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One of those entries that never managed to get where it was going.
My what a sober fellow I've come to sound like in this weblog (or journal, some folks are mighty fussy about the distinction). Back in its prehistory, before I'd joined Live Journal someone wrote in to say that I wrote like David Sedaris. Sedaris was just a name on the spine of some of my store stock; all I remembered was the one with a pair of boxers on the cover. Taking it down and reading I thought it was the kindest thing anybody had said about my old "Happily queer and swilling mint tea" site.
Not that I didn't appreciate the passionate notes from guys who wished I lived near them. Damn, I wished I did. Er, thought I did. The hundreds or thousands of miles protected me from discovering that their secret hope was that I'd shave off their crotch hair. Likewise, the never saw my bad teeth. I did get a curiously cranky note from a young fellow bitching that while I admitted my teeth weren't pretty I didn't show them in my photos. Maybe he was a young dentist looking for before photos. I'd always felt the demands of candor had been met in describing my penis.
How did the sardonic become overtaken by sobriety? The last three years have been tough. A relationship starts out with you doing cartwheels then you spin out into traffic. But there'll be time enough for that if the time comes to rename this to Pansexual Crybaby or the Whimpering Sodomite.
Some days I come home to spend time deleting messages from men who confide their "dick isn't a pencil" or that they are "straight but willing to learn." Probably true but I'm not licensed to administer shock therapy. And killing the junk is too easy to lower my mood.
While everyone who read the article agrees that the local weekly that mentioned the "surly one" in the shop meant me if you were to enter Books Do Furnish A Room you'd find me cheerful, amiable … unless you were an asshole. Then I'd quickly vanish into a part of the shop you aren't allowed into. A retailer's blessing is having an invincibly polite, untiringly patient clerk.
I think if I were to meet my young self I'd feel a little creeped-out by the boy. He was too serious, a nerd, as they've become known. But luckily he escaped that and spends most of his time laughing at the silliness of it all.
When you are a kid and taking yourself too seriously you might become a heavy metal fan. Or worse turn to Jesus or think Marilyn Manson is cool. Or spend your evenings wishing you were Mr. Britney Spears.