Biscuit: Tasty Doesn't Get You A Date To The Prom

I recount here a few events from my day today.

The thought that I desperately crave human contact -- not the social kind; I get that in spades, solely given the fact that I have three roommates in a two-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment -- struck me hard today. Actual physical contact. A backrub. Curling up with someone on the couch. The fact that this is a problem in New York City, in which a single ride on the subway involves half-a-dozen people squeezing in the doors during rush hour and rubbing their hands across my ass in the process, I find even more striking.

Another subway story: Coming home from work today (paycheck tucked safely in my satchel, thank you very much), a man stalked up and down the platform, shouting incendiary comments. A selection: "Woman kills 300,000 men per year with low-cholesterol foods. She dips it in fat and fries it!" "Money is a tool to keep the poor man poor!" "Women should stay at home and leave working to the men -- we're better suited for the stresses of the outside world!" I think he only shouts these things to get into conversations with people, because all the times I've seen him, as soon as someone takes issue, he quiets down and converses. I hope I never have to resort to such measures to get attention.

Some friends have wanted me to meet this boy Phil (I use the phrase "boy" loosely, as he is 31 -- but for some reason, when you're gay you get to be called a boy until you are an octagenarian or something) for quite some time. I meet him tonight as we all get together to watch the premiere episode of "Survivor." It is a touch awkward at first, as Phil and I both know why I am there. We both loosen up, have a very nice time. We leave together, and I walk him to the subway (again the trains factor into my story). After we stand outside the subway for a time, I invite him to my neighborhood bar for a drink. We talk, we laugh, we have a great time. Finally, we leave, and stand outside for a moment, wrapping the conversation and building up to at least a goodbye hug. As we are concluding, a stranger walks up, intrudes on the conversation, tells us about how his mother just passed away, he is lonely, he has been out drinking. We both express sympathy, trying to gracefully extract ourselves from this. The stranger continues, and then out of nowhere confides in us that he really wants to "suck some cock tonight." We both point to the bar we just left, laugh and say "Good luck," hoping he will leave. He does not -- he, in fact, presses the issue, points at me, and says, "I'd like to be with *him,* he's hot!" I laugh, I look at Phil with a "How do we get out of this" look. He responds with a "How the hell should I know" look, and then the man continues, and says, "I mean look at him! He looks pretty...big, if you know what I mean," with a conspiratorial glance at my new friend. I demur, declare that is my cue to go home, and Phil and I are left with a ridiculous "So...umm...see you next week for the show, maybe?" and a salute to see each other off, in that camaraderie sort of saluting way. I walk home, the man follows me, and I have to explicitly tell him that I do not want him for company before he leaves. Once again, I hope I never EVER become that desperate for attention.

Had I ridden the subway more often today, I might have more stories for you. Wait until tomorrow. I am sure I will have more.

I was surprised today to realize just how many times I wounded myself last night. One finger on a knife in the drying rack, placed point-side up. Another finger while slicing a sweet onion as I rushed to catch up to the pasta. My thumb while cleaning the bathroom.

Three cuts are, arguably, not many -- unless one realizes they all came within an hour of each other. Why did my horoscope not warn me that last night I was particularly vulnerable to sharp things?

The interesting thing about pain is that it makes one completely aware of the body part that is injured. How often have I taken stock of the state of my fingertips? While I curled in bed, I could feel the blood pulsing against my band-aid. I imagined how I would feel if my entire being encompassed only that small patch of broken skin. If each separate part of me was its own entity, had its own eyes, its own thoughts. If I was just that fingertip, and I rocked back and forth against the pressure of the mending workmen, come to piece me together again.

Then I stretched my thoughts down, imagined myself as only a patch on my sole -- I saw the view of my toes reaching above, the hardness of my heel weighing me down behind. I could feel my flannel sheets against me, as if the sensation of rubbing against that fabric were the only feeling in the world.

I kept up my game, becoming my elbow, the back of my knee, the sweet spot inside my ear that luxuriates in Q-tips. As I finally fell asleep, I let my attention wander back to my pained, pulsing digit, and dreamt of my blood.

I am riding a fresh wave of insomnia. The apartment is blessedly quiet, save the sounds of beautifulgarbage thinly pouring from my computer's speakers, my fingers tapping the keys and clicking the mouse, and my own voice laughingly repeating pleasing phrases I find in these diaries. The relative silence is so rare, I let it echo in my ears so I can remember it later.

Speaking of echoes, here is a narcissistic one. I have just spent the better part of two hours reading her from the beginning. Despite warnings to the contrary, I cannot but admire her.

I have made two important decisions this night:

a) Trying to make myself fond of this friend-of-a-friend is an activity destined to fail. I do not think I can turn over a new leaf quite so easily -- I am perfectly content to be friends with him, and if I do not burn to make more of the situation, then I apparently do not have the necessary passion to make an actual relationship work. This decision is, of course, subject to change, pending a report from the go-between: If I discover he is utterly smitten, the flattery may overcome sense.

b) I need a new image. In high school I was strictly a tapered-cut-jeans and knit-polo-t-shirts boy, with bulky sweaters in the winter. Thankfully, I came to my senses early in my college career, and decided to cultivate some taste. At one point I declared it a life goal to own everything in the Claiborne line. Buttoned oxfords, khaki Dockers, solid colors from the Gap. Conservative, but with enough kick to satisfy my newborn inner drama queen. More recently, I migrated to dirty-wash, boot-cut denims, DKNY, Calvin, and shirts that are probably too tight, along with a healthy dose of my fashion sense's previous Claiborne incarnation. Perhaps this desire for a makeover is inspired solely by the aforementioned diary, and my enthusiasm for it will die as the sun rises, unable to stand the heat of action. On the other hand, perhaps I have seen signs of my upcoming transformation already: to wit, new trousers fronted with red plaid and backed with leather. I am a touch frightened by what sort of new look those might signify.

And now I must lay down my weary head. I took out my contacts earlier tonight to rest my eyes -- an activity unperformed for almost three months -- and, as I have apparently lost my glasses, I have just spent many hours squinting myopically at the computer screen, and any hope of "rest" for my eyes was sadly misplaced.

The pleasures of sleep are so often wasted on the sleeper. That is why I set my alarm for an hour before my intended wake-up time -- it goes off, I reset it, and then have an hour of muzzy half-sleep that I can truly enjoy. Refluffed pillows, comforter already warm. Creases in sheets pressing their mirror image into my body, so when I finally emerge I look wrinkled and newborn.

I have not yet partaken in any of the above. I have not yet been to sleep, and it is 10:33 am. Instead, I stayed up drinking Rolling Rock and smoking too much and trying to attach fragile nylon skin to the skeleton of an intricate kite.

Delaying gratification makes the final moment of fulfillment taste that much sweeter. When I collapse into my bed in about 25 seconds -- it will be sweeter than candy.

This insomnia thing is getting a little out-of-hand. I have seen the sun both set and rise for several days in a row. I am not even doing anything productive, like going out to milk a cow in the cold morning air. There is, in case you had not heard, a definite dearth of cows in Brooklyn.

Instead, I am spending my time reading snippets from other people's lives here on Diaryland. I have never found anything that enables my exhibitionism and voyeurism at the same time so effectively. And I am making macaroni and cheese. I have a feeling that the number of people in the world who make macaroni and cheese at 6:30 am is fairly low -- I positively revel in my unique gustatory habits.

I have come to the conclusion that my diary is far more somber than my real life. Not to say that it is particularly somber, really -- well, excepting the beginning and all -- but when compared to my face-to-face interactions with people, this diary has found a voice that is much more subdued than my usual. I think that I enjoy this; it gives me an outlet for my seriousness, so I can remain my bubbly, effervescent self in person.

In boy-related news, my friends have apparently approved this plan: Girl&GirlCouple, Boy&GirlCouple, and OtherBoy&GirlCouple use the facade of a game of Trivial Pursuit to secretly compete in the "Let's Make The Two Gay Boys We Want To Set Up Feel Pressure From Being Surrounded By So Many Couples!" game. There is nothing quite like being a seventh wheel.

I just spent a considerable amount of time trying to decide why my macaroni and cheese was an odd beige color, instead of the usual, wholesome, nuclear orange. Then I realized I had forgotten to add the cheese packet. Oy.

Possibly I have surreptitiously evolved into a being that does not require sleep. I will go ponder this while I eat my newly-cheesed macaroni.

Once again I prepare to greet the morning sun. It was exciting once -- when I pulled my first all-nighters writing papers for I.B. in high school. It has ceased to be interesting.

I have several more attacks upon my person to add to a rapidly growing catalogue. These aren't nice, neat cuts from things as prosaic as knives in the kitchen. These are raggedy, jagged gouges along my arms and hands from couch springs and splintered wood, garnered as my roommate and I disassembled our old sofa in preparation for the new one being delivered on Friday. I can't even express how excited I am at the prospect of sitting on a couch that does not let me fall through to the floor due to lack of any kind of beneath-the-cushion support.

Diaryland should be considered a serious addiction. I check in a dozen times a day to a) see if anyone has left me notes, b) see if anyone on my buddy list has updated, and c) see if anyone new has added me to their buddy list. I have a rather serious time investment in the lives of you people that I read about -- I want to know how your classes (or lack thereof) have been going, how your trips to the opera (both as spectator and participant) were, how your jobs are. It is like a new little documentary produced just for me, every day.

My upcoming schedule promises to be interesting. Tomorrow will bring a trip to the Met. I cannot visit that museum without sitting in the Temple of Dendur room for at least 20 minutes, oohing and aahing over the latest exhibit in the Costume department, and imagining how I will start my future career as an emerald smuggler by stealing several of the swords in the Arms and Armor wing. (Side note regarding smuggling: While diamonds may be more lucrative, anyone can be a diamond smuggler. It takes style to smuggle emeralds.)

Afterwards, an evening with the set-up boy and friends.

Friday is Roommate Culture Day, activities to be determined, but possibly including the Empire State Building and the New York Transit Museum.

Saturday is Protest Day, first alongside the FDNY in Brooklyn, and then a new venue -- Fred is expanding his itinerary to cover the New York Underground Film Festival in the East Village. The latter has far greater potential to turn ugly than the former. Then a birthday dinner and a friend's band (assuming I have not been pepper-sprayed and dragged away in chains.)

This is a vast improvement over the past few days of utter inactivity. And it also depends on the timeliness of the U.S. Postal Service -- I am waiting for an envelope from my mother containing $100, which will finance all of the above. I am desperately tired of fiscal insolvency. My roommates and I just bought a passel of Lotto tickets (non-winning, of course.) Being broke is much more disheartening after one has held a vision of clutching one's share of forty-five million dollars on a tropical beach -- and having that vision dashed on the rocky shore of reality.

Snippets of conversation in recent days, wherein I am represented as bold and everyone else is not.

So wish me luck at the protest this weekend, mom.
Luck? Why do you need luck? You aren't putting yourself in harm's way or anything, are you?
No, I just mean--
This isn't dangerous, is it?
No, it's not dangerous, I just said wish me luck because--
Because if you think it's dangerous, you really shouldn't go and give him the satisfaction of getting you into trouble.
It was just a figure of speech.
Oh. Okay then. Good luck.

I've decided I need more slang. I want to start using "pants."
Pants?
Yeah. Slangily. Like saying, "That movie was so pants."
Does that mean it's good or bad?
That means it's way lame. It's pants.

Do you just want to get cheese sticks?
I think we should get a Mambo Combo.
Ohmygod, I'm *so* excited that you still call it that too! I'm so mad they changed the name to something lame.
Yeah, Triple Play is pants.
Except could we get something besides the wings part of it?
Total! Swap 'em for cheese sticks.

God damn motherfucking piece of shit!
Please, do not talk to my computer that way.
It's not human, you know. I'm not going to hurt its feelings. You know that you're just transferring human emotion to an inanimate object.
Yes, I am well aware of the concept of anthropomorphism. I do not see anything wrong with treating my cubic wonder like my first born child. And I ask again for you to stop talking to it that way. Or else you don't get to use it.
That's absurd. That might be the most absurd thing I've ever heard.
I invite you to set up your own computer and talk to it any way you like.
Fine. I'll be nice.
Thank you.

No, you can't be tired! Come play in the city with me!
Owww...I don't wanna get up.
Pleeeeaase?
(sigh) I finally get tired and I'm supposed to go into the city. I guess I have some kind of duty to be young or something. I'll be right there.

She should be here soon. I think she sounded pretty wasted.
So that means that tonight is either going to be a tremendous amount of fun, or an unmitigated disaster.
But either way, it won't be dull, will it?

I love this song!
Me too!
(sung) Leeeeavin' on a jetplane
(sung) Don't know when I'll be back again
(sung) Oh babe, I hate to go
Hi, boys. You picked a good time to leave the apartment.
Yeah? What else happened?
She left. Gone. Heading to California to stay with her friend Becky. Do they really have to be playing *this* song right now?

Secretly, I don't really know how I feel about the protests today. Part of me wishes that a million people came and and had wild gay-people-sex all over. Part of me wishes that nobody came to counter-protest at all and let them shout hatred into a complete void.

Secretly, I wonder if the first part of me only feels that way because I wish I were one of the people having sex.

Secretly, I think that some of the people in the opposite camp, some of the people contained within the other police barricades, looked like nice people. Except when they were calling random passersby "perverts" and informing them of their impending trip to hell. Then they looked pretty ugly.

Secretly, I wonder why one of them was wearing a South Park t-shirt. I wonder why members of this church have not been forbidden to watch a show that sometimes features Big Gay Al.

Secretly, I think that walking in on my roommate and his girlfriend having sex would have been tremendously entertaining. Unless it was on my brand new couch, in which case it may have been grounds for immediate eviction.

Secretly, I did not want to go to a birthday party tonight. I should have been more excited about it, but instead I wanted to curl up by myself somewhere.

Secretly, I am sad that one of my birthday friends never talks just to me when we go out. I am secretly sad that when I get a chance to talk to her on the phone, she seems distant, and then talks with one of my roommates for three times as long as with me, complete with a lot more laughter. Secretly, I think that is incredibly petty and stupid of me.

Secretly, I think I am foolish for going to the Boy's birthday yesterday. Why do I insist on following this latter-day Romeo around and watching him flirt with people who are not me? Secretly, I still construct scenarios in my head wherein he stops being a moron.

Last night I had one of the best dreams I have ever had. I have never been so disappointed to realize the details were vanishing from my mind, even as I fought to repeat them out loud so I would be sure to retain the memory. All I can recall now is that it was partially me possessing special dimension-travelling powers, fighting to save the universe, and partially a movie featuring Donald Sutherland as the bad guy, trying to stop the universe from being saved by a dimension traveller. I slid back and forth between the two viewpoints -- observer and participant. While I observed, I remember commenting on how well the movie was paced and how witty the dialogue. I never knew my subconscious was quite so narcissistic and self-congratulatory.

It is once again 5 am and I am once again the only member of the household awake. The previous statement is only true if I don't count Nellie, my cat, and possibly Philadelphia, the rat -- so perhaps I should say I am the only human member of my household awake. It certainly is not as if I would be missing anything important, entertaining, or interesting if I went to sleep - I think I just lack the energy and motivation to walk all the way across the room to my bed. This would not be such a problem if the sleeping space on the couch had not been pre-empted by a roommate. I am so fascinated by the fact that I was able to buy a brand new couch that even ennui can not stop me from getting up from anywhere in the apartment to sleep on it.

(Side note: If in the future I refer to my Klaus (pronounced 'clowss' and not 'claws', determined by my decree), please know that I refer to the aforementioned couch. It is so tremendously massive that the simple noun, "couch," seems inadequate. I noticed on the delivery form that the model name is Klaus -- and the image of lounging upon a large, handsome Germanic fellow was far too tempting to pass up.)

Artist renditions can convey a much more exciting view than reality.

I just went to my roof to see the towers of light streaming from what I refuse to call Ground Zero. They seem an incredibly anemic substitute for the landmark I used to see. It looked as if they were slanted towards me as well, rather than shooting straight up in the air. A roommate tried to explain it away by first mentioning the curvature of the earth. I explained that if that were an issue, if would look like it was slanting away from us. So now he sticks to "low-lying fog refracting the beam."

In pictures, it looked like a good idea. Now, it is just too much shades of Bat-Signal for me to truly appreciate.

The fact that six months ago, people stood and walked and worked high in the air, along the course of that beam, leaves me cold.

I've been having the same conversation with each of the four people I talk to on a regular basis today.

Them: This is my problem. It is a problem to me. Listen to me talk about my problem.

Me: Don't worry. Have faith. It'll be fine.

Of the four problems I have discussed, the one of immediate concern to me involves my mom and sister and niece -- and the ex-husband/ex-brother-in-law who is honestly the only person in the world I've ever wished would just get hit by a very large bus.

When one has spent the past four years trying to protect a child from anything and anyone who could hurt her; when one tries to provide a safe, familiar, comfortable environment, a routine a child can depend on -- the introduction of a lawsuit into the proceedings is awfully hard to swallow. It seems that the ex-husband has decided that two days a week visitation is not enough. Now he wants 6 weeks in the summer, a sleepover every weekend, a full week surrounding alternate birthdays, Christmases, and Thanksgivings, and three days surrounding every other major holiday, up to and including Martin Luther King Day and President's Day. To add insult to injury, he also wants my sister to pay his legal fees, for forcing him to this state of affairs.

Let me state at this point that the ex-husband does not have a safe, familiar, comfortable environment for a four-year-old. He has a two-bedroom apartment he shares with two other 30-year-old men, and the woman he cheated on my sister with. It would turn my niece's world upside-down to be subjected to this, at a point in her life when she could not bear to be separated from her mother for a sleepover at my mother's house (which she visits every day) when my sister took a one-night honeymoon with her new husband. The ex is simply an alpha-male motherfucker who cannot bear the fact that my sister has control over something (my niece's welfare) that he does not, if I might be allowed to editorialize. Which of course I can, as this is my diary.

Both mom and sister have called me for support in the past few days. I am usually a nigh-bottomless source for cockeyed optimism, so it falls to me to tell them, "Don't worry. Have faith. It'll be fine." Having to trot this out so often, in the midst of another protracted stretch of literal pennilessness, is wearing my smile a little thin. I write this as I listen to Sarah's "Surfacing" album -- something reserved for nights of low spirits when I want to wallow. The only flaw I can find in my reassurances is that when I tell them to myself, in regards to my own personal problems, I cannot hide the hollowness underlying the words.

I do not have time for much at the moment -- I am still within the first hour of my new job. Ahh, the life of a freelancer, forever hopping between the various offices of the rich and powerful.

I do have time for this: The Coffee Is Good. Let the light pour down from heaven, let the angels rejoice! The coffee is GOOD!

Things My New Web Programming Job Has That Old Web Programming Jobs Have Lacked:

1) good coffee
2) nice people
3) pretty office
4) immediate access to passwords and magnetic ID cards
5) internet access (I reiterate these are web programming jobs.)

Phobias:

1) Hardcore seplophobia
2) Ophidiophobia
3) Coulrophobia
4) Anuptaphobia
5) Eurotophobia

Phobias I Find Amusing:

1) Arachibutyrophobia
2) Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia
3) Walloonphobia
4) Ithyphallophobia
5) Bolshephobia

Philes:

1) Anglophile
2) Bibliophile
3) Ailurophile
4) Aviophile
5) Pluviophile

Exotic Places I Want To Visit:

1) Rangoon
2) Outer space
3) Brazil
4) Isle of Naboombu
5) New Zealand

Names I Like:

1) Sebastian
2) Chad
3) Jake
4) James
5) Matt

Names I Like Because I've Known Extremely Attractive People Who Had Them:

1) Sebastian
2) Chad
3) Jake
4) James
5) Matt

Historical Figures I Would Like To Meet (and who all happen to be British):

1) King Arthur
2) Queen Elizabeth I
3) Alan Turing
4) William Shakespeare
5) J.R.R. Tolkien

Living Figures I Would Like To Meet:

1) Julie Andrews
2) Judi Dench
3) Cate Blanchett
4) Elijah Wood
5) Parker Posey

Possessions I Will Defend To The Death:

1) Macintosh G4 Cube
2) Klaus
3) Family coat of arms
4) My teddy bear, Blue Bear
5) Original promotional poster for The Neverending Story, printed in German (Die Unendliche Geschichte)

Activities I Consider A Waste Of Time:

1) Layovers of more than an hour
2) Scheduling a date more than a day in advance
3) Waiting more than five minutes for a subway
4) Making my bed
5) Peeing

WARNING: The following entry contains the second mention in as many days regarding the topic of peeing. Proceed at your own risk.

I would like to walk you through, if I may, the procedure I must follow if I would like to use the "facilities" in my new workplace. (I use the word "facilities" because it sounds much tidier than "pee room.")

Step 1: Walk to the other side of the building.
Step 2: Use my magnetic ID card to open the door that allows me access to the elevator lobby.
Step 3: Use my magnetic ID card to open the door disguised as simply another section of wood paneling in the aforementioned elevator lobby.
Step 4: Walk down another long hallway.
Step 5: Punch in an access code on a keypad attached to the doorknob to get into the men's room proper.
Step 6: Unlatch another swinging door that separates sinks from toilets.
Step 7: Pee.

I have never seen another place that guards its toilets so jealously. I mean, honestly. What is so sacred and special about these particular bathrooms that makes them so difficult to get into? I feel it would be easier to steal into Fort Knox, eat an ingot of gold, and pee it back out again into a Fort Knox toilet than to use the nearby option. This, among other reasons, is why I consider peeing to be a waste of time.

I am listening to "jeremiah's cleanliness mix yo." So many people use my computer to make mix CDs, I have 43 playlists in iTunes, only two of which are mine. I just altered Jeremiah's mix to include the Andrews Sisters version of In The Mood rather than Glenn Miller's. It pleases me that I have that option.

When I first moved to New York, I had a long-term freelance job through one of my placement agencies. Other shorter-term webfolk rotated through my workplace, and at one point, in came a boy who I shall call Ass. That being said, I will now share a conversation from earlier in my day.

Employer At Cool New Job That I Really Enjoy: So someone else from your agency is joining our team tomorrow.

Me: Oh really? Who is it? I might know them.

EACNJTIRE: Umm, I think his name is...

Me: Ass? Is it Ass?

EACNJTIRE: Why, yes! It IS Ass! How did you know?

Me: . . .

I prefer to think that I am developing an acute Spidey-Sense, and it warned me of imminent danger before I was surprised by it tomorrow morning.

On the plus side, the antimatter me and I have decided to be best friends. Cheers, antimatter me!

I feel vaguely guilty about a recent entry. I listed lots of words, some of them very large, and then I left the few people who read my diary to fend for themselves, to go look the answers up, to try to decipher what all those letters conspired to mean.

Should I have included a little lexicon, so one might be able to tell at a glance which word indicates a fear of decay and which a fear of erections? If used improperly, a grand miscommunication could result, with myself bearing a part of the blame.

Or should I pride myself on forcing the nation (one very tiny slivery wonderful subsection of it) to do some homework and think for itself?

During the course of writing this entry, I suddenly realized that the people who read my diary are probably the sort of people who look up large words like that for fun. Self-inflicted guilt trip averted.

(Side note: I enjoy being self-referential. I shall, however, make an effort to limit my use of this technique, lest its glamour fade.)

I just stood in line for almost half an hour to get a sandwich. Cosi Sandwiches was having a 2-for-1 sale today. Ass and I got sandwiches together. He forgot his money in the office -- so it's damned lucky I happened to find that extra dollar bill in my shirt pocket this morning.

Why was there a dollar in my shirt pocket? I never, ever put things in my shirt pocket. Every time I do, I invariably bend over to pick something up off the floor, and whatever was in my pocket clatters out and then I have to pick that up too. Another question for the ages.

A paycheck arrives today. From the last job. I have to walk over there to pick it up. Now the dilemma: I know that almost all of it will be spent upon bills, so that I may once again enjoy the luxury of placing and receiving phone calls from the comfort of my home -- perhaps even from the comfort of Klaus. Should I spend the rest on a night on the town tonight? Dancing, drinking, 80s music, all that jazz? Or should I be responsible and sock it all away, so that I will never again be 15 cents short for a subway ride?

I think the answer to that one is patently obvious. What would be the point, honestly, in being safe but dull? My life is a series of rotating extremes, and I think I enjoy it that way. Even when I am enjoying an extended visit to the doldrums and have not a penny to my name, it is much more interesting than if I have just enough in my pocket for a modest bite to eat. Live large, that is my motto. And this way, when I finally get a steady job that allows me to refill my Scrooge McDuck Money Bin that I emptied a year ago, I will not be shocked at the idea of dropping $100 in a night.

Here is another Answer to a hidden Question: You go to parties with it. New York is where it's at. They even have Gaps here. I should know. I have bought things from them.

I am sitting in my other, earlier office. I came for one reason, and one reason only -- to get my paycheck. Apparently the Paycheck Fairy has locked my paycheck in her paycheck-holding-cabinet and taken the paycheck-holding-cabinet key. I sit, bereft of paychecks. I sit until she calls so I can ask if I can wander into Queens to pick up the key and wander back and get my check. I even called to let everyone know that I would be arriving at 6 to pick it up.

Color me insanely frustrated. The capricious nature of the Paycheck Fairy, who seems to take an inordinate amount of pleasure in tormenting the freelancers in this particular office, left early and has stymied my efforts to be paid once again.

Were my life a movie, this would be the point in which the brave protagonist, having suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and borne up with remarkable grace and aplomb, would fall down and begin to weep.

My apologies for my weekend silence. The worst has happened: my internet connection has been disabled, due to a distinct lack of payment on my end for services rendered on their end. "But shouldn't your latest paycheck come in handy to solve this problem?" you may ask? Herein lies the saga of my paycheck:

When last we left our hero, he was sitting in his old office, staring at a filing cabinet. The Evil Paycheck Fairy had left early, keys to filing cabinet in hand. Multiple phone calls to her finally uncover the fact that she had gone to dinner and left her keys at home.

Then our hero gets inventive. He searches google.com, using "lock picking" as keywords. Finds a tutorial, complete with diagrams. Fifteen minutes later, bent paperclips in sweaty hands, he triumphantly opens the filing cabinet drawer, and removes his paycheck! (Good god, I felt so hardcore) "Now we need to relock that," says the hero's boss. Thinking he can pick the lock shut, he roots about on top of the desk for another paperclip. This is where our hero is visited by the Goddess of Irony: accidentally knocked over, the paperclip dispenser reveals a spare key, taped to the bottom.

Adventure behind him, our hero goes home. Cashes his check. Pays a whole passel of bills (not including the DSL bill). Loans his roommate money for a new camera. Buys a new 30-day-unlimited Metrocard, to facilitate his travels about the City. Goes shopping and spends $100 on items he has been desperately needing, namely, a new book, some hair wax, a hair cut, some hair bleach, and other assorted beautification products related to shaving his scruffy whiskers off.

With slightly less than 1/10 of his original paycheck left, our hero tries to return home. Pocket full of old, used-up Metrocards, he decides to thin the herd, as it were. Swipes them each in turn and discards the ones that read "Available Balance $0.00." However, it has been so long since he has been able to afford an unlimited Metrocard, he forgets that unlimited cards always read Available Balance $0.00, and have an expiration date appended to the digital readout. Before he can stop himself, he drops his brand new month pass into the discard box.

An hour and a half and several frantic conversations with the booth attendant later, a cleaner shows up with key in hand, to open the second lock in two days that has occupied a large amount of our hero's attention. Mercifully, this discard box is old-school, without the automatic de-magnetization protections of newer models. Counting his lucky stars, the hero returns home once more.

There is more to the Weekend Saga, but it shall wait for a later entry -- as I am at work and must appear more productive than I do at the moment.

Side note 1: There is a note, scrawled upon a single tile in my office bathroom. "If U can read this, U R an idiot." The logic of this statement escapes me.

Side note 2: 10 minutes ago my left forearm started aching and the associated left-side fingers went numb. I assume that this signifies the onset of carpal tunnel syndrome. I am displeased.

First things first: This Chicago-alter-ego thing gets stranger by the day. Now we even have the same hair-bleaching schedule. Plus we both took German in high school. The list of similarities grows ever longer.

Now then. Our hero had just returned home on Saturday night, after yet another battle against a nefarious locking device. A friend-birthday celebration immediately follows. Another attendee: Tallboy. Hero and Tallboy have a slightly convoluted history -- after a series of several dates in late 2001, Tallboy divulges that he's recently tested positive for HIV. Hero decides that he doesn't want to date someone in that situation; the decision leaves him feeling vaguely like a monumental asshole. However, every time Hero and Tallboy see each other, they end up making out in a corner somewhere, and Hero goes home feeling worse and worse about the situation.

True to form, this weekend poses no exception to the standard Hero-Tallboy interaction. Much kissing occurs, which is then regretted by Hero immediately afterward. He does not want to lead Tallboy on, but he finds it very difficult to break off affection, as neither party has done anything to make the other angry, and therefore the standard post-breakup emotions are difficult to summon.

Our hero then spends all of Sunday curled up on the Klaus watching movies and ignoring the world at large. (This is incredibly easy when one has no cable TV, no telephone, and no internet access.)

And thus ends the Weekend Saga. Sigh.

Last night all I wanted to do was write in my diary. I am so used to its therapeutic properties, I hardly knew what to do with myself when my efforts at self-expression were stymied simply by lack of internet access. And when my lack of internet access occured simply due to lack of funds. And my lack of funds occurred simply because I loaned the money to a roommate to buy a camera she no longer even needs.

Frustration.

When I got home from work, all I wanted to do was curl up by myself somewhere and read my book. Union-worker-roommate was there already, and he badgered me until I agreed to go out with him. "If Art-Student-Roommate called, you'd go out with her. You're one of my best friends ever and you never want to do anything with me." Because more guilt is what I need right now.

Frustration.

We go to a local bar. I spend the entire visit alternately sighing over the looks of the preppy boys playing pool, or sighing over the comments of the homophobes sitting next to me. All I wanted was someone to pull close to me and kiss right in front of all of them, if for no other reason than to make them shut up about how Mike Piazza is a fag, and how nobody trusts him in the locker room.

Frustration.

Afterwards, I go alone to my local gay bar. I was there much earlier than usual, arriving at 10 pm last night instead of my customary 2 am. A whole different crowd was there, but as I am completely incompetent when it comes to starting up conversations with people I think are attractive, I left after one drink, having only spoken to the bartender.

Frustration.

I get home and flop on my bed, where Art Student already reclines. We have a conversation in which she reiterates Union Worker's comments that I should date Tallboy, because I would just "get used to" the whole HIV thing after a while. The problem is that it is not a problem I want to get used to; it is not a problem it is safe to get used to. It is not a situation I am comfortable dealing with, and I am tired of people telling me that they "understand" why I would be uncomfortable. Their tones suggest that while they understand, they think I am being unreasonable, and I am tired of dealing with that kind of censure.

Frustration.

Then she makes the observation that I need to do something "totally self-serving" to make me feel better. Something completely selfish. The most selfish thing I have done in recent memory is bought myself hair wax that I do not let anyone else use. I thought about what she said, and it occurred to me that she is probably right. I spend my entire day doing favors for people. Do you have something inconvenient you need done? Ask me! Want someone to pick up your laundry? Ask me! Want someone to pay all of the bills? Ask me! Want someone try to sleep while you play music on their computer? Ask me! Want someone to put their plans on hold for you? Ask me! I am deathly tired of being that guy, but if I ever stop being that guy, I would have to invent an entirely new persona, and I do not have the time or energy.

Frustration.

Not, mind you, that nobody ever does favors for me. I have been broke many a time and relied on friends to lend me money until my pay day. And not that I do not on occasion enjoy being that guy -- I like that people think I am nice. I am just venting at the moment, waiting for a more agreeable frame of mind to present itself to me. In the meanwhile, as I sat on my bed, thinking that I wanted nothing more than to keep laying there unmoving, Art Student asked me to get up and get her pet rat because she was too tired. Of course, I did it.

Frustration.

Listening to Bittersweet Symphony on continuous repeat has done much to soothe my mood. Please take my earlier snarkiness with a grain of salt.

Good lord, I cannot believe I feel the need to apologize to my own diary.

God

I

Love

The

Village

Voice

Horoscopes.

LEO (July 23-Aug. 22):

"In my opinion there are only two stories in the whole world," says novelist William Vollman. "One is: a person is born, grows up, gets old and dies. The other is: two people meet each other and they love or hate each other and something happens." His theory has an appealing simplicity except for the fact that it doesn't account for the truly uncategorizable epic you are living through. I don't mean to give you an exaggerated sense of self-importance, Leo, but right about now it would make perfect sense to title your melodrama "The Greatest Story Never Told." Please refrain from comparing your adventure to anything ever experienced in the history of the world.

I have finally finished transporting all of the content from the old-style design to the new-style design for this website I have been hired to update. As I have no better way to celebrate this sort of milestone, I am taking a moment out of my busy day to write in my diary. Not that I realy need an excuse.

Once again, I am listening to Bittersweet Symphony. It is the final track on the Cruel Intentions soundtrack, and I cannot stop listening to it. Over and over and over. That, and "Colorblind," same CD. When she comes up the escalator and finds Sebastian Valmont waiting for her, I have two simultaneous and equally-powerful thoughts: 1) I want someone to look at me the same way he is looking at her; and 2) I want to own the shirt he is wearing. Apparently, movies like Cruel Intentions have a tendency to highlight certain...gayer aspects...of my personality.

*****

We interrupt this diary entry to bring you Breaking News: Fulminous has once again been fucked over by the malevolent beings who watch over the Calculation and Dissemination of Paychecks.

Yes, it has happened again. I just discovered, mere moments ago, as I was typing this, that the paycheck I was to receive this Friday has been delayed by two weeks. My new job is through a placement agency I worked with when I first got to the city. They still, apparently, have my old Direct Deposit information on record, and just tried to Deposit my paycheck Directly into an Account that has been Closed. Three days for my old bank to bounce the money back. A week for my employer to issue a paper check. Three days for it to get here from Boston. Two more weeks in which I have no internet access at home. Two weeks in which I have no money to buy food. Two weeks in which I go insane.

Thank you, this has been Breaking News.

*****

I am going to go back to work now. I shall try to focus on the screen through my tears of anger and frustration. And it started out as such a good day, too.

I let myself be lulled into a false sense of security.

Over the past week, I have been taking lunches and smoke breaks with Ass, and thinking to myself, "He's not really such a bad guy. Why did I dislike him so?"

"Oh yeah," I say today.

It is because when he communicates his thoughts as to why certain aspects of a website should be a certain way, he has a tendency to do so in the most condescending way possible. And he is condescending in a completely unaware fashion, too -- he apparently does not even realize that I do not need lectures in user accessibility. I have researched and written 20-page documents on accessibility issues. Nor do I have to be told that the site needs to be designed in a graphically consistent fashion -- I was the one who redesigned it specifically to be consistent.

He would not know decent web design if it bit him in the face, and I no longer feel the slightest guilty twinge for calling him Ass.

My Village Voice horoscopes (this one is brand new today!) must get tiresome to those not of the Leonine persuasion.

"LEO (July 23-Aug. 22):
I think you should be removed from civilized society for a while. You've gotten too tame; you've been hypnotized by the conventional wisdom. If I had my way, you'd be temporarily relocated to your very own wild kingdom. Picture a thousand acres of natural beauty where you'd be excused from all the artificial rhythms and soul-sucking customs you have become far too accustomed to. Imagine what it might be like to let the animal within you run around and play. I'm reminded of a phrase by Jungian storyteller Clarissa Pinkola Estes: "homesick for wild knowing." That's what you are, Leo."

I continue to post them because they continue to resonate. I am tired of convention and of repetition. I have not done anything out of the ordinary for ages. I have not flown to London to buy shoes. I have not painted any rooms in bright colors. I have not been in any plays or to any plays or gone anywhere new or met anyone new. My day is composed of waking up, going to work, coming home, and either being hungry, watching a movie and going to sleep, or eating macaroni and getting a drink at a bar in which I fail to strike up a conversation with anyone I want to get to know. Even my new job is just doing the same thing I do at every job. The only subway I ride is the F, and it only takes me to and from work. The only things happening to me are inconvenient, frustrating, annoying things like having all of my amenities turned off and having the money I need to turn them on taken away. Hardly what adventure and life-affirmation are made of.

This routine is stultifying; I want my thousand acres wherein I can throw off my usual activities and get down to something seriously worth telling stories about.

It is 10 am, it is a new day, it is not raining, it is a good day to be listening to Bittersweet Symphony. I do not know the point where this passed from "enjoyment" to "obsession," but I am prepared to ride it out.

"LEO: Thursday, March 21

A mild case of itchy feet and/or restlessness is a good thing. You are being invited to step out of your well-appointed rut, a.k.a. ordained routine, and range as far afield as you dare. And, knowing the courage quotient of the king of the beasts, this is bound to be pretty distant."

The second in as many days and as many sources to make mention of the fact that I need to shake things up. Cause a ruckus. Do something out-of-the-ordinary. Coincidence, perhaps -- but I shall take the apparent advice of the cosmos. Scheduled for tonight: a shindig in Long Island. While the prospect of Long Island is a little off-putting, the idea of a lesbian party is tempting. I have been to neither in a very long time, and can think of no better way to break routine.

That last statement is not quite true. One better way in which I would like to break out of my rut springs immediately to mind -- to be blunt, my hormones are reaching critical mass. If I do not find someone to have some sex with soon, I may combust or explode or suffer some equally unpleasant consequence. It has gotten to the point where guys I would not have looked twice at a few months ago have suddenly developed all the allure of Ryan Phillipe (and that is high praise indeed). I am concerned that I might act on these lowered expectations and do something (or someone) I regret. Gigolo Joe, where are you when I need you?

Perhaps one of the lesbians will bring a cute boy with her for me to enjoy. Cross your fingers for me.

(Side note: I do not think that Port Anal is an acceptable abbreviation of Portfolio Analysis. Nor is AssMan for Asset Management.)

My sister. Has e-mail.

Be scared.

"ok- so u r psycho. Please tell me that there is not some universal plot to keep you hungry and poor. O the misery. Hopefully u have e mail at home now so you will need not wait til work to see that yes in fact your sister is indeed part of the tech age( allbeit a miniscule fraction with infintesimle(sp) bits. Small enuf for you
? [Niece] says that you love her(yes, thats how she said it) andshe loves you. She would like to add that you also love odie boodie. Nice huh?bybyky says [niece]. n-e-way
we love you and must admit we will not be thinking "dry" thoughts due to the universal inference that we mean "dry times" not dry skies. You can never be too careful. XOXO mand m Ps [Niece] says byby snackie
whatever!!!!!!"

I am so at a loss for how to respond to an e-mail like this, the only way I could think to deal with it was to post it up here.

Have I mentioned that my sister is 29 years old yet? And that she neither speaks nor writes this way? Apparently sitting in front of a computer makes her revert to "Secret Note To My Best Friend In 6th Grade" mode. I am amused.

Today: both one of the sunniest and one of the coldest days I have seen yet this year. The seasons appear to be stuck in a zone of transition: spring and winter, vying for supremacy. Sadly, winter seems to have the upper hand at the moment.

Last night: proof that Coincidence is much more than a fleeting visitor in my life. Picture it: roommate's-friend's-friend = different-friend's-exboyfriend's-bestfriend = cute-boy-I-met-dancing-months-ago = cute-boy-I-chatted-with-for-an-hour-before-we-realized-we-had-already-met. Yes, the equals sign denotes that each of those descriptors apply to the same person.

He is also, apparently, a scribe on Diaryland. My first instinct is to fear for my anonymity -- I hardly feel comfortable talking about my reaction to (re)meeting someone whose company I so thoroughly enjoyed, when he may well be reading about it. We do prize our secrets so, after all.

I shall attempt to overcome instincts.

In any case, a trip to Long Island seems to be just what my psyche needed; I feel more well-rested and content today than I have in weeks, which is all the more remarkable considering I only had two hours of sleep last night. It felt very much like a trip back in time to high school days -- a party held because parents were out of town, a fridge full of Coors Light, the suburbs. Of course, this ignores the fact that I never went to any secret parentless parties, much less any that had any kind of beer hanging about, during the entirety of my high school career. Maybe it was a trip back to the past I would have had, were I the kind of kid to smoke behind the gym; a second chance. The journey back home again, by car and by train and by taxi, was illuminated at the last by a sky that should have borne Maxfield Parrish's signature. Or perhaps the three-dimensional cut-out clouds of a Monty Python sketch; I could not tell which. Typical of the evening -- constantly flowing between beauty and farce.

It is a weekday again. As such, I have access to my beloved Internet. Granted, I have finally worked out dialup-access from home, but it is, well, dialup. And therefore disgustingly slow and I have not the patience to deal with it.

Patience may well be my Achilles heel. Or, more specifically, my distinct lack of any of it. In some situations, I take a perverse pleasure in thwarting this need for immediate gratification, but for the most part, I want things now. More specifically still, when I meet (or re-meet) someone who catches my fancy, I want to see them again now. See my list of things I consider to be a waste of time here.

On a different but vaguely related note, I was silently hit on while riding the subway this morning. One of the skills I have learned since moving to New York (in addition to quietly and immediately calculating the fastest route from point A to subway stop B, and threading myself and my concomitant satchel through crowds like an eel) is how to stand in a crowded subway without actually touching anybody else. Somehow one's ribcage shrinks, one's arms contort, so as to avoid physical contact with these strangers. Yet this morning, I found myself pressed up against a young man who had no need to be pressed against me -- he had at least 3 inches of room in front of him in which he could have scooted away from me -- and he kept tossing sidelong glances over his shoulder at me as I read my book. Because I cannot help myself, I found myself looking back at him, and when the subway sped or slowed, he swayed backwards rather unneccesarily against my chest. When he got off at 14th and let go of the bar, his hand brushed against my leg as he sidled past towards the door, and he looked back one more time as he stepped out.

The politics of flirtation between boys always amazes me. The conversation we had without saying a word: a brush of arms: "Hi there." A glance from him: "You're cute." A glance back from me: "Thanks. I'm looking at you to see if I think you're cute too." His back pressed into me: "If you so think so, you won't pull away from this." My hand inched closer to his on the hanging bar: "If your hand inches closer too, I'll know I'm not imagining things." His hand inching: "No, you're not imagining things." Our glance as he stepped out: "Well, um...it's been fun. I enjoyed our random flirtation."

My official conclusion: Boys are irretrievably weird, myself included.

Have you ever...

walked up the stairs from the subway and totally biffed it and slammed your knee down on the corner of a cement step and then gotten up too quickly so that nobody will notice you and slipped again right away and slammed the other knee? 'Cause I have never done that.

slathered strawberry cream cheese on your morning bagel and taken a great big bite, only to discover that what you thought were strawberries are actually mashed-up bits of salmon and you accidentally gagged? 'Cause I have never done that.

had a great chicken sandwich for lunch, and then taken a great big bite of it and ended up chomping down on an enormous piece of gristle so distressing it inadvertently made you gag and spit the entire mouthful out onto your keyboard? 'Cause I have never done that.

obsessively checked your email looking for a reply to something, and felt vaguely but secretly freakish for doing so because you knew that other people really have better things to do all day than send emails to you but you still wished otherwise, and your stomach got all twisted up in anticipation while the page was loading, and the top finally said "One new message" so you scrolled to the bottom crossing your fingers but it turned out to be an email inviting you to check out the HOTTTEST XXX TEEN SLUTTTS and you were annoyed that you got all excited for new mail and that was all it turned out to be? 'Cause I have never done that.

Am I convincing you at all?

...but then have you ever finally gotten that email you were waiting for and it said all the right things so you got that familiar flush of excitement and anticipation and it made all the waiting from earlier in the day totally pay off? 'Cause that is something I definitely have done.

I am trying to keep on an even keel today. I gulp down "Balance" Vitamin Water, hoping to transfer some of its supposed properties directly to my brain. Because a rather large chunk of my mind flits off to six-o'clock -- I can hear it giggling when it does so, like a child hiding from its chores -- and unless I can tame my thoughts, I am going to get absolutely nothing done at work today.

History is against me -- a long string of excitements and anticipations that never bore fruit, events fallen through at the last minute, disappointments. This is the other end of the fulcrum: a sick confidence that 5:30 will witness a phone call wherein everything is called off.

Still, I try to remember that this day is not other days. Past transgressions have no place here, in the new, creamy-sweet "here" I create today.

I breathe deeply, I stuff negativity into my deepest mental oubliette, and I gently close excitement away in a sun-filled room, where I can just hear it -- softly singing out the hours, counting down the time.

I have restarted and replayed this entry half a dozen times. I can deftly describe rejection -- why, then, am I so clumsy with its opposite?

Every way I try seems laden with treacle, dripping with cliche. Were I actually writing, not typing, I would be using a pink pen and large loopy letters with hearts to dot my "i's."

Night of laughing, complimenting, complementing. Night of friends and cake and singing. Night of stolen kisses in the cold. Night of missed trains but found hands; morning of blinks and yawns and hugs and shyness.

A high school sweetheart, six years late and seven states removed.

My mind a deep void
I cannot focus on code
And yet, I make forms

I think about Boy
(Although he likes "guy" better)
And it makes me smile

I work late tonight
Only the freelancers left
We need overtime

Tomorrow, alone:
Only Ass and I will work
Good Friday, you suck

Please write me e-mail
I need a good distraction
From Stock Broker News.

I apologize.
Minimalist Diary,
Not creative now.

I become painfully attached to inanimate objects. I have been known to hold conversations with such diverse, yet uniformly non-responsive, possessions such as my Cube (my computer, to those uninitiated in the Ways of the Macintosh), my teddy bear, various books, my boots.

Ah. My boots. My London Boots. My Doc Martens London boots. My Doc Martens London shiny black glossy 10-hole molded-to-my-foot worn-soled torn beaten and battered boots. I love them. They are an extension of me. They are my signature.

But today, I will replace them.

The holes gape too widely, the tread has forgotten the meaning of the word "non-slip." The leather is torn in a dozen places, and I am eternally grateful that New York saw very little snow this year -- I may as well wear sandals for all the protection these afford from the elements. But still I love them. They have been almost perpetually on me for a year. They have seen everything I have seen. They have been everywhere I have been. These boots have been my most constant and faithful companion. Somehow, I feel guilty at the idea of supplanting them.

I do not know exactly how long I have had this connection to my possessions. I will share with you here one of its earlier, but certainly not earliest, incarnations.

Ode To My Toothbrush
by Fulminous, age 11

Oh, my darling toothbrush,
You stay hidden out of sight
In my dry dark cupboard
For the day and all the night.

The only time I take you out
Is when I need to clean
My teeth from eating Jello
From my mom's good soup tureen.

I cover you with toothpaste,
So minty-cool and fresh,
Only trouble that I ever have
Is fitting you 'tween my metal mesh
Of braces, with their rows
Of icky, pointy bits of steel
Inside which you can see remains
Of every single meal.

So this ode I give you, toothbrush
For your service every day --
That's why I regret to tell you,
I'm throwing you away.

Maybe I do not need new boots after all...