I am in an espresso bar on Spadina, sitting at a large, square shaped wooden table, drinking an overpriced Americano (but it’s organic! Fair trade, man!). Across from me is a couple: Blue Jays (BJ) cap and Geeky Blonde (GB). GB has got her signature black rimmed glasses on, with frames large enough to not overtake her small, round, pink face. Her nose, mouse like with its upturned tip, points forward like a finger. Oddly enough, it matches BJ’s sharp nose (balanced by beautiful, drag queen lashes and light green eyes). Clad in a navy polo so deep it’s almost black, BJ sits on her right, his thick bushy eyebrows bouncing up and down while he tries to follow the nonstop chatter between GB and their future wedding planner (who I will name Jessica). Jessica looks to be in her late thirties; her long reddish blonde hair pulled back into a tight, straight, ponytail that reaches all the way down her back (type-A neurotic). Ironically, Jessica the wedding planner doesn’t have a wedding ring on. I think to myself: is this a personal choice? Is it PR thing? Is a wedding planner with a wedding ring bad luck? Or maybe she’s just never found the one. Maybe that J.Lo flick wasn’t so full of shit after all. Maybe her life is actually really funny. 

But I digress. 

I’m sitting in an espresso bar on a beautiful Saturday morning, and I don’t want to go in to work. I have four glorious hours left of my day and it kills me that at some point I will have to trek back underground, step into a long metal tube, propel myself uptown and eventually find my way out so that I can trade in the best parts of myself for something we call, the moneyz. 

It breaks my god damn heart, I tell you.

These past few weeks have been slow and methodical in its absolutely uselessness. A few bright spots here and there, but overall, my attempt at generating a career for myself is at an all time stand-still. I wrote a pilot, hated it, wrote it again, sort of liked it, and then watched a bunch of other pilots and came back around to hating it. 

(Jessica is leaving, but not before collecting her big, fat, paycheck.) 

I’ve been re-evaluating my work, trying to generate new ideas to inject into my pilot, give it greater cultural relevance, to make something with a sharper edge. Reading things that I think my characters would read, watching things I think my character would watch. I’ve been trying to live my life as the characters would (What would Roukh do? What would Sloane do? What would Bryan do?). This morning I read yesterdays Business section in The Globe because that’s something Roukh would do, he’s that kind of guy. I also discovered how much I miss reading words off of actual paper, cause you just can’t beat reading things off of actual paper. 

There are nights when I feel crazy, useless, lazy and productive all at once. I also think I might be a tad bit dyslexic. Mildly so, as I’ve noticed that I misread, mistype, and mis-do a whole lot of shit when it comes to letters and numbers… should I be worried?

One thing I’ve come to recognize as of late is my greatest weakness: self-doubt. It is paralyzing at times, and I work day in and day out to overcome it. I’ve noticed the ways it prevents me from doing what I want, when I want, and how I want. I’ve always managed to get by, just good enough to slip through the lines with out really putting myself out there. I like the safety of being a backstage. I think a lot about why this is, because I used to be incredibly motivated in the past; I loved to shine. At some point between high school and now, I lost the energy, the desire and the drive, and I don’t exactly know how to get it back.

But I have given myself five years to do this writer thing, to try and get a TV pilot into production. It’s a blue sky dream, and on some levels it’s incredibly unrealistic. But if we really do live once, if all we are are a series of cosmic, subatomic, chemical mistakes, than I owe it to my consciousness to give it all a shot. By thirty, if I don’t have a show on the air…who knows. Maybe I’ll be a retail queen for the rest of my life, but god damn, at least I tried.

I’m finally living downtown on my own.

The world is my cloister. 

The weather in Toronto has been absolute shit these past few days. From tiny teases of patio-swarming-weather to fucking snow storms two days later, it has been a solid month of summer-blue-balls. 

But today, on this beautiful, warm, “first unofficial evening of summer” night, I am sitting in a Starbucks, sipping my delicious iced tea, watching hot guys pass by, safe behind a floor to ceiling glass barrier I like to call: “The Church/Wellesley Starbucks Judgment Bench”. 

From up here, I get to sit back and watch all the different people-types walk by and wonder to myself all sorts of things, like where they’re coming from and if that guy has ever had a dick in his mouth (and the answer is usually, yes, he has).

But that’s not fair, because maybe he was just experimenting after that one incident where his best bud tackled him to the ground and sat on his face and he didn’t completely hate it. Totally legit! It’s all about sexual freedom, right? Or maybe he’s just a closeted mo’ (to think they still exist!). But really, what else is there to do on such a beautiful sunny evening other than to sit in a Starbucks and people watch like an asshole?? I swear it’s all to feed the writer in me. 

I make eye contact with a few of the guys as they pass by. Some hold the stare, some turn away, and some just float on by. Oh, the eyes that got away. We could have been star-crossed lovers, if only you gave me more than one-fifth of a second…

But what really surprises me is how badly I want to stop some of these people and tell them things like, “I think you’re really cute”, and “I love how you rock that neon green beret” and “if I had your freckles I’d never stop taking selfies.” 

You are smart. You can be resourceful. You can surprise yourself if you really want to. Have no shame or fear in who you are, and carry that mission out with as much integrity and humility as possible. Goodness is within you, believe in that. 

I really don’t know how to get out of this race game.

I reach points where I feel empowered to move past it, but then there are days where I get knocked back four steps and it just feels like I’m never going to fully make it through. Do you just accept your lot in life when it comes to stuff like this? Do you lower your own expectations for yourself? Or do just try not to care and hope that it all fades away? In part, I almost feel like as if being a gay man makes this feeling so much worse. These are the times I wish I weren’t. Not because of homophobia, but because of the racism in the queer community that is just so suffocating.

I’m sitting in my sisters house with Applesauce and Finnegan, eating a pint of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream to myself and I just joined a gay dating site. And it’s only 12:35AM. 

With my brand new set of teeth, let’s see how this all turns out.

New adventure begins NOW.

Two years ago I got braces.

I started this blog to catalog the entire experience, because getting braces in my mid-twenties was pretty much the only interesting thing happening to me at the time. I was two months from graduating and I craved for my next adventure. I half jokingly labeled the next chapter of my life as “Social Suicide” (thank you, Tina Fey). I wanted to use comedy as a way to hide the fact that I was actually quite nervous about the entire situation. My smile had always held me back. I was shy because of my teeth, and I never liked being in photos, and whenever I did get photographed I always smiled with a closed mouth. It was a huge insecurity of mine and I wanted to get rid of it.

But the thing about changing yourself is that everyone will eventually find out that you’re trying to change yourself. People begin to look at you more closely, trying to figure out exactly what’s going on and what about you started it all. When I told my friends, some of them were pretty excited for me, and then there were those that never noticed my teeth at all. But I did. I noticed them, and other people noticed them, just like they noticed my skin and my eyes and my body shape. 

And when it comes to changing our bodies, in this world of “self-love” and acceptance, it almost feels like you’re betraying your kin by conforming to the corporate culture of a singular definition of “beauty.” Straight teeth, slim body, perfect hair… I found myself trapped in this pit of narcissism, and it sucked. I needed a way out, I need some sort of direction to calm the frustration that lived under my skin.  

So in hopes of finding a positive, metal-mouthed role model for my life, turned to the one and only, Ugly Betty. Every time Betty Suarez learned a lesson, I learned a lesson. I watched her life unfold before my eyes, hour after hour, and cringed at her optimism; the type that gets you into the most horrible positions, but when it pays off, it pays off. And I loved that about her! I loved how hard she worked and how challenged she was by the world around her! And most importantly I loved how she always failed before she could succeed. 

In one week I will be getting my braces off. 

Looking back to when I started this blog, I remember telling myself, “Kai, you better start doing interesting things.” I needed to find excuses to write because I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to live a life worthy of a blog. I also secretly wanted my biggest insecurity to churn out the best time of my life, to eventually be turned into a mini-series of maybe even a wonderful gay-cult-comedy for Gaysians. I wanted Betty Suarez hilarity with Buffy/Angel angst with a handful of Gossip Girl glam! 

And did that happen? Not so much. 

Because I am not a gritty/glam kindda guy. I do not wake up in random beds every Sunday morning, I do not find myself caught in out-of-context-drag, and I most certainly do not immolate myself with alcohol for shits and giggles and #nothingelsetodo. And so instead, I focused in on the sex and the drama that occurred in my life because I thought it would make me more interesting. I swept away the vulnerability and the vicious cycle of self-pity because I didn’t want to bother with them. I didn’t want to be sad anymore, so I continually sold myself short because I wanted to be sexy and wild. 

But what was most strange was the anxiety I carried around with me whenever I posted an entry. I was scared of having the people in my day-to-day life (the old friends, the new friends, the work friends, the forgotten friends) read about the stories I casually shared with the Interweb. I fretted over whether or not the Kai on paper properly reflect the Kai in real-life. I wondered if friendships changed when consumed through a different medium, and if so, was there a version of Kai that felt more real and honest than the other? At the end of the day, between Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr, it all just seems like one big experiment in narcissism.

Despite all this, I still want to find ways to stop hating myself for being all the things I am and I also want to finally  be able to smile with my teeth. I’m part-way there on the former and I’m almost there on the latter. I’ve learned to give myself some credit by walking away and letting go when I needed to, and I’ve recognized that the only way to be good is to do good, no matter how uncomfortable the choice, act, and fallout may be. Narcissism is a dangerous game. Too many photos of yourself and you begin to loose yourself. 

And now that I’m reflecting on these past two years, I realize now that my story really is changing. It hasn’t been dramatic or epic or climactic, but it has been quiet, thoughtful and full of surprises. Choosing what to let happen and what to force forward, learning when to step back and when to stand down, thinking critically about all the different lines to cross in face of greater and more challenging adversity, all of these tiny little stories make up the narrative of a life I am now beginning to really feel like I can call my own, and that’s a story worth holding onto. 

A few weeks ago I met a guy from a gay-phone-app (not Grindr).

He messaged me, I message him, we upgraded to texts, and then we were arranging  to meet for coffee. At the time, I was trying to come to terms with the whole single, gay, dating thing. I had just turned twenty-six and I was determined to not let being single keep me from having a good year. But of course, when you finally begin to believe that you’ve got all your ducks lined up in a row, Life will ultimately decide to throw you a curve ball just to shake things up. 

It was a cold-as-fuck Sunday night and I was sitting in a Starbucks three Starbucks away from home. I had seen a few photos of this guy and we had both given each other permission to creep our Facebooks. I was pretty floored at how cute he was, because cute is not something that usually comes my way, and deep down I was beginning to feel optimistic. I told myself that I was going to meet this guy, enjoy the night, and even if within the first three minutes I realize he’s not someone I want to date, I will still aim to have a great conversation with another human being. 

Cue the Boy walking in.

Cue the Americano, the 7 packets of sugar, and the excitable use of hand gestures. 

Cue the boyish charm that he knows nothing about. 

Suffice it to say, as far as first pre-dates go (coffee is not a date, it’s a pre-date, just fyi), it was pretty damn successful. We asked each other personal questions, talked about how people smuggle pot over airplanes, and at the end of the night he offered to drive me home. We ended it with a small kiss, a plan for another date, and a warm, happy feeling inside.

Two days later, I invited the boy over to hang out. We were going to go on a real legit date but I was exhausted from work and he had recently lost his job of ten years. And so, we decided to stay in and make out. 

The kissing began in the living room, which then migrated over into the bedroom, which resulted in the two of us entangled in each others limbs like teenagers. And you know what? It was hot, and despite a few awkward tongue fumbles as we tried to get into each other’s kissing groove, there was some solid make-out action happening! But then something happened: my face began to get really hot. I didn’t want to alarm myself at first because, well, kissing was happening. But the more we kissed, the worse it got, and so I got up, went to the washroom, turned on the lights and found the area around my mouth covered in hives. I was having an allergic reaction to our kissing. Anywhere his mouth had gone, there were hives. Totally sexy, right?

At this point, I had two choices: I could try and salvage the night, or I could end it right there and bask in the glow of humiliation and curse my sensitive skin. But if the cult of Rom-Com had taught me anything, it was that if you like a guy, you do whatever it takes, even if it means putting yourself through more humiliation like making him drive you to the nearest Pharmacy for some Benadryl. So with a knit scarf wrapped around my face, I walked up to the counter and mumbled my problem through the thick strands of yarn that covered my face. And God bless her soul, she was the most delightful and empathetic pharmacist ever. And even with what looked like a bad-case of face-Herpes, I was quite alright with the night so far. Back in the car and on the drive home, the two of tried to figure out the issue—was it his saliva? Face cream? His stubble? We had no idea. The only choice of action was process of elimination, which of course involved more kissing, and we were both okay with that.

As February passed, we had a few more hangouts. We narrowed down my allergy to his beard (he licked one arm and rubbed his beard on the other, and voila! Beard = hives = sad face). But despite this challenge, we continued to have a lot of fun…until of course, life decided to happen. 

The Boy was laid off the day after we met. It was a rough transition for him and he was feeling frustrated and lost. He realized that he would have to go back to school, go on E.I., and change his entire way of life. He held a lot of pride in what he did, and out of nowhere it was stripped away from him. And while I really wanted to be there for him, I was getting frustrated as well. I finally meet a great guy, and because of reasons out of my control, I’m not going to get a chance to see where it goes. Getting to know someone, especially on a romantic level, is an incredibly time consuming thing to do, and when going through a life change like that, it just seems impractical. And so I told him to take some time and to give me a call should he ever want to pick up where we left off. 

***

The funny thing is, on our first date, we talked a lot about the idea of multiple universes. He’s a huge Fringe fan, and he loves talking about wormholes and sci-fi and all that jazz. He believes that every possible outcome in your life is happening right now in an alternate parallel universe, which is a pretty nifty idea when you really think about it. I mean, Sliding Doors circa Gwyneth when she was tolerable, amiright? I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I had gone to Western for Communications instead of York. Would I be happier? Maybe I am. I’d like to meet that version of Kai someday.

But back to Fringe. So on our second hang-out-slash-date, he showed me this little clip:

It’s a beautifully shot scene, executed with a whole lot of heart, and it really does capture the powerful beauty of hope. 

But what matters here is the song.

Yazoo’s “Only You” is one of my favourite songs of all time. I first heard it when I saw Can’t Hardly Wait some twelve odd years ago.It plays at the end of the film when the adorkable Ethan Embry finally kisses Jennifer Love Hewitt at the train station. Every time I watch it, I melt, because it’s about two people who take fate to the next level. The entire ethos of the film is best summed up with this line: “Fate! There is such a thing as fate, but it only takes you so far. Then it’s up to you to make it happen.” 

In no way am I suggesting that this guy is The One. I mean sure, it crossed my mind a few times, but let’s face it. The ball is in his court. He’s going through some serious life struggle, and if past experience has taught me anything, it’s that I may never see him again. Boys come and go, and most of the time it’s for the best. But in the universe where I believe in fate, and believe in an honest and realistic way, I can only hope that when fate comes my way, I will have the courage to make the rest happen. 

v) those first few days of wonder. the getting to know you’s, the hands that rested comfortable on the small of our backs, all those tiny touches, smiles and secrets we shared. 

vi) summer driving with the windows down. warm golden rays stretching across the city, through the cold glass buildings, directly into my tired eyes.

vii) remembering that it was once good. 

viii) waking up and looking into the mirror, only to find my naked torso covered in your tiny scratches from the night before. 

Romance frightens me and thrills me at the same time. I ere on the side of caution when it comes to matters of the heart, because if you’re not careful enough, you might just slip and fall into the raging waters of the sea.

A few days ago, a friend of mine passed away in a car crash. 

Three years ago, one of my oldest friends, someone who I grew up with, spent summers at camp with, who would always come over while our parents had tea and hung out, passed away, alone in his dorm room. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about life (more than usual) and how truly spectacular an experience it is. I think about how it really needs to be cherished, and protected. It shouldn’t be shared with those who don’t appreciate yours as much as they do their own. So after all of this extremely deep reflection… this happens….

***

Last night, a new person in my life came to hang out with me. After chatting and getting to know each other, we eventually kissed. It was sweet.

And then I broke out into hives everywhere he kissed because it seems that I am allergic to his saliva. But could you imagine if I weren’t allergic? No, of course you couldn’t. 

So here’s what would have happened had I not been allergic to this guy: we would have fooled around or had full on sex, we would have cuddled, I would have freaked out but pretended everything was okay, then I would have said goodbye and ignored his texts and been on weird. 

But thankfully, I’m allergic to him. Which means, we get to take it slow.

Such is life.

My birthday, like other major events such as grocery shopping alone, brushing my teeth alone and seeing theatre alone, reminds me of my status as the Single Best Friend. Yes, I just made that up, and yes, I do know that it’s not at all original. But self deprecation and my acute awareness of such self deprecation is what makes me so normal.

Just ask one of those 5 gays. Cause here’s the thing: single people are funny. Single people with friends who are all partnered up, are even funnier. That is why the majority of people on sitcoms and other comedies forever remain single. Domestic bliss is boring as fuck, and my Birthday is a great example of the maudlin antics that befit a guy like me.

Historically, my birthday usually unfolds like this:

1) Get ready alone in my bathroom.

2) Meet my couple friends that were all single when we first met, but have since become co-owners of condos and puppies.

3)

 

4) Arrive with the survivors of my birthday dinner at a club, ready to dance the night away.  As the couples drop like flies, ready to go home in time to fit in one episode of Gilmore Girls on DVD, I continue to dance like a fool. 

5) Continue dancing with various friends, drink the free drinks, and try not to feel old as the young bodies continually pass by in favour of other younger (whiter) bodies. 

6) Throw in the towel and get so fucked up that I don’t remember the night. 

FIN. 

But honestly, this is getting a little too self-deprecating, even for me. Because as shitty as being the Single Best Friend is, there are some highlights to my unique life situation. I get to focus on the relationships that I do have. Often times, friendships and familial relations are overlooked in favour of romantic ones. This is because we have a sick fascination with coupling up. No one wants to be alone, because being alone is the greatest failure of life (at any age, apparently). 

When my sister got married, the strained relationship between the two of us began to find its footing. I was able to reconnect with her while at the same time get to know the stranger who was soon to become my brother-in-law. By being her brother and letting go of all the petty grievances I had bottled up over the years, I was able to set myself free. I took part in her wedding, I spent a lot of time with her and we began to forge a new relationship that was free of all the bullshit that had accumulated throughout our childhood. 

And as for my best friend Mark.

It was always a challenge growing up with him while he lived in Toronto. When we went out together, he got a lot of attention. He’s a very attractive, blonde-haired-blue-eyed PYT, and there’s only so much “who’s your cute friend?” a guy can take. I was (and still am) dealing with my own fucked up race issues, and going out dancing with him never helped, because it made me feel ugly and unwanted. I feel like I should have told him then, but I just didn’t know how to explain something like that. I didn’t have the words or the concepts to even begin discussing that with myself. 

These days, it still happens when I go out with certain friends. In this attention-crazy world, how can you not feel like shit when you barely get a bump’n’grind at the club? But being the SBF, it is almost like a self-prophesizing right of passage to find the time to really work on yourself. You come to certain conclusions about your own experiences, and soon enough, things don’t seem as dark and depressing as they used to be. Because once you stop looking for the guys who aren’t looking at you, you just might be able to catch the guys who are looking at you.

But back to Mark. Watching him interact with his boyfriend, the guy who recently moved in with him and bought him a brand new desk (equipped with some much needed book shelf space) as a surprise, is fucking heartwarming. Their affections drive me insane when their in front of me, but when I take a step back and watch what’s actually unfolding before my eyes, I feel nothing but happiness for them. 

***

I’ve arrived at the understanding that happiness and love come in many different shapes. I’ve always thought this, but actually trying to integrate this idea into my daily life is really fucking hard, and expensive, mostly due to wine. And as of late, I’ve come to recognize how good I actually have it. I’ve got the unique privilege of choosing how I accept the love around me now, so that I can better give it to a future loved one later on (hopefully before I die). Love can be a splendid thing, but it can also be destructive (closeted married men). People love in different ways, and because of this, it’s not always necessarily good (even if the sex is). 

The job of the SBF is not easy. It’s oftentimes lonely and difficult, but once in a while you just have to take a step back and tell yourself: Right now, I have the rare opportunity to witness some really amazing things happen to my friends and family. I get to focus on things that I’m going to wish I had time for later on in the future. Why waste this freedom now, pining for something that isn’t ready for me yet? 

I spend a large amount of my time thinking about things. 

I like to analyze, deconstruct, and imagine things constantly. I like to analyze all the relationships that I have, weighing out the effort and the love, the honesty and the weight, just to feel secure in my own abilities to be a good person. I spend hours beneath the spray of my shower, tearing apart the pesky insecurities that get in the way of everything involved with love and life.

And then, I dream. I imagine great things for my sister, my friends, and sometimes myself. I imagine the worst that could become of me. I imagine future potential failures, because I secretly like to scare myself into getting shit done. I dream up fantasies of a life at forty and what that might look like. I even try to rewrite the past, falling into the that dreaded sea of impossibility, only to slowly drown in that familiarity of regret and nostalgia.

But today? Today I dreamed about a guy I’ve had a crush on for a long while now. He is a guy who has come in and out of my life over the past few years, who I saw earlier today when he came to the city before leaving to catch a flight out west. 

I listened to him tell me stories about his new life as I watched myself grow smaller and smaller in the background. I wondered, “What would it take to make me a part of your life?” 

What would it take for you to see me as more than just a friend? Did we pass that moment, already? Did we pass it the last time I saw you? Or am I just imagining things?

And now, sitting here in my apartment, I ask myself: Why is my story always the same? Why am I always the one who asks, “Why not me?” 

Ten years from now, if this guy is nothing but a faded, distant memory, I’ll still wonder about him. I’ll wonder how he is, if he’s found someone, and if he is happy. I’ll want to reach out and catch up, but at the same time be afraid to intrude, force myself into a world that’s already gone. 

Why can’t any of us seem to fucking focus on shit? 

I don’t think I have ADD. My younger cousin of 13 has ADHD, so I know what that looks like. But I’m not a doctor so I can’t diagnose myself, and I also can’t pretend to know what it looks like just because my cousin has it. My older sister has ADD, and she never figured that out until later on in life, which to be quite honest, explains a lot. Everything explains a lot once you get older. But my inability (our inability, come on people, I know I’m not alone) to focus and take on one task at a time is fucking bullshit. 

I gave myself a guideline to finish my Pilot by my 26th birthday. I’m two days away, and I’m still not done. Instead, I’ve got multiple drafts of the same idea, each with a different tone and direction for each character. It’s fucking frustrating. I wake up early, go to some chic, cool, coffee shop to try and do some writing, but it never really works. I sit there for about three hours, work for about 45 minutes, and the rest I’m bumming around online reading the “news” and getting depressed about the world. 

I also can’t do any work at home. I have no space. I have no desk. I need a desk. But it can’t be just any desk, it needs to be the perfect desk with the perfect hight and the perfect chair. This may sound insane, but it’s actually not. I need to create the perfect environment, a space that is conducive for creation so that I can (pretend to) create.

Sometimes I think being a writer is the easy way out. It’s an excuse most dreamers use for ten, fifteen or twenty years of their lives so that they can bum around, “do things” and call it “research”. But out of those thousands, maybe 5 become actual writers (and by that, I mean they can make a living without working in retail or some silly desk job). Am I one of those people? Is my destiny set for mediocrity? Am I just delaying the inevitable? My dream is to produce television, but first I want to write for television. I want to tell stories about Canadians, stories that visibly reflect what I see and what I think other people around me see. I want to put Toronto on the fucking map. Toronto deserves to be on the fucking Map. Toronto deserves to be destroyed by Aliens on the silver screen!

But the big questions is: Am I on the right path?

Fuck if I know, but I’m going to give it a shot. I’m going to work part time, party, see things, travel, take classes, do some recreational drugs and call it research. 

I know I should get up. I know I should close the browser window, brush my teeth and head on out. 

I need to respond to those work e-mails I’ve left piling up in my inbox. I need to get groceries, and submit that application before the deadline, but I always work better under pressure. So maybe I’ll leave it till tomorrow.

I really want to get an early start today. I should make myself breakfast and brew some coffee, because I need to save money. I should get up out of bed, right now. Do it, just throw back the covers and get up, because as soon as I am on my two feet, the rest just becomes so much easier. 

 Power through it. Don’t think, just do. Be that person you say you are. Don’t let your generation get the best of you. You always say to your friends, “you only live once.” So live what you say. Do everything you need to do, and don’t stop doing it until you’ve reached your goal. And then move onto the next one.

The hardest part is getting up.

So get up.

Get up.

Get the fuck up.