I’m sensing a trend here. In this one, I’m crashing at someone’s house on Houston St. It’s a real house, not an apt. In the morning we’re all getting up and tiptoeing around, turns out we’re not supposed to be there. And it’s a massage parlor, a skeezy one at that. We sort of get caught so I end up outside at the bus shelter with the masseuse. Neither the massage nor the sex it leads to are that good and I think, ‘aren’t you supposed to be a professional?’

I’m pretty sure my pubic hair is darker now. I’m pretty sure this happened just last week. wtf.

still no blood.

Really glad i wrote the earlier post about Craig, and that i’d written the original, longhand, when it happened. It’s really good to have the touchpoint, to be able to remember what memories are mine and what are his.

Because fucking facebook, Andy-now-Andrew looks me up, he and the new fiancee are in town, let’s have dinner. Ok. First, weird, they’ve known each other less than a month and they’re GETTING MARRIED. And she’s a minister, or trained as one anyway. And his kids were there. Yipes.

And he still has so much anger. I have far more right to anger, not only for the old revelations but apparently new ones, too, but honestly, I’ve let more of it go. He really wanted to talk about what a shit Craig was. I know, I wrote it earlier, it’s so hard to trash-talk someone who’s dead, and he was pretty sure I’d be a sympathetic ear. But a) I have more right and b) I walked away from it. Why can’t he? 

I don’t know if I’m more surprised at his anger or my lack of it.