The Non-Gay Man Chain of Friendship

I once had a friend tell me that if he was a woman he would marry me. At first I found this "compliment" a bit disturbing for a few reasons which I won't bore you with.

It was not long after that revelation that he was telling me about a good friend of his who was going to visit. He described how they were a great complement to each other's personalities and that if he (the visiting friend) was a woman, he would marry him.

After I heard this, I started to wonder why in one friendship he was the woman and in the other he was the man. I didn't bother to ask, but still I wondered.

All the facts having been considered, I believe that it was just a way of defining each friends status in the relationship where gender was taking the place of a more socially acceptable ranking system. It was sort of like when I called another guy "Jennifer" because he didn't know how to string ethernet cable through a suspended ceiling. I was indicating his "little girliness" at stringing cable. Just a note to everyone who wonders, you don't push it, you roll it in a loose ball and throw it.

Some people have a family structure that they assign friends to, a mother, father, children and sometimes even extended family members. They relate to these people as having these same family roles in their friendships.

Personally, I've often found it a bit disconcerting when when someone would call me "friend" and then even more so when I was referred to as "best friend", so when "husband" was implied I was quite a bit taken aback. But I'm not really *too* disturbed by people making overtures of friendship anymore. I've gone from being fed-Up with People, to being tolerant of their seemingly haphazard methods of defining relationships.

So, I do have friends, and I am married to an actual woman, so hopefully that will preclude any possibility of marriage to a non-gay man-wife.

3 untitled things I wrote last night...

1)

Dangercaps unfold a meadowlarkingly lyrical call for arms of string to arrange patterned colors in leaflet folds. The tears of anchors that sway in glowing altitude glance seemingly at nearbaked orbs. The thickness is a sensation by the lips of wired maggots that seek a destined recombinant metaphorical lessening. Do your midnights burn with the same intensity as your rebirths? Or do you fire the wednesdays like farming a range war?

Peeling back the sounds that frighten you will exercise a tenfold lust for the warmth of radiant protection. As the flames envelope me, my eyes diffuse sound.


2)

Shaking into murk snakes with my mind, curling it into restless frames of ether. The constancy and vigilance of thought embodied by the coarse assembly of doughnuts and hair that somehow amounts to me, is a balance of wanton unwontedness.

Many delights are heralded as the fabric of the minds of passersby brushes softly across my cat-clawed mustache and the happy gaze they cast plucks the last ripe fruits from the harvest of my heart.

Weakly as ever, I will the beast of conversation into being, and as they are enraptured by it’s hideous grasping and thrusting, I hide the apple of destiny inside my own originality.

In the wake of these events, my thoughts are tightened down for a slow settling as comments are drawn from the lightest of the crowd.

The waves gently bed the unsettled tourists who misread the directions on my skull.


3)

The flight pays me by and tangles down to sudden draws that play into traction with armored wheels. The depth of breeding ropes, grapples and snuggles with a satisfied lung-fighter for lunch wielding hypocrites that tend intention to justify fraudulent sensations of genuineness in worth.

Triangle lesions are parked on the outermost surface of the new-found you. When the baking of your soul has been thoughtlessly performed you stand up and at the ready, but are either never quite finished or worse, overdone.