Sunday, September 28, 2003

I ain't no psychiatrist; I ain't no doctor with degree

I’ve been listening to Aretha Franklin for the past hour and wondering where the hell my social life went.

Cause I need you by my side;
Can’t you see that I’m lonely?

Come on and rescue me? I feel like a blind, deaf, mute child left in a burning building. It’s a Saturday night and I’ve been stuck in the kitchen steaming broccoli.

Broccoli’s never tasted this bad before.

Looking out on the morning rain,
I used to feel so uninspired.
And when I knew I had to face another day,
Lord, it made me feel so tired.

Lately, the only thing that’s made me feel like a natural woman has been our new dog, Prada:

And that’s because I stuff her in a red man-purse when sneaking her into the grocery store, console her when she cries at night, and reprimand her loudly during her daily pee-pee walks: Prada, no!

Tomorrow I’ve got to wake at the ungodly hour of seven to train for the New Orleans AIDS Marathon. Tomorrow we do six miles. I don’t remember the last time I walked six miles. When Diesel was having a sale?

To make matters worse, the man of my dreams left today. When I woke up, I felt half my heart leave for London. Sure, I had only spoken to him twice, but I just knew that this was THE ONE.

I went to a Hindu spiritual ceremony for him for God’s sake.

You better think;
Think about what you’re trying to do to me…


Wednesday, September 17, 2003

Shoot Me: I'm Single

And apparently more afraid of the dentist than I had originally thought.

My dentist, knowing of my fear of him, had his secretary leave three voicemails informing me of my six month cleaning today. Of course, I dodged all three calls and would have continued to dodge the fourth call had she not, in her ingenuity, blocked her number, which by then I had memorized the way rape victims memorize the faces of their assailants, from appearing on my cell phone.

"This is Mrs. So-and-so from Dr. So-and-so's office," she blurted out in one quick breath, thinking she might lose me by the end of the sentence. "We've been trying to reach you all week."

So I responded like any gay man would when pushed into a tight corner:

"I'm out of the country I'm afraid."

"In Mexico."

"Having plastic surgery."

We chit-chatted a bit about the lowered costs of tummy tucks in developing countries, and I assured her that I would promptly reschedule my appointment as soon as my eyelids, chin, and cheekbones healed and were ready to make their appearance in public.

I then went to my meditation class where my spiritual teacher, Chris, instructed us to comfortably sit in the theaters of our minds, focus on the intake/outtake of our breaths, and attempt to release the spiritual shackles that prevent us from communicating with our true Buddha nature.

With such insight and wisdom oozing out of my pores like Gatorade pouring forth from endurance athletes, how could I not keep this blog?

Thanks for all the kind comments.

Stay tuned; next week I'll have instructions on how to self-levitate.

Monday, September 15, 2003


I think I may have died and resurfaced in the innermost circles of hell.

During these past few weeks I've had the motivation of a paperclip, which is evidenced by my lack of posting.

Actually, my lack of posting might be a symptom of a greater problem: my desire to sprint through a minefield, hoping to dear God that shrapnel isn't as painful as it sounds.

I'm debating whether or not to delete this blog. I haven't had much reason to come here for a while. Come to think of it, I haven't had much reason to do menial tasks like bathe or eat three daily servings of fruit or pretend to be concerned when an elderly woman slips and appears to fracture her hip on my route to class the other day.

But we'll see.