V: 8/11/03

Work Diary, 8/11/03

Right this very minute, the sheets for my new bed are being washed, but
I'm sitting in my friend's sun room, two miles from the ca-lunk ca-lunk
ca-lunk of the washer and wondering if I've done the right thing. It's
9:30 p.m., and while I'd like to be drunk, I'm not. In my veins runs a
Puritan streak that screams, THERE IS A TIME FOR EVERYTHING!

I shouldn't say "new" bed since it's the first bed my partner and I
ever bought, thirteen years ago. We'd started with a futon, which
battered and bruised our twenty-something selves to the point that we
shelled out $300 we couldn't afford for a mattress that looked like a
giant pink cupcake. Seven years later brought the dog, and we spent
$800 we could afford on a king-sized mattress that would fit all three
of us. The pink cupcake was relegated to the guest bedroom, but now
it's in my room, formerly the TV room. The TV is still there but I am
not, having chosen the first night of my emancipation to write silly
diaries in a place that's had too much sun and not enough air
conditioning.

The above is a thinly veiled attempt to convince myself that I am still
in control. The alternative is to pour whiskey down my throat and
vaporize before dawn. This might still happen - it's early yet.

A friend of a friend recently wrote an article about this new website,
Friendster.com. Apparently you sign on, attach yourself to others, and
meet all sorts of interesting people. I'm still not sure why folks
would choose this method - as opposed, say, to simply opening their
doors and walking outside - but the article itself was interesting.
Between my friend's friend's lines is a soul-crushing definition of the
human condition that left me wondering just where we went wrong. It
also left me glad to be on the misanthropic end of the scale. I mean,
why the interest in meeting so many different people? All that work!
Isn't your right hand enough, with the occasional coffee break in
between?

The above is another thinly veiled attempt at mocking my partner's need
for something beyond me. Me. You can place the "me" in italics,
boldface, even underline it, and I'm/Me still sitting in a hot room
thinking about freshly laundered sheets. This is your first and only
clue that you should have sympathy for my partner.

And, of course, I would not even be thinking about meeting others if it
weren't for my current status. That's what it's called, I think:
STATUS. For exactly nine hours and forty-three minutes, I have been WM
HIV- PRFSNL. Somewhere I should list a phone number. If you call, and
you realize it's me, please hunt me down and shoot me, particularly if
I've become a kimono-wearing, Scotch-wielding monster who answers the
door with, "Hi, Tiger!"

My partner and I have chosen the tentative approach to breaking up. We
still love each other - I can say that with satisfaction mixed with
uncertainty mixed with just a bit of anger. Whereas we sit solidly on
the upper crust of middle-classdom (i.e. could afford a separate
apartment), we have chosen to take separate quarters in our own home.
See how my choice of language indicates how mature we're being? This
arrangement means several things, not the least of which is: I will
hear him snogging some frosted flake who will leave peter tracks on the
sink before stealing various dry goods from the pantry.

But, oh, Mr. Sticky Wicket, you're in for a surprise. Stuff all the Top
Ramen you want down your shorts, but it will end there, because we eat
out so much that even the instant mashed potatoes have become a brick
capable of supporting three-hundred pounds per square inch. The canned
tomatoes have exploded on their own accord, the scene behind those
tasteful Danish doors like something from a Martin Scorscese
film.

Yes, it's true. We look so fine in our Gap clothes but really we have
just recently stepped across the tracks. We will be making that
hop-skip-and-a-jump for the rest of our lives, but you won't see me
complaining. My partner won't, either. But fair warning: Get prissy,
and I'll find him right back in my bed, your subtle, supple, softly
tanned ass back on the streets.

Where you may or may not belong. Who am I to judge?

Lo', this is an essay meant for digressing. But after fourteen years,
what would you expect? I am not so much bitter as confused. You need
cheese? Okay, here it is: My heart is broken, its better half wrenched
painfully away. How 'bout this: Will he ever understand how I feel?
Will he? Oh, god, god god - pauses to wipe snot off upper lip - oh god
god god god god!

The fact is, this has been two years coming, at least. I am no fool and
neither is my partner, which is unfortunate. It would be so much easier
to place him in some category, the cuckold or the cheat or whatever. As
it is, the decision to separate was made calmly, rationally, both of us
sipping lukewarm lattes and behaving like adults. Perhaps the
histrionics will come later, perhaps not. I'm hoping not. This feels
real; histrionics would just confuse things. They have in the past,
anyway. At least this time I don't feel hated, despised, and otherwise
unwelcome in my own house.

Still, this is a lonely business. In my teens, I tried doing away with
myself with pills. In my twenties, it was booze. Now, I'm thinking of
killing myself softly with your song.

Sing, please, whoever you are. I guess I'm ready.