I Dont Want To Cry

I Don’t Want to Cry

I’ve hung up my phone.

The conversation is over. But I can’t stand what I’ve just heard.

People are waiting for me.

But I don’t want to face them. I don’t want to burden them. Not this time of year. Not when we’re supposed to be happy. I lay back on my bed with one thought burning consciously and subconsciously.

I don’t want to cry.

I can sit there. I can be a statue. I can freeze in the moment and never move again. Let me do this, please.

I don’t want to cry.

I can fiddle with my phone. Play a game. Check email. Do something.

I just don’t want to cry.

The words echo. The thoughts brew.

Can’t wait. Tired. No more.

...

Goodbye.

Don’t cry.

Am I a failure?

I don’t want to cry.

I breathe. I sit. I tear off my glasses and close my eyes.

No more desire. Just a rigid command.

Don’t cry.

Footsteps come from the hall outside. I don’t want to see anyone, but I can’t avoid it. I sit up. My glasses are back on again. My eyes are stinging. She enters. I can’t look at her, so I don’t.

Don’t. Cry.

Two arms wrap around me. All I see is the carpet beneath my feet.

Please ... don’t.

Words flow.

I don’t ... I can’t. I just ... can’t.

...

Damn it.

Molten lead boils out my chest, into my head, and out my eyes. Noxious gas spurts in betraying hiccups from my mouth. The dreaded sob, anathema to every proud man and woman on the planet. We don’t cry. We’re not supposed to cry. Crying is weakness. Crying is shame. Crying is-- Crying is.......

Crying is happening.

I don’t want to cry. But I can’t stop it. And I hate myself for it. I hate myself for a lot of things. Because I don’t have the power to change my circumstances as they are. And I find myself questioning every word. Every thought. Every action I ever made. Even as those words draw each drop and spurt out of me.

I’m hot. I’m a molten mess. But still those arms hang on.

And slowly, the geyser cools. The eruption eases into a subtle series of aftershocks that gradually fade to silence.

Cracks form along my eyes as liquid dries and cools. A gentle wind blows the fumes away. And those words and actions that drew the tears out now sooth and cleanse.

They promise a better future. They promise mending. And they know.

They know, because they have lived. They have felt those tremors and survived.

I look up.

I still don’t want to cry. That hasn’t changed.

But my sister knows this well.

Love hurt me. And love will heal me. In time.

She made it through. Not once. Not twice. But three times before she found the one.

And she will help me when I’m ready to move on.

The pain still isn’t gone.

But it is at least a little less.

I still don’t want to cry. I still don’t like it.

But I did need it.

And there is no shame in that.

There is nature in it. Some pain. And most importantly, at the end, hope.

Shakespeare said it best. To be a man, I must feel like a man.

If God can cry, why can’t I?

I can.

And though I still don’t want to, I probably will a few times more before my life is done.

And that’s okay.

So long as I keep moving forward as best I can.

Then, maybe, if I’m lucky, that pile of slag will become something far more precious.

And I will be made new again, like the phoenix of myth.

Tears to cleanse. Tears to heal. And tears to be born again.

I don’t want to cry.

But I will to move forward. I will, to be born again.

And I will be.

It will just take time.

Auto Body Shop

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That was the name of the place. Auto Body Shop. I guess I could appreciate the play on words. It was located in a former garage, after all. Their logo was even a lug wrench, the X-variety. Perfectly symmetrical, perfect for screwing and unscrewing nuts and bolts. The gear was simple, which is probably why the membership was and is so cheap. But they offered perfect results. And the reviews all spoke highly of the location.

Which is why I was so surprised to find the place practically empty when I arrived. Some kettlebells off in a corner by a whiteboard, an adjustable bench for weight exercises, a mirror to watch form and see progress, a television screen for ... I’m not sure what. It displayed the gym’s logo for the most part. And then there was what I assumed to be a gym goer standing there staring at the mirror. I’m not sure whether he was cooling down, posing, or what. But I couldn’t deny the shape he’d gotten his body into. The muscles bulged in all the right places.

I walked into the office to register, where Coach Melbourne, the owner of the establishment, explained a few things to me about his methods. He’s a former hypnotist with years of experience under his belt. He wanted to use that expertise to help his clients enjoy their time at the gym, rather than dread over coming. People bring their cars to a body shop for tuneups or repairs all the time. He does the same for clients, only in their heads.

In ... my head, I suppose.

I mean, I accepted. He told me what I’d have to do, what I’d need to be willing to accept. And I did.

Coach started off with giving me a new filter, something to help me breathe better when I work out and keep my eyes on the prize. He has all kinds of small sayings like that, things that echo in my brain when I work out. It’s sort of like that lane control and radar stuff they have in cars now. If I want to do an exercise, I just let go and fall into the routine. It’s so easy to just ... do what I’m supposed to. Because, well, that’s what I am now.

Over time, the filter was tweaked to adapt to other things. Diet, media, and eventually clothing. I can’t tell you how much I love my tanks now. Really accentuates the pistons. I flex. The spark ignites, and suddenly I’m running. Running my program. Running to show off. Running to lift and haul weight.

Sometimes I’m blinking in front of the mirror, admiring my new body. At other times, I’m blinking at a monitor with Coach’s voice droning, repeating, echoing in my brain.

Charts. Instructions. Schematics. Human anatomy, just another series of parts to work on my body. My muscular body. I’m on my bulk cycle right now, so I’m eating muscle carbs. And always gotta have my fiberglass of whey protein. I bike to the shop now. Works the calves, runs my belt. Makes it easier to zone out, let my built in radar alert me and act accordingly.

Got my haircut done recently. The buzz of the razor’s like a buff and polish for my head. Makes it easier for the air to play over. Better exhaust.

Coach gave me a tailpipe the other day. Snapback cap. Feels so good against my head. So much stuff up there. Too much. Exhaust pipe helps me empty it. Helps me keep things running smooth. Smooth like the sides of my head.

Veins are starting to show now. They get more prominent by the day. Coach tells me that’s normal. They’re my fuel injectors. Deliver all the stuff my engine needs to start and keep running. More will come. Gotta get that harness in place. Increase reaction time. Send those electric impulses faster and faster.

Brake harder on the barbells. Get better kicks. Better tires. Stronger tread. Slower wear. That’s what coach says, and coach knows best. He’s my mechanic. Tells me when I need to get more coolant. When to change my oil.

I really rumble now. Air filters keep getting bigger to adjust to all the capacity I’ve got for intake. That’s another reason I wear the tanks now. Can’t hide those headlights. Turn on the brights, the shirts get tight, you know?

Got a new coat of paint the other day. Nice rich tan. Gotta show off that buff and polish. Some friends were worried, but I told ‘em it was okay. I don’t want to get rid of ‘em, but if they keep pushing, I will. Can’t have faulty sensors breaking up the ride, you know? Car won’t run that way, and I want to run. I’m an automatic, after all.

My hydraulics have really had an overhaul. All those pushups and burpees. I can launch myself off the ground any time I want. Suspension takes most any bumps now when I fall back down. Chassis thick and firm. No problem taking hits. I’ve been tested. Drive shaft crafted to fine precision. I can turn on a dime, jump, speed, cut, donut, wheelie, whatever is needed. Mechanic drives me to be better after every tuneup.

I’m not the same as when I started. I was gutted, broken down, then rebuilt into a real musclecar man. I walk in the gym today, I look in the mirror, and I finally understand that other man. He was doing what I’m doing. I flex. The fuel ignites. Exhaust blows out my tailpipe. I barely perceive the newbie in my radar and point with my turn signal for him to go to the office.

Melbourne will give him the body work he needs, just like he has for me. Just like he still is.

I rev my engine. Turn on the brights. Spit out the exhaust. There’s only one thing on my mind right now as I turn to read my assigned routine today.

Time to go for a drive.

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Stripped

You’ve heard of carjackers, people who steal your vehicle for themselves or chop it up, strip it down to the bare essentials. Well, that’s what happened to me. Only, it wasn’t my car that got stripped. Nah, bro. It was me.

See, I used to be smart. Honor student, high grades, above average. I was gonna go places, do things. Important things. Things like running a business or saving the world, maybe winning a Nobel Peace Prize.

Yeah, I know. The way I look, the way I sound, that ain’t no college student. That’s just a big burly meathead who spends all his time in the gym, right?

Well, it’s true. That’s what I am now. But that was after I got stripped and had to be built from the ground up. You see, that’s what this gym specializes in, bro. It makes its patrons up right. You want the bod, gotta take the mods.

Don’t get me wrong, bro. I love what I am now. Mmm ... shedding those smarts, the effort I put into my studying, all of it, was just ... euphoric, man. It was like the best pump I’d every had in the world. I signed the papers, started working out, and it just ... happened, you know?

First thing to go was my alarm bells, that feature that goes off if anyone tries to break in, you know? No radar either. It made me feel relaxed, at home. I didn’t feel scared of anyone anymore. There was no need to, no matter how intimidating people got here. Then they gutted fuel injector, my engine, and headlights. It made me docile, compliant. I was stuck in neutral, the only way for me to move, because my drive wouldn’t work. There weren’t no more lights on upstairs. And that was all right by me. I kinda couldn’t really care either way then.

They tore off my wheels, ruined my suspension, and cut my brakes. And I let them, because I coudn’t do anything else.

Then they really got to work.

Situps, pushups, chinups, weights, cardio, presses, squats, the works. I couldn’t stop. I had no breaks. They were building me from the ground up.

Suspension came first. My legs bulked up into thick, veiny structures able to take heavy blows and support most any burden. Then came the arms, my guns. Pumping up the muscle, increasing my vasculatory capability. My wheels were put back on, and I ran mile after mile. New kicks, new socks. Pounding away at the endless track. I did what I was told, because, bro, I couldn’t think. I was just a pile of meat, bones, and the bare essentials.

Then they really started on me. Fuel injectors gave me the boost I needed to really rev my metabolism. It roared with my surging bloodstream. New, powerful engine, so many cylinders, pulsing, thrumming, pushing me to improve, to rush forward full tilt. And I obliged.

Pistons pumping in order. One two. One two. One two. Bang. Bang. Backfire. Purring. Showing off. A new hood ornament was installed with my new hairstyle. Pomade does wonders, sort of a wax, instead of a proper gel. Kind of like the wax on my outer shell after the paint. Mmm ... paint, just like my tan. Huhuh. Looks pretty good, don’t it, bro?

They didn’t put in the alert system again. Don’t need it. Bro like me, we don’t need to be aware of anyone else. Everyone else should be aware of me! Like I said, used to care about that, but not anymore. Feels good to just ... rev. Don’t think, just do. You know?

Mmm. Stick shift. New chassis. Streamlined performance. Power. Yeah, I’m a real muscle car, aren’t I? It’s what I was remade for, to show off, to pose and flex. I’m like a living mascot. They finally put in the brakes again just before I collapsed from exhaustion. But by then, I was already hooked, bro. I came back as soon as my body could. And look at me now, bro.

Huhuh. Look at these guns! Look at this body flex! Listen to my engine ROAR!

You’d better be amazed. That’s what this place is all about. That’s why it’s called Full Throttle Gym. And bro, you’d better be ready, because we’ve been stripping you for the last ten minutes. Time to take out that radar, bro. You think I’m huge? Just wait till you see what they’re gonna build from you. Starts with a T and rhymes with bank.

Trust me, little bro. You’re gonna love it.

S’right, bro. Let it go. Time to work out. Let’s crunch that old frame into shape and start building that armor plating. No dread, all tread. Full fu**’in speed ahead!

Huhuhuhuhuhuhuh......

I am so tempted to do a sequel/fan story for this at some point. Great writing. While I don’t recommend the writer’s actual tumblr channel (porn content is against my religious beliefs, and I really don’t like watching it or seeing it regardless), this series is definitely incredible.

#malesockfetish #sockfetish #graysocks #malesockfetish #gaymale #gay #feet #foot #footfetish #nike #nikesocks #sockteen1 #sockteen2 #gayfeet #gaypride #gayman #gayguy #gayteen #malefootfetish #malesocks #whitesocks #anklesocks #blacksocks #underarmor #elitesocks #stinkyfeet #legday #sockporn #gayporn #sockfetish #footfetishnation #gayfootfetish

Lol u rly don’t have to ~not all Christians~ bro I’m pretty sure they don’t need another defender

So, here’s the issue I have with this ask, barring the incredible, incredible disrespect it has for me as a person as well as the religion I was raised in.

You are using the phrase “not all Christians” as a callback to “Not all men”, a phrase that men will use when faced with people saying that all men are [garbage, toxic, unhealthy, worthless, pointless, etc]. Nevermind that by saying that you are also including gay, trans, and gnc men–and thus inherently being incredibly homophobic and transphobic–you are also denying them any defense as a person, any grace as a fellow human being. By saying ‘yes all men’ you are singlehandedly saying “It does not matter what you do or who you are, by virtue of being a man, you are inherently bad.”

And so, we reach “not all Christians”. It is the same issue: I understand that you have probably faced no small amount of diatribe from certain parts of the Christian faith [because you cannot compare christianity to its multiple denominations, there was an entire 95 theses about this]. As someone who identifies as gay and was amab, I’ve been there.

But–to say “all Christians are bad, are cruel, are homophobic, don’t allow questioning” is to say “I have never met someone who actually follows the teachings of Christ as they were intended.”

There is a deeply American view to American Christianity, from televangelism to prosperity gospel to reaganomics influencing the tea party and GOP. I cannot say it is not pervasive like a strangling ivy, but nor can I say it is truly what Christianity is, what should be. The Gospel preaches of love, adoration, acceptance, happiness, and peace for all people of all creeds. At the end of the day, Christianity is just…it’s love. That’s all it is. The word of god is to say “I love you, and I want you to love.”

I have to ask you: if you feel that a religion whose core message is simply to love and accept others is evil or cruel or hateful or what have you, at some point you need to ask yourself if you actually think the religion is bad, or merely those who have used it unjustly against you?

Had to reblog this. It’s gamer comedy gold. And the best part, the illuminati completes the four with its triangle that holds the all-seeing eye. BRILLIANT!