Of course, when I was approached to do such a thing, I thought GREAT! I can write for one of my pet causes (Adult Literacy being another) for an Organization I believe in. Easy. I’ll just do what I LOVE to do, do it with my usual aplomb, and say FUCK AIDS!
But then I started to think about it. And think about it.
And THINK about it.
Sometimes when you think about writing too much, you get so caught up in the idea of doing it, settin’ around (as an ex would say) daydreaming, reading other people’s work, watching stupid old movies like Tammy and the Bachelor, you lose track of the fact that writing can be fun, and not a bunch of mental anguish. And while this track will sooner than later become the bunch of frivolity that is Craig, I think I might just as well address some of the stuff about AIDS that is a pain in the ass (for lack of a better term), and what makes living with it, well, difficult. I mean, it does add a subtle shading to one’s Life,
n’ cest pas? I mean, every time you take another handful of pills, does it not remind you of what you are dealing with?!
Take dating, for instance. Like, it’s not hassle enough to go and put yourself out there emotionally, possibly only to be dumped after a long courtship if you’re NORMAL. Actually, every time I hear some non-AIDS affected cow start wailing and moaning about some botched relationship, I just want to slug them. I don’t, of course, but I sure as hell want to simply because with AIDS you have to disclose, and fairly often, if your trying to fall in love with a NORMAL person, they’ll dump your ass faster than you can say Dear Abby. And chances are they don’t even have the nerve to do it in a grown up way! They just start ignoring your calls, and not answering your furtive missives via email. After a while, out of sheer exhaustion with the whole trauma, you develop this ennui, start drinking again, let your beard grow out, stop shaving those personal spots that no one else sees anyway. Recently, after a rather tumultuous break up, I bought a HUGE pair of the darkest glasses you’ve ever seen, wear them well into the night, as if to say, I’m unavailable. Well, no Garbo am I, but I pretend to be. I’m pretty well enamored with my own mystique as it is, and I can live here in my Ivory Tower, in a secured castle, where an electronic doorman can shield me from the world until I’m ready to flounce out with a vengeance and fall off a barstool or two. What the hell. And where in the FUCK did I leave those dark glasses at?!
Or how about this? Dealing with the Government Bureaucracy and their constant In Your Business business? Yes, I’m still disabled. Yes, I’m still on the dole. Yes, I still have the same doctor, the same case manager, the same the same the same. BUT YOU STILL WANT ME TO FILL OUT THESE SAME GODDAM FORMS, YET AGAIN. Ugh. A person has less chance of dying from complications of AIDS than they do of sheer BOREDOM. Recently, I had to deal with someone from The Housing Authority, and the bitch was munching on Cheetos, then, after answering my question, proceeded to hang up on me! Now this really pissed me off, so I called back, and by the time I got through to her voice mail, I was INFURIATED, and left the nastiest message you can think of. No one ever hangs up on the likes of moiself, and how dare her crunch and munch her way through a mundane conversation! Then I went into the kitchen and poured myself a tumbler full o’ wine from a box. Yes, I’m still on the dole. If I wasn’t, it would have been a pitcher of martinis. Up. Yes, the government is tedious, but we have to deal with them or else we lose our much needed benefits. But would they just put a little Vitameatavegemin in the water cooler to give those darned bureaucrats a little zip? If anyone pops out at parties and is unpoopular, it’s them.
Another thing I love is the fact that this year, for the first time in several seasons, the Fashion Industry, in their own particular capricious way, has decided to shift all their colors from one palette to the next. How am I, fashion plate that I pretend to be, supposed to keep looking in-step when I make just a few quid more than the average homeless person?! Can’t there be some government agency that will supplement our meager incomes so as not to only house and feed us, pay for medical expenses, but also give us a clothing allowance. The newly formed Federal Bureau of Fashion would see to it that none of us would commit Fashion Flaws based on limited income. Hell, put those Five Faggots in charge! Oh, but they’re too busy hocking Post Toasties and retro-lampshades these days. Frankly, I don’t think Sharon Stone is doing much currently, and even if she did have a brain (tumor) she would be willing and able. All I want, Miss Stone, is a new pair of shoes and a neatly appointed mix and match wardrobe for me and my poverty stricken young’uns (as my ex would say). Oh, yes, I SWEAR I’ll lose 40 lbs. ANYTHING to get out of these old low slung bell-bottom jeans I’ve been wearing for YEARS! (You can call ‘em flared leg or boot cut, but having lived through the 70’s, they still look like bell-bottoms to me.) You can bet that newly formed tog oriented Non-Profit Organizations would bring in gazillions of dollars more than those tired old AIDS places do.
Actually, this is a pretty good idea. I think I’ll put in a call to my dear friend Miranda Priestly and ask her to lobby congress on this one.
Until next time, dahlings, Craig Curtis, signing off!
But then I started to think about it. And think about it.
And THINK about it.
Sometimes when you think about writing too much, you get so caught up in the idea of doing it, settin’ around (as an ex would say) daydreaming, reading other people’s work, watching stupid old movies like Tammy and the Bachelor, you lose track of the fact that writing can be fun, and not a bunch of mental anguish. And while this track will sooner than later become the bunch of frivolity that is Craig, I think I might just as well address some of the stuff about AIDS that is a pain in the ass (for lack of a better term), and what makes living with it, well, difficult. I mean, it does add a subtle shading to one’s Life,
n’ cest pas? I mean, every time you take another handful of pills, does it not remind you of what you are dealing with?!
Take dating, for instance. Like, it’s not hassle enough to go and put yourself out there emotionally, possibly only to be dumped after a long courtship if you’re NORMAL. Actually, every time I hear some non-AIDS affected cow start wailing and moaning about some botched relationship, I just want to slug them. I don’t, of course, but I sure as hell want to simply because with AIDS you have to disclose, and fairly often, if your trying to fall in love with a NORMAL person, they’ll dump your ass faster than you can say Dear Abby. And chances are they don’t even have the nerve to do it in a grown up way! They just start ignoring your calls, and not answering your furtive missives via email. After a while, out of sheer exhaustion with the whole trauma, you develop this ennui, start drinking again, let your beard grow out, stop shaving those personal spots that no one else sees anyway. Recently, after a rather tumultuous break up, I bought a HUGE pair of the darkest glasses you’ve ever seen, wear them well into the night, as if to say, I’m unavailable. Well, no Garbo am I, but I pretend to be. I’m pretty well enamored with my own mystique as it is, and I can live here in my Ivory Tower, in a secured castle, where an electronic doorman can shield me from the world until I’m ready to flounce out with a vengeance and fall off a barstool or two. What the hell. And where in the FUCK did I leave those dark glasses at?!
Or how about this? Dealing with the Government Bureaucracy and their constant In Your Business business? Yes, I’m still disabled. Yes, I’m still on the dole. Yes, I still have the same doctor, the same case manager, the same the same the same. BUT YOU STILL WANT ME TO FILL OUT THESE SAME GODDAM FORMS, YET AGAIN. Ugh. A person has less chance of dying from complications of AIDS than they do of sheer BOREDOM. Recently, I had to deal with someone from The Housing Authority, and the bitch was munching on Cheetos, then, after answering my question, proceeded to hang up on me! Now this really pissed me off, so I called back, and by the time I got through to her voice mail, I was INFURIATED, and left the nastiest message you can think of. No one ever hangs up on the likes of moiself, and how dare her crunch and munch her way through a mundane conversation! Then I went into the kitchen and poured myself a tumbler full o’ wine from a box. Yes, I’m still on the dole. If I wasn’t, it would have been a pitcher of martinis. Up. Yes, the government is tedious, but we have to deal with them or else we lose our much needed benefits. But would they just put a little Vitameatavegemin in the water cooler to give those darned bureaucrats a little zip? If anyone pops out at parties and is unpoopular, it’s them.
Another thing I love is the fact that this year, for the first time in several seasons, the Fashion Industry, in their own particular capricious way, has decided to shift all their colors from one palette to the next. How am I, fashion plate that I pretend to be, supposed to keep looking in-step when I make just a few quid more than the average homeless person?! Can’t there be some government agency that will supplement our meager incomes so as not to only house and feed us, pay for medical expenses, but also give us a clothing allowance. The newly formed Federal Bureau of Fashion would see to it that none of us would commit Fashion Flaws based on limited income. Hell, put those Five Faggots in charge! Oh, but they’re too busy hocking Post Toasties and retro-lampshades these days. Frankly, I don’t think Sharon Stone is doing much currently, and even if she did have a brain (tumor) she would be willing and able. All I want, Miss Stone, is a new pair of shoes and a neatly appointed mix and match wardrobe for me and my poverty stricken young’uns (as my ex would say). Oh, yes, I SWEAR I’ll lose 40 lbs. ANYTHING to get out of these old low slung bell-bottom jeans I’ve been wearing for YEARS! (You can call ‘em flared leg or boot cut, but having lived through the 70’s, they still look like bell-bottoms to me.) You can bet that newly formed tog oriented Non-Profit Organizations would bring in gazillions of dollars more than those tired old AIDS places do.
Actually, this is a pretty good idea. I think I’ll put in a call to my dear friend Miranda Priestly and ask her to lobby congress on this one.
Until next time, dahlings, Craig Curtis, signing off!
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