I imagine my tombstone: “Here lies Luke Ford. He’s dead. He choked on his peanut butter before what would have been his biggest weekend of the year. I guess he’s no longer the future of journalism.”
I feel jittery. I wonder if it’s the coffee. I need to be revved up, but not jittery.
I sit on the sofa opposite the entrance and hope my friends come soon. I just can’t make it any other way. I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain. I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend. But I always thought I’d see you again.
At least I’m not sick. My throat isn’t sore. I don’t have the sniffles. My HIV is under control. Thank God for the cocktail! AIDS is no longer a death sentence.
Jeff emails: “Were you kidding about HIV?”
Yes.
Jeff replies: “You might want to clarify that because it doesn’t come off that way.”
I have a family who loves me. I have a good therapist. I have more than a year of Alexander Technique teacher training under my belt. I no longer interview porn stars for a living.
I’m respectable now. I have my Orthodox conversion. I have my shuls. Nobody’s trying to ban me.
