Monday, August 22, 2005



Last Friday night I had a random Gay.O.L. hookup with a 48-old in WeHo. While I was there, I stole Vicodins out of his medicine cabinet. (Not exactly one of the proudest moments in my life.) The guy told me he could smell my cologne before he opened his door. He also said that I was too pale and needed to get into shape. I had a small cut on my hand, and even though no bodily fluids were produced, let alone exchanged, my obsessive-compulsive disorder has convinced me that God is going to make me HIV-positive out of some divine retribution. (Primarily for the aforementioned theft.) Anyway, after the encounter I went home and played my computer game while smoking cigarettes. The fact that me and my cat are both asthmatic doesn't seem enough to stop me from smoking when I'm fucked up. (Which is, as you know, often.) Though I really don't want to die of an asthma attack (It's incredibly painful), I don't care much for myself. However, I feel enormous guilt about smoking in the apartment with my cats, even if I have a fan running to disperse the smoke. I was having fun with the computer game, but a combination of the drugs, the smoking and the 3D motion of the game started to make me feel really queasy. I ended up barfing all over a box of papers in my kitchen. I threw up several more times, but these I managed to aim into a (leaky) garbage bag. After that, my enthusiasm for playing on the computer waned, and I went to bed. I fell asleep fantasizing about having a threesome with two of the partners from my firm.

When I relay episodes such as these to others (including my psychiatrist), people often want to know what trauma anticipated such out-of-control behavior. I can never seem to get across the idea that I'm always one misfired synapse away from delving into an extreme mood and/or outlandish behavior. Keeping myself regulated to some kind of equilibrium is the constant, massive energy drain which I keep speaking about. However, something did go on Friday. I went upstairs to get food from a friend of mine who works in the building. I had previously noticed my friend's cute new co-worker, but this time I actually made an effort to speak to him. He was a lot more forthcoming than I would have expected your average uninterested, straight guy to be, so I got very exicted at the prospect he could have some interest in me. My friend couldn't muster much of an effort to share my enthusiasm. Of course, my friend has also never been single for more than about three months at a time during his entire adult life, so he doesn't realize how small of a spark it takes to ignite emotional fuel that has been accumulating over a decade. Eventually, my flare of passion burned itself out, leaving me empty inside, and I couldn't be bothered to delude myself any longer. I realize now that my life has developed in such a way to preclude attracting the kind of relationship I want. If I insist on being shallow about the looks of guys I find attractive, then I really shouldn't be such a flabby schlump. If I only want to be with a "nice," sane, stable kind of guy, then I really shouldn't be such a depraved basket case, either.

Back to the Blog

This is the first post I've made in over two months. I only received a tepid protest from my sister and friends about my lack of blogging. But then they've all been hearing this dreary shit over and over again for years, so I can't exactly see them lining up for more. I did receive a sweet e-mail from dear Echo, who I'm pretty sure is my only non-familiar reader, saying that she missed my posts. (Check out her blog for insight and a much wider emotional range!) I can never predict where my mood state is going to take me, so I have no clue when I'll be posting again. TTFN

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?