I know you’re not going to believe me when I tell you this, but I’ve been practically celibate since I won my Nicky Award and reality show last year. As I’ve detailed before, those experiences really boosted my sense of self-worth and helped me to forgo the meaningless hook-ups that once filled me with a short-lived sense of purpose!

Instead, I’ve concentrated on realizing my creative potential and building a career. With all the time I once used thinking about dating, sex, boys and relationships, I’ve managed to make a life for myself. I’m almost tempted to call love and sex a waste of time, but, unfortunately for my tired heart, I can’t.

No matter how strong I become, love and sex are always intricately tied to my success and happiness. It might be easy to stop the meaningless hook-ups, but the driving force behind them is impossible to ignore. A little hope, love and pleasure can go a long way in muting the pain and stress of everyday life. It might feel like a distraction from career goals and self-development, but sometimes a distraction is just what the doctor ordered.

I winced at the calendar recently when noticing just how long it’s been since my last relationship. I’ve become a guarded soul and have focused entirely on my career and long-term financial goals. But as my stress and anxiety levels go up at work, I’m starting to realize that my plan might not be as balanced as it should be. It would be incredibly re-energizing to have someone hold me at night or wish me luck on my way to the office.

Looking back at my first love, I remember some of the happiness I’m missing now. Six years ago I had a man who made me laugh with his monkey faces, hugged me with his big arms and warmed me with his love. I jokingly compared him to King Kong, because he felt like my strong, primal protector. Years after our break up, I’m still comforted by the message he recorded into a voice box for a stuffed monkey he gave me on Valentine’s Day. “Arrrr … King Kong! I love you, Sweetie,” it repeats for me when I’m feeling lonely.

Recently my work situation became so stressful that I sought relief from an unexpected source: Grindr, everyone’s favorite iPhone app. I figured at least talking to guys again might take my mind off the job and I justified the trashiness by insisting the app’s mobility meant some people really did just go on there to chat.

Surprisingly, within a week I met a brilliant engineer from New York who represented almost everything I could want in a boyfriend. My heart melted a little when he sent pictures of himself dressed as video game all-star, Donkey Kong. The snapshots of him as a protective primate struck a chord with me, and renewed my hope and interest in love. Unfortunately, the MIT graduate was not as taken by me, but the chance encounter still inspired more strength than sadness.

Not long after, at a friend’s pool party in L.A., I met a beautiful actor who caught my eye. With a rekindled interest in romance, I approached him confidently and eventually got him alone so I could “help him put on sunscreen.” We passionately made out and I got a real taste of mutual interest for the first time in many months.

He turned out to be a very sweet, song-writing introvert (my ideal guy) and quite emotionally available. He even sent me the usual “can’t stop thinking about you” text messages. Unfortunately he lives in L.A. so he is temporarily off the boyfriend potential list, but once again I felt re-energized by love and the realization that it will find me if I open myself up to it.

It feels like I’ve spent the last few months finding God and following the 12 steps of Lovers Anonymous only to suddenly fall off the widow wagon. I guess you don’t realize how much you’ve missed something until it’s back sitting on a bed with you smiling.

I’ve done a good job avoiding people, love and sex in the past few months, but like any pleasure in life I just needed a dose of moderation. My little romances have reminded me that I can’t swear off men forever if I want to be happy. There’s too much good stuff and too many good men out there to close myself off to the world completely. And even if I want to focus on my career and financial future, love is my motivator and support and I can’t get very far without it. There’s only so much stress relief family, friends and fans can provide. Sometimes a boy needs a good distraction.

I have a bad habit of comparing my accomplishments to those of acquaintances, celebrities and artists. Some of these comparisons make me feel woefully inadequate. Without trophies or a standardized life progress bar marked with universal signs of success, I’m left drowning in confusion, competition and the pressure to do more with my life.

I constantly have to remind myself that there’s no wrong way to live and that, no matter where or how I end up, I’ll be fine. I might not be rich, married, on the cover of magazines or the inventor of the Post-it note, but I have to be doing some things right and I need to be proud of who and what I am. This means I should probably stop with the less-than-helpful comparisons to people I hardly know.

The other day at swim practice, some guys were talking about age and experience between laps and laughed as I came in to the wall. “Oh, the 24-year-old … you’ll be lucky if you make anything of your life,” one doctor baited me.

Having just spent the better part of 400 yards contemplating and stressing about my future, this felt like a shocking, well-placed punch to the gut. “Do you feel like you’ve made something of your life?” I asked back with genuine curiosity and a touch of anxiety. “I think so, but at your age I was just in med school,” he responded coolly before going back underwater. My first thought was, “F*ck!”

I took a deep breath and reminded myself that there’s no one way to define “making something” of life. I should never doubt myself or my successes based on what someone else says or does. “You don’t even want to be a doctor!” I yelled at myself.

I’m developing my own set of strengths on my unique timeframe. Comparing myself to others, especially those with unrelated goals, is silly and creates unnecessary stress that only hinders personal growth and accomplishment.

Unfortunately, I can’t always stop myself from stressing or making these comparisons. Basing personal goals on others’ successes is a part of being human in society and can actually be helpful when done with a modicum of restraint.

Note to self: just because I want to write a Broadway show one day does not mean I need to start hating my life because I’m not Stephen Sondheim. Some comparisons are much more effective and life-enhancing than others.

I know what you’re probably thinking, “Compare yourself to someone your own age!” But that’s not the answer, trust me. The trick to a healthy, goal-shaping life comparison is a little deeper than that. I know because I die a little inside every time someone brings up the fact that the world’s most influential woman, our Lady of Gaga, is just a few months older than me.

See, I’ve realized that my obsessions and bouts of envy only come when shallowly observing the successes of others. It’s easier for me to be jealous of acquaintances and celebrities because I do not see their personal suffering and setbacks – I only see their good sides!

The fact is that all successes come with accompanying obstacles. Lady Gaga, Stephen Sondheim and my pretty pool doctor each face their own problems and personal brand of crazy. If I saw their bad sides or the shit they face on a daily basis, I might not be so consumed with non-functional and non-constructive jealousy.

Therefore, I’ve concluded that the best types of idols are those with goal-relevancy and, most importantly, established personal intimacy. By basing my goals and comparing my life to mentors and good friends who share my interests and with whom I’m familiar, I’m able to truly weigh both good and bad effects of pertinent choices and related accomplishments. This way, I actually benefit and learn from making comparisons rather than just feeling envious or anxious.

The flip side of this lesson is equally valuable to me and my life. Just because I perceive a person to be less successful by my standards does not mean they are less valuable as a person.

Life is a strategy game of choice and personal values – what works for one, does not necessarily work for another. I can envy Gaga all I want for her incredible success, but there’s no denying she’s right about one thing: we are all on the right track, baby.

I’ll admit to using moisturizer and Rogaine, but never have I feared getting older. I’ve always appreciated the wisdom that age brings and looked forward to maturity. I figured that my built up database of experiences would lend itself to an expanded perspective of the world and would help me better prioritize and maintain happiness.

So I’ve lived life with that expectation, always broadening my horizons and trying to be a jack-of-all-trades, but I’ve never felt like it was enough. Having diverse experiences and getting older won’t magically mature, change or make a happier me. It’s up to me to practice perspective and train my brain to think positively every single day.

I visited my 89-year-old grandmother at her retirement community recently, and was reminded that age and experience do not alone guarantee happiness. Even with a failing memory that resets every five minutes, my dear grandma managed to complain for hours at a time about anything and everything. I wanted to blame her negativity on the frustrating mental condition, but she was a grouch before the onset of Alzheimer’s and, according to my father, even worse before that. I love my G-ma, but there’s no denying she lives life wearing shit-colored glasses.

Her apparent misery left me unsettled and wondering how experience and age could be more effectively used to build happiness and perspective. Then suddenly, as I bent over to sign out on the residence clipboard, I felt a finger go down the back of my pants. My shirt was on the short side and my pants must have been a little low, because an elderly lady had no trouble approaching and brazenly poking around.

I stood up stunned and turned to confront my attacker. She smiled widely and exclaimed, “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself!” Still a little surprised, all I could do was smile back and laugh. “That’s what I get for not wearing a parka,” I joked as I ran for the door.

Looking back at the situation, I can’t help but admire the woman for going after what she wanted. I’d never condone sexual harassment or assault, but I was obviously safe and glad to brighten her day. In return, she gave me an experience worth adding to my collection, and one more tool with which to build perspective and happiness.

She also helped me to see the part of aging and life I was missing. The lesson was right there in my molester’s bold moves – I had to just go for it.

I’ve since realized that I can’t spend my every present day collecting experiences and memories so that I will be happy and wise in the future. I have to start practicing positive perspective and using it to live a happier life now, before I wind up like my wonderfully bitter grandmother.

Taking a page from the aging handbook, I actively use my diverse experiences to see problems in a new way. Now whenever I’m hungry at work and feeling cranky, for example, I try to remind myself of my trip to Bolivia and all the starving children my mom forced me to see. It’s hard to feel ungrateful or unhappy when I start thinking in those terms.

But as diverse as my life has been and I continue to make it, I can’t fake age and experience. There’s simply no way for me to match the mental tool collection and reference material of a middle-aged man. Thankfully, there’s a way for me and other less experienced people to fake, and reap the benefits of, future wisdom.

My favorite technique for emotional well-being requires a little imagination. Using the experiences I do have, I’m able to create perspectives based on possibilities rather than past realities. All I do is remind myself that there are an infinite number of events that could follow any given situation, and therefore it’s impossible for me to know whether or not a conflict will benefit me down the line.

For example, instead of being miserable because I’m working late, I remind myself that it’s entirely possible that, had I gone home on time, I would have been caught in a horrible accident. Or if I’m stuck at a party I want to leave, I tell myself that if I’m patient I might just meet the person who will lead me to the job of my dreams or the love of my life. I may not have relevant reference material for every situation or ever experienced the fortuitous situations I invented, but the mere possibility of these “what ifs” makes me feel happier about the problem.

Now every time I face conflict, I reconsider my beliefs and expectations about the situation. It surprises me how often I can manipulate my thoughts to change an emotional experience. I find that being open to new mindsets is just as important as being open to new experiences. And while maturity and experience provide the tools for emotional well-being, personal beliefs and perceptions govern the same emotions and stress levels.

By controlling these variables with collected experiences and imagination, I’m able to ward away negativity and develop early wisdom. I might not yet be older and wiser, but I can actively feel happy and well. And if nothing else, I’ve learned a very valuable lesson: always wear a belt when visiting grandma.

Many people are selective about what they see, hear and share. Pictured: Me with friends Beau and Meredith.

Writing a column is like living life; trying to be or focusing on too many things at once leaves everyone confused. While it feels limiting to only deal with one subject at a time, it’s essential to crafting anything remotely intelligible. Unfortunately, it’s just not in my nature.

As a self-proclaimed jack-of-all-trades, I like exploring my every interest and thought simultaneously. This way of living helps build adaptability, but it also sometimes makes me feel like I have a multiple personality disorder. Worse, it leaves me constantly feeling fractured and craving true love and intimacy.

Now of course no one is of singular personality and purpose. I might feel like a Frankenstein monster of traits, ambitions, moods and feelings, but so does everyone else. That said, not everyone spreads themselves thin and constantly tries to flex every brain muscle simultaneously.

Some people acknowledge their many sides and potentials, but focus and develop some aspects much more heavily than others. Meanwhile, some, like me, choose to work on everything and pursue all goals at once while trying to find balance and adaptability in a wide range of situations.

Both methods have their advantages and disadvantages.

For people like me, simultaneously working on too many aspects of personality and passion can slow down the development of specific traits. It can feel nice to be wholly in touch with oneself and balanced, but without intense specialization of purpose it’s much harder to choose a life path, stay committed to it, and advance quickly to better paying jobs. This can make life significantly more stressful and complex.

It can also be very disappointing for a jack-of-all-trades type personality to discover that most people want to see or interact with only certain parts of him or her at any given time. I’ve quickly learned that the full span of my internal diversity does not interest acquaintances, coworkers or even most friends. People want stereotypes, characters, columns, or snapshots of personalities and feelings, but rarely does anyone want to learn or love it all.

Even when people think they want to know someone completely, their desires usually come preloaded with expectations and projections. It’s incredibly rare to meet someone who genuinely understands or wants intimacy. That means to love someone for the good, the bad and the ugly … or as my therapist once said, “warts and all.”

Work in a professional setting is the perfect, everyday example of a lack of intimacy. Part of being a successful corporate employee is suppressing individuality and becoming part of a cohesive and productive structure. It is essential to use discretion and professionalism to advance.

Most bosses don’t want to know about personal reasons for long-term goals, crazy Friday nights, romances, broken cars or illnesses. They only care about how these things affect numbers, productivity and what an employee is hired to do. It is therefore an employee’s responsibility to only reveal or demonstrate the parts of his or her personality that the supervisor wants to see, a mere fraction of his or her whole self.

This, of course, is difficult for people like me who thrive on self-expression, full-span individuality and who constantly crave intimacy. After being away from corporate life for some time, I always have an adjustment period as I reacquaint myself with the process. Having learned to stand out as a way of succeeding, showing just a part of who I am and not knowing if that is necessarily good enough, can be really difficult for me.

More to the point, it’s incredibly tiring to feel like I have to hide a part of myself for eight to 12 hours a day, then go home and become an entirely different person for the friends or fans who expect something else of me.

I’m just a boy next door and I find the process exhausting. I can only imagine what it would be like for a celebrity, CEO, politician or Superman!

In the end, I always manage to strike a balance of self and stage, but I remain cognizant of the separations in my actions and conversation. I know who wants what, and I do my best to make everyone happy. I never talk about my personal life with coworkers (though I promise they know I’m gay), and I don’t talk about work at home or in social settings (and not just because I’m legally obligated). Separate identities just naturally form and, although fully functional, are somewhat disjointed.

This isn’t really a problem since it builds adaptability and openness to change – the key to survival according to Charles Darwin. It’s also wonderfully satisfying to take on many projects, jobs and adventures, and feel like I have a life worth living.

And since I don’t ever expect, or necessarily want, true intimacy with my acquaintances or coworkers, I’m still going to be searching for that in a partner or friend.

While I occasionally write and reflect on the cracks in myself, I know that I am whole and wholly worth loving. I might only be able to write about one subject at a time, but maybe one day (after many, many columns) someone will want to know and love me, warts and all.

Mommy dearest always told me to make the most of any situation. There’s always a silver lining or lesson to learn even in the worst possible experiences, she would say. I didn’t realize how much I took this instruction to heart until I started analyzing my own actions and correlating moods.

I began paying attention to what helped me go from hopeless to happy in the shortest amount of time, and quickly noticed a pattern. There is a simple way of transforming perspective and turning even the most frustrating moments into personal development and empowerment, and you’re looking at it right now.

My realization came while trying to figure out why I can never effectively relate my angst and darkness through writing. The problem isn’t a lack of evil or honesty in me, as I established in my last column, so fault must lie in the process of putting my darker parts on paper.

I remembered an old therapist friend who told me that writing was a fantastic therapy, “If you have a problem, take an hour to write about the issue in detail. Wait a day, and then do the exact same thing again. Repeat every day until satisfied.”

He told me that every time you write about a problem, your mind gets better at organizing the related details. Since the feeling of being upset predominantly comes from mental chaos and a lack of personal understanding and order, putting a problem into narrative form naturally eases the mind.

This is why I have such a hard time relating my dark side in writing, I realized. I can be angry when sitting down to write, but my rage always diffuses as I try to explain my situation. There is simply no way for me to do my dark side justice, because the very act of writing about it sends me back to my happy world of unicorns, rainbows and sap.

While this is a tad limiting for my personal non-fiction, it is helpful in daily life. Forming an honest perspective narrative is a rather healthy coping mechanism. At my lowest moments, I can always use writing to change the bad into good – a trick many might find useful from time to time. Actively occurring and upsetting situations in daily life are easier to handle knowing I have a method for future release and transformation.

I put my new practice to the test the other day when my roommate and I dropped by Eden to congratulate our friend Peter and the San Diego Gay Men’s Chorus for another fantastic concert. As I entered, some random guy greeted me at the gate, “Well if it isn’t MMG.” Confusion gave way on my face, but I smiled as I corrected him. “It’s actually MMB, but nice to meet you,” I said. He sneered and then snapped back, “Oh I know, but we all like to call you MMG.”

I was in no mood to be passive-aggressively antagonized by someone I didn’t even know, so I continued smiling and walked past. I congratulated everyone and then headed back towards the exit, eager to resume my day.

On the way out, he stopped us again, this time to assure me that the G stood for “gorgeous.” I forced another smile and humored his contrived attempt to undo unnecessary hostility. Then I repeated my full name for good measure and shook his hand goodbye. Obviously unsatisfied by my lack of reaction, he then boldly hugged my roommate and coldly whispered, “It doesn’t stand for gorgeous,” into his ear.

Later, I burst into laughter as I suddenly recalled an encounter with another stranger who nonsensically and repeatedly called me “Ginger” when I interrupted his attempt to hit on my roommate. Colorful, I thought, proud to have solved the riddle of my nickname.

Then I sat down to write about the exchange and decided to contextualize it with stories of loneliness, isolation and all the reasons I seldom go out. But as I typed, the story transformed into what you are reading now and I couldn’t help but smile. There was no more loneliness, just another lesson.

Exercise is great for pent up negative energy and aggression, but organized communication like writing is the only way to truly release the tension of the mind. Talking is equally therapeutic for some, but I find that writing is the most controllable and effective way of changing personal perspective. Not to mention, it’s nice to be able to review and share your findings so easily.

Blogs, journals, Facebook statuses and tweets can be just as helpful in turning situations around in your head. Positive self-expression of any kind goes a long way in creating positive self-image and feelings. I still catch myself occasionally posting angst-ridden thoughts, but I do my best to tweak my writing to inspire a happier mood and way of thinking. In doing so, I not only become the man I want to be, but also attract the positive, happy people I want to be around.

After all, there are good people and good lessons in every situation. It just takes the right communication and perspective to uncover them. Writing, in particular, is a powerful form of expression that can help alleviate frustration, anger and confusion. It is a natural development of our need for human connection and can be a positive tool for life change.

But a fair warning from a loudmouth who has an old habit of getting himself into trouble: writing can be a dangerous and recordable form of communication. Write to be healthy, but always be aware of your content and all possible readers. If you insist on ruffling some feathers, at least broach your subject gingerly.

Dexter viewing party treats are to die for.

Someone called my column saccharin the other day – one of the more (ironically) bittersweet critical compliments I’ve received. It’s the aspect I love and hate most in my writing, and one I can’t seem to change.

It’s frustrating because I have so many dark and depressing thoughts in my head, but I can never seem to unburden myself through writing. My evil side just doesn’t survive the editing process anymore and I can’t figure out if that’s because I’m just that good or because I’m just that good at hiding the bad.

I know I won’t find any definite answers, but I can’t help obsessing over my moral identity. I blame this on American culture and our fascination with individualism, personality, self-reflection, self-expression, the study of psychology and self-diagnosis. It’s like I have Freud constantly knocking on my door asking if I’m really sugar-sweet or just some sexual deviant wearing a Joker mask telling readers to a put a smile on their face. I wish he’d go away.

As if that weren’t enough, I suffer from my generation’s fear of being ordinary. We each generically fear being generic; it’s an obnoxious paradox. Unfortunately, my recognition of this mindset doesn’t do much to help me avoid my more ridiculous aspirations of individualistic grandeur.

Sometimes it makes me wish I could just drop the sweetness. A detailed explanation of my latest gangbang or trashy drug night would make for a far more interesting read.

Being maniacally evil would be a more attention-grabbing path for me, I often think. After all, with just a small loss of conscience, I would make for an exceptionally compelling psychopath. I have many of the qualifications required for antisocial personality disorder and would revel in the rarity of the condition.

Unfortunately, effective crime is time consuming and my parents are disgustingly good people that have a way with parenting. So until I work out my inner angst, I’m stuck finding sweet relief in the little indulgences like Dexter and my many games.

Thankfully, in the world of fantasy, jumping between good and evil is as simple as playing a different character. The other day my game tester friends invited me over for some Mafia, a classic live-action role-playing game better known to those who have taken drama classes or attend geeky board game parties. I found the game to be a delectable feast for social and self-study.

The roles of killers, doctors, sheriffs and villagers are assigned randomly, and the game unfolds in a series of murderous rounds that pit friends against one another in a race to discover each other’s true identities. Lies, accusations, pleas of innocence and murder all play into the social experiment, and reveal the disturbing truth about how far people are willing to go to win. Perfect I thought, an opportunity to test my capacity for both good and bad.

During the first game, I was selected to be a regular villager and my goal was to identify the killers in the room. I didn’t know who was lying and who to trust. I looked around and tried to read my friends, but their warm smiles said nothing. All I could do was act as myself, overanalyzing every move and attempting to convince everyone of my own innocence.

But I was too loud and trying too hard, they said; I could not be trusted. So they lynched me and forced me to watch the game unfold from the grave, completely bound from sharing the truth – they had killed an innocent man.

I realized then and there how little I knew my friends and how little they knew me. We spend at least eight hours a day together at work, and yet I have little sense of who they are and how well each of them tells lies.

The game turned out to be far more complicated than I expected, and perfectly demonstrated the facts of real relationships and life. Masks and deceit come so easily to some and it takes a great deal of intimacy to understand people and their motivations.

Well if I can’t figure myself out, hopefully they can’t either. I smiled devilishly as I was selected to be a killer in a subsequent game. Moment of truth, I thought, can I let the devil out?

As it turns out, I’m a terrible liar. I was instantly suspected, accused of murder and cornered by the townspeople. An experienced player might have been able to talk his way out of my position, but I caved almost immediately. The whole time, I screamed in my head, “Why aren’t you lying to them?”

They killed me, of course, but I wasn’t upset. I had lost the game, but felt like I had won something else.

I can’t hide the bad, I realized. Even with a good reason to lie, all I could do was laugh and come clean. Sometime between accomplishing my goals and developing a sense of certainty about myself, I’ve become a compulsively honest man. Something about knowing who you are changes the way you interact with others. Your walls and defenses break down because you feel safe to share.

At least this means I can’t be saccharin. I might be a groan inducing boy next door, but I’m made of real f*cking sugar.

Matthew Michael Brown winning The Tester Season 2.

We don’t have much time on Earth to achieve personal fulfillment. Although we have little chance of accomplishing the idealized control and godliness, we do have opportunities to feel happy and satisfied in our daily lives. Each of us has wishes, plans and personal missions, and it’s up to each of us to try to accomplish our goals without letting the pressures of society stop us.

Not everyone has the means or skill to realize their greatest dreams, but satisfaction doesn’t just come from grand achievements, it comes from fulfilling personal potential and the little successes along the way.

When I was a kid, I dreamed of making fantastical characters, creatures and worlds come alive in any way, shape or form. I would recite movie lines and invent compelling situations for my action figures and dolls. My sister and I would dream of acting and winning Oscars together, and my mom would help me stage performances and plays with my peers at school. I was a dramatic and flamboyant little ham and my family always encouraged my creativity.

“When I grow up, I’m going to make movies and video games for Sony,” I told them.

But growing up changed me. As I got older, my childhood dreams felt more and more impossible. When my sister and I talked about moving to L.A. and starting a production company together, people only offered hesitant support. Over time, the dream just got further and further away.

I’ve since realized that our culture’s idea of maturity comes with a lot of insecurity and self-doubt. We humble ourselves with realism and tie ourselves down with self-imposed responsibility to others. We censor and shortchange our own goals because we are made to feel guilty for trying to succeed where so many people fail. Eventually we bury our hopes or dismiss them as fantasies of a naïve imagination.

But while some dreams are – for the purpose of staying grounded in observable reality – impossible, no dream should ever be ignored. If an 8-year-old wants to be a tiger when he grows up, his dream doesn’t have to be put down. Instead, it can be nurtured into a more realistic career choice like zoologist, wildlife researcher or tiger-trained magician.

Lack of real-world knowledge steers children into the realm of pure fantasy, but their central passions are always real and can be fostered into happy, fulfilling lives. The same holds true for adults, with the pursuit of passion being the key to a fulfilling life. Unfortunately, the socialization and maturation process we face as teenagers severs the connection between reality and imagination. This effectively limits our ability to recognize and dream of what makes us happy, and therefore our ability to be happy.

The scariest part is that most people can’t admit, let alone recognize, when they have steered off course. I, for example, will never know when or exactly how one of my childhood dreams of becoming an actor unconsciously morphed into a perverted obsession with admiration and fame.

Freshly graduated from college, new to San Diego, and going to gay bars for the first time, I got lost on my path to self-discovery. I took the first job that was offered to me in an industry I didn’t respect; I volunteered as an activist and fueled myself with anger and resentment toward institutionalized injustice; I compensated for unresolved insecurities with heavy doses of narcissism; and, worst of all, I remained wholly unhappy.

I accomplished wonderful things, but I lost touch with my true passions and motivations. It was not until I won the Nicky Award for Outstanding Community Activist that realization swept over me. Still in shock over the surprise win, I held the Oscar-like golden statue in my hands and cried until the blood vessels burst in my eyes.

I felt so grateful, humbled and blessed for the community’s support, but even more for the freedom it granted. Winning the award released me of my guilt and self-deception, allowing years of repressed dreams to wash over me as I reconnected with my imagination and childhood innocence. I was going to make something magical.

The very next day I had my final interview to be on the PlayStation reality show, The Tester Season 2. I remember telling my entire story to the driver on the way to the set. She wished me luck and smiled supportively. She understood the difficulty of pursuing dreams.

Not everyone can win an Oscar or do something remarkably grand, but small accomplishments, heartfelt effort and the pursuit of passion always bring genuine satisfaction. From that day forward, I would live the rest of my life doing and fighting for what I loved, no matter what disappointments I faced along the way.

We each have different dreams and paths in life, and must try to maintain focus and resilience through our efforts. I don’t know if my sister Veronica will ever win that Oscar we dreamed about as kids, but she did just network her way into the Screen Actor’s Guild and was cast as an extra on Showtime’s Dexter. In my eyes, she’s already holding the prize.

We can’t always be perfectly happy or achieve the impossible, but with the pursuit of passion comes the promise of satisfaction and fulfillment. And every once in a while, if you’re really lucky, dreams do come true.

D o you ever stop and ask yourself why you’re really doing something? Some people go their whole lives without ever questioning their base motives and operating procedures. Some are mindless slaves to their instincts and desires, while others predictably follow social constructs and arbitrary definitions of normalcy. Zombies and robots, I joke.

We all have a tendency to slip into routine, but many people are never even aware of their own patterns. I used to be one of them. Brainwashed into following steps and then made to forget why I was taking them, it was so easy to be consumed by the most trivial of stressors. Always pushing myself to get that perfect grade so that I could grow up to have that perfect life, I forgot what it was that I really wanted.

I’ve since learned to be free of that, but whether or not that’s a good thing is up for debate. I’ll admit I sometimes miss my more narrowly-focused life. It’s easier to feel satisfied and accomplished when you set achievable goals and aren’t constantly asking yourself, “But why?” Now I find myself struggling with daily headaches and an insatiable curiosity about humanity and the meaning of life.

I am still more than capable of handling the day-to-day, but I find myself over-analyzing even the smallest of actions. Getting a haircut, for example, is no longer just about being pretty, but rather a way of becoming more attractive by social standards and thereby gaining access to people, conversations and opportunities that might get me closer to what I’m really after.

But what is it that I’m really after? What is it that we are all after?

I’ve long figured out that pre-packaged American goals – like the white picket fence and two point five children – are just generic and temporary templates for happiness. They work for some, are unavailable to others, and provide only a short burst of satisfaction.

As with any attained dream, success inevitably breeds dissatisfaction and leaves us wanting more. After the white picket fence comes the need for a promotion, the perfect car or the best college for the kids. And while this example draws only from the most basic American stereotype, the principles apply to all our lives.

The truth is, despite our differences, we all want the same basic things. Psychologist Abraham Maslow laid out a nice little treasure map for us in his hierarchy of needs. Our focus shifts as we satisfy each need in turn: physiological, safety, love/belonging, self-esteem and self-actualization.

But this still leaves me wondering: Why? What motivates us? What innate drive do we all share that keeps us going?

I was looking into the sky and remembering the classic Biblical verse, “… and ye shall be as gods,” when it all came together for me. Aside from making a great tattoo for serial killers, the phrase has seriously deep implications. We are all trying to transcend humanity, I realized. At our very core, we all want to be as gods and become more than what we are.

Even without considering spirituality or using the term God, the base human motivation for all of life is to control that which is around us. As we reach past our actualization stage of life, we are literally seeking godliness, power, or whatever you want to call this transcendental control.

The tragic, albeit fascinating, catch is that we can never succeed (at least by recorded, observable means). The very act of trying is what makes us so fallibly human. A true god, deity or greater-than-human would not need to try. It would affect change and control without any effort whatsoever. This never-ending failure of a struggle, therefore, is what defines our existence.

We are left with two ways of living and two very different kinds of people on this Earth. Serial killer Sweeney Todd described them rather accurately during his musical epiphany: “There’s the one staying put in his proper place and [then] the one with his foot in the other one’s face.” There are those who humbly accept our human life and those who continuously try to be more by controlling the environment and people around them.

The war between those who accept our place and those who do not has raged through history. Churches stand today as symbols of this battle, half well-intentioned transcendental gateways and half corrupted by power-hungry humans. Similarly, science is a blend of those who accept and revere the world around us, and those who desperately need a godlike understanding of the equations that run it.

I make no judgments of either side, but suggest that morality and our traditional concepts of good and evil should be based on the way people attempt to transcend humanity. Evil is to use sins to achieve power and godlike control, and that ranges from ruling as a celebrity with pride to taking away life with wrath. On the other hand, good is to temper our innate desires through positive means such as love.

After all, what is love if not a sacred partnership between people who treat each other as gods? Good parents and their children are no different than two lovers in the way they mutually appreciate, respect and cherish one another. It’s the most powerful connection we know and it satisfies our urges to transcend while making the world a better place.

Humans are not inherently evil; they are just driven to greatness. In my life I have chosen to transcend by crafting entertainment, words and stories. I find that with amazing friends, parents and a superstar sister, that’s all I need. Through them I have learned that the purpose of my life is not to live as a god, but to love as one.

A few months ago, I met a handsome man at a bar. I recognized him as one of the better-known, more beautiful men of Hillcrest and decided to approach him. We talked for a while about his passion for music and his desire to break into the industry. We both shared big dreams, but aside from his obvious beauty not much was sparking for me.

Regardless, I was determined to broaden my social circles and break my preconceptions of his crowd, so I stuck around and introduced myself to his equally pretty friends. They were all very nice and we eventually moved on to Rich’s for a drink.

But as sweet as they all were, by the first dance I knew I didn’t fit in. “Slower, like this,” my romantic prospect whispered to me as nicely as he could while holding my hips to correct the timing of my movement. A bit embarrassed, it became clear to me that we were metaphorically and literally dancing to different beats.

We parted ways and I struck him and his entire friendship circle off my list of potential dating material.

Unfortunately this ruled out many of the more attractive men in Hillcrest, but recently I met a lawyer at one of my HRC monthly mixers that renewed my hope and interest in dating. He was charming and quipped about the evils of his business, even joking that he was responsible for the near extinction of my favorite animal, the polar bear. Being the classic Jane Eyre archetype that I am, I was naturally intrigued by this flirtatious friction and exchanged business cards with the gentleman.

I only met him for a few minutes, but I could tell that he was a quality catch. Whether or not he felt the same way about me would remain a mystery and I turned on my computer to do a routine background check (aka stalk him on Facebook) but was disappointed the moment I found his profile. Some of the first pictures visible were of him with my “dance instructor” and his crew.

“Seriously? Why do they all know each other?” I whined to my roommate. “It’s like some gay A-list secret society slash mafia conspiracy!” He gave me a sympathetic slash depressed look. We then spent the evening debating the characteristics of the “plastic” social class and sharing all the bitter angst we had accumulated since our days as losers in high school.

But as frustrated as I was about the situation and the seeming impossibility of striking unmined boy gold, I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why I felt upset. After all, what did I care if two beautiful men with presumably bright futures were friends or possibly more? Aside from the residual high school feelings of resentment, there was no legitimate reason for me to be so bothered.

My confusion continued until just recently when I received a message on Facebook from a private group inviting me to become a member. It was, quite literally, a secret gay society of powerful, beautiful and influential men. I was in disbelief.

“This stuff actually exists!” I exclaimed as I turned my laptop to show my equally surprised roommate. “It’s like those Harvard clubs you hear stories about!”

I suddenly felt measured against a standard I didn’t even know existed. While naturally humbled and grateful for the invitation, and certainly compelled by the group’s mission, I was unnerved by the implication that I had passed some unwritten criteria for membership. It was as if my personal worth was now defined by what I could do for, and how I could be more like, this in-crowd.

That’s when it hit me. I am not upset that good looking, successful, smart, talented gay men are all connected. It makes sense that these men attract each other. What does scare me, however, is the fact that there is no competing group that offers alternative definitions of success and value within our community.

There is no group of models competing with rich men competing with politicians. Instead, our LGBT community is relatively small, freshly removed from hetero-centric society, and has internalized a structure that creates only a single social status and standard that reigns above everyone else. This means that our little gay world often feels as simplified as an episode of Project Runway, and you’re either in or you’re out.

We have prominent subcultures, but their influence is generally limited to the LGBT community itself and this works to reinforce our unconscious worship of the gay A-list and its regulations. While this state of affairs is clearly a byproduct of our position within the larger population and not the fault of any one person or group, looking back at my night at Rich’s makes me feel partially responsible for its continuation.

After years of being an awkward wallflower at school dances, I allowed a small gesture by a beautiful man to undermine the pride I should have felt for just being myself and dancing. Maybe I wasn’t timed perfectly to his beat, but I was enjoying mine. I compromised my self-esteem and happiness by conforming to his standards.

I’ve since learned that caving to these pressures offers very little personal fulfillment. At the end of the day I don’t care which guys I’ve impressed, lists I’ve been on or shoulders I’ve rubbed, as long as I’ve been true to myself. Men and social statuses are in and out, but I am, and always will be, me.

Mom interpreting at hospitals in Guatemala.

We all have different methods and beliefs, but I would say that most of us try our best to be good people. It is a shame that we do not have an easy way to measure our success, but I believe that’s what keeps us trying.

When my mom ran into the room screaming, my heart practically stopped. I had driven up to Poway to visit my parents and to find a nice, quiet place to write my column. Instead, I found myself pulled from my computer and rushed into the living room where a tiny hummingbird was desperately beating its wings and crashing against a huge window 15 feet up.

My mother whimpered nervously and begged for my father and me to save the bird. After many attempts to catch the hummingbird with the net from my parents’ pool, the little bird dropped itself down onto the window’s ledge and lay still. My mother screamed, “It’s dead,” and ran out of the room in tears.

Seeing my mother so upset made me feel awful, but it also reminded me of why I loved her. She grew up in one of the poorest countries in the world, surrounded by suffering, and that left her with an ever-bleeding heart and generous nature. Between providing medical interpreter services for disadvantaged minorities and occasionally paying a bridge toll for some random car behind us on the road, she taught me the meaning of kindness and empathy.

She’s no Mother Theresa, but she is genuine and comes across as selfless in her actions. She’s what I’d consider to be a good person. And while the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree, I still don’t know whether or not I consider myself the same.

The other day, I stopped at a deli during my morning break at work and witnessed a fellow employee walk in and try to order himself breakfast. His card was declined and, embarrassed, he asked the cashier to run it once more. Sure enough, it was declined again. He handed back his already-boxed croissant, put his hood on, and walked out with his head down.

As I picked up my turkey-avocado, I did as my mother would have done and instinctively asked the cashier to add his food to my order. For only $1.50 more, my sandwich suddenly came with a generous helping of kindness.

I nervously delivered the breakfast to my coworker. The last thing I wanted was for him to feel like a charity case. I tapped him on the shoulder and handed him the box, “You wanted this right?” Realizing what I had done, he smiled gratefully and quickly responded, “Good lookin’ out, I’ll hit you back tomorrow.” I played it off appropriately and told him not to worry.

It was not until I walked away that I started to feel selfish and guilty. I realized that in addition to risking my coworker’s pride, I acted on my assumptions and motivations, and with zero knowledge of his true feelings. Everything had worked out in the end, but my satisfaction was stained by the guilt of a selfish mentality.

Trying to save a hummingbird at mom’s house.

For whom had I really bought the breakfast? I couldn’t help but wonder if my mother also grappled with these complexities of kindness.

Life would be so much easier if we only dealt with the simplistic morality presented in video games. The game I’m currently playing often asks me to make a choice between paragon (good) and renegade (evil) responses and actions. Like in real life, I do my best to be good. Unlike real life, the right answers are highlighted for me in blue.

Unfortunately, in reality there is no easy right and wrong. There is no morality meter and there are no set good and bad endings. I can generously pay bridge tolls for cars behind me and I can buy hungry people sandwiches all I want, but there’s no guarantee that death will spare me tomorrow.

My life is just as fragile as a hummingbird.

As I walked into the garage to fetch my father’s ladder, I wondered if the hummingbird had been “good” in his or her short life. “Is there a bird Heaven?” I wondered to myself. I wanted there to be one.

As I propped the ladder against the window and began my climb, I became determined to feel good about buying my coworker a croissant. Actions were what counted, I decided. If we condemned every good action by the motivation or selfish thought behind it, no one would ever do good things.

I thought about all the volunteers I knew, the politicians I had worked with, and all the work I had done. There are egoists and power-mongers, and sure some people only come to activist events to find a date, but everyone works together to make powerful change. Together we accomplish wonderful things and set aside personal differences to celebrate our victories. “Actions are what count,” I repeated to myself.

My mom looked at me with watery eyes as I reached out to scoop up the hummingbird with a smaller net. No matter the outcome, I had made my good mother proud by trying to save the little bird. Whether I did it for her, the bird, or for me, it did not matter.

Good actions are good actions, and they make us good people. No matter where or why you start, you never know how far the ripples of change will go.

And as I brushed its little wing, the hummingbird flew up and into my net. I smiled excitedly as my mother cried out with joy. She rushed to open the door as I carefully climbed down the ladder. And together, we did something good.