Friday, August 17, 2012


I am waiting for a burrito to arrive from Haab and cursing at imaginary people that are not with me in the kitchen. I have poured myself some Ricard and am sipping it with water like a classy gentleman. I am cursing: You are too old to be wearing graphic tees from Urban Outfitters. I mean, everybody is too old to be doing so, but you especially.

I am just a bit angrier than I perhaps should be right now. I am a bit jealous and also not, also grossed out.

I was just getting off the subway and walking toward my house when I walked past Jacob and the new boy he is seeing/fucking/whoknows, a boy that I casually know, friend of a friend, and it's really fucking weird to see them together. I know that Jacob has been going over to his house and that he only lives a couple blocks away from us, but I have luckily never seen them together. That is, until now. It just annoys me because he is another skinny, lanky, awkward gay with brown hair and he is a little too close to my own body type. I want to see Jacob with someone younger, blonder, and shorter - something so far different from myself physically that I can explain things that way, take some form of comfort in that. It would also be nice to see him with someone that I don't know either. Jacob's hello was too eager, the other's boys what's up too gruff.

I gave Jacob my last cigarette earlier and I am regretting it.

I saw a man earlier tonight - this was where I was coming home from earlier tonight when I passed them. He was a middle-aged business guy staying on the 39th floor of a midtown hotel. I gave him a massage and blew him. I thought he was actually really sexy. His cock was big and really beautiful. I kept looking at our reflection in his uncurtained glass windows and, beyond that, the glittering lights of the city, dark windows and lit windows, upright rectangular shapes glowing in odd spots, blocking off big blocks and little blocks of the night sky.


UPDATE: So the above was written in a fit of rage. My burrito came. Jacob came home at the same time. I ate the burrito and drank a lot of Ricard and now don't feel this way. But it is what it is. I am trying to be honest and I am not being entirely so. It's how I felt in the moment I wrote it, shortly after passing them on the street. You would be getting a lot more of the above if Jacob hadn't told me he read my diary and I didn't exercise the modicum of self-restraint I have been attempting to. I need to stop telling people about my diary, but it's hard not to if it is someone that I like and I want them to know more about me. But then the problem comes about when you want to write about them but fear what they may think, that they may read it, how their feelings may be hurt, how what you are writing, diarying, can actually alter future events, the trajectory of your relationship in ways that usually are not positive. 

To more honesty. You really have to embrace the rage and the hatred and the bitterness and the pettiness. To not do so is to be false. I am trying to be honest. It takes work to overcome the fears we have about how we might be perceived, about hurting the feelings of others. I want to document this time in my life, all of the moments in my life. I want to let out these things in verbal form, put them somewhere outside of my mind. I want to grow and learn and understand. So please be a little patient, or preferably don't read this.

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