I’m still basking in the delayed glow of last week’s IDEAL Montreal trip. It was the BEST trip I’ve EVER taken with Butch, and, as a result, the best vacation I’ve had in over a decade, since I stopped traveling with Ciaran. I worked hard to give him space, and, in return, he made sure I got to take in the bits of weirdness that I LOVE. Like these old communal baths he found. I think he was expecting something more salacious than the bastion of economic functionality these baths were, when indoor plumbing was a luxury few could afford. Ah well; either way we got there, I enjoyed it.
Arguing for my independence with my trust lords has gotten really old, really fast. See, I’m like a poor man’s Brittany Spears: all my money is in a special needs trust, dispensed as need be by my Trustees: Gil Roth and Peter Johnson. Gil, I’ve been friends with since St. John’s. Peter does this for a living, & cuts me a world of always legal and ethical slack. More tomorrow. Nighty-night.
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