The intellectual highlight of my day may have been around 4 am, when I got up to give my feline companions their breakfast and then plopped on the couch and watched about 15 minutes of Doctor Who. An episode that was unfamiliar. Something to do with harvesting antimatter crystals on a remote planet. And there was an antimatter beast that kept the ship from blasting off. The Doctor was endearingly brave, and Sarah Jane screamed a lot.

At lunch, the friendly female bar server asked me how my weekend was. I sat there with this blank look on my face and uttered, "Duhhhh!" She leaned over and in a stage voice whispered, "You've got to remember, hard drugs are bad; soft drugs are good!" Shit! So now I know!

To answer the unspoken question, I don't do drugs. I just think about doing drugs. Not to get high. But to blot out the past. But I want the process to be selective. I want to forget about the time in high school that a girl tried to french me. And how people made fun of me for being skinny. And how many times I was called a queer in college. And at 17 how much I loved Dan, but didn't know what to do about it. And how sad and empty and worthless I felt. And how angry and explosive I became. And how fucking long it has taken me to have some degree of prespective.

Now where did all this come from? This has turned out to be one of those entries that scares me. One that I look at and consider bowdlerizing but feel compelled to leave. One that makes me surprised that I didn't become a total nutter years ago.

PAX!