I am not a big breast man, as they are called. I find that whole categorization absurd anyway. And I’m not a man — I’m still a boy at heart.
I always wanted to be Peter Pan. Not that I’d run around the house as a child pretending to fly and having Tinkerbell follow me around. No, I just didn’t want to grow up. I did all I could to avoid becoming the adults that surrounded me — tired, unhappy and no longer filled with the sense of wonder and excitement that consumed me as a child. When I was younger, I had a vivid imagination. I had to — that’s all I had. As I have grown older, I haven’t had to rely on it as much and so it doesn’t hang around as much as it used to. It still ducks in at unexpected moments, but it no longer has to provide me with sanity. I no longer blindly believe in magic. That bothers me the most.
I have bills to pay, rent and insurance payments. That kind of shit strips the child out of you, regardless of whether you want it to or not. But I manage.
So I’m not a breast man. Seems like most boys are. I wonder why, really. I think it’s more something inherent in our genetic makeup than anything we can control. I am also sure conditioning could change that. Since Kate and I have broken up, I have only been out with one girl. Seriously at least. Over years and years. A long time, at least in my estimation. The closest I have gotten to girls has been at shows and the closest I have gotten to making out with one has been when they have brushed up against me in an effort to secure a new position for themselves in relation to the stage.
I wasn’t too angry to notice.
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