Infinite

Today I felt infinite.

Although, to be honest, I feel slightly less infinite after a rather embarrassing incident this afternoon. I was tidying my room in a sudden and quite unexpected fit of cleanliness. I was facing the corner, trying to de-tangle my phone charger from my MP3 player charger from the CD shelf. I was busily working away, moving things, rearranging CDs, de-tangling cords, arguing with a double adapter--"I could stand here all day..."--"ARGGGGHHH!!!!"

Liz had dropped by, been let in by my father (who called out to me three times), walked into my room, stood behind me, waited, thought to herself "I could stand here all day before he notices me" and started to say "I could stand here all day before you notice me." I nearly shat myself. I made a sound that I would have described as a manly yell, but which I have been assured was in fact a girly shriek.

However despite this slight emasculation, I continue to feel infinite, only slight less so. Which, when you think about it, is still infinitely infinite since infinity minus one is still infinity.

I was bright eyed and bushy tailed (incidentally, I've never understood that phrase) as I caught the train to Sydney this morning. I arrived at Sydney at around 11 and met with my good friend Drew for a coffee. Drew is like the Brian to my inner-Justin. "So what have you decided about mummy and daddy?" he asked me. "I've decided that if Sister gets into this course of hers, and I really think she will, I'll tell them while she's away. That way they'll have two and a half months to get over it and help me with her." The thought is kinda liberating.

I headed into uni and went to the library. I had to look at some textbooks to decide if they were worth the money to buy them. I also had some books that I wanted to borrow. I ventured into the bowels of the stack and looked for the first one on my list -- All American Boy by Scott Peck. I've seen it on The Bookshop's website before and it looked interesting so I decided to give it a read while I still have some spare time. Three books to left was a book whose title suggested it may be helpful in preparing me for the impending "Mum, Dad, I'm gay" moment on the horizon. A cursory glance, however, told me that this was not going to be a helpful book. I took it with me and went in search of a seat. I passed a disabled toilet and felt the sudden urge to urinate, so I ducked inside. I realised this was the perfect place to read so I sat down and started reading.

Sadly, I was right -- it was totally unhelpful. Specifically, it was a right-wing, christian fundamentalist, ex-gay-ministry-toting book. The word unimpressed isn't strong enough to describe how I felt. Steam slowly leaked from my ears as I read the term gay lifestyle being bandied around a little too freely for my liking. I flipped through the various chapters until I found a list of addresses on the last page. All the usual suspects were there. I sat for a while and thought about the whole situation. I'm not talking about how I was sitting on a toilet, having a slash and reading a book; I'm talking about the damage these people cause to vulnerable gay men and women. I felt I couldn't, in good conscience, leave the book for some poor, lonely, confused soul to find. I toyed, briefly, with the idea of ripping the book in half and flushing it. Reality set in and I realised that it clearly wouldn't flush down the toilet and would be discovered. As I considered my options, I ripped out the last page -- the one with the contact information -- and tore it into small pieces and put them in the bin for tampons and pads. After some more thought, I decided that maybe it is a good idea to keep it in the library so that those doing research on the damaging effects of this shit can have access to it. But I didn't want it to fall into the hands of the aforementioned poor souls and cause any damage itself. So I got out my pen and wrote inside the front cover. "I am gay. If you are reading this, and are confused about your sexuality, you are not alone and you are not abnormal. Don't fall for the ex-gay promises. The whole thing is a sham." I triumphantly finished with a full-stop and closed the book with a flourish. I then realised that I was still in the disabled toilet in the library defacing university property.

I flushed the toilet, washed my hands and sheathed my pen. I picked up the offending book and wandered nonchalantly out of the toilet. I took the lift to the next floor and buried it amid an ancient horticultural journal. It too was liberating.

The next stop on was becoming an increasingly epic journey was the bookshop. I walked to the bookshop (inconveniently located on the opposite end of campus). En route I stopped in at the union to get a locker (again, the office that deals with lockers is located in the most inconvenient of the three union buildings). I was told that the lockers in the building I wanted were not being let out yet as they had only been installed and keys hadn't been sorted. On I continued, across what can only be described as an acreage of steps, to the bookshop. I purchased the textbooks I needed and loaded up my bag. Few times have I felt like such a pack-mule as I did this afternoon. I lumbered off towards the highway.

I (finally) got to Central. I sat down in the train. I could smell my feet. They smelt a sickening shade of chartreuse. I decided that if this terrifying trend of foot odour didn't end soon I would have to resort to amputation. I fear that the man who sat next to me between Strathfield and Parramatta got up and left because of the smell (for the non-Sydneysiders, that is all of five minutes and there are no stops between).

I was tired, I had drank far too many caffeinated beverages (even by my formidable standards), I had taken pain killers for my legs; I felt infinite. I was so excited by the prospect of getting on with life. After a decidedly uphill battle to finish the HSC I was so sick of studying by the end of high school that the mere glimpse of the simple prospect of university study made me nauseous. But here I am, four years later, going to uni.

On the way through Croydon I felt a stab of sadness as I remembered that it will be Pop's birthday on Monday. Slowly I realised how proud he'd be of me, for coming this far. When we were in hospital he introduced me to one of the nurses, "This is my grandson, Daniel, he's the university student".

I'm finally at uni. I'm ready and rearing to go. My Pop would be proud of me. I'm proudly gay. Admittedly, I'm not out and proud, but I'm working towards it. The thought of telling my parents doesn't fill me with dread (even if Sister is another story).

I felt free. I felt infinite.