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9:16 p.m. - June 16, 2002 My house is my safe place. When the appraiser was here she inquired into the status of the closet doors as I knew she would, and I said that they're stored in the garage. There wasn't a funny look but there was a pause, and then she said Prospective Buyers Feel Threatened By Exposed Closets, whereas I'm threatened by unexposed closets. Wherever I land, the closet doors come off first, isn't that silly? I don't want to talk about this right now. The situation with Spec has gotten out of hand, evolving into threats of I'll Ruin Your Life if I don't comply. I gave him my permission to out me to my grandma and sister and whoever else he cared to and that took the wind out of his sails. I know he was speaking out of anger but the more he pursues the more dispassionate I become, to the point that I don't recognize myself in the things I say to him. I'm angry at myself for still caring and I take it out on him, push push push and damn it, I'd like to punch him until he hurts enough and leaves to nurse his wounds. He mutters I Wish You Were Normal and that makes two of us wishing for what is not graspable and I say I'm doing this for the best of both of us. I don't know what else to do. I'm terrified of it, this looming wave of Being Gay, with its bois and cheap sex and transitory partners celebrating a lifestyle I call evil and grounded only in the Self and yes, stereotypes abound but it is there like a noxious rainbow miasma and that is unwelcome, terrifying because it's the barbarian at the gate and for every top there is a bottom, for every man there is a woman, for every gay relationship there's the dominant and the submissive and the roles are cast and it would be me who's submissive and I will not have that. I don't know what to do. I tried it, gave it a shot, and it's not to my liking. A lie, that.
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