My Keyboard

I love my nurse practitioner. I really hate that she works here because I want her to have her own practice so that she can be my actual doctor instead of just the one I saw for a few days. She understands that I try to be the funniest person in the room and she is going to try and kick my ass in all the right ways. I cannot abide a doctor I don’t think is smarter than me. I do not have that problem.

I also have a social worker that is hooking me up with all kinds of services. I don’t know which I’ll need because Dana doesn’t know where she wants to go, either- or I assume. I cannot talk to her right now. I told her to come last night and then she told me that she was grieving the loss of our relationship and I said, “did we make a mistake?” She said she didn’t think so. I was so down that I just uninvited her. I’m grieving, too. I do not want to believe that it is over, and I am also ready to leave and never look back. It is a strong cognitive dissonance, because I do not know which I want more.

I still think that moving to DC is the best option for me at this time. It’s not really that I need a change of venue. That’s just an added bonus. It’s that I’ve lived there before and I have friends from DC to New York that I NEVER get to see. Plus, I miss walking downtown. I used to take the Metro in and just get lost for hours on purpose. In DC, there is so much to see that it is beneficial to wander around by yourself. I tend to take lots of pictures and journal my findings. My favorite place to sit is on The Mall, because it is the BEST people-watching. Sometimes you’re watching famous people, but most of the time, you are watching families out with their dogs. So calming to be by myself- an observer and recorder, like most writers are.

I can picture my apartment. Hopefully SE Waterfront, near my old church. It’s a funny story about how we found it to begin with. My first wife, Kathleen, and I were in Lambda Rising when I found a book with Susan Leo standing in the sanctuary at Westminster. I took it as a sign from God and the first Sunday I met Brian and Ruth Hamilton, the co-pastors, they were doing coffee and muffins for communion. Ruth said, “I hope you don’t mind.” I said, “of course not. Coffee has always been a life-giving substance for me.” It THRILLS me that Ruth and Brian are STILL THERE!!!! So, even if I live in a different area and decide on a different church because of it, I still want to visit occasionally. I helped put in the tile floor in the sanctuary.

But that is later. Right now I have to make sure that I am stable enough to go to work every day. The struggles I have been having at work are all due to repressed trauma that hasn’t been treated until now. I am hoping that getting rid of the trauma is as easy as getting it, but I know that’s impossible. It is good to feel hope today. It is good to feel alive and to know what I want to do and where I am going. I am applying all over the place, and I have a friend who works for Congressional Quarterly that is next on my list for a phone call (look at me! I make calls now!) I will also be applying at The White House, because I deserve to have a shot at an interview to be Sam Seaborn. I don’t know that I deserve the job, but I deserve to be SEEN AND HEARD. What I do know is that people can tell within a millisecond that I am every bit the writer I say I am.

By myself- an observer and recorder, like most writers are.

Which brings me to two awfulsome moments (thanks, Paul Gilmartin):

  1. My occupational therapist said that I couldn’t write the whole time. I had to do these worksheets (that she has never given me, so I have no idea what she’s talking about). I said, “would you mind if I sat at the computer and type? My wrist hurts too bad to hold a pen.” She told me that it uses exactly the same muscles to type as it does to write and handed me a golf pencil. I said, “this is total crap,” and I left, because I did not want to engage in a fight. Diana (roommate) said, “I was there and she was shitty to you.” Nice to have validation and to know that my roommate has my back.
  2. Mike (the Viet Nam vet in the wheelchair) told me he was leaving and I said, “give me a hug before you go.” We hugged and the orderly yelled “NO HUGGING!” I turned around and said, “I FORGOT!” He took exception to that. They’ll probably put me on Haldol for it (kidding, this is not Nurse Ratchett up in this bitch)


I told Argo that she broke me open to let all the light rush in with “why do you think it is everyone else’s job to fix you?” It did not occur to me that I could “man up” and get someone to drive me to the hospital and admit myself. I mean, why would it? I have no self-preservation. I am content to help you until I die. And by that, I do not mean Argo. I mean “you plural.” It doesn’t matter who she (most likely) is. It might even be a man. It’s not about attraction. It’s about seeing need and wanting to respond to it. Thursday was when I got my first taste of self-preservation, because even though it broke me open to let light in, it also just plain broke me. I went to her for help, and for whatever reason, it was not given. It was a swift kick in the ass that I’m not sure I didn’t need. I mean, her advice was really fucking sound. Her delivery is as awful as mine. We have done a fucking number on each other because I am who I am and she is who she is and instead of trying to be enormous together, we have gutter-sniped each other into the ground. Not because either of us really wanted to. We just hurt each other so bad that both of our walls went up. It happens. Whether they come down or not will not be decided for weeks, months, years. But I can’t worry about her right now. I can worry about her later, but only if she wants me to. I think it depends on how she sees me. I have not been kind to her, and I want to make amends by truly working on myself until we can interact safely and with much kindness, instead of the constant barrage of “fuck off and die.”

That is because neither one of us can handle emotional intimacy. Argo’s is not my story to tell, but I will say one thing. We cannot let each other in because our pattern is to get close, not be able to handle it, and then get in a fight that forces both of us to retreat. It has happened too many times for either one of us to believe that the other one really wants to change. I hope that I proved to her that I do love her and want her in my life because I am willing to lay my life on the line and say “it’s me. I know it’s me. If nothing else, I need her to realize that I am not doing this for her. I am doing this because I want to know what’s wrong with me, and how to turn off my defenses when they get so thick that no one can help me because I won’t let them. I have gotten really into the psycho/bio connection, which is good to study if I want to be a minister one day (my parishioners will never know how much I am doing to protect the future them. I have to have clinical separation or I will get into this position again because I will carry their problems like I carry my own.
I have five minutes of work time left, and I am so glad that they recognize I’m a writer and that I will heal more by continuing it than doing anything else. They don’t mind if I write about them. They think they’re famous. Shhhhhhhhh……. ;)

Sensory Diet

I am not sure why I hit my limit yesterday, I just knew I’d had enough. Most of the people here actually *are* in worse shape than me, which is totally part of the problem as an empath. I am trying to get over feeling everyone else’s pain. My roommate is a fucking cutter on 72 hour suicide watch. Good times. She’s actually one of the sweetest people I have ever met. Her name is Diana, because of course it is. My nurse practitioner looks like Susan, because of course she does (seriously, such a dead ringer I cried and hugged her anyway).

But all that stuff happened when I reached the unit. I got somewhat better when, ironically, billing came by. Turns out the billing lady used to have depression as bad as me and we cried and prayed together in the ER. Because that’s what I do. I’m about to die and I offer to pray over you. Because what can I do for you that I won’t do for myself? Pretty much goddamn everything. I am tired of being so emotionally laden from empathy that I cannot function. It is not that you have problems. You’re allowed. It’s that I can’t see a problem without wanting to fix it, particularly if it is something emotional because I’m already in my element anyway. Diana said, “I’m not sure I can make it. Will you stay with me?” She’s 21. I want to put her in my pocket and take her home. She reminds me of my stepsister Caitlin. I’m 5’4. She is probably 4’8. From Boston- so far from home that no one will visit her. I have taken her under my wing (because of course I have). It’s what I do. I just love people until they can’t stand it anymore. It comes from a very good place, but comes across as “smother mother.” Luckily, Diana is borderline so she won’t even notice.

I met with the mobile assessment team this morning. They thought I was hilarious, intelligent, and didn’t hesitate to speak to me like a colleague. There was nothing I couldn’t handle anyway. I’m fucked up in the head. It is unlikely that anything they give me will be unfamiliar.

I am more concerned about occupational therapy, because that is where I really struggle. The one thing that I learned today is that everything I *thought* was just ADD is also a trauma checklist. It’s hard to hear that I’ve been misdiagnosed in some sense, because I didn’t think of what Diane did to me as trauma. My nurse practitioner was tracking all the way through. “OF COURSE! Coming across like that, how would you even know what questions to ask.?” I told her that was Argo’s first reaction as well.

Unresolved trauma damn near killed me and I want Diane to know it. I don’t care if she responds in the slightest. I just want her to HEAR me. After we met, I could no longer live my life because I was living yours. It is now a pattern that I need to break desperately and don’t have the slightest idea how. That’s what these people are for.

But all the things I was telling you guys about that I thought were ADD? Not so much. I have been living in PTSD every day since my 14th birthday. No wonder I almost died. *I* couldn’t even describe what was wrong. By Saturday I was hyperventilating so much that I couldn’t really inhale. So again, the answer to why “I thought everyone else could fix me” is that I had been gaslit so successfully that I didn’t even want my own life, much less hers. I remember sobbing into her voicemail. Please don’t let me leave Portland without seeing you at all……” But the sociopath was already in place. Just WALL. So I turned on my sociopath. Wall. Trying so hard to keep each other out we couldn’t let others in.

My dad said that being able to turn off my emotions was a good skill to have. I said that it came at an enormous price. All the things, really. There is no limit to the amount of emotion I can deny myself, especially love. I feel love from God because God can’t go away and everyone else can. I am destroyed at my own hand in all cases, really. Argo said, “can’t you see the common denominator is you?”

Yes, I can you burger flippin’ ho.

However, it’s not all me. I do not have the same reactions to ANYTHING anymore. I have hit rock bottom, the place that says I don’t deserve to live and I will actively take steps to finish the job if I don’t ask for help. It gives you something, that place. You get there and you think “it cannot possibly get any worse.” So you start offending people left and right because they aren’t used to you not being abused and you’re not used to being able to stand up for yourself…. not maliciously….. you can’t even see what’s different. But they can.

I understand myself differently now. I understand the ways I manipulate people now, because until I checked in, nothing had scared me enough to be able to say out loud that I thought she loved me so much and I’d ALSO been turned on by a predator. Seeing her behavior afterward, I do not believe she planned to go through with it. If she did, she changed her mind. But what I know is that 25 year olds don’t let 14 year olds read their journals. Period.

Why is that one moment in time so important? Because Diane is so funny. She is a Southerner that also covers up shit with cake and icing. But that moment. The one where she gave me my presents? The mask came down and I saw her for the first time. If you’ve ever met diane (and I pretty much guarantee you haven’t because you wouldn’t know what to look for). Her eyes were dark and intense. Seductive, but not in a loving way. She did not wax rhapsodic. There was no light to make that happen. What did happen was adrenaline at the thought of getting caught. For older couples, it’s the thought of getting caught having sex. For me, it was the thought of my mom walking in on any of our conversations. I lived for it. How long can we keep the game up?

Til Thursday, apparently.

Emotional Thrashing

One of the reasons that I need help so badly is that a whole bunch of people in my life are telling me that they feel manipulated by me. Even though my books on verbal and emotional abuse warned me extensively that this would happen, I am wrecked by it because I am already begging to be heard as I tell people that I need them to safety net me until I’m stable again and they are reacting as if I am creating an elaborate ploy. Maybe this is because they thought that exorcising all my demons was the end of my abuse.

Let’s clear that up right now. There is no end to abuse. None. It is ever present. It runs through my mind every second of every day. When I was on my way to lunch with my dad and stepmom, I said “I need to know two things. The first is whether either of you have ever been sexually abused or whether there’s been any physical violence in either of your families or anything that would create a tape similar to mine.”

He said no. This was unfortunate- not that I wish abuse upon anyone, just that they cannot even begin to have a frame of reference for the kind of beat-down I am. My worthlessness loop says “shoot yourself in the head” most days, because there are few where I really believe that people want me here and I am not a burden to them.

In fact, one of the most brilliant minds in the country is tired of my shit, and it is only that I think so that I will take her crap at all. Of course, it is Argo. My Argo. My favorite line about Argo, I wrote a year or so ago and I still love it…. that “I sleep deeply in the belly of the ship, where I know my passage is safe.” One of these days, I hope I am strong enough to be Jason, and not a deckhand in training. This is because often, the setting is the main character in the book. For instance, what would The Bible be without the Negev, Lake Kinneret , Mt. Tabor, etc? What would the Potter Chronicles be without Hogwarts itself? Actually, as an aside, Rowling is brilliant because she literally wove the story into the walls with the paintings and ghosts and moving pictures and shit.

Back to you, Bob! Let’s go to the phones.

The research says I’m right on target. I don’t act like I did while I was being abused, so my new personality isn’t “real.” One of my friends is treating me like my entire personality is a schism, that all of the light I emit is a show and all the darkness is who I “really am.” It is devastating to hear so repeatedly that I am a monster. It shows on people’s faces. They don’t have to say it. My stepmother’s words to me when I came to her for help and told her how broken I was, she told me that she was tired of being manipulated by me and turned me away. I will apologize right now to my dad that I am publishing this, but it is an abuse I will not tolerate ever again. You do not get to punch me while I’m on my knees. Not three times. She’s already done it twice. The first was after reading my Facebook post, she called Dana and asked her what was going on, and didn’t bother to call me at all. When we met for lunch, I thought it was going to be a shoot-the-shit kind of afternoon and instead, Angela showed up itching for a fight and beat me into the ground emotionally at a time in my life when I couldn’t defend myself, anyway.

This loss is devastating, because this relationship is broken. Maybe it will come back together, but not any time soon. It was not cemented in my mind that Houston was not healthy for me until that lunch. It was that lunch that I realized that our physical relationship had been broken for so long that when I came back into their lives on a day-to-day basis, we didn’t really function that well. There was a lot of cake and icing, though.

I am not unsympathetic to other people’s problems. However, I don’t feel forced to care about them anymore. This is because I have been caring too much about other people and neglecting myself since I was 12. There have been times in my life where I was living well and still looked damn near homeless because I’d already given so much of my emotional strength away, I couldn’t get myself to function.

Bending the spoon came when I realized that if I didn’t start having self preservation, one of two things was going to happen. The first is that I was going to die. Literally. I cannot stress this enough. The first time I told people I was going to kill myself, I was 13. It hasn’t stopped. I never get close enough to really make plans and go through with it, but I did the first time. I wrote Diane a letter detailing what I had done to myself. I’d drunk kitchen chemicals from under the sink. She said that I was lying to her. I agreed. It wasn’t worth it to tell her that I actually know what Drain-o tastes like…. or maybe it was Pine Sol. It’s been too many years now, I don’t remember the brand. What I do remember is that it had a Mr. Yuk sticker on it, and that’s how I knew it would get the job done.

Every gay kid has this story. EVERY GODDAMN ONE. Just for different reasons. Sometimes, it’s their parents that unwittingly encourage suicide because they (intentionally or not) treat their children as second-class citizens. It doesn’t have to be blatant. I’m from the South, bitch. I can tell you to go fuck yourself in several extremely polite ways. Argo would tell me to start using them (shut it, we’ll talk about it later).

Again, dad. I’m sorry. I’m not doing this because she deserves it. I’m doing this because I do. I will not let her get away with injuring me to this level and not allow myself to put it in the pensieve so that 20 years from now, I will still know what REALLY happened that day. She may not have meant to come across this way, but her words disowned me and my nothing box ached with grief until I was offered the chance to just leave. I do not know if said chance will materialize, but I know that I am out of here.

I didn’t burn any bridges. They were on fire long before this.



Paul Gilmartin reminded me to write some, because I have had so many awfulsome moments this week:

  1. I love how Argo has a five ton personality and a rat dog. In my head, she is Steve Smith on American Dad from the episode where he joins the Log Cabin Republicans without knowing they’re gay. She is going to whip my ass later for insinuating that she’s….. Republican.
  2. I love the sound of Dana watching TV while I sit in my office and write.
  3. I love hugs from Aaron that last a second longer because he knows how much pain I’m in.
  4. I love being able to tell the Internet that I am crazy again and I need help and the response is even bigger now, not because the problem is bigger, but because there are more people to hear me.
  5. I love that just in writing this entry, I have hit reload five times on the Steve Smith video.
  6. I love that I am strong enough to take this much criticism because I have been learning how to take criticism and use it to my advantage for two years. People angry with me over the divorce express their anger and I get to say, “I’m sorry for your pain, but this is not about you and therefore, my pain is more important to me than yours.”
  7. I love that I know within myself not to make it about everyone, because when I do, I try to save everyone but me.
  8. I love that with this breakup, I see more self-preservation in either of us than I have seen in years. We are setting healthy boundaries because we saw how frayed the unhealthy ones had become but unfortunately, it was too late.
  9. I love that I am allowed to say as much as I want that I am absolutely in love with Dana and she is not freaked out to hear it. Walking away in the peace of “I love you and maybe we will meet again and maybe we won’t” seems infinitely healthier than either of us being out on our asses.
  10. I love that I got to make the joke with Brooke (new friend who is also a lesbian) that I’m glad Meg (Dana’s ex) and I are still friends because we know that in the lesbian community, that’s what we do. It takes the entire line of exes to train our beloved for other people not to hate them in the same ways we do.
  11. I love that lesbian breakups only come in two types….. amicable parting with lots of hugs and cheek kisses, AND ABSOLUTE THERMONUCLEAR WAR ARE YOU KIDDING ME SOUND THE ALARMS MAY DAY MAY DAY WE ARE GOING DOWN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
  12. I love that even when you have thermonuclear war with an ex-girlfriend there’s still something that she thinks is cute about you….. she just won’t tell you. But she will spend the rest of her life telling other people.
  13. I love that when needed, Daddies jump in.
  14. I love that I can tell myself the absolute truth. I am in the space where no one loves me, not even me, but we still have to live together.
  15. I love the way I dress now. I look like a shorter version of Ellen. I have never had a crush on her, I’ve just always wanted to be like her. The moment when my next door neighbor told me that I looked like her, I went a little nutso inside. #missionaccomplished
  16. I love the daydream I had this morning. I am a soprano. My friend Giles is a baritone. The daydream was singing together at National Cathedral…. not as a gig. Standing behind the rest of our friends in the congregation so that we can show off our chops.
  17. I love that I am quiet and shy and depressed and isolating and all that stuff, but I will still take the high B flat at the end of the Star Spangled Banner occasionally so that everyone will turn and look at me.
  18. I love that I never do it if I’m alone. Just because I can doesn’t mean I will. But if there is someone I’m trying to impress, I’m not trying to get attention. I’m waiting for the moment. The moment when they see how others light up when notes like that are hit. I don’t care about the people I don’t know. I want my date, my friend, my whomever to be the one standing there paying more attention than I am to the people around me. It makes me feel amazing when Dana says, “did you see all those people looking at you? You were AMAZING! HOW DO YOU DO THAT?”

I love it.

Zen and the Art of Disaster Recovery

Facebook post announcing our divorce:

Dana and I were talking about getting married and all of the issues that we’d been struggling with over the last few years came to a boiling point in a way that you’d think we’d be able to fix by now…. and yet, not so much. It is with great sadness and heavy hearts that we announce our separation, and hope that you will continue to pray for both of us as we go on with our lives. Neither one of us could have undergone the type transformations we have over the last few years and still be the same people we were when we started. We’d hoped to have a long marriage with lots of kids and grandkids, but had to put that to a halt when we realized that we weren’t even healthy enough to be in relationship right now. I know you’ll all have a metric fuck tonne of questions, but keep them to yourselves. All you need to know is that Dana and I love each other, nothing will ever change that, but we have reached a fork in the road. It doesn’t mean that our roads are separated permanently, but it does mean that they are separate right now. We each have mental health issues of our own that need addressing. We need time to be us. We need time to find out who we are. If that takes us ultimately back toward each other, great. But no one can plan that far ahead, least of all a couple with two ADHD halves. Please respect that I am absolutely laying as much on the line as I can without breaking confidentiality, and that if there was anything more that either one of us could have done, we would have done it by now. For those of you who expected a phone call, we do not owe it to you. We do not want anyone to feel like they are more important because “they knew first.” It would also not be me if I didn’t end with two things. The first is that we go out with joy. This is not an end, but two new beginnings. The second is that may God forgive us for all the things we have done, and all the things we have left undone.

It’s over. It’s really, really over. Dana and her family are blocked on Facebook, that’s how done we are… but this is not an angry, aggressive move. I do not want to see all the support that pours out for Dana, because I need to be reaching to my own people and not hers. We love each other very much, but it is still not good for both of us to be pouring our stories into the same people, particularly each other.

When you go through a divorce, you learn quickly who your friends are. I mean, the ones that will rush in. The ones who are in proximity. I even mean this with Facebook friends, because miles do not equal distance. There was a period of about six months that Argo and I went barely an hour without flipping each other some sort of shit… sometimes it’s about God (and Not God). Sometimes, it’s about each other’s jobs (Edna’s bringin’ cookies), and sometimes it’s about rap (Andre be praised).

Last night, it was my friends Robert, Stacy, and Ramsey that rescued me. We did nothing. We watched Alexander and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day and Steve Carell knocked me on my butt with the funny. There was very little post-mortem and a whole lot of “let’s just do nothing and relax. All of our problems will still be there tomorrow.” That works for three hours.

Too much to think of to let my brain slide out my ear. Actually, that’s been the biggest side effect of the divorce. I cannot control my eating or sleeping…. and by that I mean that I don’t. I can’t make myself sleep more than three hours at a clip, and yesterday my calories consisted of an energy drink early in the day and a shot of amaretto at about 0. I’m going to buy a case of Slim Fast or Carnation Instant Breakfast because I can drink ok, but I have a block on eating. It’s a luxury right now. Too far down. Too anxious. Today I managed lunch. It’s a start.

All the rumination isn’t bad. I am actually very happy to be single, and not in an “it’s great to start dating again” sort of way. Everyone my age knows that shit sucks. I’m just not going to do it. I fell for Dana because she was my friend; she cared and still cares about who I am in joy and pain. You don’t get that from dating. You get that from day in, day out proximity. You get that from knowing the person so well you can read them like a book before you actually start thinking about whether it’s friendship or that OH MY GOD set of fireworks.

No, right now the happiness of being single is being let off the hook for the family obligations of being married. The happiness is being able to bury myself in work and not worry about when I come home or when I stop writing. And for those of you who think that having separate bedrooms made a difference, let me stop you rrrrriiiiiiight there. Our sex lives got HOTTER when we were inviting each other into our beds. So please shut that down. Unrelated.

No, our relationship broke with one fight, kind of like bands that work for 15 years to become an “overnight success.” All of the things we’d done to each other started to show like scars on a battlefield, because while we are fun, funny, and wonderful friends, that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a dark side to both of us- I mean, come on. You and I have met.

We have both started to turn toward light- I have found a new psychiatrist/therapist and we’re talking possible med changes, but taking it slow since I’ve been relatively stable on the ones I’ve had for 12 years. Maybe 12 years is long enough for those. I know that I am never going to be stable enough chemical-wise to be off meds, but I am not opposed to new things if they are genuinely better for me. The cycles in my bipolar disorder seem to be less dramatic, but happen more frequently.They used to last a few months- now I’m lucky to get a few weeks. Since I am Bipolar II, I do not truly go into mania. I just get very busy. Sleep is less important and writing becomes more. People think that I write because I am truly manic, and that is incorrect. My lows can go so low that I take the busy when I can get it, capiche? When I’m in a low, I am doing well to function at 85%. There’s no room for things like fun, because my worthlessness loop kicks in for no reason at all. I mean, I always know it’s there, but when I’m in a low, my ATTENTION turns toward it. When I am on the upswing, it’s not that it’s not there. It’s that my attention isn’t glued to it.

I owe a special thanks to Argo. I never would have realized just how much help I needed without her loving and attentive ear, even when I’m being a total douchebag and don’t deserve it. I am lucky that grace and mercy mean a lot to her, because even when we’re mad at each other, neither one of our mother lions turns off. That’s how we roll. She may be a burger-flippin’ ho occasionally, but she is also smarter than I am, and you’ll never hear me say that again out loud.

And on that note, it seems fitting to end with the image that I now carry as my iPhone wallpaper:


My Very Busy Schedule

I fell asleep early last night, I think because my eyes are still getting used to my glasses. My body is struggling and just needs rest so bad. Dana realized yesterday that I should “propose” to Dr. Doan like I did to Argo………. get down on one knee and say the words I hope she’s always longed to hear………… “Will you write a book with me?” Dana’s point was valid. You should get Dr. Doan to contribute to “Staring at Myself,” the title of my autobiography. I hope you don’t think it’s strange that I’m planning an autobiography at 37, but it really isn’t as self-serving as it comes across. The book is not about me as a person. It is about me as a case study for all eye doctors, regardless of degree……. and lay people that also have the same complicated quirks with their vision. Human interest feeds CME feeds human interest. Part JAMA article, part autobiography, which is why it thrills me that Dana thought of asking Dr. Doan to collaborate first. She’s a Vietnamese marathon runner, as heartbreakingly gorgeous as Sandra Oh. Yes, I realize that Sandra Oh is Korean. At the moment, though, she is just the most gorgeous Asian actress I could think of off the top of my head (and then I realized that I don’t think of other Asian actresses at all….. not because they don’t exist. Because I’m not a cheater. Wait. Yes, I am. Aishwarya Rai…… you have my number…… why won’t you call me back?). I feel ok publishing that I think she’s beautiful. She said my dad was handsome. I agree with her wholeheartedly, because I look like him. To me, he is the most beautiful man on God’s green earth because I am his flesh. To feel beautiful is to call him beautiful in the same breath.

Argo reads paragraphs that jump like this and says things like, “your mind fascinates me.” It is my life’s work to keep it up.