A Week.

It was a week ago, almost to the minute, when M told me -- reluctantly, but unequivocally -- that he didn't want to be together any more, "like we were."

I’m avoiding people (except for a few very close friends I feel comfortable crying in front of). I don’t feel at all stable, and I don’t want to do some cliché breakup ritual where my friends take me out to get drunk and badmouth M. I don’t want anyone to be angry with him on my account. I still love him. I still think he’s amazing. How could I not still love him? He was so sweet and loving and generous to me. I’m not angry. I can’t let go of this irrational notion that we just had a misunderstanding that we can clear up. None of this is rational, so why not? Okay, so maybe that’s not likely, but at the very least I hold out hope that we’ll be close again in some way. I don’t think I’ve ever fallen out of love.

A few friends, either because J has talked to them or because they’ve read my blog, have sent me notes of sympathy and support. I keep repeating the refrain, “I have nothing, I have nothing,” but what I do have is very sweet friends.

What I hate most is that I regret the last 7 months. I wish it had never happened. I wish I had never met M. I wish I could erase it. Nothing is worth feeling as awful as I feel right now. But what that means is going back to a time when I sincerely believed I would never fall in love again. And that makes me crazy with grief.

*

What it comes down to, and M even said so though not in so many words, is that he lost interest in me because I’m basically a loser whose life has ground to a halt at 49. Okay, that's not fair, he didn't say that; he said that it made him panic to see that I didn't have anything else in my life but him. I had nothing to offer him. I grabbed onto him like a life jacket because he’s young and ambitious, talented, successful, etc. He has lots of friends and interests and confidence and promise. What would he need with me? What would he need with a washed-up artist who fell short of every dream he had, whose every frame of reference is in the past, who can no longer envision his own future? You’d run too.

*

Tonight I took out a piece of scrap paper and wrote “Wednesday” across the top, then “1. buy groceries,” and “2. edit HSD script.” HDS refers to the video I’m making based on my high school diary, which I've barely touched in the last week. And I haven’t wanted to do any cooking to speak of, so there’s nothing fresh in the house. I can’t keep eating chips and beer and takeout. I have $300 left on my food stamps card. I’ll buy a bunch of stuff to make salads -- M didn’t care much for salads, so making them and eating them won’t remind me too much of him, and it’s so hot now already that even turning the stove on makes the house uncomfortably warm.

If I can accomplish these two small tasks tomorrow, it’ll be some small step forward.

After I made the list, I cried harder than I’ve cried in the last week, realizing that it’s inevitable that I must leave my life with M behind. That I can't be with the man who brought me such joy, that all the wonderful things I looked forward to, the life that I was so sure was about to happen, will never happen.

Did I Fucking Dream This?

I keep thinking that if I misunderstood M’s intentions or his feelings about our relationship in such a fundamental way, I must have missed many clues all along, and that somehow it was fucked up from the beginning, that I must have been missing something or misinterpreting what was happening all along. All that time I thought I had my eyes wide open I was blind.

My memory of our trip to Mexico City turns from a sweet, wonderful reminiscence into a kind of Gaslight nightmare when I think about it. It was in Mexico that M started to talk about the future. And he encouraged me to think of us being together for at least a couple years when he discussed possibilities that could allow him to work there but not until at least the fall of 2011. It was all very tentative and contingent, but I didn’t ever think of it as contingent on anything that was happening between us, only contingent on the availability of opportunities to make a living there. I don’t think it was just the romance of being in a beautiful, exotic place on vacation because we continued to talk about it for weeks afterwards. He would bring it up. I wasn’t pushing the idea, I swear to fucking god I wasn’t. As recently as a couple weeks ago, he mentioned wanting to take another trip to Mexico City together this summer.

I’m going insane trying to figure out what happened, and being well aware that I might never know makes me even crazier. If I was so wrong about this, how can I trust my perception of anything.

*

It's a big perfect storm,this breakup, exacerbating all my fears about money and success and aging and home and love and family, blah blah blah, and I can see it and know what's happening but that doesn't make it any easier. God damn, it hurts!

Once again, I have to create some kind of life for myself from scratch. I'm tired. I'm tired of going back to nothing and starting over.

When Things Fall Apart.

I went to Bookpeople tonight and bought a new copy of When Things Fall Apart, by Pema Chodron. This is the book that I read -- or I should say that R read to J and me -- when things got so tough for us on the road, and the ideas in it -- which come from Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, through Pema Chodron, who was his student – got me through that difficult time and profoundly changed the way I live my life. Though my meditation practice has lapsed the last couple years, I still refer to those teachings and ideas daily.

I looked for this book on my shelf last week -- I must have given it to someone, because it wasn’t there. But the more I thought about it, the more hesitant I was to read it again. I have begun to worry that this notion of detachment from desired outcomes -- a central idea in these teachings and one I’ve strongly believed (I have “Abandon any hope of fruition” tattooed on my arm) -- is somehow behind all this chaos in my life the last 5 years. Is my success at letting go of any expectation of getting anywhere the reason that I can’t seem to get anywhere? It seems to me that what I need right now is to get my shit together, not to be cultivating contentment with the fact that I can’t get my shit together. I don’t want to be content with living in a homeless shelter and panhandling on the access road.

On the other hand, the source of this pain I feel now is my inability to let go of the future I had envisioned with M. I’m scared to let go of that vision because it feels like letting go of the very possibility of an enduring bond, a lasting partnership based on love and affection. I didn’t believe that it was possible, not for me, before I met M, but I let myself believe in it with him because I thought I was witnessing it happen. It felt miraculous. And, like most miracles, it was just a lie somebody wanted badly to believe. How will I ever let myself be that vulnerable again?

Monday.

I realize now, because it's all rushing back, that being with M alleviated a lot of my fear of aging. That I was interesting to a man 15 years younger than me was very, very reassuring. So, him losing interest had an extra punch.

I'm sort of wondering now how long it's normal to be so intensely sad. I'm still -- it's been what, like, well over a week? -- crying uncontrollably several times every day and avoiding the company of anyone but J because anything can set me off. I'm basically sitting in my room most of the day watching movies and maybe reading a bit. I don't want to pathologize what might be just a run-of-the-mill broken heart. On the other hand, I feel like I might need help.

I've thought about suicide a lot the last few days. I can't say I've contemplated killing myself, but I've ... pondered it. I've found some relief in googling “clean painless suicide” and reading all about the pros and cons of hanging and decapitation by train and various poisons. I don’t have the guts to kill myself, but it’s a way of imagining an end to this pain. I can’t imagine how else it will stop. The idea of living without love is too bleak to imagine, but the idea of ever being open to it again is terrifying.

I've been thinking about moving back to New York. The argument against it was always that I didn't know how I would make a living there, but lately I can't make a living anywhere, so New York isn't any more intimidating than any place else. There is no place that feels more like home to me than New York, and it's been so long since I've felt like I was home.

Why Not?

It must seem weird and maybe a bit icky to some, the fact that I’m writing about this intense shit while it’s happening. I was apprehensive at first, but I couldn’t think of any good reason not to. I think my hesitation was just a vestige of Midwestern reticence about anything emotional. It’s distasteful to show strong emotion, even to your family.

Most of my work has been, in some way, autobiographical. The real-time aspect of blogging heightens the effect, but I can’t see how it’s any different sharing this experience now as it’s happening or sharing it 2 years from now in a book or something.

And, anyway, while I’m sitting here composing sentences and paragraphs I feel sane and focused, and I will do just about anything right now that will make me feel that way. Because I’m going a little crazy.

Expectations.

I, we, talked so much about my expectations. I expected too much. I depended for my well-being on a certain outcome. As if there’s something wrong with the expectation that our connection would endure and deepen, when we both explicitly expressed that desire. But it's you who became apprehensive. It seems to me that this moment is about how the relationship didn’t meet your expectations. What did you think I was that I turned out not to be?

Another Day.

I picked up my friend P at the airport today -- she’d been to Indiana for a family wedding -- and she treated me to brunch at Blue Star Cafeteria. It was crowded and we ate at the counter. I cried, she listened and cried and gave me good advice. P is a social worker, she works with the families of people who are dying, and I don’t know if she ended up doing that work because of a natural talent for maintaining equanimity in the presence of other people’s pain, or if she cultivated that talent by doing that work. But she’s good and very wise, and I felt and still feel a little better after spending time with her.

When I got home, I had a lovely, heartfelt email from someone I met briefly last year through some old friends who came to see Lizzie Borden in New York. She’s been reading this chronicle and felt compelled to send words of encouragement and support, for which I’m grateful. It helps.

I watched Palindromes last night on Netflix streaming. It’s beautiful and brilliant and a few times while watching I felt a little brightness, a little optimism about art and being an artist. I also felt sad because it’s the kind of film that M and I would have enjoyed together. I think Todd Solondz’s sensibility is one of the places where our tastes coincide: that mix of deep emotion and fucked-up weirdness. Hilarious, freaky, painful, and deeply true all at the same time. But maybe not. Maybe we both like that kind of thing but see it in completely different ways.

By the time the film was over, I was pretty drunk, but I started watching The Puffy Chair. I enjoyed it for a while, but when I saw that it was going to be all about the couple -- at some point, they were in bed and the woman said to the man that they needed to talk about the relationship -- I turned it off and went to bed. I couldn't do it.

I’m neglecting my other blogs: The Austin Chronicle and Bilerico. I don’t know what to write about. Nothing is very interesting to me right now but my own suffering. I read a little bit. I spend hours doing nothing in front of my computer: checking the hits on this blog, wondering if M is reading it, scrolling through tumblr blogs of pictures of sexy men, avoiding photos of redheads, waiting for another day to be over.

Nightfall.

The pain gets worse as the day goes on. Yesterday and today I had a moment or two just as I was waking up when I felt optimistic. It’s as if I wake up forgetting how sad I am but then it comes trickling back into my mind and by the time I’m making coffee I’m weeping again.

The evenings are especially painful. I run out of things to do to distract myself. We spent our evenings together.

Tonight after dinner, I went out to get beer because we were out. The cheapest, closest place with good beer is a gas station convenience store sort of near M’s house. On the way there (which is not really on the way) I drove past his house and then drove past it again on my way home. I pictured myself knocking on the door and telling him how much pain I’m in, asking for a hug, just a hug, if ever you loved me, if ever you thought of me even as a friend, you’d give me a hug and help me get through this because look how much I’m hurting. I don’t think anyone was home. Thank god. I watch myself doing these things and know how ridiculous they are, but I’m unable to stop myself.

By sunset, the whole weight of it is back, sitting on my heart. Heavy drinking helps. It helps to be not quite conscious of going to bed alone.

Things I have to avoid because they make me start crying:

1. Anything about Mexico, including the Spanish language and Mexican food, and especially anything about Mexico City.
2. Anything having to do with the Medieval period, the French language, and France.
3. Mad Men.
4. Movies or stories about people falling in love or being in love or staying in love.
5. Cooking.
6. Eating.
7. Liberty Bar and East Side King (the little food trailer in back of the bar -- it was our favorite).
8. The drive down Springdale and west on 12th St. (the route I took to and from M’s almost every day for the last 7 months).
9. Most of East Austin and the U.T. campus (where M lives and works).

#1 is the toughest one. I fell in love with Mexico City and M at the same time. It was on our trip there that I let down my defenses, let myself trust that we’d be together for a long time because he told me that’s how he felt. It’s important to me to verify that I was not telling myself a story based on my own fantasies and desires; I never took a step before very carefully confirming that he was taking that step, too. I don’t want to blame M for any of this, but I do want to know that I was not delusional, that I did everything I could to avoid being hurt like this. I want to know that I am not a complete idiot.

In Conclusion.

The world is a bleak and lonely place filled with unspeakable pain, so we pursue various pleasures (drugs, sex, romance, laughter, art), but the momentary relief they give us from the underlying misery only makes it hurt more when pleasure recedes. Love is a sham. It’s just an optimistic name we give to a neurotic mix of sensual pleasure and fear of loneliness.

Trying to Break It Down.

Trying to make sense of this despair by breaking it into components is, perhaps, a bit less painful than just sitting here swimming in it. Is my reaction to this breakup out of proportion? Nothing in my life – and I’ve been through some shit – has had me crying uncontrollably for a week. I’m frightened of the anguish I’m feeling now. Maybe if the rest of my life had some order, I’d feel like there was a way to recover.

I am almost 50 years old, I can’t support myself, and I am alone. I live in a room in someone else’s house. I don’t have any routine to go back to. All I have to return to is the howling anxiety of everything else in my life that hasn’t made sense for years. Any semblance of order I had before I met M is gone now for having been neglected. I have no home to hide in while I heal. I have no job to throw myself into to keep my mind occupied. My work is some consolation. I’ve done a little shooting and writing for my high school diary film, but it’s hard to stay focused. My ideas, and my confidence in them, are fragile -- because the work is new, because I haven't had success with anything I've done in the last 5 years, because I'm unsure even of what medium I should be working in -- not strong enough to withstand the waves of sadness that hit me over and over.

M was a bright island in this sea of anxiety about aging, poverty, and failure. Being with him, I could at least feel that someone found me attractive. Maybe somewhere deep down I knew I was hanging everything on that, but I didn’t have anything else to hang anything on at the moment. For him to lose interest in me confirms all my worst fears: I really am dull, unskilled, not as smart as I think I am, not talented enough to be successful, and, if that’s not bad enough, unattractive, too.

So, to recap: 1. old, 2. stupid, 3. untalented, 4. a failure, 5. unlovable, once you get to know me, and 6. super-pathetic and extra annoying and unattractive because I’m so goddamned insecure.

Fuck my life.

Friday Night.

I got very stoned with J and watched Romy & Michelle's High School Reunion. That was good medicine. There were a couple times I sobbed perhaps a little more than was appropriate, but it felt good for my crying to be, for a time, abstract. And I laughed hard, a lot. I hadn't seen it before.

Strangely, writing about this helps alleviate the pain, at least while I'm focused on writing and don't let my mind wander too far. Even though I'm sitting here examining and analyzing it, it's a relief to be doing something I feel like I have control over. And my thoughts come into focus when I write.

I wrote a a long letter to M and dropped it at his house this afternoon, along with his house key and a few gifts he'd given me. I felt a little ridiculous giving him back his stuff, so dramatic, but for some reason it felt necessary. It hurts too much to have that stuff around. I have so much to say to him. He's the one that I've shared my thoughts with lately -- I can't stop framing my thoughts as if he were my audience. I made a big effort to keep the letter sane, to express myself simply and to ask straightforward questions. I'm trying hard to understand what happened.

J had plans tonight but postponed them and took me to P Terry's for dinner. I've been living on smoothies, beer, chips, and tacos from El Chilito for a week. I feel like I've forgotten how to cook.

The Last Week.

The battery in my phone died Monday, so, with 8 days left on the warranty, I took it to the Apple Store, which is at The Domain (for the record, the most depressing place on the whole fucking planet – it’s a mall where people live in apartments above the stores), and they gave me a new phone. I thought I had backed up my phone in the last day or two but it turned out that the last backup was June 6. So 9 days of text messages (the only record I have of communication with M during that time) is gone. Is it a small kindness or a cruel joke that in the last few messages I have on my phone, everything was fine, that there’s no record of when everything turned bad?

Less than two weeks ago, he was calling me “sweetie” in his text messages. Then, in a matter of days, everything changed, and he doesn’t want “to be boyfriends, like we were” anymore. “Like we were.” 10 days ago.

I’m too sensitive. That’s what people, adults – my parents, teachers – said when I was a kid: he’s too sensitive. I was easily embarrassed, hurt, I cried a lot. I’d like to be a little, a lot, less sensitive right now because this hurts like a holy motherfucker. Why am I taking this so hard? I think I was fine 7, 8 months ago, before I met M. Fine. Well, all the money/job/career stuff was fucked up then too, but I had no desire for love and romance, didn’t want any part of it, didn’t need it, didn’t miss it. So why am I falling apart now? Why is it that I feel like I literally cannot bear losing him? I feel hopeless. I can’t stop crying. I’m too sensitive.

J and I used to watch a show years ago, one of the very early Discovery Channel reality shows, I think it was called Operation TV. It came on when we were having dinner. One memorable episode followed a woman, who had a particular type of epilepsy, through a surgical procedure which they hoped would cure her. Her seizures did not consist of falling on the ground and foaming at the mouth; she would just start repeating the words, “I know really I know really I know I know really I know I know really I know,” over and over. The surgery consisted of removing a piece of her skull to expose her brain, then prodding around in the brain tissue to find the lesion that was causing the seizures. She had to be awake during the surgery so they could tell when a seizure was triggered. The surgeon poked at various spots in her brain until she started saying, “I know really I know,” etc., and then he just cut that section out. She was cured. So I’m wondering if it’s possible to locate the section of my brain that falls in love and cut it out. I want to be cured. I don’t want to live in fear of this happening again.

I don’t want to go back to porn and drunken blowjobs in the car at 2 a.m. To STD clinics and telling everyone who asks that I don’t have a boyfriend because I have no use for love and don’t believe in it. I do believe in it. I just don’t have it in me to bear the sadness. Not again. I try to remind myself that there’s beauty in sadness – you’re an artist, write a song about it – but I don’t really believe that anymore. I think it was only something I used to tell myself so I could get through it.

I Made a List.

It's true, making a list is a good way to see a problem clearly.

A friend told me that I should make a list of all the things I am looking for in a job. I can't remember now what she said I should do with this list -- I have trouble with multi-step processes. Making the list was edifying, but also depressing, because I see now why it's so hard to get a job:

1. Part-time (20-30 hours/week, so I have time and energy for the other things I do)
2. Flexible hours (because things come up that I need to be available for)
3. Time off when I need it (for instance, 2 weeks off in October if my show gets into the musical theater festival in New York we applied for)
4. No dress code (because I don't want to buy a bunch of stupid clothes, and because it's hot as hell half the year)
5. Right livelihood (I won't work for anyone whose products or business practices are harmful -- there's a lot of leeway here, but there are certain things I won't be a part of)
6. Preferably something in the arts or non-profit or queer realm, because the people are more interesting.
7. I have to make enough to live on. I have a simple life, low living expenses, but I have student loans and credit card debts. So, for instance, I could work at a book store or coffee shop full-time and still not make enough to meet my expenses (which is a sign of how fucked up the world is, but that's what I've got to work with).

1, 2, 3, and 5 (and 7?) are pretty much non-negotiable. I fret about 2 and 3, because I know nobody is going to hire me if I say that I might need to take time off here and there for my work. People tell me, "Just don't tell them that. Work it out when it comes up." It's not that I'm so morally pure, but that kind of deceit is just ... stressful for me. It's a headache.

My friend's advice was basically that it's easier to find a job if you know exactly what you want. What I want is not to have to find a job. What I want is to get on with my life. A job is an obstacle, a distraction, a pain in the ass.

Jane Olivor.

I just watched a movie called Saturday Night at the Baths. It was made in 1975. The central character is a straight man who takes a gig playing piano at the Continental Baths in New York. The story revolves around this guy, his girlfriend, and the manager of the bathhouse, with whom this couple become involved. There was some awful acting, some scary dialogue dubbing, and jarring music edits (which I think might be a preservation issue) but the script and editing were good, very tight and clear, and the actors who play the two main characters give really wonderful, natural and affecting performances. It was a much more complex, interesting film than I expected.

1975! It looked like my New York. I didn't move to New York until 1981, but I don't think the appearance of the city changed much in the 70s except to get dirtier and more run-down.

An extended section of the film is the actual floor show at the Baths, with wild modern dancing by boys in tighty-whiteys, a gorgeous performance by Jane Olivor (the cabaret singer who shot to stardom in the late 70s and then disappeared), drag queens impersonating Diana Ross, Carmen Miranda, and of course the immortal Miss Garland.

My grandmother turned me on to Jane Oliver when I was 15. Did the whole world know I was gay before I did? I love this so much.



Working on this high school diary project has me listening to and thinking about music I loved at that age. Steely Dan, Moody Blues, ELO, Led Zepellin, Joan Baez, Judy Garland.

I had these records on vinyl, and I sold all my vinyl on the street for $1 an album in front of J's and my 10th St. apartment when we moved to Nashville in 1998. I just downloaded Jane Olivor's version of Don McLean's "Vincent." It has as much power tonight as it did back then to tear my heart out like only a 15-year-old gay boy's heart can be torn out.

Come Back Like Water.

I started a Tumblr blog today for sharing random images I come across.

Sprung.

I guess I left everyone hanging. Sorry about that! I caught a nasty cold Monday, and, strangely, M got sick too around the same time though he had something different (very sore throat and fever), so instead of that steak dinner I made a big pot of chicken soup and we've been convalescing together. We finished the last season of Mad Men, and watched a movie last night.

My food stamps kicked in while I was in the study -- it's actually now called SNAP, for Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, because it's not stamps any more, it's a debit card. I used the card to buy the stuff for chicken soup at Wheatsville, our local food co-op, which I've always loved but love even more now since it expanded and has more stuff. I think I've mostly gotten over the unexpected shame I felt about public assistance, but still, as I was shopping I had an internal monologue running about what I was buying. It was mostly about whether I deserve organic chicken which costs 3 or 4 times as much as factory chicken. I think, even though I spend more on produce and meat than the average shopper, I think I must still spend less overall because I make everything from scratch. With that $18 chicken, a few carrots and onions, some celery, and a bag of egg noodles, I made a pot of soup that has lasted for several meals and there's enough chicken left for chicken salad. I'm guessing most people would have bought cans of chicken noodle soup, which can get expensive when they add up.

When I was checking out, I swiped the card like a debit card -- they say "Use it like a debit card" -- and it didn't work. The cashier asked me what kind of card it was, and (I guess I haven't totally gotten over the shame) I said, "it's a debit card." She tried it again and still no luck. She said, "Is it a Lone Star Card?" I told her yes. She said, "You have to tell me ahead of time, because it's a different button I have to push." I told her it my first time using it, and she said very sweetly, "I think most places, you'll have to tell them ahead." But I used it last night at HEB and told the cashier, but she didn't need to know. When I swiped it, a menu came up asking me to select "Lone Star Card."

Oh, two other things. When we were checking out of the study, and everyone was hugging and making plans to meet at Kerbey Lane for breakfast -- I couldn't wait to get away from these people, and they were making plans to meet for breakfast -- the Jesus Guy (the one I had the little confrontation with early on) asked if everyone would like a prayer, and a few people said yes and nobody said no. He turned to me and said, "Steven would you like a prayer?"

I said, "No, thank you." He said, "Oh, c'mon." I said, "Really, no. You go ahead and pray, I don't mind, I'm used to it." So everyone bowed their heads and he asked the Lord's blessing for everyone's safe journeys home. It struck me how sad it is that we're so bullied by a certain kind of Christianity in this place that I can't be open to a simple and heartfelt travelers blessing.

The other thing I wanted to mention is that M and I watched The Boys in the Band last night. I hadn't seen it in many years and, after reading The Celluloid Closet, I want to see some of these landmark films again. It's a wild movie, full of stuff to chew on, much more complex and nuanced than its reputation, I think. Maybe some day soon I'll write more of my thoughts about it. I expected to scoff, but found it really thought-provoking and moving at times. And surprisingly relevant to "gay culture" still. Tonight is The Killing of Sister George. Equal time for the ladies.

Day 14.

I have a cold. Church Lady started sniffling a few days after we got here and her bed is right next to mine, so I was pretty sure I’d catch whatever she had but hoped I wouldn’t. Today is a very light day as far as procedures, so I’ve spent my last morning here sleeping and getting up to blow my nose.

Speaking of Church Lady, yesterday the little cluster of people who sleep near me -- who have all become, if not friends, at least familiar enough to spend a lot of time together playing games and watching movies and sitting together at meals -- were discussing which movies they wanted to watch before our time is up, and Church Lady said, “and I’ve got a movie I’d like to show everyone tomorrow. It’s only about 30 minutes.” Chatty said, “I never heard of a movie that’s only 30 minutes. Is it a documentary or something?” Church Lady said, “Yes, it’s a documentary.”

It all comes together. From the beginning, I was suspicious of the little magazines she reads alongside her Bible. Once, she set one down and the cover was mostly masked by the Bible on top of it but the last few letters of the title were visible: “ower.” But I thought she had said she was Catholic, so I forgot about it. But she must have been feeling bold yesterday because right after the conversation about her “documentary,” she left one of the magazines sitting right there on the bed, face up. The Watchtower. Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!

Everyone is in good spirits, jittery, making plans for their first meals on the outside. There’s a little sadness in the air, too. People really do make friends here, and I’m a little envious. I remember a couple times, when I was a teenager, going to an Episcopal youth group retreat for a week in the summer (I was a dabbler at that age), how quick and intense the friendships were and how sorrowful the goodbyes.

We get out tomorrow at about 8:30 a.m. M and I had plans for a reunion dinner tomorrow evening, and I was getting a group of friends together for a movie on Thursday night, but I chatted with M this morning and he’s sick too, has a fever and a sore throat, so I don’t know what either of us will be up for. I guess we’ll wait and see how we feel tomorrow. Abandon any hope of fruition.

Day 13.

Things that grate on my nerves when I hear people talking about them at any length: Jesus, sports, celebrities, their children (unless I know them -- an update is fine, but people go on). On the other hand, some people hate small talk about the weather, but I’ll talk about the weather all damn day.

Nearly every conversation here, after about 5 minutes, if it’s a group of men, turns to sports talk. If it’s women, they end up talking about their children or gossiping about their friends and families. If it’s a mixed group, they talk about the ways in which men and women are different. Now that could be an interesting conversation, but -- sorry, I know how condescending this is to say -- they are adding nothing new.

M asked me the other night if there were any other artists here. There must be, but I haven’t met them. It surprises me that that isn’t one of the types you find here, seeing as how artists can be just as broke as anyone. I wonder if it has to do with class and shame. I think a great number of the people doing these studies are what you’d call working poor, people who are more familiar with and inured to the stigma of things like free clinics and food stamps, and I wonder if maybe a drug study falls into that category. These things are under the radar of the middle class. (The exception to that seems to be college students. This company advertises heavily in student newspapers and a lot of students do these studies during breaks and summer.) Even though a lot of artists are impoverished, they travel in pretty middle class circles. Just a theory. There’s more to it than class, though. I suspect that if there was anything like this in New York, there would be long waiting lists of young artists clamoring for the easy cash.

Speaking of shame and lack thereof, Church Lady is tweezing her mustache in bed right next to me.

A group of my wardmates have been playing Scrabble to pass the time. I’ve been tempted to join them, since I’m pretty good at Scrabble, but I’ve resisted because, well, basically I don’t want to socialize with them any more than I have to. It’s like mealtimes, almost every meal there’s a conversation that makes me very uncomfortable because everyone agrees on something that I find abhorrent. Like the virtue of beating your children. Or supporting the “troops.” Or whatever.

I did voice an opinion a couple nights ago at dinner when Bible Guy was going on and on about how much better things were 50 years ago (his favorite topic, after the Bible). I interjected with the standard liberal critique of that view, something along the lines of, “Things were better for some people, but maintaining their better life depended on things being pretty shitty for a whole lot of other people, like blacks and other minorities, homosexuals, a lot of women, the disabled, etc, etc. He conceded the point, and as I drew him out I saw that we agreed on some things. Like the fact that our economic system brings out the worst tendencies in us. And that one thing that may have been better about America 50 years ago was that people were more community- and family-minded, which I think is a virtue, if we could only expand what we mean by community and family.

I think my brain is only half functioning. I’m so lethargic. It’s difficult to work up much enthusiasm for writing down what happens here. Sorry for that. It’s all become a sleepy blur. I’ve never spent so much time in bed, ever. There are other places to be, other things to do, but none of them appeal. There are a couple rooms with big-screen TVs where people watch movies, but with all the procedures it’s hard to time it so you see the whole thing and I’m kind of neurotic about missing the beginning of movies. They watched Avatar the other night. There’s also a pool room where guys play pool and watch basketball. Um, no. Until a couple days ago, I was fairly content here in my hospital bed, reading and writing, blogging and emailing. But I turned a corner and now I’m just sick of it and want out. I need to have a talk with myself -- I still have 2 more days!

Day 11.

Why is it, when there are 3 people putting the ECG stickers on people, one of whom is, say, a plump matron who could be someone’s beloved grandmother, one a loud woman with really long fingernails, and one a handsome young man with nice arms and a wicked smile, I never get the handsome young man? Is it wrong to want the cute boy to put the stickers on my chest once or twice?

One of the techs last night was saying that they have an easy job. He feels like he gets paid to socialize. It is kind of impressive how they're usually cheerful and relaxed and seem to enjoy each other’s company. But they don’t just socialize; they have to be skilled. They move from task to task, doing blood draws, glucometer readings, ECGs, urine collection, vital signs, and all the various auxiliary tasks involved in those procedures. And because everything is timed so precisely, they have to stay very focused and alert. They don’t ever seem really rushed, but they have to keep a steady, brisk pace. It’s not brain surgery, but it takes some skills.

The skill we as subjects notice most, of course, is the ability to do things like the blood draws and finger sticks painlessly -- well, the finger sticks always hurt, but sometimes they hurt more. I’ve noticed that the techs who are socializing the most, laughing and joking with their co-workers or embroiled in an intense conversation about someone’s obnoxious roommate or new boyfriend while they’re sticking a piece of sharp metal into your body, are the ones who make it hurt.

Spaghetti again last night -- third time. It’s not so bad. The pasta is overcooked, but the sauce isn’t terrible. To be honest, though, it’s all crap and I’m beyond caring which crap it is. They woke us in the middle of the night last night for a procedure and then again before 6 to start the whole song and dance again. I feel like Karen Quinlan today. Somebody pull the plug.

Day 10.

A rare steak, a real Caesar salad, and a beer. That’s what I want when I get out. People have asked, and that’s the answer.

And things I can’t wait to do: trim my toenails and fingernails, and shave.

A new study started last night. Gray t-shirts. All men, about 15 of them; half of them look like college kids with their Justin Bieber haircuts and basketball skorts. Ever since they arrived, there’s been urine splashed all over the walls and floors around the urinals. What is it with men who pee all over the place? Do they have no control, or do they just not care?

I’ve done quite a bit of reading since I’ve been here, but not as much writing as I’d hoped. I’ve made a lot of notes and I’ve done a lot of mental work on the high school diary project, but I had planned to dive into the text and edit a draft. This afternoon, the cute 25-year-old boy 3 beds down, who is into bodybuilding and art, asked me what I was working on. (I don’t mix much. I spend any free time we have with my books and computer, not running around with a group watching movies or playing games or chatting chatting chatting, and I guess it’s obvious because people keep asking, “what you are doing?” “Trying to ignore you, why do you ask?”) I was looking at Facebook when he asked, but I said, “I’m working on a couple projects.” He said, “What projects.” (It’s not like anyone is in a hurry; I suppose if you want to draw somebody out, you’ve got plenty of time.) I said I was working on a script for a short film. He was impressed and intrigued. He said that his brother had wanted to go to film school but their parents had forbid it and made him go to Texas A&M instead. That broke my heart. We had a nice short conversation and he wished me “good luck with that.”

So, of course, I spent the rest of the afternoon working on the script like crazy because I don’t want this kid to catch me on Facebook when he thinks I’m a big fancy screenwriter. A little attention from a cute young man is what it takes to get me motivated. Pathetic.

Today is wild. Starting with urine collection at 6 and ending with a blood draw after 2 a.m., we’re doing ECGs, glucometer readings, blood draws, and vitals signs all day long. I don’t mind so much that it’s hectic; it makes the day go faster. I don’t like wearing the ECG pads all day. They chafe and make me itch like crazy, and when I pull them off at night they pull a layer of skin with them.

We hate the new gray shirts, coming in here for their little sissy-ass 5-day study, pissing all over the bathroom floor. We hate them.