A Room Full of Richards
I was online right before I left for Dan's birthday party when I received an instant message from him. "It's a room full of Richards!" he typed. I responded with a question mark, confused by what he had said. He told me he'd show me when I came to his house for his party.
So I went to his house, and asked him about the room full of Richards that he spoke of. The year before, I had recorded 10 or so of my writings on his computer. He had combined all of them together, and he played them all at the same time for me.
It was a room full of Richards. It was my voice, my ideas, and my self being expressed by 10 separate voices at the same time.
It was a very scary experience. I tried to imagine 10 clones of me, and what it would be like if we banded together.
Then I shuddered, and, as out of touch with reality as I am, I gave myself a reality check. I need not hope nor worry; there is nobody else like me out there.

Andre's Memories
I had a neighbor named Andre. He was a renowned heart surgeon who'd been divorced three times. Apparently he could mend any heart except for those of his various wives. He was on his 4th wife right now, a younger woman than himself, and the two of them were moving away.
One day I had a friend named Arthur over. Arthur was a crazy kid… he'd brought to my house that day a watch he'd stolen from someone or another and a dirty magazine he'd stolen from a high-schooler's backpack. Arthur would later be suspended for his kleptomania… I suppose what with the amount of stealing he did he should feel lucky he hasn't been arrested… yet.
He started trying to sell the stolen watch for $800 to passersby. He claimed it was made out of gold, even though anybody could tell it was not. Arthur was also a pathological liar.
While he was trying to sell his watch for that preposterous sum of money, he noticed a big dumpster in front of my house. It was full of Andre's old stuff. Arthur climbed in the dumpster, and started removing all of Andre's memories. He set up a yard sale of a sort on the stoop of my house, and tried to sell the objects we found in the dumpster along with his watch.
We sold a few things for petty money while Arthur paged through his magazine.
Then Andre came by.
Well, he saw us digging up his memories from the dumpster. Taking out an alligator's head he might remember from his trip to Africa… the accompanying African masks, his pictures, artwork, plates, antiques, and all of the other objects that no doubt had sentimental value to him.
We were selling his memories for a dollar each. Perhaps he didn’t think we were charging enough, because he got angry.
He told us it wasn't ours to sell, made us put them back, and lectured us.
I remember thinking him heartless at the time, even making up a rhyme in his honor:
"That stuff isn't ours to sell,
well that guy can go to hell"
But now that I think about it… how would I feel if I saw a few kids selling my memories for a buck a piece?

Sunday at the Pagua
Memories. We have experiences, and then we remember them. We have experiences that enlighten us, that brighten us, and then they're over. But they are never really over unless we forget them.
I remember spending my Sunday at the Pagua. The Pagua is a Hindu festival that they were holding in Queens that celebrates the coming of spring.
I went down to 72nd street to do some campaigning for Norman Siegel, who was running for public advocate of NYC. I never could've guessed I would have ended up at a Hindu festival. I mean, I knew that Norman isn't a conventional politician, but there's still no way I could've predicted ending up celebrating the coming of spring.
I remember being asked by David if I wanted to come to the Pagua. I had already done my homework for the weekend, so I said sure, and hopped in the car.
I remember when the car pulled up next to the Pagua. It was an outdoor festival, and the air was thick with talcum powder. All the celebrators were partying like a platypus on fire, and they were all painted a myriad of colors.
Purple, red skin; talcum powder hair.
I remember going into the bright, lively crowd. It was a truly fascinating sight, and a truly purple sight. Having taken a few steps into the crowd, David and I were showered with purple paint and talcum powder. Surprised, but pleased, we started handing out literature about Norman to the celebrators.
They were very accepting people. Not only did they all accept the papers we offered them, but even more, they accepted us.
It didn't matter if you were white, black, yellow, red, or brown at the Pagua. As long as you were purple, you were accepted.
Everybody was enjoying themselves in that crowd. Even the blue police uniforms were now purple.
But on the outskirts of the party, some turmoil was a-stirring.
A vivacious young girl of about 11 was throwing talcum powder in the air. A hefty lady cop, who had been staring on ominously since she'd arrived, took action.
She grabbed the girl's wrist, scratching her up good. She seized her talcum powder and threw it into the street.
Then the celebrators began to scream at the police. While the party's aura had been flowing with merriment and revelry, now there were profoundly threatening indications developing.
The purple girl's purple father accosted the white officer, enraged. He told her not to touch his daughter, mumbled something about how he should get her badge number, and walked away.
Norman, who, throughout his career of fighting for civil liberties, has gained much experience with authoritarian cops, said, "well, he has a right to her badge number."
So, to make a long story short, Norman reprimanded the cops and saved the cop-citizen bickering from escalating into a full-scale riot (or beating).
It's funny, though, that the Pagua was breaking down racial barriers until the police got involved.
Do you know what else is funny? If it had been a Christian celebration, and the celebrators were predominantly white, the cops wouldn't have been so plentiful nor so ominous.
And as long as we're talking about funny things here, isn't it funny that a police officer, who is supposedly there to protect, acts so sinisterly to his/her constituents.
But do you want to know something sad? That one cop had overreacted. She suffered no punishment. But if it had been the celebrators who had overreacted, they would be in one of two places right now: jail or the hospital.

My Hair Uncut Large Messy
When I was young I dreaded being cut in the hair. This wasn't because I feared the actual cutting; there was no animosity between me and my barber, and I was never afraid of scissors so long as they weren't pointed at my neck… but yet I dreaded getting my hair cut.
This was because I liked my hair long. I would grow my hair until I was mistaken for a girl by strangers more often than not. But, alas, when that had happened enough, my mother would force a barber's appointment upon me. Though I protested these appointments with all I had, eventually she got her way.
Then I got older, and though I was still young, I was old enough to be conscious about my image and feel a desire to be popular, or at least accepted. The model boy of my age was that of short, impeccably cut hair. Soon, I was less reluctant to get my hair cut, and then began to request it.
It wasn't that I preferred to have short hair. Rather, it was that I was compelled to shorten my hair. I was always different at heart, and I always wanted my hair long and different from the norm at heart. But there are many oppressive forces that keep your true nature from reaching the outside world. I was a victim of peer pressure and compelled conformity.
But now my hair is as it used to be. My hair uncut large messy, just as I desire it be.
Now strangers that I meet tell me my hair is too long, and everyday I am tormented with requests from all my friends to cut my hair. Some merely suggest it, some beg it, some demand it. Despite the differing methods of persuasion, they all want me to cut my hair.
But I am a stronger person than I was during my time of conformity. I no longer subject myself to the expectations of others. I am but who I am at heart, and I see no reason for me to act otherwise. I like me and I like to be me, and part of who I am is my hair.
My hair is messy, my hair is free-flowing. I am free, too-- that is, freed from the torment of conformity. My hair represents my individualism, and when my hair is cut so too is my freedom.
When they demand that I be cut
And hover their scissors around my hair
I simply tell them don't you dare
I am me, not you, so what?

I Don't Deny, Instead I Laugh
I don't deny, instead I laugh.
I am not homophobic. I do my part fighting for gay rights, advocating their right to adopt and to marry.
I do my part fighting social discrimination. I hurt when I hear "faggot", and cringe when homosexuality is referred to disparagingly.
In this day and age, I do a lot of hurting and a lot of cringing.
I am not homophobic, nor am I insecure about my own sexuality.
In the eyes of others, all this means I'm gay.
Many think me to be gay. Correspondingly, I think many to be homophobic fools.
Many inform me that I am said to be gay. I don't deny, instead I laugh.
Many accuse me of being gay, straight to my face. I laugh, for I don't feel this to be a worthy accusation.
I do not deny any such accusations, for I am secure about my sexual orientation, whatever it may be. Gay, straight or bi, it doesn't matter to me. A straight person shouldn't be ashamed if they find themselves attracted to the same sex, nor should a gay person be ashamed if they find themselves attracted to the opposite sex. Nor should any person be ashamed of others based solely on their sexual inclination. What kind of people you take interest in doesn't change what kind of person you are in the slightest.
So I don't deny, instead I laugh.
I don't deny, for it is not homosexuality but instead homophobia that I despise. I see no reason to justify myself when I feel that it is their prejudice that calls for justification.
Instead I laugh. I laugh at ignorance, I laugh at humanity, I laugh at the world.
But I laugh not because I am happy. I laugh because I find it sad. Perhaps it is better to cry?
I'm not telling you, I'm asking you.
But as for me? I don't deny, instead I laugh.
I will never deny
Probably never cry
Our despicable world doesn't deserve my pity.

The Condom Thief
Every day after school I go straight to Rockbottom Nutritional Center. It's right next to CVS, but I don't go to CVS. I go to Rockbottom.
At CVS a 20 ounce Pepsi costs a dollar twelve cents. At Rockbottom it's only a dollar. So I go to Rockbottom; it is only the logical thing to do. The cashier there knows me. I'm the weird kid who runs to her store at 3:10 everyday and, out of breath, buys a Pepsi.
Then I take my Pepsi, and I sit on the short silver post by the fire hydrant in front of Rockbottom. I drink my Pepsi. The caffeine relaxes me. I cherish the tranquility. I watch the people pass by, and I listen to the cars behind me. I curse off any cars that honk their horns; they ruin the tranquility.
Then my friends surround me and beg me to let them come to my house. But I say no, dudes, I just want to drink my Pepsi and sit on this post and chill out.
I watch the people pass by, and they watch me. They stare at me. They are intrigued by me. I am the weird kid with the long blonde hair who sits on a silver post after school everyday. I am the weird kid who wears a heavy neon green jacket every day even though it's spring and there's no need for a jacket. I am also the weird kid who refused to wear a jacket of any sort during the winter and insisted upon freezing himself, claiming to enjoy the torture. I am the weird kid who they don't comprehend, so they stare.
So one day I'm just sitting there, relaxing myself after my day at school. And this skinny, Spanish-speaking dude with a few golden teeth and a bony face steps out. He's drinking a Pepsi, and he starts standing in the area in front of Rockbottom.
So I start identifying with this guy, you know? He's standing here at the same time as me, drinking the Pepsi just like me. Maybe he's weird like me too.
He is nervous. He yells into Rockbottom every thirty seconds or so. I assume he's swearing in Spanish.
He throws his bottle of Pepsi to the side, not bothering to find a trash can, takes out a cigarette, lights it, and begins to smoke. He yells into the store one more time, and then a younger Hispanic dude walks out of the store carrying a large brown box in his hand. On the side of the box is written in red ink "Condoms".
They run off as quick as they can, and the cashier, who is a midget and no more than four and a half feet tall, runs out and calls after them. But they are gone, them and their box of condoms.
I wonder to myself sometimes what they needed with all those condoms. I figure maybe they're extremely promiscuous. Maybe they, like many other people, are ashamed to ask the cashier for condoms. But ashamed enough to steal?
I guess I'll have to keep on wondering, because why anybody would want to steal condoms in such great quantity is beyond me.
But even more I wonder... why is it that I was so strongly identifying with a toothless, littering, smoking, condom-thief?

Pizza
I didn't want pizza today. So I didn't go.
Everybody wanted me to go. Especially her. She begged me to come get pizza with them.
"Richie, love comes with sacrifice… it's in the contract," Luke said in support of her.
"You know what, Richard, girlfriends get mad when they don't get attention. So you're going to get pizza with us and you're gonna pay for her too!" Ali reprimanded me.
She begged some more, and told me she was gonna cry. I didn't care. I didn't want pizza.
I used to always go get pizza no matter how much I didn't want to. I followed my friends around and went wherever they wished. That was because I didn't want to be with myself. But now I do.
So, Ali reprimanded me for being a bad boyfriend. Others reprimand me all the time for being a bad friend. I don't care. I didn't want pizza. I didn't want to go get pizza. So I didn't. And I'm glad. Now I am alone in my room, and I am happy. I like being with myself because I like myself. A hell of a lot more than I do other people. Especially when they make me get pizza.

Under the Bridge
(this is excerpted from a song by the Red Hot Chili Peppers)
Sometimes I feel
Like I don't have a partner
Sometimes I feel
Like my only friend
Is the city I live in
The city of angels
Lonely as I am
Together we cry

I drive on her streets
'Cause she's my companion
I walk through her hills
'Cause she knows who I am
She sees my good deeds
And she kisses me windy
I never worry
Now that is a lie

I don't ever wanna feel
Like I did that day
Take me to the place I love
Take me all the way

It's hard to believe
That there's nobody out there
It's hard to believe
That I'm all alone
At least I have her love
The city she loves me
Lonely as I am
Together we cry

I don't ever wanna feel
Like I did that day
Take me to the place I love
Take me all the way

Under the bridge downtown
Is where I drew some blood
Under the bridge downtown
I could not get enough
Under the bridge downtown
Forgot about my love
Under the bridge downtown
I gave my life away

A Partner?
I've always been an introvert by nature. When I was young in school I wouldn't talk much or hang out with friends; I would usually sit in the corner and draw pictures of monsters. I wouldn't draw pictures of real life monsters like George Bush and Al Gore; I would draw pictures of the happy, kind, smiley monsters that lived in my head.
However, along the way I disregarded my introversion. I made friends, and more and more they occupied all of my time.
But recently I have been going through a metamorphosis. I realized that I don't like people all that much most of the time; their company is good every once in a while, but I like to be by myself.
So I've been getting back to my introverted nature. I am becoming true to myself once again. I've been spending less time with my friends, and more time with myself.
People tell me all the time that I seem depressed. To the world, the majority of whom are extroverted, anybody who doesn't want to spend his or her every single hour with other people is automatically deemed a depressed, disturbed individual.
Individual is correct when describing me, but depressed I am not. Why, it is with pleasure that I refuse to hang out with my friends on most occasions.
But often I feel sadness trying to pull me back to my artificial extroversion. So when I do, I turn on "Under the Bridge", and it helps me cope.
Sometimes I feel like I don't have a partner. There are very few people out there who I am able to have a meaningful relationship with; perhaps there is nobody out there who will ever be a partner to me.
People who aren't my partners and who I don't have meaningful relationships with often cling to me and try to get me to spend my time with them. I used to gladly give away my time, but not any more.
Instead I spend time alone with myself. And on the nights where my sadness over my lost extroversion is great, I walk. I walk up and down Columbus Avenue on the Upper West Side. I see lots of people. And it's hard to believe that there's nobody out there, and it's hard to believe that I'm all alone, so I go to the place I love. I go sit on the silver post outside of Rockbottom, and I ingest all of my surroundings. I see the homeless dude sitting on the corner, and I see evidence of our materialistic society and our cruel government pandering to rich corporations, not caring that people are starving all around us. I see the cars drive behind me polluting our environment even though people don't need cars. You can get anywhere you need in due time if you just walk, but the people all want to go to the jobs they hate so they can bring home money and get promoted to a higher position on the financial ladder. I hear the cars honk; the drivers are letting out their anger at the expense of others and ruining my tranquil state. I see people littering, ruining their world just because they can't walk to the end of the block and throw their trash out. I see cigarettes adorning the ground, and I see the rich corporations addicting people to harmful substances just so they can get money.
I see our materialistic world. No matter how many hundred dollar bills the mints press, this world is worth nothing to me. And human nature that caused all of this greed is worth nothing to me.
So I live in my own world. It is a happier world where money never matters, and it is located inside of my head. I am the only person in my world, but maybe some day some misfit with understand me, and we can live in each other's own worlds together. Maybe someday I will have a partner.