"I don't know why I can't be cooler about things. It's not something I remotely get off on; it's crippling at times. Shitty feelings just fester and I can't really resolve them or let it slide either. All this to say, I wish I could have been less dickish about things not going how I wanted them to. I can't rightfully say I can tell why it mattered so much at the time. But I feel that maybe I expected more of you than I do of most people, which is not fair, and I apologise for that. I still feel pretty icky about the way things wound up, but I'm acknowledging that it wasn't a one-sided transgression. We both have the ability to be awesome and terrible friends at the same time. I guess I lost sight of that.

"There's no real end game in writing this. I'm just sorry for reacting harshly (maybe a bit cruelly) to your last communication. Hope things are going well."


...is what I wrote a few nights ago when chemically altered but didn't send once sobered up. So it's here instead.

I need friends

I live in a neighbourhood that was recently named one of the most desirable in Canada. It's one of the more vibrant in Winnipeg, hosting not just wealthy artsy/academic types but also several low income housing units. My building is a five-storey yuppie haven with newly reno'ed hardwood floors, large windows, AC, and a bathroom with one of those bathtub shells that fits over the old one, with lots of shelves and stuff. I've only seen one tenant over thirty-five. His name is Daniel and he is a suspected alcoholic who sits on the front stairs in a stained tank top and fisherman's hat, smoking until even his eyes grow wrinkles. But enough on Daniel.

The building next to ours is a mere three storeys and, while not low-income housing, is certainly at a lower price point than my overpriced pad. It's a sunny day here. Warm without being hot, and the first time in weeks that the humidity has lifted and the sunlight comes down pure, as though swerving through and around water particles had somehow tainted it before now. Against my lease's regulations, I have removed my window screens to feel the sun and look out on the neighbourhood from above.

Below, in the shadow of our building, I see a woman. 30's, 40's. Hard to tell. She is dressed in a striped tank top and shorts, a cigarette in one hand, a tote bag in the other, with two more tote bags on each shoulder. She lays them down by the dirt beneath what I assume to be her window. From the three bags, she begins to remove rocks, varying in size from about that of an apple to a spaghetti squash. She lays them carefully, one by one, in an arch from one end of her window to the other, the tangent just touching the edge of the dirt where it touches the grass.

After ten minutes, she steps back, same cigarette in hand, to admire her work. I want to yell down to her, "Hey! You won't be able to grow anything there! There's no sunlight."

But I think maybe she knows that already. She's clearly a functional person, one who can afford nice-ish clothes, cigarettes, and means of transporting three bags of rocks. I feel like she knows something I don't. Maybe something philosophical about how in a world without flowers, rocks become things of beauty. Or some shit like that. I don't know. But it makes me sad. Not for her, but for my own lack of understanding.

They'll never love me

I know that no one reads this anymore. Hell, I don't even narcissisticly go and read backlogged posts anymore either. But I just can't have one more slutty tale to tell my friends that winds up being mostly me pseudo-apologising for being slutty in the first place. So hello Floygn my old friend, I've come to talk to you again.

A boy came over last night. 20 years old may fall into 'guy' territory but the entire experience felt very 'boy' so just go with it and stop interrupting me. He is from a small, extremely religious town a little over an hour outside my city. We'd been chatting via Grindr since the previous weekend. He appeared precocious, enthusiastic and far too complimentary to not throw up about a dozen red flags, none of which I saw.

We were chatting last night and the conversation veered into, shall we say, erotic make-believe.

"I'll come over. Right now. I'll do it lol"

We discussed it, I myself rationaling that I was less interested in a late-night hook up than meeting in daylight and just letting things unfold. But no, he was determined, and as exhausted as I was, it was pretty exciting.

He arrived and presented pretty much how I'd imagined. Tall, slender, an oversized hoodie over his gangly frame.

Clothes disappeared quick. Inhibitions soon followed. He responded to every touch like a man quenching his thirst after a month in the desert. The enthusiasm was...appreciate, but probably a bit telling.

After about an hour he came. As the last wave of his orgasm left him, it was replaced by a tidal of guilt and shame that gushed forth, tears spilling down his face.

This was so wrong. I shouldn't be here. They'll all hate me. I can't be gay. I can't. It's so unfair. I'm so alone.

No amount of soothing, physical nor verbal, helped at all. He cried himself to sleep before awaking suddenly, lying stiff as a board in my bed, not wanting to be touched, not wanting to talk. I tried curling around him, respecting his space but trying like an asshole to show that should he just roll over onto his side a wee bit, I was ready to be the all-comforting big spoon.

This did not happen. Instead at 3:30am he got out of bed, got dressed, whispered, "I'm sorry, David," into the darkness and left.

I sent him this message: I know we'll probably never speak again, but if at some point in the future you would let me know that you're alright, I would appreciate it.

But we and the internet know that isn't going to happen.