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4:53 p.m. - June 10, 2003
I think I'm high on nothing, which is daunting enough
The earlier inquiry into poppers was purely innocuous as I have absolutely no goal of trying the drug. While there are large gaps in what I recall from childhood, I do remember Nancy Reagan and Just Say No and why ruin a 27-year No streak? No drugs, ever, though of course alcohol is a drug but you know, itís the little-d drug, not the fuck-up-your-brain drug. Unless of course one become addicted but if it werenít alcohol, it would be something else so thatís an exculpatory bye of sorts and mind you, Iím uptight and conservative and I would enjoy seeing a wholly drug-free society. And please, spare me the decriminalization arguments highlighting the Netherlands as a prima facie example; Americans are simply too dumb to ever be as intelligent about drugs or for that matter, anything else the claim to be a valid looksee. As for Canada, let our august northern neighbor decriminalize all they want; wonít they enjoy all those upstanding American citizens taking their RVs and drug habits on a hazy Road Rules trip though their well-manicured vast empty spaces?

Speaking of Road Rules: A few years ago I decided I left behind young adulthood when I couldnít stomach watching whicheveryearís installment of RR and Real World but this season Iím hooked. Me, Jason, hooked on television Ė MTV of all inane, brain-sucking, chromosome-damaging Great Wastes of Time Ė and did I mention I like literally laying in front of the television, remote in hand, and powering down? The unfortunate downside is that I notice the dust on the floors (theyíre wood) and I make a mental note to sweep, thereby disrupting whatever idyll is a byproduct of television zoning.

Bathsheba received her package today and sent me a great email, first complimenting me on my wrapping techniques. Iíve attributed these anal-isms as I call them (which friends call Jasonisms, e.g. the poo bathroom / pee bathroom, concern with sneeze-cloud residue, etc) to perfectionism and simply doing my best, but I wonder if itís simply the gay gene manifesting itself. Lorster, youíve received a package from me; was it really that bad? I sent her 4 CDs and a few new-office doodads and I fear Iím going to have to conspire to get those CDs back so I can copy them; erroneously I deleted the layout and if I say so myself, they are fantastic. Three classical, one Jasonís Favorites, and I didnít burn copies for myself. Of course I could simply ask her to mail them to me after admitting my error, but I prefer those aloof tautologies and gouaches that obscure my wants. Did I mention Iím considering a nail bed? Jesus, what was in todayís water thatís got me so?

Whatís the deal with guys, anyway? I thought the goal was giving or getting a good fuck (if I say so myself) and moving on to the next tchotchke but no, T. is giving me a headache. How am I supposed to stew and castigate and be angry and regret things if heís not giving me any breathing room? Perhaps Iím being too harsh but I was not planning and certainly did not want further contact, at least not immediately so. Between the flowers and a telephone call Iím feeling heís a bit . . . wonky, to borrow Milkmaidís term. Iíd like to talk to him more but I donít know about see Ė if thereís one thing I need to get over, itís feeling ashamed. In the meantime, the gay boys are supposed to stay away. Didnít you see the memo?


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