Once again we have arrived upon this conclusive fraction of the year. I used to believe that Christmas day should mark the finish of yet another year well lived. A festival to celebrate all accomplishments attained in the preceding period and a day representing a transition into future endeavors. My perception of that day had changed however, one fateful Christmas morning when I was 13. It was the year in which my mother had decided that she had had just about enough with providing her industrious efforts to create the magical atmosphere of Christmas in our household, that is the placing of decorations and the tree and the food, all so it would be removed the very day after. Consequently, every Christmas to follow was a rather gloomy day spent in my room. I realize that it may seem somewhat naive of me to associate happiness with the colorful guises we all see during festive occasions but you should understand that at the age of 13, my life was beginning to rid itself of all things magical and the only form of “magic” I could anticipate was that day; and it was obliterated. This Christmas I shall be spending the better half of the day at the gym. This year the only matters worth celebrating are the fact that perhaps I have made significant progress in my work at the gym and maybe the pair of Armani berms and lacoste tee I had purchased for Christmas. Mr. Scrooge would be so proud that I have managed to make Christmas day about a pair of designer garments. But how can you blame me for such hideous thoughts. I feel as though there is absolutely nothing for which I should feel content about. This year, I have entered into a Full-time course in self hatred and have aced it with flying colors. I resent the fucking fact that im gay. When I was 14 I had come to terms with my homosexual tendencies and I was completely ecstatic about this new found person in me. I was practically exploding with enthusiasm to explore that urban landscape of faggots. I thought finally, a world in which I would be embraced and desired. And boy was that the fucking fantasy of the decade. I thought that the fact that this supposed “gay world” was populated with men whom all had possessed a common denominator (the fact that we were all gay) would in someway, unite us. How foolish I was to think of such an ideal scenario when in fact, the gay world was the place in which I had experienced the worst variation of disapproval, and that was racism, sexual racism. The first thing a person asks you when you meet them is your race. Not that I am not proud of who I am(because at the end of the day if it is one attribute I can thank the lord for it would be the fact that I am black and beautiful) but I feel it to be immensely shallow(and not to mention rude) to be asking such a question, the first time you meet someone. Why would you want to know such a thing if not for the fact that you secretly(or unconsciously) are attempting to form an opinion of a person using their ethnicity as the baseline of your opinion. Isn’t the fact that I am beautiful, enough to satisfy your desires? Or maybe it is in the obsessive compulsive nature of humans to want to classify and categorize all things into sets and subsets to which they were familiar? Needless to say I was gravely wounded when I had discovered how superficial people can be at times. I began to question the propensity of Singaporeans who were truly and impartially free of racist ideals and the subset of that minute proportion whom were destined to meet me and fall in love. And then I came to a realization. I could very well remain celibate and alone for the rest of my life. Following this unsavory thought was my natural instinct for survival. I told myself that if the world in which I dwelled had no desire to embrace me, then I would do nothing other than to reciprocate its ugliness. I would never again look at a man as I had done before. He would never again evoke the same excitement and enthusiasm as he had done previously, as beautiful and charming he may be. I would no longer open myself to the feeling of vulnerability. And ultimately I had distilled it all into one simple motion and that was to amputate myself of my sexual identity and orientation. Of course I had considered the fact that it would be impossible to achieve such a feat seeing that the biological nature of a male would not permit him to rid himself completely of sexual urges. And so I do jerk off at times, but I look upon it as a form of release, as do I, the act of crying or excreting. Resulting from this fashion of living day to day without the anticipation that I would, by some divine miracle, meet my other half on the streets or in the gym a day later, or perhaps the day after that, is the feeling of emptiness. It is quite excruciating a sensation, especially when experienced while one is alone. And so I decided I would masturbate this void of feelings by indulging in the most narcissistic of activities. If no one is to provide me with love, than I shall provide it for myself. Hence, I began to seek solace in the art of bodybuilding. I would not be satisfied until I had attained bodily perfection. I became obsessed with expensive clothing as they would provide me with a sense of worth. And I comforted myself with the fact that in return for love I had traded the luxury of one day leaving this world a spire of beauty…the ultimate mannequin…unlike most people. Of course there are days in which I would feel completely and utterly without a purpose in life…but hey…nothing in this world is without a flaw…such are the rules of this reality. And that is how I have managed to transform the commercially celebrated time of joyous and blissful giving and sharing into the decrepit cadaver of a day I am about live through the day after tomorrow. I sincerely hope you were entertained by the documentation of my deviant thoughts. Good night. | 
