I have this frustration in writing I have loads of thoughts ideas and imaginations but I can’t put them into words I feel dumb when I write same feeling when your Math 11 teacher gives you a hard no not hard arduous problem on vinn diagram and you have to draw six vertiginous circles chained like the Olympic rings Huh maybe that’s why it’s called a problem because it really is problematic Well back to my problem in writing I have been trying to cure this malady I write and write and write I surround myself with people who write good and maybe just maybe I could absorb their skill in penning thanks to osmosis But why am I talking about writing anyway when this article is about me Well I dreamed of writing a novel about myself or an autobiography and this is my courageous attempt.,?””!
PS place the punctuation marks on tits appropriate place
Chapter One
Portrait of an Artist as a Young Gay
For as long as I could remember, I have been gay since five. Playing with toy guns or miniature race cars was not my game. I fancy baby dolls and I love playing with their flamboyant dresses and silk-curly-locks. Mother would pinch the part of my body she gets hold to whenever she catches me playing with my pretty little playmates, so I play with my dolls in a place where nobody could see us, we would hide behind the bushes in our backyard like the fogs of Avalon the bushes conceal us from great peril, and there we play like there’s no tomorrow. We love role playing and our favorite role is to play sister act, Whoopie Goldberg had a big part of pink-childhood. I would sing I Will Follow him at the top of lungs, then I would lead them to dance and we dance like fairies in an enchanted fairy ring. But all good things must come to an end, Mother found out about my “unmanly” deeds World War III erupted, disgust on gays fired from her mouth like atomic bombs and I felt the pain of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, my heart is burning into ashes and sparks of anguish flowed out from it. I buried my dolls in our sacred grotto, the same spot where we play, and I made a cemetery for my dead dolls (the dolls I’m caught playing with). I would weep on their gravestones until I forgot they existed.
I resorted to drawing, with it I channeled my frustrations, and the oppressions I felt in a very artistic fashion. I started with scribbles, then to stick drawings, then to Neanderthal drawings, until I reached a more human figure drawing. At first, my favorite subject was Virgin Mary, I am very fascinated with her “divine” and immaculate beauty, the powerful, the regal, and the statuesque pose seem mesmerizing. Eventually, I had enough of drawing a gazillion portraits of the Virgin, and when access to encyclopedias was available, I found a more interesting subject—nude women, this dawned my appreciation and challenged my skill in the higher levels of art.
