I am sick to death of fonts, and formatting, and page-fucking-design.  Actually, I am sick of most everything; lately my prayer has been to my dead father to come and get me.  Not a prayer really, more like a spit of venom coming from a petulant infantile discontent with life. 

Success is always only the result of hard, hard work, and I have no intention of working hard.  Because I learned—a lifetime ago—that nothing matters.  I thought it was a novelty when Minnesota elected a professional wrestler as governor.  I thought, who knows, Minnesotans are practical people, maybe Jesse will turn out to be a good choice. 

He turned out to be just The Body, in a suit instead of shiney gym trunks, with a state cop instead of an ex-con driving his limo.  Governer Jesse Ventura is out of office.  Now we have Arnold, the Terminator. 

Sometimes I want to mention the occasional miracle in which I am priveleged to participate while talking on the phone at work.  Someone, lonely, lost and confused—like me but in possession of a much greater courage than I—calls the place where I work and expresses to me, a total stranger, their most intimate need.  I am ennobled by them placing their hope in me, or even near me.  God knows I have little faith in my own employer, the place these innocents are calling for help.  But these innocents don't need to know that.  Such faith could transform Jack the Ripper into Christiaan Barnard.  It transforms me into something that feels holy. 

The web site is going.  At least the way it has been up until now.  It has turned into a huge mass, 500 megabytes, of old whining that nobody reads anymore, not even me.  Maybe I'll make it just a single, simple page, like this. 

I'm thinking of moving and getting a roommate.  He's the love of my life, and there was a time when I could at least pretend that it was reciprocal.  He looks better now than when I met him.  He is as sweet and charming as ever, his personality bright, his smile engaging, and his presence uplifting.  I can't have him, and that is probably his best feature for me. 

I don't know if I want to dream about him every night, and then wake-up every day with him just out of reach.  Of course I could just accept my position and simply appreciate being close to him, instead of lamenting that I cannot possess him.  I don't know what I'll do.  Everybody loves him.  I'll just be another in the crowd—and I hate crowds. 

I told him the other day that I believe he is going to die young.  He said he is not young, he is 36.  I clarified: "You will die before most of the people who love you."  I dread in advance tragedies that may never happen, and Bobby's death anytime soon is easily the greatest tragedy I can imagine, and the fear of it seldom leaves me. 

I am going to eat some comfort food now—something starchy or sugary to make these feelings and nagging questions go to sleep.  Just remember; nothing matters.