So I’m about to move.

A few months ago D.S. and I started pimping up his apartment to see if I could move in with him anytime in the near decade. We painted the walls, we repaired pipes and fixed leaks. We even bought some courtains a few weeks ago that look awesome with the new paint scheme, and also prevent the neighbors from freaking out and starting a lynching party whenever they see us making out through the windows or parading around naked.

We still have a few paint jobs to finish and that’s that, but all we’re waiting for to prepare for my inminent invasion of D.S.’s private space is a bed. A soft, fluffy, huge bed. I mean we wanna sleep in a fucking ocean of mattress. We want a bed that takes one minute to roll from one end to the other. A gargantuan monstrosity of fluffy proportions.

We were originally rooting for a platform bed, as we both know by experience that beds with legs are complete and utter torture for clumsy people with big feet, since the fucking protruding legs keep stupidly smashing themselves against our poor toes, leaving us crippled and wanting to pick up a double bladed axe and tear the fucking thing apart. But our fantasies came to a halt when we realized that it would be impossible to stick a bed platform through the narrow corridor that leads to our room. The only thing that would save us would be if the platform came completely dissassembled. I guess we’ll have to settle down for a normal bed and either wear sturdy footwear around it or learn to watch where we drag our damn feet.

This also opens up a new dilemma for me. I havent told shit to my parents about my plans. They are as clueless as ever. I barely spend any time home, and any time I spend there is stuck to my PC playing Guild Wars. It’s like I’m never there anyway, so I guess it won’t come as a big trauma to them. Besides, I studied in Mayagüez for 2 years, and even though I tried to travel back home every weekend, that should have got them used to not seeing my ass around. Much less my brother’s. And don’t get me started on him. He lives on his apartment on weekdays and goes back home on weekends. What kind of fucked up shit is that? What the fucking hell does it take to sever your  umbilical cord?!

You’re probably saying: "silly homo, you’re also living with your parents and haven’t done anything about it either". Let me put this in perspective. My brother keeps living at home on the weekends because he’s a fucking slacker and likes having his laundry/food/errands done by someone else. I haven’t split because not only didn’t I make as much money as him and needed a longer time to build a decent savings account, but because I haven’t met anyone like D.S. before, who not only keeps me constantly reminded of that goal, but has facilitated the process by having his own place (not really his own place, but that’s another story) and making me realize how much I need to coexist with someone like him and sever my own family ties. That and the fact that he has a fuckin’ huge cock.*

*This line added by request, since he’s always whining about me not singing him praises in my posts. How’s that for praise.

Seriously, I hadn’t met him and formed this awesome relationship, I would still see moving out as a distant, alien possibility, unless I was aiming for a low budget, roach infested studio with a kitchen/toilet (yes, my income is fucking tawdry).

Of course, with moving out also come the issues. My parents are nosy people. They like to be involved in every fucking thing their children do. They would fucking crawl inside your ear to get in your head and find out what you’re up to in order to get involved in some way. And that’s not exactly a bad thing, help is always welcome, unless, of course, it deals with your personal life. You see, my mom is a puritan, traditional woman who, even though she doesn’t talk to me about it, ever, does not approve of my lifestyle. She tries to find out who I’m going out with, what places I go to, what do I do there, but to no avail. As you all know she is all about drama. And if I give her even more material to feed her disturbing real life soap operas, I never hear the end of it. My dad, however, is not about the drama. He fucking invented it and owns the copyright. He also lives either in a big puffy cloud of ignorance or he’s in an unhealthy state of denial that threatens to rip his vision of real life (it’s pretty fucked up as it is. He also lives in his own little world). Imagine having to tell these people that I’m moving in with a friend. A male friend. You could say "sure, just tell them he’s your roommate". Look. I just told you these people are nosy as hell. Eventually they’ll want to visit the apartment and then they will ask why are there two rooms and only one bed.

That is when hell is gonna break loose.

It’s not a big deal for me, since I will already be out of the house and they will no longer have any influence on me whatsoever, I’m just worried about them. My father is the kind of person that is prone to sever ties with family members completely if you rub him the wrong way, even for the stupidest reasons. That is why almost nobody knows I have a half sister that used to live with us a few decades ago. He cut her off, like she doesn’t exist. Just because she decided not to move with the whole family when we migrated to P.R. I don’t blame her. My dad is not an easy person to live with. I would hate to be cut off from the family like that just because pathological homophobia and last century raising methods prevent him from rationalizing the experience of having your descendants lead a different lifestyle than the one you want for them. Either way, whatever his decision, that will not stop me from seeing my mom or siblings or niece or whatever. And may the gods help him if he wages war on me or if he dares to take his frustrations out on my mom’s already ruined psyche, because I don’t care if he’s my dad, I’ll fucking make his life hell.

Ain’t I the greatest son ever?

But maybe I’m the one being a drama queen and I’m blowing this way out of proportion. Maybe he’ll be pissed off and confused for a few days, come to terms a while later and throw the whole issue aside. Maybe even joke about it. Who knows. After all, my half sister did reappear. She visited the island a few years ago and even stayed in our house for a few days, since we refused to let her pay for one of this island’s overpriced, underachieving hotels. As if nothing ever happenned. Pretty surreal shit.

So I guess everything’s possible. There may be light at the end of my tunnel. Could be hope, or a huge bullet train rushing towards me at breakneck speed.

So basically it all burns down to this:

1) finish painting.

2) buy a gigantic bed. So big it will have to be declared a country and have it’s own government.

3) Set a date to move out.

4) Sit down your parents, have a talk and tell them everything quickly, throw a smoke bomb and dissappear while they’re still confused, blinded and coughing in a thick black mist. Thank your Ninja-by-mail training manual w/ certified ninja diploma.

5) Get used to life as a couple

6) Eat. –Wait, shit, no. This belongs on THIS LIST.

So there you have it. I could be packing my stuff up in a matter of weeks. I’m a little bit nervous, but I think everything’s gonna work out fine.

If it doesn’t, I can always whore myself. There’s a reason why it’s the oldest job in the history of the world. You can never go wrong by selling your shlong.

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