Prologue (Working Title)

I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone else before, but you have to
promise not to laugh.

When I was a little kid I was terrified of pooping.

Seriously. I was so scared to poop that I would hold it in for days on end, sometimes over
a week at a time, and it made me constipated. This lasted until I was about eight or nine years
old. My parents were baffled, they couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me.

“Carlos, please,” they said. “You have to go to the bathroom.”

But it was no use. It sounds stupid, I know, but I was afraid of it hurting. The poop, I
mean. The thought of sitting on the toilet and trying to push out some hunk of crap was too much
to bear, as visions of my anus tearing and bleeding and me screaming as it slid out would
paralyze me to the point that I couldn’t use the bathroom whatsoever.

You can see the problem with this already. It was a self-perpetuating cycle. The more I
refused to crap, the longer I held it in, the bigger it got and the more constipated I became, so the
more it actually did hurt when I finally went. Oh yeah, I still went from time to time. I never got
an impacted colon or anything. My parents never let it get to that point. But so the fear of pain
which prevented me from crapping in the first place was of course only confirmed and justified
by the actual pain I ended up experiencing, and this went on and on for years.

My mom and dad tried everything they could think of to make me start shitting more
regularly. At first it was simple stuff, like changing my diet. I remember my dad taking me to the
supermarket, this was back when he was still stationed at Fort Bliss, and he would pick up a can
of prunes.

“Now pay attention, son. Just eat two of these a day, and you’ll be fine. Trust me.”

My disgust was visible on my face.

“They’re not that bad. I remember my mom used to buy these when I was your age. I
loved them.”

“Really? You ate these with Grandma?”

“Well sure,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He had a way of
explaining things to me in very simple terms so that I could understand, a trait my mother never
possessed. “They grow on trees just like plums. You remember your granddad used to grow
plums in his trees in the backyard, back in Indiana? Well these are just like that, only a little
different.”

The prunes were fucking disgusting. I remember I ate two at my father’s behest the
following day and refused to touch them again. I’m not a picky eater by nature, but the line had
to be drawn somewhere. After that failed, then came the fiber supplements. They tried the kind
you mix in water first, but I couldn’t stand that either, so they switched to wafer bars. They were
a lot better, not exactly tasty but certainly tolerable, but it came with a warning. You had to drink
two full cups of water with the fiber bars, otherwise it would only make the problem worse, they
told me.

Which didn’t exactly set my mind at ease. Horrifying thoughts of mounds of feces the
size of hand grenades filled my head, and I began clamping down ever harder. There were some
nights, I remember, I would lay in my bed and cry, wondering if I would ever have a normal life.

After they realized nutritional changes weren’t going to do the trick, my parents started
buying stool softeners, and I would take one dose at night before bed. Soon it became part of my
routine: I would brush my teeth, put my pajamas on while my mom monitored everything, then
my dad would come in, tuck me in, and give me a little red pill and glass of water to swallow.

They worked like a charm, and for a time I experienced sweet relief from the pains my fecal
matter had been causing me.

About a month down the road my parents hit me with a rude awakening: I wasn’t going
to be able to just take stool softeners my entire life. I had to face my fears at some point or
another. And so just like that, they took me off the pills and stopped trying to change my diet. It
was either do what needed to be done, they said, or “face the consequences.”

I had no idea what the consequences were, and in my adolescent state of mind, I refused
to contemplate them. Whether it was still an irrational fear that drove me by that point or not I
cannot recall. What I can recall is the problem came back, worse than ever. I began having to
strain heavily when I finally went to the bathroom, and there was blood showing up in my stools.
Hemorrhoids started blossoming, spreading both inside and outside my anus. It got to the point I
could barely sit down, and even when I laid on my side I was in pain.

It was at this point, Mom and Dad, ill-content to see their only child suffer, took drastic
measures.

I can still remember the first time my mother inserted the tip of the anti-hemorrhoidal
cream applicator into my rectum.

My sphincter involuntarily clamped down and I cried out, partly from the pain, partly
from the entirely foreign and new experience of being anally penetrated. Up until that point, I
had only been worried about things coming out, now suddenly I was dealing with things going
in. Before my muscles had a chance to relax, my mother started pulling it back out again. The
applicator was a little over an inch long, and painted black. It had holes spiraling down the side
so that when you squeezed the tube, the cream would come out through all of them at once, like
an extremely uncomfortable, white Play-Doh man’s hair.

The feeling of it being forcibly pulled out of my anus against its will hurt even more, and
I yelped and began to cry. I remember everything down there burning: in, out, the skin between
my buttocks red and sore.

“I know it hurts, honey, but you have to try and relax,” Mom cooed.

But despite my mother’s calm reassurances, I knew that this was my punishment. I turned
my head and stared at the carpet so I wouldn’t have to meet her eyes. I felt ashamed, deep down,
a horrible feeling that spread throughout my body, and it wasn’t just because I was lying on the
floor of my parent’s bedroom on a bath towel with my legs lifted up in the air and spread apart. It
was because I realized I had brought this upon myself. My backside had turned into a canal of
pain and it was all my fault.

This process was repeated two more times before I began to heal. And after that, I did my
best to start going to the bathroom on a consistent basis. I thought things couldn’t get any worse,
until one day my dad caught me rocking back and forth on the couch, clearly trying my best to
stave off some natural excretory function.

Then came the enema.


Now that you know all that, maybe I can tell you my story. Maybe you’ll understand it
better. Or something, I don’t know. What’s important to know is that we were just kids. Before
the cops, before Juárez, before any of that shit happened. We were just three kids living in a
smelly city in Texas, and maybe we weren’t innocent, but nothing could have prepared us for
what we experienced. And we definitely didn’t deserve it.

Joshua's Problem [Exercise]

Joshua knew he had a problem when he had woken up four days ago and discovered a thick, yellowish fluid inside his underwear.

            At first he wondered if maybe he’d had a nocturnal emission, but he didn’t have any abnormal dreams that he could recall. Then, as he peeled back the fabric and felt the cold, sticky glob that had collected there, the smell hit him. It was like opening a bag of rotted fish that had been in the refrigerator too long. That’s when he started to worry.

            He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, instead deciding quickly to shower and head to the free clinic four blocks west, over on 10^th street. He told Jerry before slipping out that he had to go to the grocery store to pick up his check and deposit it in the bank, which was partly true. What he didn’t tell Jerry was that he was going to empty out his account, take all his money, almost $2,500 in cash, and board the next bus to Chicago, leaving Indianapolis forever.

            Jerry was pushing sixty-eight, and had owned the house Joshua lived in with Brent and Ollie, according to him, for almost thirty years. Ollie said that it had been passed down to Jerry from his parents after they died. Ollie seemed to know the most about Jerry, probably because he had lived there the longest, over five years. He was now twenty-six. Brent, on the other hand, was a little younger, only twenty-one, six months older than Joshua, and had moved in with Ollie and Jerry when he was nineteen. He said it was nice because Jerry bought him all the alcohol he wanted even though he wasn’t old enough to drink.

            When Joshua had first moved in, barely eighteen years old and fresh out of high school, he had thought their living situation was a bit strange, none of the men being related to one another, but Jerry seemed nice, willing to provide all the necessities and then some to Joshua free of charge until he could find a job and get himself established, a far cry from the life he had left behind: his mother and Tony, the abusive stepfather. The beatings. The nights going to bed with no food. Feeling trapped. Alone. Helpless. All of that was over. But then things started to get weird.

            It had begun innocently enough. One morning Joshua emerged from the bathroom, fresh from his morning shower, towel draped across his shoulders, and turned to head down the hallway toward his bedroom when he nearly slammed right into Jerry.

            “Whoa, watch it buddy,” Jerry said, extending his arms as the two collided.

            “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were out of bed yet,” Joshua said as he tried to sidestep his way around Jerry.

            But Jerry slid in front of him and stopped. “Say there, you’re pretty well-hung for a guy your age.”

            Joshua looked up and saw Jerry smiling. “Oh. Thanks, I guess.”

            Jerry nodded and stepped away.

            The next day, Jerry had come to him with a proposition. “How would you like to make some easy money?”

            The idea was simple: Jerry ran a website from his den where people could join a chat room and donate money to him. All Joshua had to do was perform a striptease and masturbate on camera.

            “You’ve got be joking,” Joshua said, trying to sound polite.

            “I’m not. What’s the big deal? I mean, you masturbate already, don’t you? It’s not like you don’t know how.”

            “Well, yeah. I mean, it just sounds weird.” He could see Jerry looking at him intently, small rectangular glasses framing a wrinkled face, with jowls that reminded him of Roger Ebert before the cancer.

            “What’s weird about it? You’ll be alone, by yourself, like you usually are. Nobody around. And they can see you but you don’t see them. It’ll be virtually no different, except people will be tipping you money.”

            As it turned out, it was a pretty lucrative business. He found out Ollie and Brent were both already in on it, and on an average night, either of them could earn between thirty and fifty dollars, almost twice that if they did it together. Jerry typically kept two-thirds of the profits, and let the boys have the rest as spending money. Two or three shows a week, and they were easily clearing $450 a month, practically enough to cover the cable and utilities.

            The first time he tried it, Joshua felt like he was going to die. The embarrassment of seeing himself in the video window standing on the stiff Berber carpet, a lanky, pale kid with too-long brown hair tugging his legs out of his jeans and squinting at the screen, was such that at first he didn’t think he was going to be able to even get an erection. He quickly typed brb after getting down to his boxers and knocked on the door leading upstairs.

            “Jerry? Hey, listen, I don’t think I can do this…”

            But then Jerry was in the den, leading Joshua by the arm back to the computer, reassuring him. Jerry had sat down and examined the chat window for a moment. “Hey, you’re getting quite a few viewers. See? Nothing to be ashamed of. Watch this.” Then he typed in, Be kind, guys! It’s his first time! “There,” he said, “now just try and relax. I’ll leave now. Call me if you need anything.”

            And just like that, the numbers began to skyrocket. Joshua never would have guessed that so many people would be interested in watching him pleasure himself, but apparently a lot of people out there (he didn’t know if they were male or female, and honestly didn’t want to) were extremely turned on by a first-time eighteen year old on a webcam. Tips started to pour in, first a few dollars here and there, with frantic requests in the chat window like Show ass please!, and Keep it up gorgeous. Before long, Joshua began to feel emboldened. All of the attention and enthusiasm was exciting, and he fed off the energy, no longer so afraid of being naked in front of other people. They were, after all, anonymous. The feeling apparently was mutual, as more people started tipping, some up to five dollars at once, and by the time messages like You almost there? and Please cum now started rolling in, Joshua was more than happy to oblige.

            Later that night, as he lied in bed, he started to feel ashamed of himself. What on earth had possessed him to masturbate online for strangers? Had Jerry really talked him into it that easily? Some part of it nagged at him, the part that told him it was somehow immoral or disgusting. He thought about all the people watching, presumably masturbating as well. It made him ill. But deep down, underneath the heavy feeling in his gut, was the truth he didn’t want to acknowledge but could not ignore: that he had enjoyed it. That something about the whole thing had turned him on immensely. In fact, he’d never felt anything quite like it.

            That was when Jerry had knocked on the door. He came in and sat down on the bed, and told Joshua he had made over sixty dollars. That was the most any single person had made in one sitting, even Ollie, who, Jerry said, was his most popular “model.” Then he dropped a twenty dollar bill on the bed and said, “Congratulations. You earned it,” and got up and left.

            Joshua hadn’t mentioned any of this at the clinic when he got tested. He didn’t mention the webcam, Jerry, the money. He didn’t talk about the ensuing eighteen months and how he became the most popular and most demanded model on Jerry’s site. Nor did he bother to bring up the countless times he’d gotten on camera and jerked off for anonymous perverts’ pleasure, or how Brent or Ollie or sometimes both would join in, all of them, together, sitting side by side, completely naked; or Jerry, who had taken it upon himself to wait in the wings and watch and intervene when he felt like changing the show up to draw in more tips. And he most definitely did not say anything about how the wealth of the household had increased almost threefold, their combined efforts bringing in over twelve hundred each month. How he had been living the dream: minimal work, maximum play. The parties, the drinking, the endless amounts of junk food and video games, Jerry’s ceaseless generosity. After he got a part-time job bagging groceries, his life had become so repetitive that, as he sat there in the white room on the uncomfortable bed with the plastic paper on it answering questions about his sexual history, he could barely recall any individual moment from it.

            “How many sexual partners have you had in the past year?”

            Joshua had thought about the question and nearly turned red. True enough, he had met a girl at the Safeway and they had slept together a few times, nothing serious. But he had always used a condom, she insisted on it. “Two,” he said.

            “Were they male or female?” The black woman looked at him plainly, but he thought she seemed almost benevolent, non-judgmental.

            “Both.”

            “Both from the United States?”

            “Yes.”

            At that moment, feeling dirty and ashamed, Joshua remembered the night last week, mid-October, down in the den, doing a show. All three of them, he and Brent and Ollie, were gathered on the bed sitting flush against the wall, computer with webcam perched on the desk beside them. An especially wealthy tipper had been in the audience that night, and they were working Joshua pretty hard.

            You should suck his dick.

            “Who?”

            The one with the goatee.

            Joshua looked at Ollie and laughed. “No way man.”

            I’ll give you twenty-five bucks.

            That’s how it had started. Loath as he had been to admit it, Joshua broke down and told the woman everything that had happened. Finally the tipper had compromised and asked that he just blow Ollie for a second. It’s not that gay lol. Joshua still didn’t want another guy’s dick in his mouth, but the money was hard to pass up. Plus, he knew, Jerry would be upset if he found out he didn’t do it. So Joshua leaned over and lowered his head in between Ollie’s legs. The smell of some cologne-scented shower gel wafted up toward him. At least Ollie didn’t smell bad. And then he did it, quick as he could, he didn’t think it lasted any more than five seconds. After he let go and sat back up, he looked at the computer screen and saw in the chat room cheers and raves from dozens of people, messages pouring in non-stop. He couldn’t keep track of them all.

            “Guess they really enjoyed that,” Ollie said.

            “Shut up,” Joshua replied.

            “Oh come on. It wasn’t that bad.”

            It hadn’t really tasted like anything, Joshua thought. It was just skin, basically. No different than sucking on a finger. If you didn’t think too hard about what the skin was attached to. “Yeah, I guess. And we got some decent money.”

            But the tipper wasn’t finished. After the commotion had died down, they piped back up. So what’d you think?

            Joshua shrugged.

            How about 35 for a bj

            Ollie almost immediately said, “I’m game.”

            Joshua looked over at Brent, then back to Ollie. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

            “What? Dude,” he leaned over, “think about it. That’s sixty dollars from one guy. Think about all the other people that could get in on this. We could start milking them for all they’re worth.”

            “Yeah, but I don’t want to suck your dick any more.”

            “I won’t take long. I promise.”

            “Dude, I’m not gay.”

            “Neither am I. I’m just saying. Think about it.”

            Joshua looked back at the chat window. He hoped no one could hear what they said. That’s when the next message came in.

            Fifty?

            Joshua tried to hide his surprise. He hesitated for about ten seconds, several thoughts running through his head at once. How had he gotten himself in this situation? He was sitting on a bed in an old man’s house with two other guys, nude, masturbating. He had just put someone else’s genitals in his mouth. Why was he doing this?

            It was just about that time when the person in the chat room threw down the gauntlet. One hundred dollars.

            And that was how it had happened. Joshua had relented at that point, unable to resist the offer. The same greed and excitement that had possessed him from the start took over then, and the rest of the memory was a blur. There were just short fragments that he could recall here and there. He couldn’t say how long it lasted or what it felt like. He remembered Ollie grabbing his hair at one point, bunching it up in his fingers, and how the slight moans coming from Ollie frightened him. He remembered thinking that Brent was seeing all this and somehow enjoying himself, because it looked like he was arching his back and fondling himself faster. He remembered wondering briefly about the nature of sexuality, how fluid it might be. But mostly Joshua remembered how, at some point during those interminable moments, he had suddenly realized he was not where he wanted to be in life.

            And then Ollie ejaculated.

            Now, as he stood outside the clinic, staring at the building’s brown façade, Joshua knew what his problem was. It wasn’t the repugnant discharge that had been leaking out of his penis, or the fact that the clinic had called him back this morning to tell him his test results were in and that he should come back to the office as soon as possible. No, the problem was that he had lost control of his life. He felt like his decisions were no longer his own, that his impulses and desires were being modulated by some outside force. He had relinquished the authority he had over his own body. The message couldn’t have been clearer to him now if it had been written in the clouds: he was a prostitute.

            It was Jerry. Jerry had done this to him, had turned him into something he could not accept. That fucking pervert. That gross old faggot. What kind of man just takes in stray boys and turns them out like that? Joshua had the distinct feeling that all along Jerry was having his cake and eating it too: the pleasure of the boys in his home, the sexual gratification, and the ability to profit from it immensely. And how? He had brainwashed them. He had brainwashed Joshua into thinking he was in control when he wasn’t, that the money was his when it wasn’t. A rage began to build up inside him. It was Jerry.

            Well, not anymore. A cool Autumn breeze brushed across Joshua’s face, and a small rash of gooseflesh appeared below his neck. Winter was coming, it was now or never. He had to get out. The duffel bag with his money sat in his closet back at the house, all the cash he had managed to save from Safeway and the endless sex shows. There was just one last thing he needed to take care of.

            Joshua tried not to feel embarrassed as he entered the waiting room and approached the check-in counter. Old blue pleather chairs lined the walls, their cushions torn with white tufts of stuffing visible underneath. The patrons were mostly around his age, as far as he could tell, a cultural melting pot of anxious and bored faces.

            “How may I help you?”

            “Hi, I’m here for my follow-up,” Joshua said.

            The receptionist turned to her computer screen. “Name?”

            “Joshua Carlisle.”

            “Date of birth?”

            “Eight twenty-eight ninety-four.”

            “Thank you. All right, we should see you shortly.”

            About ten minutes later he consulted with a doctor. It was as Joshua had feared. He had gonorrhea. Now his anger was not only directed at Jerry but Ollie as well. Ollie could have at least warned him before he fired off, and even though Joshua had tried to spit it out, he must have swallowed some.

            You should suck his dick.

            The words reverberated in his mind like a flashing neon sign. Now he realized he had no one to blame but himself. Ollie hadn’t forced it on him, Jerry hadn’t ordered him to do it. Joshua began to turn his feelings inward, shame and regret building up inside him. He felt like a volcano about to erupt.

            “Luckily, these things are remarkably easy to treat. The only bad news is we can’t do that here. I highly recommend you see your primary doctor, he’ll be able to give you an injection of ceftriaxone on-site. This sort of thing frequently comes paired with chlamydia, so to be on the safe side you should probably get a script for some Zithromax as well.”

            “What if I don’t have a primary doctor?”

            Joshua could see the doctor, his buzz-cut black hair and dark eyes peering at him over round glasses. He looked young. “Well, Planned Parenthood is always an option. There just so happens to be a facility downtown, not too far from here. I forget the address, let me pull it up real quick.”

            Joshua sighed. “That’s fine. How much will that cost?”

            “Depends, do you have insurance?”

            “No.”

            “Hmm…”

            “Nevermind,” Joshua said. “I’ll be all right. Thanks doc.”

            “No problem. Now, it should go without saying, you may want to inform any recent partners you’ve been with…”

            “Right, I’ll get right on that.” 

            Joshua dialed the number for Planned Parenthood as he walked back home, the sky overhead turning overcast and grey. It was shortly after 1:00 PM. If he hurried, he could make the 1:25 bus then catch the 16 back, but it was cutting it close. Luckily, the office said they could see him that afternoon.

            Joshua jogged the last block back to Jerry’s and didn’t stop until he was in the door and heading down the hallway for his room. He opened the closet door, breathing heavily, and rummaged around in the large blue bag sitting on the floor, pushing aside toiletries and games and DVDs until he found the wad of cash. He saw the shirts and jeans hanging above him and briefly thought about how he was going to need to pack them when Brent popped his head through the door.

            “Yo, Josh. What’s goin’ on?”

            “Nothin’, just some stuff I gotta do. In a hurry,” Joshua said, breathing hard.

            “Whoa. Where’d you get all that money?” Brent suddenly stood behind him, peering over his shoulder.

            “It’s mine. I earned it.”

            “Yeah, but…damn. What is it all doing in your closet? You sure you didn’t rob a bank?”

            “No Brent.” Joshua stood up and thought for a second as he shoved five fifty-dollar bills in his pocket. “I mean, yeah. I’m sure. Christ. I’m a little distracted right now, okay?” He shouldered his way past Brent and started to head back out.

            “You mind telling me what’s going on?”

            Joshua whirled around. “I’m leaving. Tonight. I’m taking my money and I’m leaving this place. I can’t take it anymore.”

            “What do you mean you’re leaving?”

            “Exactly what I said, Brent. Can’t you see what he’s doing to us? To you? Do you honestly like living this way?”

            “I do actually,” Brent said as he took a step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’ve got it easy here.”

            “Well, good for you then. But I’m not staying. I don’t need this place.”

            “Jerry’s gonna be pretty upset. He really likes you.”

            Joshua laughed. “I could give a fuck less what Jerry thinks. And I doubt he really gives a shit about me, or you for that matter. Anyway, I don’t have time to stick around and chat. I have errands to run.”

            Joshua made it to the bus stop with two minutes to spare. Along the way he had time to think. Surrounding him was the vast concrete jungle, a grid of worn sidewalks framed by old brick buildings, the colors faded, and towering apartment complexes that made up downtown Indianapolis, structures that looked as nondescript and blank on the outside as a prison, or what Joshua imagined a prison looked like. He had no idea why anyone would want to live here. Coming here had been a mistake, he realized now. Moving in with Jerry had just been trading one demon for another. For the longest time, Joshua had felt helpless. Nearly sure that he couldn’t make it on his own, and that Jerry was his guardian angel. His saving grace. Now he realized he didn’t need anyone else. He was going to make it just fine by himself. I’ve outgrown him, he thought. I’ve outgrown all of this. Things would be different in Chicago. He’d find an apartment all by himself, get a new job. Start supporting himself. Maybe he’d even go to college. Were there any decent schools in Chicago? Joshua didn’t know. But it didn’t matter, he let his mind run wild with possibilities.

            Planned Parenthood took almost forty-five minutes by Joshua’s count to finish his intake and get him in to see a physician. The waiting room bizarrely reminded him of the one at the STD clinic, same awful chairs and anxious faces, except the majority of them this time were female. He tried to imagine what some of these girls’ lives were like. One sitting across from him had amazing green eyes and auburn hair. When she turned her head to the left, he saw her smile and, Joshua thought, she almost looked like Mary Jane Watson. Maybe she had a happy life. Maybe her and Peter were doing just fine, even though he was a busy guy and had so many responsibilities. She probably did a good job looking after him, since she didn’t need anyone to look after her. No, not her, she was strong and independent. Face it tiger, you just hit the jackpot.

            A nurse ended up giving Joshua an injection, just like the doctor had said they would, right in his ass. He had to unbutton his jeans and bend over, exposing one cheek, then she swabbed the area and poked him and he was good to go. Then the physician came in and wrote him a prescription for Zithromax, five pills, take one a day, you’ll be right as rain.

            And just like that, Joshua was on his way to the pharmacy to fill the script. It ended up costing him more than he had expected, nearly depleting the entire $250 he’d had in his pocket, but he didn’t let it dampen his spirits. He felt confident he still had enough money to make it up north and find his footing. This was just one hurdle he had to get over, now he only had one left. He decided to stop and eat an early dinner at McDonald’s, filling his stomach in case he didn’t get another chance to put anything in it until he was out of the city.

            It was time to get out of Dodge.

            He got home, pill bottle shoved in his back pocket, and swiftly made tracks for the den, where he got on the computer and looked at bus fares. There was a Greyhound leaving Indianapolis outbound to Chicago at 10:15 PM. Joshua looked at the clock. Quarter past six. For a second Joshua debated whether he would stay and wait or just head to the station now. In the end, he realized he didn’t want to stay in Jerry’s house one second longer. He decided to grab a paperback novel to pass the time, and went to his room to start packing his clothes.

            And found Jerry, Ollie, and Brent all sitting on his bed.

            “Oh, hey Joshua. Glad you’re here. We were just talking about you,” Jerry said, smiling. He patted the mattress. “Take a seat.”

            “No, thanks. I’ll stand,” Joshua said. He looked at the closet, and saw the bag sitting right where he’d left it. He hoped this wouldn’t take long. As soon as he explained himself, he would be on his way, and that’s all there was to it.

            “Brent said you were leaving,” Ollie said.

            Something about the way they looked at him made Joshua slightly nervous, but at this point he didn’t think anything could deter him. They couldn’t guilt trip him into staying, not after the embarrassment he’d suffered, the anger he felt. “That’s right. I don’t want to live here anymore. Sorry this is coming with such short notice.”

            “Don’t you think we should talk about it first?” Jerry asked.

            “There’s nothing to talk about,” Joshua said. “I just don’t feel like staying.”

            “Are you not happy here?”

            Joshua debated how to answer this for a second. Did he want to tell them about getting the drip? Did he want to reveal just how much he had come to resent them? “No. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

            “But you were so good at it.”

            “At what, being your whore?”

            They all stared.

            “Yeah, I’m on to you Jerry. I don’t like what you do here. I don’t like being a part of it. And I’m finished. You two can go on satisfying this piece of shit all you want, but count me out. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Joshua marched to the closet and picked up his bag.

            “And how do you plan on leaving?” Jerry asked.

            “With the money I’ve saved.”

            “You mean this money?” Jerry pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket.

            Joshua looked at Ollie and Brent, who were both smiling. He felt his face get as hot as his insides. “Give me that. Now.”

            “And if I don’t?”

            The tone in Jerry’s voice was so collected that it threw Joshua off balance. He swallowed hard. “Then I’ll beat the shit out of you and take it from you. Now. Give me my money.”

            “You and what army?” Ollie said. He stood up off the bed, then Brent quickly followed suit.

            Joshua breathed in, out, and let his anger subside. “This is ridiculous. Fine, then I’ll call the cops.”

            “What are you going to tell them?” Brent asked.

            “That we stole your money?” Jerry asked.

            “Our word against yours,” Ollie said. “We’ll see how quickly that gets sorted out.”

            “Are you fucking serious right now?” Joshua said. “Give me a break. I’m not playing this game.”

            “You know what, I think I know how to settle this,” Jerry said, and before Joshua could even guess what was happening, Jerry suddenly had a Zippo lighter in his hand and had fanned out the bills, which were quickly catching fire.

            Joshua could have sworn he felt his heart hit his stomach, and he opened his mouth to protest but no sound came out. His eyes quickly began to fill up and his vision got blurry, he could barely see but he lunged forward anyway, only to feel himself collide with a mighty force that shoved him back, back, against the wall, where he was pinned, then all of the air left his lungs and he tried to suck it back in, he could still see Jerry, standing now, dropping smoldering notes on the ground, and he thrashed against Ollie’s weight but then Brent was there too, and together their strength was far too much, Joshua realized he was not going to escape, he couldn’t stop his life savings from going up in flames, and that’s when he found his air, he sucked in as much as he could and screamed.

            Joshua looked up from the floor, drying his eyes, and saw Jerry still standing in his room, staring at him. Brent and Ollie were gone. He had cried so hard, he didn’t think he had anything left inside him. It’s almost as if, he thought, he had a finite supply of emotions that he had just exhausted. A strange feeling of numbness swept over him. He looked at the destroyed ruins of his life lying on the carpet and slowly regained control of his breathing.

“The way I see it,” Jerry finally spoke, “you have two options. You can stay here, and work for me. Or, you can take your chances out there. I hear it’s supposed to start getting cold soon. Choice is yours.” And then he walked out of the room.

            Joshua looked out the window. The sun had gone down. It was nighttime. He looked at the doorway. There was a small golden cone of light cast by the lamp in the hall. Then, for some reason he could not fathom, he thought of the girl with auburn hair at the Planned Parenthood clinic. I wonder if she’s happy. 

Best Films of 2013

This year's list was, again, following a continuing trend, even easier to compile than last year's. That being said, I also saw far fewer films this year than usual, so the list is biased in that respect. Films I'm sure would be on the list had I actually watched them: 12 Years a Slave, Gravity, Dallas Buyer's Club, Inside Llewyn Davis, Her, Fruitvale Station. So, feel free to discuss whether you think those should have cracked this list, what you thought, etc.
So, disclaimers out of the way, let's get to the ten best movies of 2013.

10. Side Effects
I feel like this one is going to be rapidly forgotten by a lot of people, and that's really too bad. One of the best living American directors, Steven Soderbergh, retired from making feature films this year (along with the great Hayao Miyazaki, and if you don't know who he is, shame on you), although he did also direct the HBO special Behind the Candelabra. This movie is a solid, expertly crafted thriller with great acting and fun twists. It also manages to skirt the tricky subject of pharmacology and the age of antidepressants, but other critics have seen it in the reverse way. Whatever your stance on it and whether you think the film has something to say about depression in this country is unimportant though, and getting bogged down in that discussion would detract from the quality of the film itself. Do yourself a favor and catch Steven's swan song.

9. This Is the End
Seth Rogen has been helping write and starring in comedies for a long time now, but this is the first time he's been in the director's chair, and the results were more than anybody could have expected. The only movie of the year that managed to get real belly laughs out of me, This Is the End succeeds for two key reasons: the real-life relationships and spontaneity of the actors involved, and the willingness to go there. As in, just when you think the film is going to stop and reel back and not do "that thing," it does that thing and then some. It could be argued that this is a bold artistic statement in and of itself, but this of course also depends on your tolerance for CGI penises and arguments about male ejaculation.

8. The Place Beyond the Pines
A very populist contender and fan favorite this year, but also a very polarizing film, both due to the presence of Ryan Gosling, putting on his dramatic face once again and reminding us all why we fell in love with Drive (which Only God Forgives failed to do on a spectacular scale). But that's not what makes the film good. It's the writing, which is attempting to tell a big story with big ideas, and succeeds...somewhat. It would be higher on the list, but I feel the overall result is a bit clunky and the film was too ambitious. That being said, it's worth your time. Just be willing to meet it halfway, and temper your expectations.

7. The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug
Yeah, so The Hobbit is on the list again this year, too. Eat me. This movie is so much fun it's stupid. It managed to paint a big goofy grin on my face throughout and even tug on my heartstrings, even when it's self-consciously using cheap tricks in order to do so. But the CGI was less obtrusive this time around, and was much better paced in terms of storytelling. It's a true middle of something, and inhabits all the qualities the middle should have. Overall, just big, blockbuster fun.

6. Stoker
Chan-wook Park has been a big name in South Korean cinema for a very long time now, and for good reason: he's a damn fine filmmaker. It's about time he started earning more respect (Spike Lee directed a remake of Oldboy this year that failed to make a big splash, and I didn't see it at any rate). So, Stoker is his first movie to be released theatrically stateside, and it may be hard for some people to understand why what they are watching is so good, at first. This is, of course, because foreign aesthetics when it comes to filmmaking are much different than ours. Stoker has beautiful, mesmerizing cinematography, the DP performing tricks that made my head spin at first, then quickly melted into the overall experience that is the film. Great acting from everyone involved, and also being creepy and taut without ever falling into a strict genre definition of thriller or horror, this has genuine crossover appeal and bodes well for the future of importing great movies here to the USA.

5. To the Wonder
This is the first Terrence Malick flick I've ever watched, and it was probably, definitely NOT my best decision, because diving into this cerebral, experimental, visually dazzling mess of a fucking movie with no reference point as to what I was in for was so disorienting and hard to swallow I had to fight to stay involved...but I'm glad I did. This movie is certainly not for everyone, so take my endorsement with a grain of salt, but there is no denying Malick's talent and auteur-status. To the Wonder is a beautiful, thoughtful meditation on love, powered by solid performances and one-of-a-kind cinematography. Sometimes it starts to feel repetitive (okay, I get it, they're in love...I don't need to see them spinning and dancing in a field anymore), and it's far from perfect. Perhaps even over-ambitious. But no worse for it.

4. Prisoners
I remember when this film was released in theaters, and I thought, "Meh, looks like a thriller movie. Hugh Jackman. Boring." Then, out of nowhere, it started getting post-release hype...and it continued to build, and build, and finally by the time it was released on DVD my expectations were through the roof. I absolutely had to see this. And miraculously, everyone was right. Prisoners is a damn good movie. It's a thriller, nothing more and nothing less on paper, but it's approached with a degree of care for its characters and drenched in psychological realism, with a bold in-your-face ending that refuses to kowtow to expectations. The experience sharply reminded me of the difference between reading a cheap Dan Brown or James Patterson book and reading actual literature...and in a Justin Cronin-like fashion, Prisoners manages to bridge that gap. How refreshing to see a movie that's more concerned with the way people act as opposed to getting from Plot Point A to Plot Point B.

EDIT: Spring Breakers (Actual #4)--In making this list, I accidentally skipped over Spring Breakers, the Harmony Korine film that was released stateside in March last year. It originally premiered overseas in 2012, thus I failed to include it in my process of tabulation. Thus, Side Effects is no longer in the actual top 10, and should be considered an honorable mention. Every other preceding entry is one step lower, accordingly. 
This one crept up on me. I remember seeing trailers for it and thinking it looked awful, which is a typical first reaction. Spring Breakers is a strange sort of creature. Harmony Korine, the director, originally wrote the screenplay for Kids which launched his career, and has been making oddball films ever since. He has a particular knack for distilling and observing some of the more bizarre, disturbing aspects of American culture. After learning he was behind Spring Breakers, and that it was actually going to get a major theatrical release, my interest was very piqued. It failed to make a huge splash, which was to be expected, because marketing a Korine picture must be a nightmare, and even those who went out to see it were confused, often disgusted, offended, disappointed, angry. Spring Breakers can and should elicit all of these emotions, because it's not what it appears to be on the surface. It's actually a terrifying, acidic satire of the new American dream, awash in neon lights and dizzying repetition, pulsing dubstep, bouncing titties, liquor, and money. The entire experience is like a hazy dream that feels incredibly vivid while you're in it and then quickly becomes difficult to piece back together once you wake up. Not for the faint of heart, Spring Breakers is a bold artistic statement and a confirmation that Korine actually knows what he's doing.

3. Before Midnight
Richard Linklater is one of my favorite directors. He just does it good, time after time, no matter what kind of movie he's making. A bit of a primer on Before Midnight: back in 1995, Linklater made Before Sunrise, a cute, talky romance flick that connected with audiences and critics alike. Flash forward nine years, and he releases Before Sunset, a film that is also very cute and talky, but is following the same characters, nine years after they've met. Now, we're given Before Midnight, and it's continued with the concept: our characters are still together, nine years later, and we're seeing a relationship that has been weathered and beaten by the ravages of time. It follows the same sort of structural gimmick: it's a lot of walking and talking, but the stark realness of it penetrates deep. It should be noted that the film is pretty unique in its ambitions, and if you think this sounds interesting, just take a look at the next project Linklater's working on, titled Boyhood. No, go ahead. I'll wait.
Anyway, this is a great movie, and totally deserves the spot on the list, but a warning: do not attempt to watch this without watching the prior two films first. It is NOT ADVISED. You will absolutely ruin and spoil any enjoyment you may have hoped to gain from it. But definitely do check out this trilogy, because they just keep getting better and better.

2. Pacific Rim
Haha! Yes, giant robots fighting giant monsters! CGI! Special effects! Wooo!
Not convinced? Perhaps, but I don't care. Haters be damned, this movie was so kick-ass fucking radical cool it made me feel like a little boy again, full of wonder and pure enjoyment. This is the essence of cinema, people! Hell, all art! To make us fucking feel something. And God, does this movie succeed. It kickstarted my adrenaline like no other action flick since The Matrix, genuinely raised my pulse, literally took my breath away, and gave me a jolt to the gut like no other movie this past year. It's nothing short of a goddamn miracle of spectacle. So what sets it apart from the pack? It's a deceivingly simple trick, one that a lot of people I've talked to can't quite wrap their head around: the movie has heart. No, really! Real heart. As in, it was made by a filmmaker who actually cared about what he was making. He respected the material he was working with, respected the genre. He had a vision of what he wanted to create, and he executed it with such aplomb I'm stunned. He doesn't care about money. He doesn't care about the studio. He just cares for his art, and he pours his heart into it every time. That man? Guillermo del Toro. See, when you put a man in the director's chair with respect, care, and a vision, he will usually end up creating something worthwhile. Still not on board with Pacific Rim? Allow me to direct you to this page, which will very carefully and very accurately explain what happens when this same sort of film gets made by an amateur and why Pacific Rim is superior: http://tinyurl.com/mpjucdj

1. The Wolf of Wall Street
Duh. Leonardo DiCaprio's best performance of his career, working with the great Martin Scorsese once again, turning out a wunderkind of contemporary cinema, timely, comedic, frightening, true, provocative, inflammatory. I shouldn't really have to sell this to you. Just go see it. It's better than Casino, it easily stands side-by-side with Goodfellas, it's going to be remembered as one of the best from one of the all-time greatest.

Honorable Mentions: 
The World's End--Edgar Wright continues to grow and evolve with every movie he makes, which makes me wet for Ant-Man. Also, great end to a great trilogy.
Mud--Jeff Nichols is quickly on his way to becoming a quintessentially American filmmaker, and Mud is not only a big notch on his belt, but Matthew McConaughey's as well. Seriously, this guy finally learned how to act. Almost plays out like a Mark Twain fable.
Thor: The Dark World--For fans of superhero movies and those following the Marvel Movieverse, this is a very exciting, well-made entry that bodes well for the rest of Phase Two and beyond.

Worst of 2013

In a year full of Wet Noodles [my new way of ranking films now being, in order from greatest to least, Great, Enjoyable, Wet Noodle, Terrible], a few films in particular stood out as being especially terrible or otherwise disappointing. Hopefully I'll be coming up with a best-of list for 2013 here soon but there are still a few films I need to see before I can fairly assess the year in full (I'm looking at you, The Wolf of Wall Street). It may not even be a top ten list, because this year I saw (yet again) even fewer movies than usual in theatres, so some of the big hits of the year (Gravity) will inevitably not be on it.
However, in the meantime, I figured I'd go ahead and break down some of the "worst" films of the year, as a bit of fun and a nice change of pace. So, without further ado,

[in no particular order]
1. Gangster Squad
The screenplay for this film was actually blacklisted a few years back, but its fate was sealed when Ruben Fleischer was attached to direct. Fleischer splashed onto the scene with Zombieland, a decent piece of work that was put together well, had a solid cast, was entertaining, and mildly clever. However, this was more due to the screenwriter (Rhett Reese) than the man in the director's chair. Fleischer followed that up with 30 Minutes or Less (also blacklisted!), which was a bit of a slip-up but still managed to be fast-paced, entertaining, and funny enough. But now he's shown his true colors. Gangster Squad is an insipid fucking film, a prime example of what's wrong with Hollywood today. It had tons of potential. Let's look at the list of promised flavors real quick: great cast, period piece, hard-R violence, gangsters, style. So what happened? It got watered down and turned into plastic by the powers that be. It's the cinema equivalent of seeing an ad on eBay for an "ORIGINAL MONA LISA!!!" so you order it, but when it arrives in the mail it turns out to be a Polaroid. In an attempt to appeal to the largest crowd possible and rake in the $, every aspect of the film was filtered and soulsucked to the point that it plays more like a parody of what it's trying to be. Avoid at all costs.

2. Broken City
This actually got a few decent reviews, including one by my current-favorite pop culture critic extraordinaire Bob Chipman (Google him), but even the best of us are wrong from time to time. Broken City wasted its on-board talent of Wahlberg and Crowe and was a complete bore-fest. I saw this movie in the theatre and had a difficult time staying awake. What wants to be a hard-boiled crime yarn is actually a very predictable procedural with absolutely no interesting developments, attempts to inject something new, or real psychological drama. Yawning all the way through, both actors phone in their performances, going through the motions like they're barely even there. We're expected to feel something for these characters but instead all the real moments a film like this needs to be interesting are replaced by broad plot-point brushstrokes that only serve to carry us to the conclusion. Completely drained of any tension it could have had, you'd be better off completing a paint-by-numbers book.

3. Only God Forgives
I don't even know how to properly explain what went wrong here. Nicolas Winding Refn all caught our attention back in 2011 with the Ryan Gosling vehicle (no pun intended) Drive, a perfect example of art-house action done right. So the spiritual follow-up, Only God Forgives, came with a pretty big set of expectations. Unfortunately, it turns out Drive was a fluke and Winding Refn can't make serious films. Everything on display here is mere window dressing to make us think it's artistic, deep and thoughtful when in reality it's just a really beautifully shot film where absolutely nothing happens. There's little plot to speak of, I can't remember a single line spoken (except, perhaps, for "time to meet the devil"...but to be fair, that was the tagline), and the much-hyped ultraviolence is practically non-existent. Only plan on viewing if you're a super masochist.

4. The Heat
This one was a populist favorite, and it's really no surprise. And although I consider myself a populist at least 90% of the time, The Heat fucking sucked. Let me be upfront here: I'm sure Melissa McCarthy is a good actress. She had her moments in Bridesmaids, and even her other big stinker this year, Identity Thief, had a few good laughs, but that was more due to Jason Bateman's presence. But she has worn out her welcome already. Typecast faster than you can blink, McCarthy has become a one trick pony that Hollywood is more than willing to trot out on a leash and dance for your amusement, sucking up your hard earned dollars in the process. The biggest problem with The Heat (of which there are many, but I am not going to attempt to cover them all) is that it's simply one joke repeated ad nauseam for an insufferable 117 minutes: McCarthy says curse words. The entire engine of humor here is being fueled by that one gag, over and over in the most uninteresting ways possible. She simply strings together fucks shits cocks and balls and everyone doubles over laughing because --she's fat and those are naughty words!--. If you really stop and think about it for a second, you might realize what a stupid person you are for falling for it.

5. Man of Steel
My, how the mighty hath fallen. To comprehensively cover why this film is a steaming pile of shit would take up an essay in and of itself, so here's the Cliff's Notes. DC Comics has been struggling like hell to get their own cinematic universe up off the ground as soon as they realized just how far Marvel was knocking things out of the park, especially after The Avengers. So, in what I can only imagine was a fit of desperation, they gathered together all the talent they thought necessary to produce a real gem and breathe new life into their flagship IP: Superman. All they needed was Zack Snyder (big marketable name) to direct, Christopher Nolan (running out of Syncopy productions) to produce, and David S. Goyer (superhero writer savant) to pen the screenplay. Unfortunately, like a chemistry experiment gone awry, it blew up in their faces. I can't speak with any authority as to what exactly went wrong, since I'm not an industry insider, but I can say with absolute authority that David S. Goyer is a shitty fucking writer and hiring him was a big mistake. So that was the first misstep. Chris Nolan's presence was probably exercised in an attempt to add a certain amount of depth and psychological realism to the character (whereas before all his other appearances on-screen were draped in unabashed Silver Age comic book style), but Clark Kent is not Bruce Wayne, and the tone of the film got all muddled and lost in droopy melodrama...not to mention the washed out color palette (that was TOTALLY Nolan). The saving grace here should have been Snyder, who has proven he can direct slick, modern action with a deft hand (see: 300, Watchmen, and certain scenes from Sucker Punch). But holy shit did the action in this movie fall flat. Shaky cam abound and an overlong sequence of destruction-porn that would make even Michael Bay blush, awash in dust and debris and indistinct superpunches, the fights in this film were all lacking soul, to the point that when Kal-El snaps Zod's neck, we don't even care or flinch. Oh, and the plot was needlessly complicated and had a retarded MacGuffin. I highly suggest you all check your expectations for the upcoming Batman/Superman sequel at the door way in advance.

Boy Parts

I've noticed a problem lately, and it needs addressed. This is useful information whether you're gay, straight, lesbian, transgender, bisexual, queer, a friend of the LGBT community, or any other stupid label we're in the process of appending to the abbreviation to further confuse and confound the public.

Let's get a few preliminary things out of the way.

Straight people: Stop pretending you're an expert on social activism and that YOUR voice needs to be heard in the debate surrounding equal rights and the treatment of LGBT individuals in society.

Why? you may ask. Why would you want less peoples' voices heard in this discussion? Because honestly, I could give a fuck less about your opinion. You support gay marriage? Cool. If it hits the ballot, cast your vote. Let democracy work. In the meantime, I am issuing a cease and desist to all heterosexuals constantly posting pictures and statuses on Facebook with regards to equal rights and marriage equality. Enough is enough. Your self-aggrandizing bullshit has gone on long enough. You're only doing it to feel good about yourself, to put yourself on the "right side" of history, so you can talk down to and frown at your peers who aren't nearly as "progressive" as you, who aren't nearly as bleeding edge with their liberal viewpoints.
If you really love gay people, show support and solidarity for your homosexual peers simply by being their friend, by not treating them any differently than you would a "regular" person. It's okay to stand up for someone if they're being bullied, sure, but we are not children. We are not babies. We do not need your protection. We do not need to be coddled or sheltered. We are not a battered wives club.

Gay people: Stop pouncing on every perceived slight against you or your brethren like it's some kind of mortal sin. Your hypersensitive, reactionary behavior is only reinforcing the stereotypes, believe it or not, and isn't doing a damn thing at this point to further our cause.

Case in point: 
The other day, a [straight] girl I went to high school with posted a link to her friend's blog, who goes to school in Illinois. This friend is transgender, identifies as female, was born a male. Is still technically a male, but is going to transition to female. Apparently he got 'kicked out' of school [or maybe walked out, it's not made entirely clear] for demanding that he be allowed to use the girls' bathroom. After being told repeatedly he was not allowed to, he took it upon himself to use the facilities anyway, and was thereby punished (perhaps suspended? or something). Now this friend is going to the media, demanding that his school be thrown under a microscope, criticized, and forced to "get with the times" as it were, since clearly they are so backwards. The friend of mine who posted the link to this blog also mentioned that everyone should send angry emails to the principal of the school, and included his address in the post.
Does anyone else see the problem with this?
I did, and decided to make myself known. I aimed to present my viewpoint in a purely logical, detached way, not passing judgment, careful not to cross any lines or appear bigoted (because I'm really not, when it comes down to it. I don't "get" transgender people but hey, they're people too. People don't get me either, and I don't expect them to). I asked if he had transitioned to female yet. The answer is no. He still has his boy parts. So, I said, I don't see the issue here. He should use the boys' bathroom because he does, in fact, have boy parts.
Oh boy. Here's where the trouble started.

As you can see, I've been referring all this time to the transgender individual as "he." Why? Because we as a society need labels. You may not like them, but you cannot deny their convenience. They help us easily understand something without having to devolve into a discussion of semantics (but we'll probably end up doing that later anyway). The entire time I was having this discussion, my old high school buddy kept calling the individual "her." She clearly did not like the fact that I saw him as a male (because he has boy parts).

But anyway, I digress. She cried foul. Said, "it's the principle of the thing." 'She' should be allowed to use the girls' restroom because she identifies as such and wants to be treated as such.
Hmm...Yes, I surmised. It is indeed the "principle of the thing." The principle being, he should swallow his pride and use the bathroom with all the other boys until he transitions. Then he can urinate with the ladies all he wants.
You'd think I'd just suggested genocide. It's an outrage! 'She' should be allowed to use whatever bathroom 'she' wants! But no, instead she's being forced to use the unisex bathroom.
I nearly shit my pants at this revelation. This high school actually has a unisex bathroom, and our transgender friend is bent out of shape because he can't use the girls-only room? Okay, seriously. Now I'm starting to get a little upset. This is the sort of behavior nowadays I'm ashamed of, both from straight people and the LGBT community. All right, I said, I seriously don't see the problem here. He should just use the boys' bathroom, or the unisex bathroom. "But she has the law on her side," my friend said.
Oh really? These law codes (both Illinois state law and federal) were then provided to me. I can't reprint them here, because the person with whom I was having this conversation has since un-friended me and I can't go back and reproduce the thread word-for-word. Feel free to look it up yourself, but if you don't have the time or inclination I'll summarize: the law states that no person should be denied access to a fair and equal education, be discriminated against, or be excluded from the school and all educational facilities based on race, creed, etc., including gender identity. Okay, fair enough. But I still don't see the problem. I said, no one's being excluded here! This person has equal access to the restrooms just like every other student! They're just not allowed to use whatever restroom they want. There's a difference between equal access and preferred access.

I'm not a law student, I'm an English major, but even that much was obvious to me. But no! The would-be heroes of social justice were not to be deterred!
It was at this point that my friend insinuated that my perception of equality must be skewed, since I'm free to get married, just not to a man.
Ouch.
Okay, now I'm pissed. First of all, you're right and wrong. Right; because that's what the federal law says. Wrong; because that has fucking nothing to do with the topic at hand. Mustering up all the patience and restraint available to me in the moment, I replied that she should not compare her struggle to allow boys to use girls' bathrooms to my struggle for equal rights, and that she was "treading on extremely thin ice" and that her friend, which at this point, fed up with the dispute over pronouns, I simply referred to as "he/she", was not being discriminated against. End of story.

Then I got un-friended.

Looking back, this entire exchange was completely asinine and relatively pointless. But I'm still upset. Why? It's not just the fact that the transgender individual's argument was "because I want to" and that it would basically be the same as a girl deciding to shit on the establishment because they wouldn't let her go into the boys' bathroom and piss standing up. And at the end of the day, I hope his case goes nowhere. I hope that he might see the error of his ways and accept that life is full of disappointment. I also hope my friend might gain a little perspective. But they probably won't.
And that's still not even why I'm upset. I'll let the retards of the world persist.
No, I'm upset for one reason: this is indicative of a larger issue that I outlined in the beginning of this post. A heterosexual person actually thinking they were somehow more informed on the subject of equality and fair treatment than I was, and this was mostly centered on the fact that I kept referring to the transgender person as "he." I was planning on ending this post with a diatribe on gender as a social construct and the roles we assign in terms of labels and whether or not they're healthy, but I'm too tired and at the end of the day I don't really see the need. If you're offended by my usage, you can fuck off.

To reiterate: We do not need any more straight people soapboxing and spouting off their ideas out of some misguided notion that doing so will lend more credibility to the ongoing debate. Furthermore, and more importantly, I'm tired of people (gay and straight alike) thinking that "the man" is somehow out to get us, trample us, and keep us down. All this overly-reflexive anger amounts to is sweating the small stuff and letting the tiny details cloud the big picture. The entire argument resulted from a knee-jerk reaction to the fact that a transgender person was involved and I wasn't on their side. And that's really sad.

P.S. Political correctness is for losers.