It seems like only yesterday that I was writing a post about how it was going to be 2009 and how much I hate writing the number 9, and now look—it's 2011! Isn't that fucked up? Two years have passed and now we have less than two more to go before we all die a horrifying death in the form of a mass destruction of the planet Earth, or as the ancient Mayans called it: the end of the calendar.
If this ancient prediction comes to fruition, then I should graduate from college and die at just about the same time. But for serious, things just keeping dropping dead in Arkansas and Louisiana. Did you read about this? Like hoards of birds and fish and bugs are dropping from the sky or floating up to the top of the water. It's very end of times. So, maybe it's true. But isn't it funny how archaic that concept is? Like this idea of a vindictive, evil, smiting god, punishing us for 'saying his name wrong' or for having 'anal sex'. "And now I will kill all this shit because everyone is horrible!" And then we all throw a pig into a bonfire, rub mud on each other and chant. I have to agree with him though: People are horrible.. and pigs creep me out.
Still, not to point fingers or anything, but isn't this really all your fault, god?
Of course, with my luck, the Apocalypse or whatever will totally come and you know I'll feel like a total schmuck if a giant white (Aryan) hand plunges down from the heavens on December 21st, or May 21st, or 1999, or whenever the hell it is now. And I'm sure all these people I know will be resting peacefully in the soft, giant, white hand looking down at me, mumbling amongst themselves, "He really shouldn't have been such an asshole."
On to something far more important: my car. I still haven't sold my car yet—7 months later. It's madness. While out running errands the other week, I drove passed a large store front window and caught a glimpse of myself gliding by. I was instantly embarrassed—embarrassed like when you fart in front of someone or like that feeling you get when you watch people sing on TV. It made me feel like a woman. Like more of a woman than when I used to wear tiny pants and makeup in the 90s. Why is that? It's just a car.
I started school again. My last quarter in community college! (noise of jubilation) In my geology class, as an "ice breaker", the professor made us all say our names, where we came from and something interesting about ourselves. I hate stuff like this. Everyone was like, "Uh, I'm from Lima, Ohio and I like dogs" or, "I'm from Grove City and I ride dirt bikes". I was trying really hard to think of something interesting about myself. Um, I like booze and food, laying around.. I don't know. Then he came to me:
"I'm Jacob, I'm from Toledo. I've been a hairstylist for the last decade and lived in San Diego and New York City... and now I'm here"
My professor: "Did you just make that up?"
I then wished I could retract. (I like dogs, too.) Just saying the word 'hairstylist' to a bunch of hillbillies is like goosing a straight guy in a locker room. Needless to say, it caught them all off guard. I would have gotten a better reaction had I just said, "I'm Jacob, I'm from Toledo", then farted. Maybe I wouldn't have turned bright red.
Why do I honestly give a shit what people think? I'm thirty. But at that moment I felt just as gay as when I drove passed the beauty supply store window and saw my large head blinking back from the reflection of my little black car. My testicles felt like little pink jellybeans. I've never really been one to care of what others think and I've never been particularly masculine, so why now does my gayness make me uncomfortable? The older I get, the more aware I become.
The class turned away. My professor lifted his eyebrows and said: "So who's that one hairstylist in New York who charges like $1,500 a cut and flies in on a helicopter from the Hamptons?"
I was like, "No idea."
He was like, "C'mon, start throwin' out some names."
"Yeah, no idea."
I don't know who the coolest fucking hairdresser in the world is!? I don't even want to be a hairdresser! Why do you think I'm sitting in a geology class, learning about rocks, at 6pm instead of blow drying some bitchy old Jewish lady's hair? I was so embarrassed. I honestly have no reason to be, but I walked back to my tiny car after class, head hung low, squeezed in, and drove home listening to (insert gay song here), hunching at each traffic light just to see out.
Did anyone ever stop and think maybe the Mayans weren't predicting the end of times but rather just felt they had completed a sufficient amount of calendar? Like, "Let's just stop here. I'm tired and we're all totally going to be dead before we get to use this whole thing anyway." I mean, not that I'd mind if we all died at the same time. I'd actually prefer it. I think one of my biggest issues with death is that life would only be over for me and that everyone else would get to keep doing fun things, like drinking or going to the beach, and I'd just be dead. Like being grounded forever. So, if a giant meteor was plummeting toward the Earth, I wouldn't mind. "Oh, how's our luck, you guys? Looks like we're all going. Shoot." I'd actually find comfort in that. Does that make me selfish?
As the ball dropped on the year 2010, while standing in a dark gay bar wearing ass-less chaps, I clinked my plastic champagne glass (filled with $2 sparkling wine) with Jon's and I thought: "You know, Jacob. Being gay isn't so bad. I have the most amazing partner anyone could ever find, a great little life—complete with a cute little house—and my ass looks bangin' in these chaps. And that's more than most heterosexuals could say, right? So, bring it on 2011, you bitch!"