Your Friend, Atticus

I think I finally understand why my friends are my friends, why they stick by me no matter what comes between us and happens in our own lives.

I have a special brand of love. I had never considered it different until recently when it’s been put on shout by those who have received it and spit it back in a fit of defense. You see, it’s based completely in support and encouragement, however it manifests in the form of solution-driven advisement as opposed to sycophantical celebration with no acknowledgment of important next steps.

Growing up, there was no strong, silent father who gave me the old “tough love” talks like films pre-1990, which was when movies began removing their nutsacks to reveal a more sensitive side of the ideal patriarch. But that is beside the point. Frankly, I didn’t have a dad for the most formative of years and leaned mostly on my mother and grandmother for the core design on how to care for those close to me.

Now this would understandably lead you to believe I ultimately became a creamy puffed flagellum that waffled between seemingly gay, hormonal tantrums and tear-filled hugfests that quelled misunderstandings. And you would be correct up until my early twenties.

That’s when something happened. Were I to pinpoint the genesis it would resemble a third grader’s sloppy collage of hard knocks, lively sex and a bouquet of my compatriot’s strange life experiences. Although I’ve lived a myriad of madness in these neatly packaged thirty years, my personal adventures are skewed because my moral compass was always pointing south. At my penis.

What I have learned from my friends is a priceless archive of “How Not To”. I don’t want to insinuate they haven’t made good choices nor marginalize their existence. If they ever felt I had the malice to do so, they would be comforted by the Rock Island Arsenal of shit they have on me.

What they afforded me in unmitigated insight into the human condition I have invested into a deep, loving channel system of empathy, understanding and advice. Now, the later seems harmless by name, but this is where my brand of love makes its Nike-esque statement, complete with a child labor-type taste in your mouth afterward. Always honest, always with a smile, but never really what you want to hear.

Here are some examples:

Friend 1: “Woe is me.”

Atticus: “Woe will be you until you pull the tear-soaked, twisted panties from your scared ass and consider attempting to improve your situation. Start yesterday.”


Friend 2: “So, I don’t know if she likes me that way. I think she thinks blah blah blah ditty blah poopstuffingsaladdickcroutonjuice….

Atticus: “Well, considering the sniveling, dick-less way you are whining about it to me now, it’s almost no wonder fear consumes the part of your cerebrum dedicated to love and it’s no wonder she doesn’t want to fuck you. Look, give me her number. I’ll call her, plow my way from her twat to her ass and make sure I cover all the outlets in there to keep you safe from yourself.”


Friend 3: “Yay, this great thing happened!”

Atticus: “Awesome. Remember to < insert idea for success > and don’t forget < insert logical advice >. That is so cool. Now is a good time to start thinking about < insert future possibilities with potential solutions >.

Friend 3: “Can’t I just enjoy this? Why do you have to bum me out with all the stuff still ahead of me? Stop being a dick.”

Atticus: “I just figured that, since you’ve known me for awhile, in that time you’d realize that I’m not the person to come to if you want to get jerked off with false excitement over every tiny victory you claim. Life isn’t fun and to have any true success you should always be a step ahead and never lose sight of the goal. But, no, you’re right. Who can handle reality at a time like this? Here’s some champagne. Uncork it with your disillusionment.”


My friends are my friends because they, much like myself, are willing to hear things they may not necessarily want to, but know that they will only grow from hearing it. They are the first to congratulate and me and the first to remind me that there is more road ahead as well. I simply do the same in return.

Can all of the people I know handle my crazy love? No. That is why they have other friends to turn to for backslapping and bootlicking. Meanwhile, I live my life and look forward to when they contact me later that week for more advice.

As for my nearest and dearest, thank you for never letting me slip because you are a lazy friend. Thank you for never failing to give it to me straight, whether I could handle it or not. Your words did not fall on deaf ears and I can honestly attribute much of my survival to your successes as well as your failures. Because, if I didn’t use your examples and repeated the same mistakes that you made, you have an all-access pass to kicking my ass, just as I do you.

Once Upon A Bathroom Wall

While urinating at my favorite pub, I couldn’t help but notice that the only graffiti in the room had been responded to. Its placement is above the back of the toilet, marketing the defamation only to number ones, not number twos. Towering over the bowl, supporting my inebriated carcass against the wall, I noticed the faint penciled retort. “YOUR [sic] A HOMO!”

Let me back up a ways. In the fifteen months I’ve patronized Murphy’s, the bathroom has morphed from beautiful, “Under The Sea”-themed blue hues, to all black (above the tile half-wall), to white with a black sponged effect that, were it crimson, would lead to believe a murder had taken place and the killer was Bob Ross. These changes were due to the excess of drunken scribblings that were taking place.

Since the changes, there has only been one statement made upon the hallowed walls: SINKY IS A HOMO.

Let me be clear before I continue. I don’t know who Sinky is. We have never met and I would never attempt to slander a person who is already being smeared at one of the most public forums in town. All I know is that Sinky is obviously a homosexual and I hope he is receiving the support he needs from friends and family that he is not receiving in Murphy’s bathroom.

Here is what I saw that night:







You can see the desperation with which Sinky scrawls his defense. Strong lines, all caps. Misspelled with passion. This is a person who has been beaten by fear, dragged down by depression, drained of any individuality left to define him as a U.S. citizen. He has been reduced to the most elementary of barricades, crawling deeper into the closet and denying his gayness, hurling the classical heterosexual response to deflect any more insight into his mind and bedroom.

Many of my friends are a part of the LGBT community, all of them with pride, all of them loved and supported. I hope Sinky has the resources available to him that many homosexuals, closeted or otherwise, may not necessarily know is available.

If you are a “Sinky”, or actually are Sinky, know that there are many organization and groups that can help you come to terms with your homosexuality. They can help you find happiness and protect you from the libel that screams hate at you and everyone that pisses before it. Please know there are options.

Sinky may be a homo, but he is a person first and foremost, and perhaps, if you look deep enough, you’ll find that he is correct. “YOUR A HOMO” as well.