A Cute Arse

-Hey, mate. You've got a cute arse there.
I turned around. I was washing my hands in a public restroom. A man about 30, with a finely chiseled face and a trim physique was looking at me, grinning and eyes blinking like a malfunctioned traffic light. I said sternly, "Not interested. Get lost." Faggots make passes at me all the time. Just last week, a dude with an effeminate manner but with a daring and insouciance of a trained prowler, casually asked me for a cigarette, and when I said I didn't smoke, he followed with an inquiry if I was interested in having a cup of coffee. When I further said I was not into coffee either, he laughed good-naturedly and warmly suggested he and I take a walk together in the Lincoln Park. I said,"What for? I don't know you. Where are you from? San Francisco? No, it can't be it. From your voice, you must be from either Santa Barbara or Santa Ana." Then I walked off, showing him my middle finger behind my back.

I don't know what about me that attracts faggots like honey to flies. I don't look or dress the part. It must be the looks. Women all tell me I am cute and gorgeous-looking. I have had at least two dozen girl-friends, thanks to my looks, not to mention my sparkling intellect and a wet, sloppy wit. Am I boring you yet? I am boring myself already. I am no writer. I just know a few words and I like to string words together to create an effect that I am sensitive and well-read while in reality I am just a crude and rude Philistine. I read somewhere the origins of speech lie in song, and the origins of song in the need to fill with sound the sad, empty, and restless soul. I think the description fits my state of being, my soul right now. I feel misunderstood. And I thus feel lonely, despite the fact that women tell me that they love me, because I feel deep down what they have for me are just empty words. I have a nagging feeling they would not come to my succor if I desperately need it. They would walk away. In other words, they don't give a damn. Don't take me wrong. I am not feeling sorry for myself. I am just stating the facts. Nothing but the facts, Madam. And the fact is that I do feel alone, cold, and brutally indifferent to all the displays of piety and politically correct gestures. I am getting to be a cynic. I am turning into a person I used to hate. Tonight I worked the second shift and I suddenly had an insight into the reason for my unhappiness: I tried too hard to be loved and accepted.

I just reread what I wrote elsewhere. I couldn't understand why anybody could find anything wrong with them. They were cogently argued and eloquently expressed and full of facts, not just opinions. Only fools and jealous dudes would not find them informative and pleasurable to read.

I had trouble sleeping last night. The feelings of being misunderstood bothered me and made me feel lonely. Reading Maugham's story The Appointment in Samarra did help. It calmed me down. Death has not touched me yet. I still have a second chance to remake my life and continue dreaming. The decision not to approach the Kong showed my essence. I don't believe in hard work. I have faith in serendipities. I must invest my resources wisely, like in 4Y to make it the whole enterprise worth my while.
(continued)