Birthday in the Dog Days of Summer

Most of you know this blog is total shit. Yes, I've done some pretty crazy things, blogged about them and then denied they ever happened. But generally I don't take myself seriously in my entries, (mostly because there's a half naked picture of my to the right of this). This blog is an act of escapism and I love every moment of it.

I love that my friends read it. I love that my family reads it [God, could they be any more open minded after reading about their brother/son (that's me!) having sex with other guys?]. And I love that people who I've never met read it and email me about it. Hello, fellow bloggers.

This week I'll have my birthday. I won't get anything materialistically big or expensive. The Amazon wish list I made and sent to my family will go unanswered. My friends will buy me beer (just one — 'cause that's all it takes to get me shit-faced). And I'll think about Ryan and Brandon.

Ryan is was my nephew ... woah, back it up ... People ask me if my parents are upset that they have three gay sons. No? Why would they be — one's a doctor, one's an AIDS research assistant with a master's degree in math and statistics, and I'm a freak'n stud. No, they're not sad.

Granted, I come from a Latino family. If anything (one could go so far as to say: the only thing) my parents want is that our last name continue, we must procreate. My sister has a baby boy but his last name is hyphenated, our last name is second, so that doesn't count.

So there was pressure for my eldest brother (the only straight guy out of my siblings) to somehow make a boy. He's married, his wife already had a girl from a previous marriage. So they tried ... and they tried. Finally, she was pregnant with — get this — a baby boy! Yay. The pressure was off any of us gay children to miraculously create a man child. My brother's wife gave birth to Ryan in 1999. He was born in the children's hospital across from my college dorm. He was born almost a full trimester early.

Then he died.

On my birthday.

Well, actually, I'm being a little dramatic there. He died a few days before my birthday. The funeral was on my birthday. I remember buying myself a nice little birthday suit — grey dress dress pants with cargo pockets, a greenish-grey Banana Republic dress shirt, and a fantastic grey Perry Ellis tie that matched both the slacks and the shirt. I was the best dressed person at the funeral.

The funeral took place in Las Cruses, New Mexico. I met cousins I never knew I had. I also met my dad's childhood friends who lived there. They all loved my dad, they said he was the funniest person they ever knew. They said he'd always make them laugh out in the cotton fields. All I could say was, "My dad?" Surely, they were talking about somebody else. But they weren't, my dad was all that back in his day. Whodathunk? I had always looked down on him, thinking I was so much better than either of my parents. They were the boring ones and I was the amazing urban fag. I realized then that I was stupid and had no respect for my family extended or otherwise.

Come to think of it, I was even hit on by some of my cousins. Hello? Perry Ellis tie, Banana Republic shirt, cargo fuck'n slacks — gay, gay gay I tell you!

My birthday of 1999 was also the day Brandon left for Puerto Rico. I loved that kid. We dated that year, I broke up with him because I was arrogant and thought I could infiltrate a Christian cult, bring them down, and in the process expose them to all things gay where they would then accept my kind and embrace diversity. Hell, I'd be happy if they embraced women as leaders and church that only met once a week.

Well, I got my wish, but I was so focused on said mission that I inadvertently broke up with Brandon. Lame, I know — I really liked him. But by breaking up with him, he was able to do the one thing he couldn't/wouldn't do while we were dating; he went to Puerto Rico, his father's country.

I remember crying on the floor of the hotel room that night. My mom and dad where in one bed, and my sister in the other. I slept on the floor, I wanted to sleep there, I knew they wouldn't hear me or feel my body shaking in waves of emotion. I'll let anyone see me cry in a movie or a commercial for Folger's coffee, but not when it comes to my birthday and feeling sorry for myself.

This summer I broke up with my boyfriend who I'd been with for the last three and half years. I'm not sad that we broke up, but I miss knowing that someone is there ... for times like these.

So forgive me if I'm a little fuck'n depressed on my birthday. Forgive me for feeling a little lost in thought when you talk to me. Forgive me for not calling you back because you want to fuck tonight after my volleyball game. Forgive me for being sensitive when you point out my shortcomings. Forgive me for making mistakes.

All I ask is that you give me a few days, I'll get over it. I always do. I don't mind becoming a year older and I'm not expecting another fantastic birthday. Yet, each year of my life gets better and better and for that I'm extremely grateful. Thanks for reading, sorry if you didn't laugh this time.