#Its largely just one weirdo harassing me about this but im just thinking about it

[frigidwife]

the more i think about season 2 in retrospect the more clear it becomes to me that there is not an originary love between louis and armand. it's not up for interpretation or a question of shipping or whatever it’s the story. the observation that louis can reconcile with lestat, even potentially enter a relationship on better terms, while the same is not true for armand, is contentious bc people seem to take it as saying the quality of lestat’s abuse is more forgivable, the things lestat has done don’t matter, etc. but it’s not a matter of comparing or equivocating between preferred tactics of abuse. it’s not just that armand gaslights louis. it’s what he gaslights louis about. not only lynching claudia and trying to lynch louis, not only torturing him in san francisco, but the origins of their relationship: louis’s own motive for “inviting” armand up in 2.3, for committing to a companionship in 2.4, and for staying with him after killing the coven in 2.8. the first two are done in direct response to the threat to his and claudia’s safety. the third is out of spite. and yet in the present it’s “the love of my life” and “we had our proper roles…a dreamy kind of balance”. it’s gone from “you’ll never make it up to me” / “i know” in paris to “our problems aren’t about him” and “have i crawled an inch forward in your regard??” in sf and louis having to ask for claudia’s diaries in dubai . and this isn’t to simplify louis and lestats relationship to “oh they loved each other before it went south” or to deny the issues of consent fundamental to their “fucked up gothic romance” but crucially louis’s feelings towards lestat are a source of guilt for him that he denies and rejects in the present and in paris. whereas he can easily say i love you to armand in paris and call their relationship love in dubai And the cost of that is the diminishment of claudia’s role in his life. Which is very clear in the erased san francisco fight!!! Armand says you threw her name around for cover but you talked about HIM . louis protests that he loved her. armand says she never loved you not like lestat and i. louis goes into the sun to be with her and armand erases it. you chased after my love. you picked me over her. you’ve forgiven me. the pain of it has left you. and when louis is able to leave armand he puts her dress on the wall. That is why i don’t think louis and armand would ever resume a romantic relationship as happens in the books. and it is honestly bewildering to me that this “the love was there the tragedy is that love was there” take persists

[99raritah]

sick and tired of trans kids being treated like crap just for the way they express themselves and their identity. today a large group of kids at my school tried to rudely debate with a trans/queer kid. the large group of kids began recording the situation, and none of them were taking it seriously. the boy who had came up to the trans kid said "convince me theres more than two genders". the trans kid tried to go along with it, and politley debate with the boy. once kids noticed they were getting a reaction out of the trans kid, more showed up and began recording, and as far as im aware, all of them were doing it to mock and belittle the trans kid, under the guise that they were having a civil debate. transgender identities should not be debated. one of the primary reasons why so many queer teens commit suicide in this day and age is because of homophobia and transphobia. when you go up to a trans kid and tell them to debate with you about gender, youre telling them that they have to fight in order for them to be taken seriously. youre telling them that you dont care how they identify, and that its wrong. youre telling them that they should prove themself to you. trans people do not fucking need to try and validate themselves to others. its sad that its even something to be considered. trans youth is so often judged and ridiculed, that people now think its okay to walk up to a trans child and ask them to debate on whether their identity is real and valid. the sad thing is, this will never change. it may decrease and get better, sure, but it was always be there, and it will always be taken less seriously than other problems. when people think of queer youth, they think of queer youth who express themselves through their clothing. through their hair. through their interests. they target the ones that are proud of their identity, and arent afraid to hide it, and harass them until all of their pride is tucked back away. schools need to start enforcing these rules so, so much more strictly. a school will get a child in huge trouble for saying a racial slur, but a child harassing a queer child is simply given an eyeroll, and a slap on the wrist. transgender and queer youth are just as valuable and important as anyone else. we deserve to be protected, and respected. we need to stop hiding who we are, and continue fighting. not for validation, but for respect. a transphobe, no matter what you do, will always find somthing to be transphobic about. same with homophobes. what you can do, is spread the word. talk about it. dont stay silent, bring up the discussion with others. we need to be protected. almsot every single transgender person ive met has been/is suicidal. these people, if pushed enough, will lose their life, and all the wonder that it had. transgender children arent just "weirdos" for you to mock. we're people. we express ourselves by our identity. we're proud of who we are, because who we are is what makes us happy. everyone has their different traits that make them happy, but just because someone is more open about it, doesnt mean you have the right to treat them like scum.

[christopherokamoto]

"My dearest gays and lesbians —

I’ve loved you since before I even knew you. From a young age, I was drawn to your transgressive sexuality and gender expression, your courage to be yourselves in the face of oppression, your fabulous rainbows and your sensible shoes.

I’ve marched in your parades, joined and organized protests for your rights, volunteered with your local groups and worked for your most prominent national organization.

I’ve loved you fiercely and advocated for you tirelessly. But I’ve finally accepted the fact that you will never love me back because I’m a bisexual woman, and you have shown me time and again that you are not here for me or my community, despite the numerous disparities we face in comparison to you and the non-LGBTQ community.

You have shown me time and again that you are not here for me or my community.

When I was a newly out baby bi, I co-founded the first ever LGBT student organization at my Southern Baptist university with this beautiful and charming lesbian classmate with whom I fell madly and angstily in love. She was the first of many who told me I should just “choose” to be a lesbian.

Then there was the time I was at a drag show and the performer came up to me and asked me why I was at a gay bar. I said “I’m bisexual” into her microphone, and she cackled wildly and said, “Oh honey, we all know that’s just a stop on the way to gay town.”

In grad school, a “straight” female friend repeatedly called me greedy and suggested I was promiscuous whenever I mentioned my bisexuality, even though we slept together several times. But she wasn’t gay, and apparently bisexuality wasn’t a valid option.

Then there were the countless times one of you told me my identity wasn’t real, was just a phase, or that I wasn’t committed to the cause because I could choose to pass as straight.

There were the countless times one of you told me my identity wasn’t real.

Too many times, I thought you might be right, that my identity was something strange, that maybe I was fooling myself about my lifetime of attraction to people across the gender spectrum. And I sincerely thought if I just kept fighting for you, for all of us, that I would prove myself worthy of your love and acceptance.

Then I took a two-year fellowship working at the nation’s largest LGBT civil rights nonprofit. I knew going in that, like any large movement organization, they had a rocky past with both trans and bi communities, and a tendency toward centrist politics. But I thought maybe I could effect change from within. What a silly, naive bisexual I was.

By far, the most pervasive biphobia I have ever experienced was during my two years working at the Human Rights Campaign. When I started in 2014, the Human Rights Campaign website didn’t have a single bi-specific resource, much less a topics page about one of the four identities it claimed to represent.

The staff who identified as bisexual were rarely empowered or allowed to do bi-specific programmatic work, if they were even out to their gay and lesbian colleagues.

I met bi community leaders, and tried desperately to heal the deep rifts and end the organization’s longstanding neglect. I believed HRC could do better for a group that constituted half of the LGBTQ community.

In my two-year tenure, with the support and feedback of a small crew of wonderful coworkers, I created the content for a bisexual page on the HRC website, wrote three of the five publications for the page and edited a fourth, all co-branded with national bi advocacy organizations, wrote nearly all of the bi-related blog content and op-eds, organized an employee resource group for bi, queer, pansexual and fluid (bi+) coworkers, worked with the diversity staff to bring in bi community leaders to do trainings, developed and conducted my own bi community cultural competency trainings for board members, staff, and volunteers and coordinated all of HRC’s programming for Bisexual Awareness Week.

When bi community leader Robyn Ochs came to do a training with HRC staff, a cis white gay man who directed the organization’s entire field operation said, “You know, I just never think about bisexual people.” No shit you don’t.

Six months have passed since I left HRC, and it seems that a handful of blog and social media posts during Bisexual Awareness Week last September is the only thing the organization could muster in my absence. Half of my out bi+ coworkers (love y’all!) have left and the others don’t have positions that allow them to do the kind of work I was able to do.

It seems clear that what started with one angry bisexual attempting to effect change from within also ended when that same angry bisexual left.

To be fair, HRC isn’t by any means the only national LGBTQ organization with this problem. Several national groups have a habit of using “gay and transgender” as shorthand for the LGBTQ community, completely erasing us. Although a few of our national LGBTQ organizations have openly bi+ staff who are doing amazing bi-specific advocacy, our numbers are dwindling and virtually no one else is doing bi work in these organizations except for those few brave souls.

To put it bluntly, when bisexual people aren’t around to advocate for ourselves and push for change from within, that work simply doesn’t get done, because the vast majority of y’all lesbians and gay men don’t give a shit about us. And yet, we still fight for you and with you.

When Amber Heard got the shit beat out of her by Johnny Depp and the media blamed her bisexuality, you were silent. When right-wing weirdos launched a public attack on a native bi+ leader who spoke at a White House event, more silence. When gay icon Boy George went on a blatantly biphobic Twitter rant, still nothing.

In the words of esteemed and dedicated bi+ leader Faith Cheltenham, former president of BiNet USA and a personal mentor:

Until bisexuals stop being the unmentionables of the LGBTQIA community we will continue to be the punching bags of both gay and straight, with respite nowhere to be found. If bisexuals believe there are circles of influence that they are systematically prevented from accessing to their detriment, they believe correctly.

Until bisexuals find equitable representations of their organizations in litigator roundtables, national and state policy roundtables, legal policy teams, national and state transgender policy roundtables, rapid response communications groups or faith working groups, we should protest our exclusion.

Lesbians and gay men, this angry bisexual is tired of being your afterthought. I’m exhausted by showing up for you, time and again, with no reciprocity. I’m tired of facing more biphobia from organizations that claim to represent bi+ people than I do in the straight cis world.

Lesbians and gay men, this angry bisexual is tired of being your afterthought.

I’m tired of trying to prove that I’m worthy of your love while you seem to forget or deny that I exist.

Bisexual people are tired of being told that our voices, our needs, our lives are a distraction from the “real” issues, when we constitute half of what you claim as your LGBT community.

And more than anything, I am tired of watching my fellow bi+ advocates — beautiful, talented and resilient people — burn out, break down, get fired for standing our ground and take our own lives because you make it so fucking hard for us to feel safe and affirmed.

Even after 15 years of being out, my voice still shakes sometimes when I say the word “bisexual” aloud to one of you, and I get a little jolt of adrenaline, bracing for the snarky comment, the rolled eyes, the dismissal of my existence.

I’m exhausted by showing up for you, time and again, with no reciprocity.

Let me be clear about what is at stake here, lesbians and gays. Bisexual people are literally dying because of your neglect, erasure and exclusion. We are sicker, both physically and mentally, than you are because more of us are closeted from our communities and our healthcare providers.

Our youth face more bullying and harassment and higher risk of suicide than their gay and lesbian peers do, and we all have less social support.

Sixty-one percent of bisexual women such as myself will be raped, beaten or stalked by our intimate partners — and as Heard’s experience shows, our identities will likely be blamed for our own abuse. For the numerous bi+ community members who are also transgender, disabled and/or people of color, these staggering disparities are compounded.

I watched HRC make its own bed in 2016, once again ignoring the voices of the LGBTQ community’s most marginalized members, and dumping its resources into mind bogglingly ill-conceived endorsements, most notably the political campaign of a candidate who waited until the last possible moment to “evolve” on marriage equality (sorry that job didn’t pan out for you, Chad).

I knew the time was coming when bisexuals, queers, transgender people, people of color, undocumented and other marginalized groups within the LGBTQ community would be asked to once again push aside our needs, close ranks with white cis gays and lesbians, and overlook our differences — you know, for the sake of preserving marriage equality.

And sure enough, here we are, fighting for scraps from a table at which we have never been welcome, and once again being told that our needs — our very survival — don’t warrant attention, visibility, funding or resources.

As the LGBTQ community faces an uncertain future under Donald Trump’s presidency, I’m giving up on you, gays and lesbians. I don’t love you the same way anymore. You broke my heart too many times. I will no longer fight for the liberation of people who actively perpetuate my community’s oppression.

I’m too busy just trying to survive."

[mazmisc]

Selection from Fuck Factory by John Lunar Richey

BILL’S LAST STAY

    Bill’s a regular.  He and his girlfriend are practically weekers at the Triborough.  I, being the desk clerk, reach under the desk and hit the buzzer opening the door which allows Bill and some lousy fucker entrance to the office.  A forced joviality accompanies Bill’s usual wired state of urgency.  I hate his restless, coked-up chitter-chatter. Makes me nervous and throws my concentration.

    I grab the lousy fucker’s cash for a short stay.  The guy leaves the office with key in hand and retrieves his girlfriend from the car.

    I change the registration card and direct it towards Bill.  He waves it away. “I already got a room.” He watches the couple as they enter their room.  “I just have some time to kill. Thought I’d say hello…I got a line if ya want it…”

I think about it.  Change the subject, “You know, your girlfriend called.  Said her car was missin.” The same car Bill drove into the parking lot.

    “Yea!?  She forgot…I borrowed it…I got a joint too…c’mon.”

     What the fuck – it’s slow –  a few tokes, a couple of lines wouldn’t hurt.  Keep me going. “Sounds good…we’ll go into one of the empty rooms.”

    “Let’s go.”

     Locking the office door behind me, we walk through the horseshoe parking lot.  Bill keeps chattering on as I look into the pink sunset sky and remind myself to turn on the motel lights when I return to the office. 

“What room?”

    “Room 10.”  Bill follows me in, waving a joint.  “Here! Light it up. I’ll be right back with the coke.”  Bill opens the trunk of his girlfriend’s Nova and fishes around beneath a blanket.  I exhale sweet reefer smoke out the bathroom window as Bill returns with a tire iron.

    “Bill – what the hell are you doin?”

    “Give me the keys,” Bill says, hands gripped tight to the tire iron.

    I take another toke, laugh a bluff, “For a moment I thought you were serious.”

   “Seth,” he says looking me in the eye, “I am serious.”

   “Don’t do this,” I beg.

   “GIVE ME THE KEYS!”  Tire iron raised.

   “Okay.”  Bill has the master keys.

   “Now lie on the floor!”

   “What?”

   “LIE ON THE FLOOR!”  he shouts, eyes bulging, iron waving.

    “Can’t I lie on the bed?” I ask, eyeing the door.  Unable to get out the door, I figure the bed will at least cushion a blow.

    Bill’s white knuckles pull back on the tire iron – “LIE ON THE FLOOR!”

    Unable to get past him or overpower him – wanting it all to go away – I lie on the floor awaiting unconsciousness.

    “NOW DON’T MOVE!”

    Bill walks out, closing the door behind him.

    I rise to a crouching position in front of the window and watch Bill leave the office, pass my room, open the door to his girlfriend’s Nova, throw the tire iron into the backseat and drive away.

    I walk back to the office.  I stare in disbelief at the opened and emptied drawer.  My mind races. I wonder what to do. I call my boss and get his kid’s voice fooling around on the answering machine.  Cute. I hang up the phone and call up Frank. He works at the motel with me. I tell him what happened. I tell him it could have happened to him.

    “I don’t do drugs,” Frank says and tells me to call the cops.

    “What?  Bill’s off his rocker.  He’s a crazy crackhead.”

    “You’re being paranoid.”

    “I’m in the phone book!”  I protest against his straight sensibilities.  “He knows my car! The bars I hang out at! He’s a crackhead!  It’s best to get rid of him.  Otherwise he’s trouble on the run or on bail.  Don’t matter. I don’t want no drugged lunatic on the loose threatening my existence.”

    I hang up the phone and figure the damage to be only 220 bucks.

    I redial Frank who agrees to bring me a $220 loan.

    “After all,” I tell him, “It’s my fault for being fooled by such swine.  Filing police reports and answering their questions wouldn’t catch him…it would get me fired.”

    I let Bill ride…

_________________________________________________________________

HARMONY HILL

    Johnson University stands on Harmony Hill.  Uninitiated students moving from safe suburban streets to Harmony Avenue learn fast.  They become prey: harassed, mugged and sold beat drugs. Their apartments are broken into and ransacked.  Women asleep in their beds aren’t safe unless all windows and doors are locked. Harmony can be harsh and violent.

    And that’s just where I’m headed.

    Snore just got himself an apartment on Harmony Ave.

    On his corner prostitution reigns.  Biological women work one side – across the street transsexuals strut their sex – both harboring the disease.  Makeup conceals lesions and needle marks.

    Habits are fed two blocks away at the projects.

    Snore believes he is in heaven.  He’s a five-minute walk from a bag of dope.  He knows the deals and the dealers by name. Since the dealers are his friends, Snore’s house-warming party is open to the hood.  Junkies, whores, and dealers are welcome. They pop in. Use the bathroom. Scope out Snore’s friends. Encourage business.

    Snore’s friends fit right in – eccentric weirdos, artists, flaming queens, musicians, and bartenders – many sharing the same addictions while others only indulge on weekends.  It’s Saturday night. In dark corners of the living room drugs and cash are exchanged.

    In the bedroom…who knows?  The door is shut.

    Aurora, beautiful Jewish/Wiccan painter, Goddess of the Night, sits in the bright kitchen with an odd old friend named Tommy: a skinhead nazi guitarist for The Nihilists.  Tommy sits at the table with his cock out.  “I have to piss.”

    Tommy’s new girlfriend – he always has a new one – gets down on her knees, drinks his fleshy fountain.

    Aurora laughs in disgust and belief.  Tommy’s capable of anything.  She knows that.

    “Aurora can laugh,” Tommy says.  “She’s a Jew. And I hate Jews.  We all know that!  But she’s different.  Somehow she’s gained my friendship.”  Tommy smirks, “No lampshade or gas chamber for her.  She can be my sex slave.”

    “That Will Never Happen!”  Aurora shouts out loud. Her nervous laugh acknowledges that if Tommy’s Nazis were in power, she would be her on her knees.

    “You wait, my dear,” says Tommy with a menacing smile.

    “FOREVER!”  Aurora yells.

    The bedroom door opens.  A bare-chested blonde exits.  Someone’s fucking on the bed. A naked brown-skinned woman is on top.  Her back to us as she moans and rides upon milky white thighs. Closing the door, the blonde pulls her tube top over her large breasts and sits at the kitchen table.  She preps her glass pipe and watches Tommy’s girlfriend, still on her knees, giving head. Snore’s German shepherd stalks, sniffs. Tommy’s girlfriend pulls back. Smiles as the dog licks Tommy’s cock and walks away.  The girlfriend continues.

    The busty blonde lights up the rock.  Exhales, “I’m pregnant.” Takes another hit.

    I grab a beer from the fridge.

    “Can you get me one?” asks the new mother.

    “Anyone else?”

    Hands go up.  I grab a five-pack but its empty plastic ring and put it on the table.  Five beers pop open.

    The blonde mother shakes her head, “Damn – that guy in the bedroom offers me a tip, right?  Just wants to suck my ‘big titties.’  I say okay.  And he gets a mouthful.”  She drinks her beer. She hits the pipe…exhales.  Blankly stating, “I’m lactating.”

    Tommy’s girlfriend stands up.  Wipes her hand across her mouth.  Swigs a beer.

    Tommy begins his usual barrage about the superiority of Aryans Cursing “the scourge of our nation: niggers, Jews and spics.”  It wouldn’t surprise me if Tommy gets jumped by the Brothers standing by and listening. That’s happened before.

    I grab my beer and walk out on the second floor porch for some fresh air.  Jeff, trombone player and only white dude in the reggae band Respect is very pale, sweating profusely, swaying as the boom box blasts the old Supremes tune, “You Can’t Hurry Love.”

    “Oh man,” Jeff moans, leans over the banister and pukes…

    “Heads up!” I yell.

    “I don’t feel too good,” Jeff confides.

        “Done heroin before?” I ask.

    Jeff weakly shakes his head, removes his T-shirt and wipes his sweating face.  “I’ll be okay,” leans over the ledge…pukes.

    I back into the apartment.

    “Yo!” Doctor Crucial, the Cuban coke dealer with doctor bag, calls me over for some lines…nostrils numb…everything rings true, “Amazing.”

    The Doctor laughs, “Nooo credit.”  He’s high and as usual in his own movie.

    “I’m gonna buy a beer.  Want one?”

    “My boy,” Doc says snorting another line.

    I head for the fridge.

    The crack mom is pushing against the bathroom door.  “Hey let me in.” She leans in sideways. Looks down, “Hey!  This guy don’t look too good.” She backs up and gestures me over.  I lean in and take a look. Snore is blue-lipped, ashen, passed out on the floor.

    “Hey!  I Need Some Help Here!”

    Two of Snore’s junkie friends rush in – “Don’t worry!  We got ‘im” – Snore is raised up and sitting on the toilet seat.

    “Shit!”  The guy says, fingers on Snore’s wrist.  “No pulse…better call 911. On second thought,” he whispers, “we’ll take him around the corner.”  Gives me a hard look, “Gotta be done sometimes.”

    A panicky voice on the phone gives Snore’s address and plays dumb to questions.  “I don’t know!” She says. “He’s passed out. Just get here quick.” She hangs up the phone, “Ambulance On Its Way!”

    “And I’m on my way,” Doctor Crucial grabs his drug bag and heads down the stairs.    “Me too,” says another.The exodus begins.  Personal possessions are quickly gathered.  Whores, junkies, musicians, artists, and flames flee as the faint siren grows louder.

    Friends that stay scamper, cleaning the apartment of incriminating evidence.

    Snore stays slumped over the toilet seat.  A crying friend splashes his face with water.  “I feel a pulse!” She screams. “C’mon Snore! Snap out of it!”  She shakes him.

    “EMS,” a white uniform walks into the bathroom.  He rolls up Snore’s sleeves, sees the tracks. “Overdose,” he yells to his partner.  Holding Snore’s head in his hands, he lifts Snore’s lids and stares into his eyes. “What drugs has he taken?”

    No one says anything.

    “Give us room,” sighs the EMS partner.

    Snore is given a shot and strapped to the stretcher.

    Snore slowly awakens, “Get me off this stretcher.”

    “You’re coming with us, pal…You’re lucky to be alive.”

    Snore pleads with me, “Seth, come with me.”

    I sit next to him in the ambulance.  Snore calls me close, “Not Johnson Hospital.”  Makes sense. Snore works at Johnson Hospital. Snore whispers, “My name is Ted.”  Winks, “Ted Freeman.”

    “Take him to Saint Peter’s,” I tell the ambulance medic.

    “I’m not driving,” the medic responds.

    I yell up front, “Please take Ted to Saint Peter’s.”

    The driver says nothing.

    The ambulance pulls up to the emergency entrance at Johnson’s Memorial Hospital.

    ‘Ted Freeman’ is wheeled through the sliding and swinging doors and into a curtained partition in the ER.  He is wired to a heart monitor and connected to a glucose drip. “You can go now,” Snore tells me.

    “You sure?”

    “Yea.  I’ll be out in no time.  Wait for me at my apartment.  Make sure no one rips me off.”

    I walk out the swinging doors as Snore reiterates: “Ted Freeman…no insurance,” and gives a fake address.

    I make my way back to Harmony – a vampire remnant of the night – the sun burns through my squinting eyes as I pass the open shops, the students, and the business-attired.

    Inside Snore’s apartment the curtains are drawn.  People have passed out from opiates and alcohol or stagger around in coke-induced deliriums.  A dehydrated zombie asks from the white-crusted corner of his mouth, “Did you bring any beers?”  In afterthought, he inquires, “How’s Snore?”

    I shake my head, “He’s all right.  He’ll be back soon.” I slump into a couch and wait.

    A half hour later Snore walks in with a 12-pack of beer.

    “You’re a saint,” a stoner gives praise.

    The sleepy pin-eyed rally into the bright kitchen for a beer.

    Everyone listens to Snore’s story: “There I was, hooked up to IV and monitors using a fictitious name, Ted Freeman…”

    “The homeless dude at Johnson Park?”

    “Yeah.  His name just popped into my head.  Sounded good at the time.” Snore takes a drag from his cigarette, “Then, thereal  Ted Freeman walks into the emergency room.”

    “WHAT?”

    Snore nods, “I’m lying there on the stretcher when I hear, ‘My name’s Ted Freeman and I think I did too much coke.’  And then he starts goin’ on about his heart beating too fast and shit.”

    “No way!!” says Tommy.

    Snore puts his hand up – in oath – “I’m telling the truth.”

    “What did you do?”

    “I unplugged myself, threw my clothes on, and snuck out.”

    “Get the fuck out of here!” a single shrieking exclamation of disbelief.

    Snore raises his hand again.  “I took the elevator up to the lab.  Punched in. Told the crew I stayed at a friend’s house and bumped my head.”  Everyone laughs. Snore takes a healthy swig of his beer. “Then I told them I had to go home to take a shower and change my clothes.”

    “They were cool with that?”

    “I’m here,” Snore says grinning.  He raises his beer. We laugh and toast.  “But I have to get back to work,” Snore grumbles towards the shower.  Rushing out the bathroom, Snore grabs another beer and shuffles into his bedroom.  Dressed in lab blues Snore yells, “Bye!” and closes the door behind him.

    The beers are going fast.  I grab another. Then slump back into the couch, very tired, thinking that today I better call in sick to work.  Body heavy, exhausted, I finish my beer and fall asleep…

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