It was 20 years ago, also on the Friday after Thanksgiving in 1966, that I had my first appointment with a psychiatrist. Boy, was that a fucked-up 15-year-old who walked into Dr. Lipton’s office. I remember some of the questions he asked me: “Do you smoke pot?” (when I said no, he asked if I was socially retarded) and “Do you like girls?”
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I went out shopping at Red Apple. There are a lot of cute guys, most of whom look gay, in that supermarket, which might be a good place to meet people. For example, the guy in line ahead of me was not only nice-looking, but he had coupons – and a guy who cuts coupons out of the newspaper is probably a good catch, right? Oh well.