Megan Mullally of Will & Grace fame has a website called Supreme Storytelling. She basically poses a topic and people submit. I submitted an edited down version of my crush list that I blogged a few years back, under the topic, “Most Inexplicable Crush.”

I can’t remember if I came up with the title, “To All the Men I’ve Crushed Before” or if they came up with it for me, but I like all the implications of the title, except for the one that makes me seem really, really fat.

Here’s my story

writing is just mental masturbation

i think all writers are perverts.

Just found an old interview I did with Jeremy Piven back in college. I thought I was being subtle, but I wonder if the snarkiness was too obvious.

Back then Cusack was great. I hear now he’s ranting about how Cusack is jealous of all his success. If that man’s penis were to his body what his ego is to the continental United States…well, just remember the image from that Flinstones opening of what happens when a rib rack is attached to Fred’s car.

The thing I left off was when he said that if Michigan gave him an honorary degree, he’d be willing to speak at our graduation. Nevermind that we had already booked Kofi Annan, who, some would say, still has considerably more impressive credits.

(An excerpt from my mystery writing project. not to be confused with my supernatural mystery script. it’s just a project i’m not telling anyone the details about. 5 particular people, on one particular day)

i can see you through the wall. you are small and curved and fit well in the palm of my hand. but i would never try to trap you like that. i would only breathe in your scent and let you wander through your own mess that you’ve made, tantalized by your willingness to make the same mistakes. tonight i went through all the old clothes in my closet and tossed out anything that looked like something you might wear. because it was too much that i may be turning into you. but please, enough about me. what about you? where has life taken you in the time since you ceased to live with the dying? you think you’ve risen to a new place that erases all memory of a past? well, don’t think twice. because i’m coming for you. and by the time i get there, you will have forgotten what it was that you thought you had.

seventeen days before the end. and i can’t stop drinking coffee. you would think i would be able to rest but this whole maelstrom of mental activity makes me want to vomit and piss at the same time, to get as much of my insides out onto flat surfaces for me to examine. don’t throw up on the carpet, she said. it’s a bitch to clean up. but i’ve done it already; she just hasn’t found it yet. saturday morning will have me on a bus back to newport but it’s still friday early morning so i have time yet to set right all that’s fallen through the cracks and rotted. yes, the morning depends on me getting past the night. today it’s a little gunshy and the blackness feels resilient. true true. but there’s enough for a person to do in the dark when he’s spent his lifetime digging a bottomless tunnel.

I’ve never found a single thing to believe in and here I am, sitting in line, waiting for a visit into that back of the hall examination room and I think in one morning, this morning, my life will fall apart even though some shell of me will continue seamlessly. I have not left anything but it is all leaving me. Dying is just a tunnel. Falling. And when you realize there’s no bottom, that’s when it’s time to panic. The smell of morning usually refreshes me but today it makes me sick. Today something in me will die and today, I will be the one who killed it. But it should have known. It should never have tried to seek the support of someone who’s been dying since the moment she was born.

Fuck. fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. fuck you fuck you fuck you and all your fucking friends who blow out snot in the bathroom showers and piss all over the rim. Fuck you for not looking me in the eye because you think I’m a motherfucking faggot when I know what you want and I know who you are and don’t try to hide it from me because I know it’s all there. you think you’re better than me but at least I admit to what I am and you walk around pretending that you’re something else when you know that you’re as black as me on the inside. I AM black. You’ll feel me one day and you’ll know you should have never fucked with me. FUCK. fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK.

I walk into the empty hallway and see that someone has already wiped up the mess that the cops left. An investigation is almost always messier than the crime, but I’m just elated that the crowd is gone. I never liked crowds. And the echo of silence has always carried me through the time it takes to get to the ending of a new beginning.