We either have to fight or jerk off because I can't take this tension much longer.
When I thought it was ten after one it was ten after four. Stayed up all night reading a book, which I hesitate to call a gay book, because when I read gay books they're purely out of entertainment, but this, this was something more, this turned out scary. Good but scary, but if I new it was gonna be this scary, would I have started it? Probably not. I'm vulnerable enough. Last night, or two nights ago, whatever it is, I got high off a load of green I stole from my brother, watched Roseanne, ate too much, then got sick and threw up for hours in a cracked green plastic trashcan while Roseanne played in the background. I don't know why I get sick like that sometimes. The scary thing, or the good thing, is that I stay high while I'm sick, after I'm sick, just pulsing. This is when I know I'm alive. But it might not be alive. The pulsing is machine like, pistons cranking. There's a big one in my head. Sometimes I think this is all a mistake. My room in Pittsburgh's a mess. I'm still home, but I don't want to call this home anymore. I think Philadelphia is home now. I talked about this with Thomson--The Edge is clinical and impersonal. That's not home. But the city's home. The subway is home. The streets are home. The sex is home. But I can't bring myself to clean up this room, 28 by 9 feet, low ceiling, graffiti in pencil and paint splattered across the walls. Stenciled letters, numbers, spelling out everything and nothing. Old t-shirts encrusted with the come of the sons of at least three continents, Empty water bottles. I remember there was a boy who was Chinese, I'd sneak in his room at night and we'd sleep together in his twin bed, fuck intensely, quietly, so nobody would hear. We pissed in water bottles. I went out the window. Does shit like this really happen? Cleaning this room means giving it up. But there's too many ghosts here. My father is here. In this house his body's never entered. When he died they boxed him up at the foot of his father. Was Pittsburgh his home? All men are buried at their fathers' feet. That is Pittsburgh. Tripping on the shrooms, Pittsburgh was Lanford. I was in Lanford. That was a mental state, not a physical one. I could take it then, intellectualize it. But here, in the flesh, the steel and sweat of the city, the rivers swell and the hills roll into delirium. Can anyone leave if they try? I'm in love. Of course I'm not in love. I think I am. I think I am with any boy who will have me, any boy I let have me. I could tell the Korean boy that he didn't really love me when he said he did, but who can tell that to me? Cause I'll never tell him I feel this way, I've already let him see me get too vulnerable. We've seen each other get vulnerable. My hands were pulsing and he went for my cock. I sat on his floor for hours. He didn't wanna touch me but I let him. I never should have let him. I can't keep this up. I don't know what's fiction anymore. Am I OK? I make things sound worse than they really are. Nothing has really happened. If I have to ask myself if I'm OK... No, I'd know if I wasn't. I'd really know. If I'm asking myself, I must be OK. This is how I rationalize things. It gets so easy when you practice.