Oh, gosh. That was something. Maybe a signal form heavens? The whole scene was total madness. I think I remembered why I keep forgetting to go to the 'belt on Mondays. Or ever, for that matter. It bores me. I'm so over the whole thing -the drama, the drag queens, the fashionistas, the lurkers- that is not even funny. But I think I enjoyed seeing you and your friends. Didn't enjoy the feeling of being the log you were grasping to desperately in the chopped sea that was your mind, though. The whole thing about your friends backstabbing you was beyond absurd. Your worst fears confirmed. The self-fullfilled prophecy you've been talking about for weeks. But hopefully, you'll recover. The crush will be replaced and the friendship will be patched -that is, if it's worth it- and things will just keep rolling. It was so bad, though that you had to swallow your pride and go on with the gifts and the cards. That kind of made me a little mad. You spending time and money on things that were maybe not fully appreciated.
But in the end it was a good thing to go through: the driving to your work, the talking to you among the books, the talking for what seemed hours on the phone, listening to you rant and rave and the ugent, crazy dancing at the club. It was fun even to witness your urge to have to come to my house and type away your frustration. You play the adamant well
All that and you curling up on my favourite sofa and almost falling asleep. That was something. You looked and felt all of eighteen.
Even more when your hand accidentally brushed my crotch and you slowly took it away. It's not there anymore, babyboy. No need for precaution. Even my change of nationality by that cop had all the elements of a dramedy. Can you imagine? I get a hundred dollar fine and get a geography lesson from a small-town cop: Columbia is in Spain. Why? because I speak Spanish, therefore I AM Spanish. Wonderful. Thank goodness you were there. Otherwise I would have let my tongue get me a higher ticket. I don't swallow easily, babyboy, I usually spit.
But I think that basically those hundred dollars are the price of a session no therapist will ever be able to offer: I got a view of my own imbrogli-ed mind from a distance almost for the first time this month. And I am left connecting the dots.
I'm sure something will come out of it. Meanwhile, don't forget to listen to your Shakira CD. As I have told you, motivation is very powerful. I majored in English basically to be able to read the erotic stories I saw published on Honcho, my first gay magazine. You could use music as your ticket. Oh, and don't forget to keep swallowing. It makes that persuasive smoke go to your brain and things become sweetly muddled and less manifest. And that's maybe what you need. At least right now.
Cheers, baby boy.
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