Jamie is the only thing keeping me alive. I look forward to suicide ALL the fucking time. Our, more accurately, the peace of death. No more life half-lived, no more sky-high loneliness, no more yearning for a literary career that will never, ever happen; it’s a still-birth from ’99. No love in my life; limited friendships; I’m too depressed to write/or fuck. Last night, I fooled around with a terribly handsome FTM, who is here attending a seminar/workshop hosted at 4th and Arch. I was lousy, eschewing earlier requested intimacy in favor of. a clumsy pursuit of orgasm. Which, thank to my ineptnesss, neither of us realized. He was so handsome, a chance for genuine intimacy, that I sent to my ill-mannered Hell. AS WE’VE LEARNED WELL; I am able to forgive anyone except myself.
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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