A Memoir, Finally Typed Options

[fameONE]

I have this strange ability to add a surreal effect to my life once I put it on paper. This memoir was written out of sheer frustration and tonight, I decided to organize a lot of my writings by typing the chickenscratch in my journal. Read, and enjoy.
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There is an unspoken tradition and weekend ritual in my family to go to church on Sunday mornings to listen to what someone else thinks I should believe, make a desperate attempt at family bonding and an attempt for my parents to handle their money more irresponsibly than the previous week. Sunday, January 9th, 2005 was no different.

Recently, I've come to terms that I'm a stand-offish type of person. I display great social skills but prefer to be alone or with one or two people and I'd force myself into exile before anyone else would. Incognegro. In the mornings, I don't want to be bothered and my crankiness is more than obvious. Like any other Sunday, I grab whatever book I'm reading and I get lost in the pages during the drive down to 40th street. This week I'm reading a homo-erotic, cruel and delightfully humorous satirizing memoir called "Magical Thinking" by Augusten Burroughs. My friend actually deemed this book corrupt because it probably isn't in the good light of Christianity. Whatever. My detachment from the reality I live is most apparent when I'm at home because I don't seem to fit into the family. One could perceive us as being the perfect family (minus the dog), but, somehow I manage to be the black sheep. The love is there, the udnerstanding isn't (that's becoming ever redundant). Nonetheless, lost in the book was I and awaited arrival to church.

What a surprise, the pastor is talking about how men should be the voice/leader of the household because he pays the bills. I pretended to be researching biblical text when, in fact, I was hiding my digust for his cheauvanism. Even though the sermon was another Sunday morning disappointment, I got lost in the sounds of music and was entertained by the unplanned jokes and walk on gags from various members of the pulpit. Religion has always been forcefed to me. From an early age, I was forced to go to church because I had to in an effort that I would understand and start going because I wanted to. Not a bad plan, actually, but for the outcasts like me that loves history and needs hard evidence to form a belief; it's total bullshit.

Post Christmas makes San Antonians even worse drivers than they already are... and this awakens the road rage nestled inside me. Luckily, there was still a few chapters in my book and I didn't secretly flip someone off as I sat in the backseat. North Star mall was disturbingly busy and my parents headed straight to Talbots to flush away their bonuses. Another level of disgust was reached and I was tempted to go sit in the car and finish my book, but that would be intentionally alienating myself from my loving family rather than let nature run its course and do it for me. While I shadowed behind my family, I noticed old Southern Belles and their failed attempts to renew their look by updating their wardrobe Ironically, with Talbots, the style has been around since the fifties so that defeats the purpose entirely. Feeling the fatigue of frustration and hunger, my father orders me to go put our name in at the Cheesecake Factory so I grabbed a cell phone and took off.

Despite the crowd of North Star, I generally like walking and strolling the malls getting lost among the crowds and not feeling as though I have to move for anyone. It's a combination of feeling high and mighty for no reason and just not caring. my long and blissful walk was suddenly disturbed by what sounded like Helen Keller trying to sing along with a piano. Two women; mother and daughter, chatting gleefully about sexual encounters and enemas. The daughter, in her twenties, and her mother, in her 40s both spoke of single life and casual sex. Never have I ever been more turned off in my whole entire life. Still, I kept on walking and tried not to picture a pear shaped woman, nearing menopause, having sex with anyone, or anything. But as if my maniac anxiety began to tug at me, I suddenly felt the breath of these horrid women on my neck and their shoes at the heels of my feet. Seeing LIDS as the first masculine store I could slip into, I made my move and then the soudns of the mall came back. All ambience had faded into silence and all I heard was the sound of my own heart beating and the escapades of a mother and daughter. Feeling foolish, I took off and went to the restaurant.

Sometimes, I find it contradicting that I love standing in lines. Patience is a virtue that I do not have, but still, standing in lines is somewhat of a thrill to me. It gives me a chance to scope out my surroundings and everyone in it without looking like a deer in headlights. The line at the Cheesecake Factory wasn't short, but it was long enough for me to do what I love to do. Ahead of me stood a trio of Brits; a Hugh Grant-eque looking "chum" and two almost identical blondes, one was his girlfriend/wife and the other was possibly the sister in law. For a second, I questioned whether the girls stepped out of Playboy (their tits were faker than most of my friends) but I shrugged off the idea and tried to focus on something else. Just then, I caught eyes with the single blonde and, this caught me totally off guard, her eyes drop below the horizon and stared directly at my crotch. Yes, yes, I was quite flattered, even if I wasn't stimulated but I felt like I was being sexually dominated by this woman's beautiful green eyes. Mind games are f**king amazing. As some may know, my eyes can tell it all' when I lie, when I'm angry, when I'm upset, or when I'm horny. I was horny, excuse me, I was extremely horny and somehow those green eyes began to force little Brandon to defy the laws of gravity and raise up. Desperate to stay calm and not show off a woody in dress pants, I played the game back. With the pawns out of the way of my knight, I made my move.

With a sexy, but sincere smirk on my face I stared her up and down and locked my eyes on her all the while saying in my head: You want me, I know you want me but if you want to have me, you have to come get me. This somehow seemed to do it because the more I stared and the harder I thought, she licked her lips softly and bit her bottom one. The concentration failed to cease and, not even for a second, I didn't even bother to check and see if anyone watched us scrupulously to figure out why a 30 year old white woman is possibly showing lust of a 17 year old black kid... in broad daylight. I want you. I love thinking because now she is no longer simply licking her lips but wrapping the strap to her Prada purse around her arm over and over again. "Elizabeth, c'mon why don't ya?" and the British accent cut through the moment like a hatchet on wood. I just seduced a grown woman. Strangely, the hostess at the restaurant looked like she knew exactly what happened, so winked at her. She did nothing but blush.

Ordering for my family is quite simple because of their resistance to change. 2 cherry cokes, 2 sprites, 2 ceasar salads and breadsticks all around for starters. The charming waitress was a bit stunned that I said all of that without hesitation and didn't bother asking where the rest of my party was. Mentally drained from the sex I just had while waiting to be seated, I figured that I'd had enough for the afternoon. Like the pitbull I am, I don't make a noise while eating and you'd better not touch my food. The Saunders family has been aware of this since my birth so no part of conversation was directed toward me until I finished. Now, time to make an ass out of myself. Over and over again, the question, "Why the hell am I so f**king different?" is asked and re-asked in my mind. On the surface, Brandon Lee Saunders is the best candidate to be the son and brother in the household, but he's the worst. Gone off the ether.

Eager to have something to talk about with the folks that made this dormroom mistake, I waited until something of interest came up. Tsunami. My heart bleeds for the survivors because a natural disaster is one of the worst ways to die because bodies are always unaccounted for. As we spoke softly of this, as if afraid to offend an eavesdropper, a guy at a neighboring table chimes in rudely, "It only happened because they were worshipping the wrong God." Laughter not only came from his table and all tables adjacent to us but from my table as well. The homicidal maniac within began to assemble enough weapons to invade a small country. I clenched my jaw, along with my steak knife and fought the urge to kill him in cold blood. Right then, right there in front of everyone so I can say, "I guess you worship the wrong God too, f**ker." But reality kicked back in and all of a sudden, a peaceful Sunday dinner turned into a political argument with my family. My mother's opinions are that of the media, my father's opinion's are swayed by his bank account and my sister's opinions are formed by the conservative/ignorant parents of her friends. Lecture, preach, lecture, preach and not once did I receive an 'Amen' like my sexist pig of a pastor (whom I pray for). With a feeling of sorrow from disappointment and anger from frustration, I looked at the drink menu and predicted a life of alcoholism and airport lounge whores if I don't get away from these people.