When my father graduated from college he was given a Rolex as a present. Through his twenties, when he was wasting time with boring women, boring jobs, and generally being a misfit he would wear that watch. And to this day he will say “Jon, that watch has seen me through many tough times”.

I’m not exactly sure what he’s trying to tell me through that statement. But I know what it means to me.

When I was in high school. A Freshmen, I believe. My father bought me a watch. It was nothing special, really. A Swiss Army with ratcheting bezel. But through the act of buying it with me and feeling the cold weight of stainless on my skin I felt like I had finally entered manhood. Forget the car, that was filled with more anxiety than it was worth.

No, the watch was my introduction.

I took my Swiss Army with me to Ithaca, NY after my Sophomore year of High School. The most formative 3 weeks of my entire life. Those 21 days at Cornell were my first experience in a group entirely composed of other intellectually curious kids. It was the first time I essentially had limitless personal freedom. I was an out gay man (boy). I made friendships, which I will always remember. And always treasure.

It was that same summer, wearing that same watch that I had my first kiss.

My Swiss Army was a piece of home in Philadelphia when I finally left that home for good. When coming back would never be the same again. It came with me on my first college date (with a law student!?) in late September. It saw me through all of school. It would never give up.

It saw me through good and bad. Really bad. Times of depression. Times when I was so lost I didn’t even know I was depressed.

And eventually it gave up. Literally.

The circuits inside just broke.

It was fixed, alright. Sort of. For $125.00 it now ticks.

But for some reason it never felt right again.

And un-ironically I lost it soon after.

While I didn’t feel as close to the watch as I once did (its’ soul had been lost, after all), I was still heartbroken. I felt like my best friend was truly gone forever.

Until this weekend. On Sunday, December 6th I found my Swiss Army watch. It was still ticking.

It was waiting for me.

But in a way, it’s me who’s still waiting.

I don’t know what it means to have my watch back.

Like a window on the past. It seems so far away now.

Maybe that’s why it broke in the first place. It was meant for the person I used to be.

And not the person I am now.

I feel ashamed to wear it to school. I feel ashamed to wear it at home. I feel ashamed to have it on my wrist. I’m not sure I deserve it now.

For all my faults.

And I had many.

He makes me smile.

Sometimes I’ll run into a fag I knew back in the old days. And it’s fun to catch up. I’m back in my home town after all. But then I realize that I really am not that same person. I can be better.

So yeah, my watch has been through a lot with me.

My life is somewhat more ordered now. It has a shape and outline. But I like to remember those times. When there was possibility. When I was met by wide open road.

I’m going to keep wearing my Swiss Army.

If only as a reminder.

It’s been an eventful few days. Too eventful if you ask me. I feel like I finally hit a wall of sorts.

I’m standing in that place where all that pining and all that work just sort of… Bleeds to the distance. And sure, I would have felt this way irregardless of other facts.

But it’s more stark. He stands there. He doesn’t have to speak. He doesn’t have to do anything at all. Because he’s miles taller than everyone else.

It’s a joke, really. Laughable.

I spent all this time going out. Not sleeping. Looking my worst.

But then it all becomes crystal clear. Obvious.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him on Saturday. We saw art, Maybachs, a Fiat 500, and Daytona watches. But he shined brighter than any of them.

Wrapping my arm around his shoulder, tugging at his jacket, hugging goodbye.

I tried everything I could, short of a kiss. I hope he felt it.

I have my foibles. I take him for granted. Maybe I had high expectations of other people. Maybe I thought the difference was smaller.

But the difference is a huge chasm that probably could never be filled.

But my mom is right. He’s just worth it.

No, he doesn’t want all the same things I want.

No, I won’t be on a plane in three weeks headed west.

It’s time to stop seeing Jeff as a Red light opposed to things I WANT.

He’s a green light saying yes to ME.

Everything else (read, Slut Boy) is just window dressing.

I have a hard time going to the movies, reading books, playing video games, watching TV, listening to music.

That is, I have trouble putting faith in that media when I don’t know how it ends. Or at least understand the main thrust before walking in. I want to know what happens before it does.

I play the same video games over and over again. The same movies. Read the same books.

Because I know what to feel and when to feel it. And I love it.

It can be a big problem. Never taking risks. Self-fulfilling prophecies.

And I’m doing it again. Right now.

B and his blue backpack. Covered in white scrawl. Jokes and band names. The pulp of his life.

I did everything I could. I threw away “No Strings Attached” and popped in “The Moon Is Down”. And I knew it wouldn’t work. I knew it was hopeless. Which is why I walked down that path.

And I’m doing it again. Right now.

It’s a good feeling, rejection. It reinforces everything you’ve come to believe. It’s almost a relief to know that there simply is no chance.

I’ve arrived in this place in less than six months.

The process of digging out begins now.

It’s not that I think I didn’t make it clear the first time.

And it’s not that I’m looking for some kind of pity/sympathy.

I’ve lived this way for the entirety of my adult life (or at least until the testosterone started pumping). I’ve made it this far. And I’ll make it further.

But it is a strange thing. No doubt. Cliched. But strange.

When I think of the qualities I want in another. My personal checklist. From the intellectual to the emotional and the physical. I start of pretty well. Not perfect, but I’m holding my own. And then bit by bit I start to fail my own test.

And in the end I’m a complete mess. Totally out of the running in a contest I designed! How can I fail my own test!?

True. Lots of people find themselves in similar situations. I’m just one of millions.

For most people (assuming similar taste) Slut Boy would have been a lovely interlude. Some eye-candy. A testament to aesthetics. Something fun. A challenge.

What have you.

For me Slut Boy was a slap in the face.

A Skinner Box of punishment.

The embodiment of “no”.

What I cannot be. What only others are capable of.

I saw him. But he was behind thick glass of my own mind. Out of reach. Out of contact. Out of range.

No lie. It’s not easy to wake up and lay myself down feeling that way. Knowing that at best I’m a spectator. At worst, the court jester.

Without names I will admit that I finally feel the way a good friend once did in college. I get by alright. I’m smart. I’m sarcastic. I spit out witticisms quick enough to make an impact.

Completely harmless.

I’m not the shunned loser in the corner. 200 lbs and playing WoW.

But the real game is cut off from me. Beyond my grasp.

Worst of all, if I had to make the judgment I would come to the same conclusion.

After all. I failed my own test.

Wow. I never write titles like that. But as all of you who’ve spoken to me this weekend already know I had a run-in with a “hired gun” of epic proportions.

So I should have been studying but it was Friday night and I just couldn’t say no. Besides, I hadn’t yet been to this bar. So we went.

It was a dive. In some ways good and in others not as good. There seemed to be quite a lot of smoking going on in their outside area (read back alley). Connecticut gays must have a real addiction going on.

Anyway we approached the bar and the first two things I noticed.

One. They served mixed-drinks in plastic cups. Yeah. It was a dive. Thus it would be a beer night for me… for the first two anyway.

Two. Asian bartender. Now, I may not be a genius but I’m not so dumb as to not understand what’s going on here. If I owned the bar I would have done the exact same thing. You have  a gay night. This necessitates hiring of intensely attractive straight bartenders so that you have no “fraternizing” but you also get lots of money because the fags are like nicotine-addicts. They see meat and they just can’t say no.

And in this bartender’s particular case, the attraction wasn’t anything high-brow. He was going for the gut.

Hair. Not quite a true Mohawk but definitely taller and more defined than a Fauxhauk.

Piercings. Where to begin? Two big studs in his ears, an industrial bar, both nipples pierced. Yeah… slutty. You know it. But could you say no?

Tattoos: He had a lot… On his chest, back, and lower abs he had several small Chinese character tattoos. I don’t speak the language, I just admire the view. He also had a “whore tattoo” (read tramp stamp) but not on his lower back. Instead it was on his shoulders. They drew attention to the muscles .

Body: Yah… and here I just couldn’t look away. Totally buff. But not so cut that I ran away in fear. He cares a whole lot about his body but he’ll have a drink once in a while. But make no mistake, super cut and beautiful. Just not the scary kind.

Skin: I want to know where he got these genes. First off, it was the most beautiful tan shade I’ve seen in a long time. Sure, it was pretty tanned but not so dark that he had over done. And his complexion was amazing. Not a flaw to be seen anywhere. And smooth as all hell. Really amazing.

I didn’t know what to do with myself all night. This bartender was hired and designed to appeal to every raw instinct in my body. I forgot my higher brain functions and let my dick do all the work.

Of course, I didn’t actually do any work at all. I bought a couple drinks, left him slightly larger tips and eyed him longingly from time to time. Sure enough a friend of mine told me that while this boy claimed to be straight he’d heard that he’s really in the closet but only fucks other asians.

Typical.

Whether straight or not, this guy was doing exactly what he needed to do. Let you get just close enough to shell out the cash but never cash-in.

Sometimes attraction is about the high cheek bones and perfectly coiffed hair. The great clothes. Sharp wit.

Other times it’s raw sex. I’ll admit it. I like that image.

Despite what my wallet may say.

Slut boy can stay.

I made you.

I took you off the shelf.

You were what I needed you to be. When I needed it.

The scapegoat. The greener grass. The apex. The escape.

A stand in.

It was easier that way.

In any situation “good” or bad” you were there for me. A one-word reasoning.

Rather than decide for myself. Rather than face my own life. I had you. I just threw you in the ring and suddenly it all seemed to make so much sense.

And now that I know this. What’s changed?

Slowly but surely you’re moving from the shelf to my drawer. You’re part of my life. I can’t and wouldn’t want that to change.

But you aren’t my excuse.

I’m glad of it. Another friend recently quoted “It’s not what you do, it’s who you are”.

Thankfully he’s off the deep-end.

My decisions were my own. And those decisions made me the person I am today.

And it’s time to take ownership.

Have I done it?

I’ve realized it. It’s easy to be angry at someone else for putting me in this place. It’s easy to pine for someone who represents some “dream”. Unfortunately I have only myself to blame for being here. And that dream is only what I decide to make.

Time to stop the drama and find the solution.

Having a blog (really an internet diary) can sometimes feel far less cathartic than actually talking to a real person. After all, their response is such an important aspect of growing and learning. But even after such a short time my entry earlier this morning is beginning to have an effect on my outlook.

I find that instead of focusing on how awful school is and how much I’m unhappy that I’m not doing any work, my mind is drifting towards the future.

No, I’m not studying like a should. But at least the heavy dull hatred has fled for a moment.

My mind is contemplating what it means to be a medical student.

More importantly.

What do I look like as a “good” medical student? Who is that person? What does he care about? How does he structure his life? How does he study? What makes him happy?

I can’t see beyond the next few months. I have no idea if this is truly the right path for me, yet. These existential questions will only be answered with time. What I can say is that if I don’t pass right now, and if I don’t continue to pass then these questions will be moot.

The main difference between this mythical Jon a few weeks from now is efficiency. It’s Jon who does the necessary work every day. There will be those doing more. Yes. There’s no way around that. I cannot be a robot. Certainly not within the next weeks. But a more efficient Jon does what’s necessary. Keeps up. Nothing more.

By the end of a section I’ll need to review for sure. But I won’t be learning the basics.

One important aspect of this (which I haven’t mapped out) is a way to resist temptation. When work seems bigger than me. Too difficult to tackle. I generally just walk away. If I know I can do something. If I know I have the tools. I will perform generally well. In previous sections of school I was a very unhappy boy. I hated the work-load and didn’t like school. But the material could be studied in ways I was very familiar with. And I got through it with scores, which weren’t top 5%, but were pretty good.

It was good enough to put off some of the deeper questions.

Not anymore.

I won’t promise to be that good Jon if I pass this upcoming exam. That’s a lame promise that god-fearing people make.

What I’ll say is that I’m ready to look for a way to become that better student. I might just need a little help.

You already know what’s going to happen. That’s why we like romantic comedies. We can pay money to see a movie, where we already know the outcome. That way we can enjoy all the little twists, turns, and jokes. It’s all part of the same story.

I’ve been trying to write this post for about a week and a half.

When so much feels wrong. When the problem feels so big.

It’s hard to boil it down to words. Something to fit in this somewhat small box.

Whether for its heuristic ease, I don’t know. But I’ve decided to point to age.

It’s finally happened. I’m officially old. And I feel it. For all the Finasteride I see my hairline creeping. Looking across a room knowing I am in a different place from the college kids. Unable to go back. The lines on my face. The droopy eye-lids.

Yep. All these years later I’m finally connected to John Mayer and his quarter-life crisis. A place where you suddenly find that your entire life has led to this moment. That everything is past. It’s come to now.

It’s time to produce.

And I really don’t want to.

No one prepared me for this. But it looks like plenty of others are steeled against these lashes. I ain’t.

When you’re 18 you can sit down and imagine what you want for your life at 25. You can see it in your mind. Perhaps you’ve never tried to do so. But it’s possible to do.

And for me, it’s nothing like the plans. Not in one single way.

Not that life necessitates ugliness by 25. It doesn’t. But that’s where I’ve found myself.

It’s weird. Some of my life’s old problems creep back. Some stay quiet. New one’s are added. Perhaps that alone is a sign of my agedness. I once thought I would be haunted by the same demons forever. So far that’s only partially true.

25 is about accepting things about yourself. It’s about accepting things about the world. It’s about acceptance.

Not a high-point for me.

An old-time example. I have to accept that I will never look like the boys I’ve always pined for. I just wasn’t born that way. That wasn’t what my nucleic acids had in store for me. There isn’t some future when I will somehow be able to match them. Where there will be enough time to primp and prune and work to get to that place. Even if time were free it would still be out of reach.

New themes. I chose this for myself. It’s going to be awful. Terrible. I either have to find a reason to do it. Or get out. That decision looks giant-sized. But it’s the truth looking me in the face. If I never tackle any of the other problems on my plate, solving this one will mend most bridges. It will get me by.

And tackle it, I will. First steps made. Maybe not the most proactive. Maybe not the most efficient. Maybe not successful in the end. But motion.

You begin to realize that for a whole lot of people, life offers a lot of options. Lots of choices. Paths to many futures. Most of them are relatively pain-free. Small rewards.

A few people decide otherwise. They come to the end. Battered. Broken. But free. They sacrificed entire portions of themselves and made it.

They chose to do it.

And at 25 that is what’s being asked of me.

It’s what I’m asking myself.

I am now able to put my feelings in context.

There was a time. Within the recent past. I wasn’t actually sure how I felt. My life was in limbo. There really was no present or past. And the future was so cloudy that making plans would have been to  dance in the face of chance.

My acceptance to medical school never actually registered with me.

I mean, it did. Arrangements needed to be made.

Where would I live?

Who would I live with?

When would I move back?

What did I need to buy?

But the inevitable has come.

Why. How.

I know my feelings. They are not some shadowy abstraction.

Last year could have been spent on a great many things. But what can be pushed off is always pushed off. Until it’s too late. Interest rates never rise until inflation has its’ cold grip on your throat.

So what is it that I live with?

The why. Why do I want to do this? Why does anyone want to do this? Why do I need to know this? Why does everyone else seem to know the answer? Why is no one validating this feeling?

The how. How do I discover my motivation? How will this all turn out? How do I take that dictionary and inert it into my brain?

Unequivocally I am stuck at the why. I have said it before. You cannot be in this business unless you are willing to give up  things, which can often be part of the fabric of our lives. Things must be shaved to a nub. You find the one rewarding/energizing thing about “X” and you keep it. All its’ branches are removed. Spontaneity erased. Pleasantries vacuumed away.

Things lay bare.

Career consumes all.

And we’re to be glad of it. The reward of working, helping, learning.

I will say it. That sounds more like prison than freedom.

Apparently I am supposed to smile and nod at those folks working at “jobs”. After all, look what they’re missing out on. Career.

That’s what it’s about.

These concerns cannot be addressed on the fringes. It’s not a matter of “get through it” or “get out”.

I refuse to get through anything unless I want to be there. Unless there is a kernel, somewhere for me to put my heart.

But I don’t quit. I don’t give up. I don’t walk away.

I never have.

Not when it matters.

There are only two roads. That’s true. But I need more than a destination.

And the obvious truth is that those reasons cannot be divined. They cannot be bought. They cannot be rationalized. They have to be discovered in me.

I’m looking.

I wasn’t going to comment on this issue again so soon. The voting in Maine slightly irked me but I wasn’t really that bothered. However, then I was flipping through emails and found an invitation to this online town-hall where conservatives were answering questions from voters about the proposed “Obamacare” legislation.

I was about to delete it since I don’t participate in dumb meetings. However, when looking through the list of participants I saw some folks from the “American Family Association” were to be in attendance.

Rolling my eyes I decided to Google them.

This crap is finally starting to wear on me. It’s hard enough these days to support individual liberties over an ever-growing, ever-indebted, and ever-incompetent centralized government. Constantly being told that I’m a racist, an elitist, and entirely uninterested in the lives of regular Americans.

But really? I am feeling less and less interested in fighting with/for people who expressly view me as a threat to their way of life. They believe that old Jeffrey and I, all shriveled up, complaining about hemorrhoids, and filing a joint tax statement will infringe upon their dysfunctional marriages with anorexic children and philandering all around.

Here I am on the front lines. Living amongst the “enemy” constantly trying to explain why less government will allow us to live as we like. To take personal responsibility.

But I’m beginning to think that’s a lie. More and more, modern conservatives are fighting for a world that looks something more like Dubai than a Lockean paradise. A place where every person is free to do as they wish with their money. No one will tax us or burden us with regulation.

But at home we’re all being watched. We aren’t allowed to pray as we like, fuck as we like, ingest substances as we like, criticize as we like, or think as we like.

What’s strange is how counter-intuitive this all is. How can we fight for economic and health-care independence but then change the rules on other issues?

It’s a bit frustrating for me. I’m not sure where I’m going on the political spectrum these days. Actually I probably am not moving at all, I’m just more aware of how far away the main political parties are from where I stand.

Let’s say this, Republicans. You just lost a vocal supporter. I’m willing to vote for you in private but I’m not going to be your little silly fag foot-soldier. Not until you realize that freedom needs defending. And freedom does not fit into little boxes.