Stuff I've dug up.
Here's an excerpt from a diary entry I wrote on today's date five years ago. I was 24.
Last weekend I went out with a few people from work--which was fun, I suppose, even if it required me to play my outsider's role in the mating rituals of the breeding homo sapiens. If you stay long enough in the company of any group whose members are drinking, things are bound, sooner or later, to get a bit hornified (the more drinks, the more desperate the hornification), but when you're the only homosexual in the group, your role is reduced to quiet observer or pretend cheerleader. The latter role is thrust upon you when one of the breeders, usually of the female variety, accosts you and screams in your ear how much she likes some boy across the room and should she pursue him even though she has a boyfriend and why not, we only live once, and besides, that girl he's talking to right now isn't even all that cute. And we, the reluctant cheerleaders, have to pretend 1.) that we care, 2.) that we think our screechy friends should throw caution and boyfriend to the wind in pursuit of Mr. X, and 3.) that we believe, with every fiber of our being, that Mr. X is in our friends' league no matter how absurdly attractive he may be.
So, to be brief, the evening was enjoyable until it reached the point when it wasn't.
Afterwards, however, I ran into [redacted], an actor for whom I've always had a thing on account of his hawk-eyed intensity. Anyway, one thing led to another (which doesn't, in this case, leave much out since he turns out to be a bit on the dull side), and we ended up spending the night together. This is the second time this fall I have ended up in bed with someone on whom I've had a long-lasting but slow-burning crush. It occurs to me now that I should perhaps be more ambitious. If, after all, mediocre lightning can strike twice, it doesn't seem too much to ask for a glorious bolt to hit just once.
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