At 11 AM, I got into the Camaro and headed down I-95 to Miami. . . I’ve been in Florida two weeks already. As usual, it seems both that I’ve been here forever and that I’ve only just arrived.
My lunch with Stacy went well although it got off to an uncomfortable start because Stacy wanted to talk about our both being gay and use that to sort of justify everything that happened in our relationship. She’s still very intelligent and very sexy.
Just getting older seems to help. I am still insecure, but I no longer worry so much about things which used to bother the hell out of me. I don’t much care if people don’t like me. I’m not as afraid to express my opinion. I don’t worry as much about making a good impression.
Dennis Cooper sent me the book of Gerard Malanga’s that I ordered and wrote a nice letter. Dennis has got some poems coming out in Gaysweek and is doing a series of teen idol cards with pornographic vignettes on the back, all packaged up with gum in a special wrapper.
Eerily, OJ says “Given the right circumstances, I guess anyone is capable of murder.”
A major downside, though, is that blue-face-thingy staring at me, you know, judging me, judging it.
Welcome to the ~*gReAt gAy aMeRiCaN nOvEl*~
Sonic wasn’t so edgy that he was gonna make us all smoke cigarettes in the mall parking lot at age 9, but he had this certain allure that seemed to imply that he didn’t believe in things like having a bedtime.
When I was twenty years old, I was living a good life. I had everything I could ever ask for. Then, I decided to kill my self esteem. I had my first novel published. Sorry, self.
These days, I may sleep a little later, but I start each day with a palpable hunger for action.