When we left the house yesterday, the hole was now roughly 30 feet deep. They were watching progress very carefully because apparently, Memphis soil is just a bunch of wet clay, and if that crap collapses on a guy in a hole, he's probably going home in a hearse. There were a couple of scares that resulted in expedited evacuactions. Oy veh.
So, in my previous posting, I said if progress was not made, I was going to get all Rosa Parks on their ass and make a serious scene. Luckily for them they're rockin' like Dokken now. I'm even happier to know that this little screw up is costing them a small fortune (easily in the tens of thousands).
Last night they got us into a much nicer, cleaner hotel. And we at an outrageously expensive dinner (at the builder's expense, of course) and didn't finish all of our food just to spite them.
On a happy note, our beautifully ugly little pug is coming to the house tonight to meet us. If all goes well, she'll be coming home for good next Friday (fingers crossed).
More photos of the hole and the hound tomorrow.... ;-)
Yesterday was the second day that our front yard was a hole. The exciting news? Nobody showed up to work on the house. All day. Nothing.
But I'm not too bitter. After all, I got to stay in a cheap ass hotel with hood rats who blasted their ghetto beats all hours of the night. I hate to sound so dramatic, but the 25 minutes of sleep I got last night aren't really motivating me on toward greatness today.
I'm seriously debating purchasing http://www.NOmatthewsbrothers.com for the purpose of documenting the woes, trials, and tribulations we've experienced throughout the building process. I might even print up business cards and stand around their booths at home shows, begging potential customers to run while they still hold their sanity and dignity. I'll show pictures. I'll name names. I'll give dates and details. I'm serious about this shit.
And Roomie is so smooth and businesslike. He handles himself like a lawyer, and honestly has these guys shaking in their boots (though obviously not enough to actually accomplish anything)... I'm not that cool. When they piss me off, I'll be a damned diva. I'll ride into battle with my high heels on and "F" up their reputation. I'll get ugly.
That is, unless they miraculously pull their heads out of their tails and make something happen today. Then I might just go home, pour a martini, and put my drunk ass to bed.
There comes a time in a gay man's life where he feels the need to be someone's mamma. I think I was about 9 the first time I felt that need, and every baby I've seen since, I've looked at longingly. Now, granted, the first sign of excrement or whining usually slaps me back into reality and I lovingly hand the child back to its owner. But just the same, the desire to care for another is innate within me.
Roomie is smart. He knows that to satisfy my maternal instinct his options are to get pregnant (a la Junior), fly to a Chinese orphanage, or get me a dog.
He's also smart enough to know that I can be fickle. So when I've told him I'd like a dog in the past, he's shot it down. Little did I know, after having to shoot it down a couple of times, he figured I was actually serious.
More than either of the other reasons to champion his intelligence, he knows that with the proper preperation, I can be manipulated. So as he's telling me "no", he's secretly researching breeds down in his lair, finding exactly what kind of dog he wants. He's making sure that the maintanance requirements, personalities, and other details of the breed blend well with our lifestyle. And he came up with a pug. Now historically, I've thought of pugs as the ugliest dog on the face of the planet. But Roomie pitched it right. And got me psyched. Now I want a damn pug. Desperately.
So, we've put in an application with a local pug adoption agency (yeah, they exist), and we are about 25% of the way through the process of bringing the sweet little two year-old girl pictured above home with us. Yeah, she's got a face that only a mother could love, but I've got alot of love to give to that little bitch.
(BTW, thanks Hotass for giving us a good referral!)
Someone once told me that moving into your own new home is joy. Apparently that person didn't have their builder blatently ignore major issues and complaints, delay their closing 8 times, and, oh yeah, forget to hook the plumbing up to the sewer.
Roomie and I found booty wipes in the front lawn this weekend. Yeah...I just said booty wipes...in the lawn... You know, after you flush, you're not supposed to have to see that stuff again... oy veh.
So, three weeks after (finally) moving into our dream home, we stayed in a hotel last night. On the bright side, the city health department closed down all of the builder's construction until they finish it...that's kinda funny.... Perhaps we'll have flushing toilets tonight...
Tinkerbell and I were walking out of the office yesterday at the same time as another one of our coworkers, who happens to live within 5 miles of both Tink and me, roughly 30 or 40 minute away from the office. Let's call the coworker Elizabeth (as in the English Queen.) Anyway, Elizabeth says "We should start carpooling, since we all live in the same area." Tinkerbell begins to comment in friendly agreement and I interrupt with "That WOULD be an idea, wouldn't it?"
So Tink and I get into my car and begin the drive home. As soon as we close the doors, I feel obligated to say "I hate that bitch." Tink giggles a little and isn't really sure what I mean, so naturally, the dishing begins.
I explain to Tink that Elizabeth is a publicity whore. "If you catch her doing something nice, or charitable, or selfless, its almost assuredly because she thinks someone is watching and wants to look good "for the camera". Its all about status with this witch." Tink says "You know, she does seem overly nice to me with no apparent reason...kinda creeps me out."
"Creepy isn't the word. 'Cold-hearted, hateful, disgrace-of-a-wench' is far more accurate." I continued. "Another coworker friend bumped into Elizabeth at Home Depot a few weeks ago, where she was looking at flowers. Instead of just talking about flowers or whatever, she found it necessary to say 'I'm not happy with what the gardener has been choosing, so I'm coming here to pick out what he will be using. Don't you know she drove by Elizabeth's house later that day and saw her husband..I'm mean the gardener planting those flowers?" Seriously, this woman thought that saying she had a gardener elevated her status or something.
Tink giggled and said "Gee, I thought you hated her cuz she tried to kill you." I had almost forgotten.
IMPORTANT NOTE: The following story is NOT suitable for those with weak stomachs:
About two years ago, in the middle of prime potlucking season, we were doing just that at the office. Being from Washington state, my life's potluck experiences all included everybody bringing their favorite storebought food item that they transferred into one of their own dishes. Since moving to Tennessee in 2001, I have VERY much enjoyed everyone's great-grandma's-cousin's-best friend's recipes. This day was no exception.
Elizabeth brought a chicken-alfredo-pasta-casseroley kinda thing. Now, chicken and pasta are two essential parts of my diet, so I was not going to pass this up. It wasn't until after my fifth plate (yeah, I said fifth, and no I'm not exaggerating), the first plate hit me. Hard. Its as if the chicken, and the eggs, and the mayo, and ANYTHING ELSE that could have gone bad in that dish had done so.
After my fifth sprint to the rest room in 20 minutes, I decided I should probably go home. I made it exactly .75 miles before stopping in the middle of the street, putting my car in park, and wretching out the open door. After 10 minutes of stopping traffic, I finally pulled it together enough to make it into a nearby Hollywood Video parking log, where I proceeded to lay down on the cool concrete for awhile.
The worst got worse. I felt the need to...well...the pasta was about to retreat from both the north AND the south, if you catch my drift...Without much more detail, the staff of Hollywood video had a late cleanup night that day, and two years later, I still can't rent a movie there.
Anywho, a friend came to pick me up from Hollywood Video and drive me to an Urgent Care facility. I was so delirious at this point that I only vaguely noticed that the nurse that was administering some kind of shot in my ass was unrealistically attractive. If I hadn't been delusional, I probably would have been embarrassed by the mess of a state that I was in. It took two weeks of five prescriptions and three checkups to get all the way over that. I have NEVER felt so terrible in my life.
So, that said. I hate Elizabeth. She has no idea that I loathe her. But I do. And when she almost got in a serious car wreck on the way home, I actually told Tink that I probably would have kept driving and laughed like a possessed clown if she had. The hateful part of that is I'm not sure that I was kidding...oy veh....
The Dynamic Duo spent a few hours at our new house last night. 'Twas a truly fabulous time. In one of our conversations, the Artist brought up a male cosmetics line that Roomie and I are relatively well acquainted with.
Menaji was developed by Michelle Probst, a professional makeup artist based in Nashville, TN. The line was developed specifically for men, and is used by such celebrities as Tom Brokaw, Larry King, Kid Rock, Enrique Iglesias, Martin Sheen, and Jay Leno.
Alright, now that I got the commercial crap out of the way... our conversation turned to the interesting change in the way modern men are viewing beauty. For the last century, the concept of a man in makeup has been taboo. The men who HAVE dared to don drugstore complexions have been very careful not to overdue it. Those who have overdone it have often been ridiculed and maligned.
It has often struck me as a bit unfair that many men have all but demanded that their wives and girlfriends wear proper makeup, take care of their hair, and dress well, yet do not follow any kind of similar protocol when it comes to their own appearance.
I for one, am grateful for the metrosexual movement. It has become an excuse for straight men and closeted gay men to loosen the ties on their desire for outward expressions of beauty. The first time I saw a complete redneck get out of his camo-painted truck in Doc Marten's, Express Jeans (that accentuate his *gasp* ass), a tastefully colored Banana Republic button-down, and perfectly quaffed hair, I knew the gays were having a good affect on society. And I'm sure the redneck's girlfriend was thankful that he was finally focussing on looking good, even if for his own selfish reasons. I mean, A)a girl loves holding hands with eye candy and B)a girl doesn't care to look at a misshaven, poorly dressed, bad-smelling slob with whiteheads in his sideburns and fungus on his teeth.
And we're taking steps as a society. That redneck probably wasn't covering up every little blemish and imperfection with MAC, and his black shoes and brown belt were a bad decision, but at least he was trying.
The only downside, for you single mo's out there, is that it is starting to get a little difficult to differentiate between your next potential trick and that guy that is going to beat your ass down if he catches you looking at his again...
I think I'm probably a 5 By now, most of us have heard at least something about Dr. Alfred Kinsey. If not through our own personal scientific research on sexual orientation, at least through the recent Bill Condon movie starring Liam Neeson.
Dr. Kinsey is most well known for developing a namesake scale by which to evaluate human sexuality. In the late 1940's and early 1950's, Kinsey and his associates conducted various types of "research" on the concept of sexual orientation. The results indicate there is a broad spectrum of sexual orientations - not just heterosexual and homosexual. Instead of looking at sexual orientation as an either-or condition, Kinsey developed a seven point continuum based on the degree of sexual responsiveness people have to the members of the same and other sex. The scale is shown below:
Kinsey's researchers found that over a three-year period:
4 - 6% of men were rated as "6"
10 % of men were rated 4, 5, or 6
18% of men were rated as 3, 4, 5, or 6
37% of all men experienced orgasm in a sexual activity with another man at some time in their life.
60% of all men had some type of homosexual relationship before they were age 16.
30% of all men had some type of homosexual relationship between age 20 - 24.
Personally, based on the facts that I've observed, I think there could be some merit to this concept. Just guessing, I would probably end up landing around 5 on the scale. And I say 5 not because I have even the most remote desire to experience the joys and benefits of being with a woman, but because unlike some other people I know, the concept doesn't immediately make me want to wretch up my lunch. I'm certainly not going to go looking for a chick to bag, I have never bought a Playboy magazine, and I am a happily "married" gay man. But I will admit, I've seen some beautiful women in my life, and while I'm not actually attracted to them, I'm also not necessarily un-attracted either.
A challenge to my readers (few as they may be!): Do you think this is a valid theory, and if so, where do you think you fall on the scale?
Hotass has told me on several occasions how TV's gayest soap opera makes him want to vomit. I have heard several times, from several sources, comments such as "Why do I want to watch my own life?" and "Its SO exaggerated." Let me take this opportunity to explain why the show has a permanent place in my heart, and why I'm grateful for Hal Sparks, Gale Harold, and the rest of the QAF crew.
Before I started beating my way out of the closet six months ago, Roomie and I had absolutely no relationships inside the gay community. We were on an island, fighting the battle between who we'd been and who we are, and didn't have the slightest idea about anything in the culture. Most of what we learned was the result of clusterfucking something up until we found out the right way to do it. As retarded as it may sound, we learned alot by noticing the details of the show. Things that the producers may not have even meant to be a big deal. Its not like we were looking really hard to see what kind of lube Bryan Kinney uses or anything, but we just picked up on things.
Even more importantly than those silly details, we got to see people going through some of the emotional trials that we were facing (and are yet to face!). Seeing young Justin come out to his family was incredibly emotional. It made me want to come out to my family, and do it the right way. And instead of the rejection he got from his father, I was encouraged by the support his mother ended up showing him. I wanted that support from my mother.
Watching Ted battle with his self image for the last five years made me want to be comfortable in my own skin. It helped me realize that there will be imperfections and shortcomings, but those don't define who I am, they're just things that I'm going to go through. And no, self image issues aren't confined to the gay community, but watching someone in the community struggle with those things WHILE having to deal with being a gay man in a sometimes hostile world environment was enlightening.
When Emmett joined a church-sponsored support group for ex-gays, I got to look at the situation and be pissed off that he would be so ignorant. It took a couple of weeks of watching that to realize that every Sunday morning I was getting out of bed with my boyfriend to go to a church that told me I was a worldy sinner that was living outside of God's will (though they still don't know they were talking to me). Um, gee....thanks Em for showing me just how stupid I looked!
Michael's relationship with Ben showed me how someone without HIV can be in an intimate relationship with someone with the virus. Since up until recently, I had not had personal experience with anyone who has to deal with the things Ben's character has to deal with, it showed me how normal life can be. It also showed me some of the limitations. I've learned alot from watching that relationship.
There have been many more lessons than that, and many more than a few tears shed. But I also take it for what it is. I know some parts are exaggerated. But it is TV, after all. Melrose Place exaggerated. Friends exaggerated. Hell, even the Real World and other so-called reality TV shows exaggerate the snot out of what really happens. Stories HAVE to be extra fabulous to be entertaining on TV. I'm aware that judgmental breeders who stumble accross it only further solidify their judgment by seeing Bryan in full force at Babylon. But I don't much care what they think, and if approached, I'm sure I'd be able to point out a few aspects of their own lives that are at least a little f'd up.
The reality for Roomie and me is that this show was a solstice for us for three years. It was our only glimpse into a world with alot more freedom than we had experienced. It taught us how alot of things should be, and showed us how ALOT of things should not be. It has encouraged and healed. It has informed and warned. And yeah, it has entertained. So while it may not exactly be scripture on gay life, you know where to find me on Sunday nights at 9:00CST. I'll be the one in front of the TV with an apple martini and a kleenex.
Thoughts on Religion and Spirituality Anyone who has spent anytime reading any of my posts from inside the closet knows that I've done alot of soul searching, and concurrently, alot of changing. One of the many ways that I've evolved has been in the context of my Christianity.
As I've said before, I was raised in an outrageously loving Christian home. Growing up, all of my friends spent their free time at my family's house, because it was the fun place to be. My mom was the type of person who would take the whole crew to a rock concert, and actually join us in the mosh pit. And she was so cool, that she didn't even give off the "old lady trying to rock like a young chick" vibe. She totally fit in. My dad has one of the coolest senses of humor I've ever experienced, so naturally, my friends always loved conversing with him. My home was incredible. Five years out of high school, despite my living 2200 miles away from home, essentially ALL of my old friends visit my parents at least twice a week.
All of that to say, I had an incredible family to love me and teach me the Bible. They taught their faith fervently, and more importantly, showed it with their lives. So much so that even the screwed up parents of alot of my friends would show up at our house for counselling, having never even met my parents. And they were always shown love. They were always accepted, and given the chance to heal.
So, my parents taught their faith, and they lived their faith. Naturally, I wanted to reflect the same love and compassion that they taught me. So I got very involved in the church world. I led bible studies and youth groups. I was the president of the bible club at school. I have been on leadership teams to start three churches in the last 6 years. I have played in two Christian rock bands, primarily focused on leading youth and college-aged folks in modern worship. I spent a year intently studying "cults" like Mormonism, Islam, and the New Age movement so that I could properly defend my faith and help "win souls" for the Lord. I almost went to seminary to get ordained as a pastor. I tried to follow all of the rules and jump through all of the hoops. And for the most part, I was a good person because of it.
Today, I see things a little bit differently. You see, while the church is never quick to admit imperfections or theologies with room for individual interpretation, evangelical Christians will usually be the first to admit that the human mind cannot possibly comprehend the infinite fullness of God. So, one could logically assume that means that our human minds must get it wrong sometimes. I mean, there have to be assumptions we've made about the nature of God that aren't 100% accurate. This is because we're such spiritually curious beings by nature that we will ALWAYS try to understand the aspects of God that we don't quite get. And since we can't comprehend the infinite fullness of God, we can't always get it all right.
Ok, so if you can accept what I just said, consider this scenario:
Jim and Steve love God. Both of these guys are completely on fire for their beliefs. They evangelize proudly and truly show the love they're preaching. The go door-to-door for the purpose of making peoples' lives better, not just winning converts. They don't judge people, but instead realize that there is another Judge who has that responsibility. They know that their position is only to love one another, and to share what they believe, and they do so on a regular basis.
God looks down from heaven at Jim and Steve and sees one of his children and another guy that he doesn't know. You see, Jim is a Southern Baptist, and Steve is a Mormon. When God looks at them both, he sees two guys who really, genuinely love him and love his people. He sees two guys who get some aspects of His nature right, and are a bit off on some aspects. Unfortunately, God can't accept the aspects that Steve gets wrong, because Steve isn't an evangelical Christian. You see, God can overlook the misconceptions that Jim has because he goes to the right church with the right people. Sadly for Steve, he'll have to spend an eternity seperated from God in damnation for his human misunderstandings.
Conservative Christian churches tell that kind of story on a regular basis, though they use different words. They make the difference seem so much bigger. The reality, as I see it, is that a man gave his Creator the name Allah. A man gave his Creator the name Yahweh. And Buddha. And......Jesus. Wow. A man decided God is a "he".
For as long as we've existed, human beings have created these boxes and confinements in which they place their gods. Time after time, we decide who we need god to be, and we write a book to support our needs. And the next generations interpret our book differently than we would have, but it suits their needs better.
I am in no way rejecting my faith or suggesting that all beliefs are essentially the same. I'm simply saying that I'm not big enough to say that God has to fit into my box. It is my belief that God, or Allah, or Jehovah Jireh, or whatever you call him/her/it is far more concerned with my love and devotion to him and to the people around me than whether I was baptized by submersion or sprinkling. He's more interested in what I do for the other people in this world than whether I take communion with grape juice or red wine. He's bigger than the stupid stuff that we end up fighting and judging over.
Today I say I'm a Christian, but not in the traditional sense. Many in the Christian church would reject me, or call me misled. Alot of them are praying for me in my backslidden state right now, I'm sure. And I love them for it. They're doing what they know and doing what they believe. They're doing it out of love for me. I don't have to agree with them to appreciate their hearts. And for me, that goes not only for the Christians out there. It goes for the Jews, the Muslims, the Mormons, the Hindu, and on and on...
I say believe what you believe, so long as it includes loving people. I say believe with all your heart and don't let people attempt to pursuade you for the negative. Love eachother. Love God by whatever name you call Him. I'll support you to the death.
The Long Version The first time I told another person that I'm gay was December 23, 2004. Of course, Roomie was well aware three years before that. But that night at a little martini bar in my hometown, with the aid of my trusty truth serum (Crown Royal, of course), I told the V about a part of me that I'd withheld for our entire friendship. Naturally, she wasn't the least bit surprised. Realistically, I wasn't surprised that she wasn't surprised. Truthfully, that made her the best candidate for my first "outing".
The second person was Hotass. That was January 19th, 2005. He welcomed Roomie and I into his family (or gagle of gays, as it were!) with so much love and acceptance. Honest to God, we wouldn't be where we are today without him.
So, before I can get to where we are today, a little bit of background is necessary. Both Roomie and I spent our entire lives completely engrossed in conservative churches. I was essentially raised conservative Baptist, and Roomie came from a smalltown country Church of God (about as conservative and uptight as is possible).
My lifelong dream was to play in a Christian rock band for a living. In fact, I moved from Washington State to Memphis in 2001 to help start a new church, and would spend the next four years of my life playing 200 dates a year with just the type of rock band I'd dreamed about. We had two CD's that were selling well for a Christian indy band, a website with 20,000 hits, major record label interest, and a slew of booked dates. It seemed that my life was going exactly how I'd planned. The fact that I was miserable seemed bizarre to my church friends. I was tired and unexcited. My passion was a facade, and anyone with any experience with my personality could see it. They also knew that I was very close to Roomie, though they had no idea how much so.
When I quit the band and didn't show up at church for a few weeks, the rumor mill started flying. For those of you with a southern background, you probably know that in the Baptist church, we call the rumor mill a "Prayer Chain". We call gossips "Prayer Warriors". We commend people for slander and speculation. The most hurtful part of this particular speculation is that it was started by the lead singer in my former band, who had been a friend of mine for 4 years, and had been a friend of Roomie's for more than a decade. (Ironically, he's the one who introduced us....)
Cutting to the chase, my Memphis and former Washington church circles are relatively connected. And since my mother has always been the best friend I've ever had throughout my entire life, the last thing in the world that I wanted was for her to hear a "prayer request" about her only son's sexuality from a "prayer warrior" before I had the chance to talk to her.
So on Thurdsay, May 12th, 2005, I bought a same day ticket to Washington and told my mom I wanted to see my pregnant sister while she was still huge. After all, its a brother's right and obligation to call his pregnant sister fat, and I had been denied that right thus far. In reality, my intent was to use the weekend to come out to at least mom.
The night I flew in, I wanted to tell mom when we got in the car, and have the whole trip to home to talk about it. She showed up with my sister. So that didn't happen. The rest of the weekend, I passed by 400 perfectly setup opportunities to spit it out. Everytime I tried to start the conversation, I just couldn't do it.
See, for the first three years of my life, it was just me and mom. Nobody else. She ended up marrying one of the best men in the world, and I grew up surrounded by loving family and friends. But mom and I have always had something special. I know its that way for a lot of us. But for me, the only thing I have ever feared in my life is hurting our relationship. So to tell my mom that I'm gay was a risky venture. I really didn't know what to expect.
Monday morning, three hours before we went to the airport, I did a terrible thing. Because I was determined not to get on that plane without her knowing, and because I didn't have the balls to speak up, I gave her a letter. I went into her bathroom while she was curling her hair and said "This is a shitty way to do this, I know. But I need you to read this, and I'm going to take a shower. After that, we need to talk. I love you."
Yeah, that sucks. I know. And mom works from home. And she had a conference call in 15 minutes. I know. I'm a bitch.
Anyway, I got out of the shower and got dressed. I went down to her office and sat there till her call was over.
She turned around and hugged me and told me how her love for me would never change. She swore that if I was covered in bleeding sores and dying of aids, she would gladly clean my wounds. She told me she was scared for how hard my life could get. She told me she felt like there was no "FUCKING" (first time I ever heard THAT word come out of her mouth) point in prayer, since she had prayed for God's will in my life and my sister's life, and now she had a gay son and a pregnant 16 year old daughter. She cried. She told me she loved me. She asked if there was a remote chance I was mistaken, and she giggled when I said no. And she cried some more. And she cussed some more. And she told me she loved me.
She asked how many lovers I've had. After my stomach untied itself, I told her only Roomie. She told me she loved him. She told me she loved me.
Today, it has been exactly one month since I came out to my best friend. She is still my best friend. My whole family knows now, so I'm free to be as out as I want. There's nothing holding me back now. And some of the family is uncomfortable talking to me right now. They don't get it yet. And that's okay. Everytime I talk to one of them, I tell them that its taken me a lifetime to begin to understand, so I don't expect them to get it overnight. Fortunately, the conversations have all ended with "You know I love you" type comments. For that I'm grateful.
And mom has come a big distance. My sister is getting married in Hawaii in August of 2006. The only guests will be the immediate families of the bride and groom. Mom called me and told me she booked flights and a condo for Roomie and I. When I asked if she was sure about that, she said "He's part of this family now. He doesn't have a choice."
He has not felt normal for weeks. His energy is soaring and then sapped. His mood is shifty. He wonders if he needs to see the doctor about a lexapro prescription or a mono test. He's not so sad. He's not so alone. He just feels...different. And its not necessarily emotional or spiritual, and its not necessarily physical.
The normal comfort of his dark, cool space is gone. It has been replaced with a desire to see the light and color that he's sure are all around him. The typical satisfaction of the look of the things surrounding him has been supplanted by a desire to touch. To feel. To experience. He feels trapped.
As he lies down to rest, the blankets and bedclothes that rest against his skin begin to move. At first he is surprised, then a bit frightened. The textiles are tightening around him, and beginning to cover his head. Before he knows it, he is completely eclipsed by the covers that once offered so much comfort. He begins to feel claustrophobic.
It is inside this cocoon that he begins to panic. Gasping for every breath in spite of the abundance of air, he is both scared and confused. He doesn't know how to escape. After what seems like a lifetime of struggle, he collapses in exhaustion, no less confined than at the beginning.
He begins to think. "What if I can't get out?" "What if I die here?" "Does anyone know where I am?"
He thinks about who he is. He thinks about how others view him. He thinks about the soreness in his back? Unknowing of what has begun, he notices a dull throbbing in his back. Did he hurt himself while stuggling? He feels a bump in his skin.
He tries to ignore it. He tries to explain it away. He tells himself it wasn't true and he feels just fine. He screams to the world around him that his back doesn't hurt. There is nothing wrong. He even calms down for a bit. He tells himself he isn't stuck in this cover. He's just sure of it.
He feels the bump growing. He feels it grow so large that he thinks his skin is about to burst open. He is frightened that something is seriously wrong and he may not survive this. He realizes that he's in a spot, and if he doesn't find someone and let them know what's going on, he could be trapped here alone and hurting. It could kill him.
So he screams again. "HERE I AM! OVER HERE! SOMEBODY HELP ME!" He's coming to terms with his pain, and he understands now that he's trapped. He knows that there has to be something that can get him free.
It is then that his skin tears open and the bumps continue to grow. Strangely, there is no pain. His back doesn't hurt. He isn't bleeding. He knows that he has changed, but doesn't really understand how or why. He decides to ignore the change and focus on getting out of this trap he has fallen into.
After realizing that nobody can hear him, no one can free him, he decides it is up to him to free himself. Nobody knows what it will take to get him out. He feels around inside his textile cage and feels nothing. No weak spots, no tears, no openings at all. "If I'm going to do this, I'm going to have to do it with my own hands. It's up to me..." he thinks.
He gets quiet. More quiet than he's ever been. Barely a breath comes out of him for what seems like an eternity. He is building up the energy and mental stamina to do something bigger than he has ever dreamed of doing. He is conjuring the raw strength to break through the chains that are holding him captive.
And just as quickly as he became entrapped, with all of the passion and might that anyone has ever seen, he tears a small hole in his cocoon. He peers through the hole. He doesn't see the familiar dark surroundings that he's become accustomed to. Instead, a bright ray of light penetrates the hole. Initially, it hurts his eyes, but with an overwhelming desire to breathe fresh air and a seemingly unquenchable thirst to drink his freedom in, he pulls at the hole with all that he is.
With wings fully outstretched and designer mandarin collar freshly pressed, the former caterpillar emerges from his cocoon as he was meant to be. The Gucci Butterfly stands at the open closet door to look at the world around him. He looks at his reflection in the mirror and realizes that the bump in his back was in reality, the beginning of enlightenment to who he is. The beauty and colors of his wings amaze him, and he is excited to be who he is. Was this what he had denied? Was this what he feared? The Gucci Butterfly smiles, and yells out to the world around him "HERE I AM!"
