I have to run.  Laundry.  Bank.  Train to Boston.  And it is snowing. 

The forecast says the temperature will continue a gradual decline until it reaches eighteen degrees on Saturday.  Eight-fuckin'-teen!  Winter will be plunging its long icicle-fangs deep into our shivering hearts, even as we welcome spring on March 20.  Excuse me while I pour some hot coffee over my head.  (It's like wetting your pants; it feels nice and warm for a moment, but then there's problems.) 

I am generally a miserable cuss right now because I am leaving my house.  It is my day off, and I am leaving my house.  I don't do that on my day off.  And I cannot come back to my familiar bed, my own clutter, and my precious coffee pot until Tuesday night.  Tuesday fuckin' night! 

I used to gear-up for a trip to Boston, I used to get all psyched and optimistic on the bus ride there, and then I would focus on staying all happy and smile-faced for the potential life-love (read, fabulous regular sex without emotional conflicts) who, breathless, would stumble upon me, cheerful and charming, in one of the ancient gay bars in Boston.  Optimism is not my thing.  Not anymore.  I did optimism once; I met Daniel in one of those ancient gay bars and I made him fall in love with me.  He gave me some fabulous sex, not so regular, and some goose-bumping emotions which I never expected.  I wish I stayed there, I wish Daniel had been perfect, I wish I was not HIV positive.  I half-lived in Worcester then, and half-lived in Boston with Daniel.  Now I fully-live nowhere.

Nowhere, as best I can rekon from where I stand, is better than somewhere over the rainbow.  Things used to be different.  I used to be different.