Thehispanicpanic - Hispanic Panic

QUEER HORROR DAY #21 - THE DOGS IN MY HEAD

The dogs in my brain keep me up all night with barking. When they wrestle and scamp around, I get headaches  Their poo mucks up my thoughts, their urine trickles down my spine and across my rib cage, spreading a warm iron-scent over me — usually when I'm at a work function. When they're hungry, their  incessant, whimpering grinds my teeth. I only sleep when they do.

They're getting bigger. Occasionally a large hairy paw slips down my brainstem into my throat, and I gag. Sometimes their slobber makes me drool when I'm eating. When I fuck, I do it doggy style, growling and raking my claws down their backs.

My eyes are as yellow as the moon. 

NyQuil used to make them drowsy, now it just makes them angry. I can feel them bristling at its taste in my bloodstream, baring their teeth and raising their hackles in resistance. They retaliate by pissing, gnawing at my short term memory and tearing my most beloved memories to shreds.

THE GREAT UNFRIENDING #14

 Andrew Singer.

For a short while during my years in New York City, I entertained the idea of becoming a comedy writer and performer: I took improv and sketch-writing classes at the Upright Citizens’ Brigade, regularly attended comedy shows, performed stand-up at two open mics where everyone talked over my set and only my friends clapped, and I began meeting and interviewing comedians around the city.

During this time I came into the acquaintance of Andrew Singer, an openly gay comedian who I have never actually met in person.

I found him through a mutual associate and had hopes of parlaying our casual acquaintance into my eventual entry into NYC’s gay comedy sphere. Singer knew lots of other gay comics and people working at LOGO TV, he hosted a weekly LGBT stand-up night.

I had my plan: first, I'd ingratiate myself to up-and-coming gay comics, then I'd publish interviews with them in queer blogs, start hanging out and learning from them while polishing my own work and then gradually emerge as a miniature star in the queer comedy constellation.

This was before I realized the how small the “queer comedy” is in the greater comic stellarsphere, and before I accepted how much solitary, unscripted performances frighten the hell out of me. It was also before my slight mental-breakdown that sent me from NYC back to my home in Dallas.

For more than a year after my return to, I’d see Andrew’s face pop up on my Facebook chat, and I’d ask him which comics I should contact, promising interviews and follow-ups that never came. Our mere conversation kept the spark of that fantasy alight. But over time, it flickered and my dreams of working with Tina Fey and having a show on Comedy Central faded altogether.

‪#‎greatunfriending‬

THE GREAT UNFRIENDING #4

(2/4/14) When I graduated from college, a spazz of a frat brother 3 years below me asked to be my friend on MySpace. I didn't really know him during my time at school, but what little I had observed I didn't particularly like. He was irritatingly sweet, wore pajama pants to every class and meal, and had become a darling among the busty and lusty Kappa girls even though he didn't seem to be fucking any of them. I'd always kept my distance from his voice and drunken antics at parties. And when I received his friend request, I thought, "If I reject him here, on the internet, then that means that not even in theory — not even in the non-existent Antarctic of cyberspace — do I want to be his friend." Deciding that that would be quite shitty of me, I accepted his friend request and then proceeded to ignore much of what he did, as I always had and as I still do to this day. (The deletions resume tomorrow)

QUEER HORROR DAY #20 - FLOWERS

Cry for the flowers of Nigeria. Our lands are bereft of their blossoms and where color once bloomed now dry dirt and red dust cracked in the sun. Gone too are the seeds carrying the promise of a second spring, their buds trampled and beaten down by those who long for endless summer reign.

Now, you shall not see wildflowers here, not the jubilant Marigold nor even the mourning Lily. Their time has passed, their beauty a memory. Now as summer cracks hot against our homes and sky, brick and metal rule and ever shall.

In the restless nights since the solstice, now heavy with the steps of men, one stays attuned for the midnight knock, the clatter of chains and thudding bats as a queer dies clobbered in the streets. The shouts of men, screaming women. Bodies in jail.

These are our cruel gardeners, these believers who would pull these flowers from their beds like the most foul and calous of weeds, and kill our orchid even before its fruits can hang from the vine. So too do we hang, our heads in shame, our souls in tears.