I have to figure out how to update this style sheet, since I can stand these blues everywhere. That’s almost like poetry.

Meanwhile, I realized something stupid about myself, which is embarrassing. So, for years I have dated a variety of different types of men, who mostly could be subcategorized under one universal heading. Of course, that heading would be asshole. Unfortunately, what I realized tonight is that the succession of a’holes has meant a version of post-traumatic disorder. I sometimes wince like the abused (although, thank fucking God, I’ve never been hit). I flinch waiting for the blow, or in my case the more subtle rebuff or fight or insult or something. The proverbial shoe drop, as in the shoe I’m always waiting to drop.

But, like seven months or so in with M., no shoe drop. Not even a hint of leather hitting the floor. He still smiles. He does nice things. He doesn’t mind that comedy and writing are both incredibly consuming and way too largely self-involved. And, he has the best ass of anyone I have ever dated. Almost so nice that I feel unworthy. (If you are reading this, and you are M., I said almost.)

It is going to be weird when he’s gone. But rather than miss him, I plan to value what we do have. Yeah, that’s my fucking experiment in optimism. The exertion will probably kill me.