My cold fingers tried to find warmth on your skin. It caused you to pull away from me. I apologized like I always do. You shook your head no. It was just a reaction I read too much into. I said I was sorry for always being sorry. You smiled out of habit and I knew it was over then. I put no thought into what I said next.

“This is over.”

You were shocked and my fingers were still numb. Your fingers were only slightly warmer than mine, but they stung when you touched my cheek and said you were sorry.

I didn’t see you again until it was warmer and you were showing off parts that used to be mine. You looked different, like a girl I could love. I smiled and caught a glimpse of myself in a dark window. I wasn’t someone you could love. I was still the person you had loved. I hadn’t grown. I let you walk away without getting your attention. A breeze came and I felt numb again.

I lost my soul mate with my lack of ambition. She’s married now with a kid. I can’t break up another marriage.

I can’t feel you thinking about me any more, even though you must.

I still think about you.

She was a girl I kissed one night and she was a girl I wish I could have kissed everyday. She was a cliché, an archetype, she radiated inspiration with no half-life. A muse who gave me a mix tape. I thought about her when I drank, thought about how she didn’t drink. Then I would think about how she gave up sobriety and drank with me. There was magic in that night, I was magic, she was a pixie with the right haircut. Hair that I pulled to make her smile in a way that showed she was of this earth, with earthly desires—a point of attack. I kissed her that night, but didn’t make it to the next day, the next morning, or even midnight. I made a moment though. A moment in her life, something for her to remember and something for her to regret. Her lips didn’t belong to anyone else, but her kisses did. They weren’t for me, but for a guy whose style was more current than classic. A guy who didn’t like questions. He didn’t like questions. All she was, was a question. I didn’t understand the relationship nor did I respect it. I was on a mission to make the universe I was in one in where we had kiss. A universe where I had tried to suffer her emissions without a pen in my hand and enjoy the present instead of trying to turn it into something for people to read—to live art rather than produce it. I couldn’t manage though.

The morning started with the night before, which didn’t end in a phone call between them. There wasn’t a fight or even a small disagreement. Those things can be overcame, because with those things are passion. What had happen had no passion. It was a simple question, but not an innocent one.

“When are you two going to get married?” asked a new man, a new friend in her life.

William was his name and his intentions were her. Jeff suspected, but didn’t care. He was comfortable in the relationship and trusted Karen.

Karen eyes were big after the question, not with hope but with fear. She too, was comfortable with the relationship. She was comfortable in her own apartment with time to live her own life. They hadn’t even moved in with each other. Why wasn’t that the question? That question had an answer. They worked on opposite sides of the city and any central location would be far too expensive and far too far from work.

The question lingered and neither answered, William smiled.

Jeff and Karen drove to their separate sides of the city and looked at their phones waiting for the other to call.

Neither did.

So, the morning started with that, the phone call that didn’t happen and when it was over, it was over.

You called me a sad, complicated boy with a talent for words and I called you my everything. You weren’t, but you let me believe. You made me happy and you made life simple for someone who always wanted to die. You never called me weak, which made me strong, but not strong enough for the truth of your dishonesty.

I’m sorry you made me strong enough to say goodbye.

She was a pretty girl who still showed her legs in late November, but covered the rest of her body with a jacket. Her body was slightly thick, but her legs were firm and she was proud of them. Her steps were deliberate and her body was hunched— eyes down catching glances of the cute shoes she would let tip the end of her legs. You could see her pride and you could see what she’d like to change. I wanted to change her. I wanted to kiss her body with passion until it straightened her back and lifted her chin. My hands would glide up her legs, bringing confidence to every part of her body. I would make her realize she was beautiful. I would grab her soft body hard and watch my fingers sink into her flesh. Her perfect legs would tense around my body and become firmer.

She’ll never see me with her eyes on the floor. She’ll never catch my eyes on her body waiting for warmer weather to see her leave the jacket at home. If she did, that would mean someone else had started giving her confidence. She’d belong to someone else.

She’ll never be mine.

I have nothing clever to say or anything to offer. I realize something then, I realize that maybe someone is waiting for me to look away from the pretty girl with nice legs to them. Maybe there is someone waiting to give me the confidence I need. I look around and see no one. I go back to writing in my little red notebook.

It occurred to me that a lot of male homophobia probably stems from sexism. Not major sexism. Not men-are-better-than-women sexism, but a more casual, you-throw-like-a-girl sexism. Most boys want to grow up to be men, which they are destined to do and can’t do much about. Growing up as a boy though, you are often compared to a girl when you come up short to what the regional and social expectations of a boy are. This of course is wrong to do, but it happens and probably will happen for a long, long time after my death. Due to poor parenting, poor teaching, and that poor parenting and poor teaching bleeding through from one kid to his peers.

It only takes one bully, or only one like-a-girl comment to make a boy think doing something like a girl must be a bad thing. That one comment will forever set a prejudice in that boys mind.

Doing something like a girl is wrong if you’re a boy and boys are better than girls because doing things like a girl is wrong.

So what does this type of causal sexism have to do with homophobia? Well, it’s impossible to say that male homosexuals are not more feminine than heterosexual males. Not necessarily in a stereotypical, non-butch way, but in a more obvious and by definition, sexual way. Calling a man a cock-sucker is calling him a homosexual and is also degrading a selfless sexual act that women do and is therefore degrading women too.

Being a male homosexual breaks one of the earliest social contract males usually learn: Being a boy is good and being anything else is being a girl. Girls are bad and have cooties. This makes men uncomfortable and being uncomfortable leads to things like homophobia.

The end to my loneliness is a phone call away
A simple call, an easy one
You would take me back and I’d want you too

This isn’t a time I can take what I want

It wouldn’t be fair to either of us
I want you, I need you today and tomorrow
The next day, is not something I’m sure about

We can’t take this one day at a time anymore

This is bigger than twenty-four hour chunks
I know you’d give me the rest of your life
I want that, but it’s not mine to take

What am I saying?

I don’t really know
We’re both confused
Too confused for a commitment

We can’t rush into forever

Forever, is just a moment
A moment I thought that would be with you
It might still be

I just can’t know that now

I know, you’re days are more over than mine
I’m not asking you to wait
Please live as happy as you can be

If we don’t find our way back to each other I would be surprised

But if we don’t
Know I will always have you like I said in that letter
You will always have me

I am you and you are me, we evened each other out and will never be the same again

“So, it’s over?”

“I think so.”

“But I love…”

“Don’t say it.”

“But it’s true.”

“It will fade.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Yes, it will.”

“You can’t know…”

“Yes, I can”

“How can you?”

“It’s all nature”

“Love isn’t science.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Then how can…”

“Chemicals and memories.”

“What? That’s it?”

“They all fade.”

“I love you.”

“It’ll go away.”

“Like you are.”

“It’s not easy.”

“Doesn’t seem hard.”

“I’ll regret this.”

“Then, please stay.”

“I can’t Jonathan.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too.”

“Stay, please stay.”

“Jonathan I can’t…”

“April dammit please!”

“I’m not yours.”

“But I’m yours.”

“Not any more.”

I was born an atheist and raised a Christian; Lutheran to be more precise, a happy medium between my mother’s Baptist fears and my father’s catholic guilt. We prayed before dinner and we prayed before bed. Prayer seemed odd to me as a child, you’re not allowed to pray for specific things like money, good Christmas presents, or a nice tweed jacket. You could however pray for abstract things, like strength. My mother prayed for that a lot and maybe it was my fault. I was very open about my distrust in the system that is religion. Still, I prayed. I prayed for the abstract things, understanding of God, knowledge of God, and faith in God. All things I just never had.

See, I may have had suspicions about Heaven, but Hell was a fact of life for me. God was a maybe, the Devil was definitive. There was no way I wouldn’t be going to Hell, so I prayed more. I wanted to believe, but I couldn’t. It didn’t make sense to me then, and it doesn’t now, but I still remember the fear. The fear that only a child can have; fear without boundaries or logic fear for the sake of being afraid. Finally I asked for help. My parents told me I did believe in God. This didn’t help. My preacher was a better source of advice; he told me the story of doubting Thomas. He told me everyone should have a lapse of faith, and that I was a bright kid for having one so young.

I told my preacher about the praying. How I would do it anytime a non-believing thought would pop into my head and he thought this was a good idea. He told me that God loved me and that prayer was the right thing to do, but it wasn’t the only thing I should be doing. He told me to stop bringing my game boy to church, to listen instead of playing tic-tac-toe with my sister on the church’s programs. I did that, still nothing. I went back to him and he encouraged me to read the Bible. I did. It pushed me further away from Christ.

Eventually I understood what I was, an atheist, but that didn’t mean my preacher didn’t give good advice. Prayer is nothing without trying. Praying for something, even something abstract, is not enough. You have to strive for it. You have to try. You have to move your hands and you have to move your feet. Prayers will not be answered while you’re in bed, they’ll be answered while you’re trying to get what you want.

You called me a sad, complicated boy with a talent for words and I loved you for it. You asked me how I could love with everything and I told you I didn’t know any other way. You were amazed by that and let me believe you loved the same way.

Thank you for letting me feel happy for a little while. Thank you for letting me be in love with my own imagination.

I’m sorry I had to walk away, but you still deserve someone who can love you with everything and I can’t do that anymore. I’m sorry your home can no longer be in me.

This is not a call for women to be stereotypical women; this is a call for women to be true feminists. Feminism is about being independent, not asserting dominance over men. Finding a man to do your laundry, to cook your meals, or to clean your place is still depending on a man. As a woman you should be able to do all those things yourself. Having ignorance in any category and claiming, that you’ll find a man to do it for you, is not feminism. It’s you being lazy, and frankly you being a bit of a whore.

A feminist shouldn’t need a man in her life to do anything for her. Especially depend on him to take care of her basic needs, like shelter, sustenance, and cute skirts. She should not only be able to provide for herself, but also be able to take care of herself.

It’s about equality, not just in status, rights, and opportunities, but in knowledge. There is no gender test on knowledge, but yet many women bias themselves against skills that are stereotypically for women. Skills will not weigh you down. Being able to cook or sew on a button will not limit you as a person. Inversely, the lack of these skills will limit you.

So, yes this is a call for women to learn how to be stereotypical women again. Not for the sake of men, but for the sake of themselves.

Only be half of the stereotype though, the half with knowledge to run a household, even if it’s just a household of yourself. Don’t forget how to change the oil in your car or any of the knowledge that people would label as manly; tackle that knowledge too. You have a right to it. Being a feminist should be something to be proud of, something not tainted by women who fly the flag of feminism while really looking for a guy who can make a nice risotto and iron a dress. Learn to cook the rice yourself and buy a steamer for your clothes.

A woman should be strong, independent, and intelligent. She should know how to make a sandwich when she’s hungry. I’ll leave you with this stereotypical male knowledge and poorly kept secret: if you eat over the sink, you won’t even need to dirty a plate.

You say you’re a nice guy. You respect women and would never cheat. You would never talk to a girl the way most other guys do. You’re special. That guy that any girl would be lucky to have. Yet, no girl seems to want you. That’s a little odd. Girls should like you. I bet you have a special someone in mind. I bet she’s a friend— maybe even a best friend. She tells you all her fears, all her problems, and even sometimes cries on your shoulder after she fights with her boyfriend. What an asshole he is. You would treat her so much better. You would cherish her. You would be the best boyfriend in the world.

I bet you’ve told her how you felt. If not this girl, the girl you were obsessed with before. I bet she’s acting weird now. Of course she is acting weird. She thought she had someone to talk to, someone to confide in, someone who cared about her as a person. You betrayed her. Everyone has been lying to you; you’ve been lying to yourself. You’re not a nice guy. You’re a guy who’s been letting a girl trust you, letting a girl take a little bit of the weight off her shoulders and give it to you. She trusted you with her problems and her emotions. No matter how many times she has told you: you’re a great friend, showed no interest in you, or scooted away for more personal space, you decided to try and guilt her into being your girlfriend. Don’t say you didn’t. That’s exactly what you did. You tried to take one connection and turn it into something else. She was sure about the connection. It was something stable. You ruined that for her by telling her how you feel.

Not only have you done that, but you’ve probably undermined her relationship. She can’t trust your good advice now. It could have been self-serving and probably was. You told her you would treat her better. She loves a guy and all you have done is insult him and say he’s not good enough. You’ve made her feel broken and you made her question her taste. Yet you think a guy that called her some name is the asshole? He may have called her something you wouldn’t have, but you played with her mind, her emotions, her trust, and left her in a strained relationship with someone she actually likes.

Do you even know this girl? You have no idea how she is romantically and you only have one side of the story. You’re in love with your own imagination. Take girls off the pedestal. All people are equal. Women burnt their bras and marched in the streets for equality. They don’t need a boyfriend to feed them compliments all day and tell them how perfect they are. They have friends for that, friends like you. Friends they’ll never date. They need an anchor to reality in a boyfriend and you can’t be that until you admit that they have faults. They need someone who knows them, and you simply do not. You may know the secrets and you may know the fears, but you don’t know her.

What can you do? You can start asking girls out and stop waiting for the right moment to do so. If they say no, move on to the next one. You don’t need more friends to pine for, and I’m sure she doesn’t need another guy waiting to tie her down. If you want tips and tricks on how to turn a friend into a girlfriend, you’re looking for ways to manipulate someone, which is just another way to be an asshole. Stop being an asshole and ask a girl out.

There is an evil purity to the blank page. The same evil purity found in un-molded clay or bare canvass. The evil that lives in pricey Italian notebooks that are too good for your writings. To write, to create, is to conquer this evil pure. To take something that’s been industrially made with a small threshold of error and difference, to take it and make it unique. Squiggling a line on the page would make it unique, but that’s not the thing most of us aim for. We aim for perfection. We think of what we will write before we write it, thus we are left thinking more than we are left working. Writing and creating are not things done in the head, but are things done with the hands. Only our hands can erase the evil pure with making marks, making mistakes and not being afraid.

• Make a mark
• Make a mistake
• Don’t be afraid

These are three things I write on the first page of every notebook I own. It helps me use them. There is something terrifying about breaking in a new notebook. There is this idea that the first thing you write will somehow be defining of the work you do. This can lead to us wearing out notebooks before they even have a page filled. Worse it makes us wait for inspiration, those little perfect moments when the words come together for you. That’s not creating. Inspiration is like finding money on the street, it’s nice, but you won’t find it there everyday. It will not be a way for you to live. Most importantly it’s not really yours. You can take credit for it, it can be the best thing you ever write, but it isn’t yours. It’s a discovery, not an invention. It’s important to invent. Invent something everyday. Make an imperfect something on the first page of your precious notebook and move on to inventing things.

When you’re not inventing you should be consuming. Read everything. Watch everything. Listen to everything. Give your mind something new to explore. It’s okay to have favorites, but it’s not okay to get comfortable. Don’t get stuck in a loop. If you just consume the same as you create, you’re in a loop. If you just consume a few genres of things, you’re in a loop. Ever feel like you had everything figured out? Just to later be surprised about how much you didn’t really get/know? You got comfortable. Life should be a constant struggle of getting new information and trying to process it while looking for more to consume. If you think you have it figured out, go consume something you wouldn’t, you’ll quickly see that you have it wrong.

I know when your shifts are
You make sure I do
My drinks are almost always free

Small talk and look down smiles
Band recommendations with loaned out books
I love the notes you write in the margins

We’re both more dressed up today
I come around closing time
You take off your apron, bringing it with you

It’s all you wear in the morning