Also, I had a talk with Des this morning:

“Doesn’t he read that blog?” Des asked.

“I don’t care,” I replied.  (I’m casting my care away, remember?)

“Just wondering,” Des said.

I didn’t mean to sound so indifferent. I continued.  “I’m trying not to hesitate writing whatever the hell I feel like writing.  He read it once.  I doubt that he keeps up with it.  But I suppose it’s a possibility.”

Des laughed.

I couldn’t help but wonder why she asked the question in the first place.  “Do you think it is bad that I am saying these things with the possibility that he might see them?  I refuse to censor myself.  Are you getting at something?”

“No, I don’t think you should be censoring.  I guess I was just wondering how you felt about the possibility that he might be reading,” Des answered.

I hesitated.  It would be a lie to say that the possibility hadn’t crossed my mind.  Then again, my mind is a junk drawer full of possibilities.  “The possibility – and I would be shocked and flattered in a weird way – that he reads it makes me want to not see him more,” I said.  “That may not make sense.  But.  Maybe because I am… because I write about him.  And that’s gay.  So he knows I’m gay.  And not all calm and cool and whatevs about it.  So it’s good.  Because I should run away.”

“You are so emotionally retarded that it hurts me,” Des said with a smile.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, you silly betch.”