I have been writing that science fiction novel for two months now. I utterly loathe it. So entirely mired in cliche and schlock that I read the pages I have penned and recoil in horror and embarrassment. So, I filed it away and began a new story more in common in the type of work I am comfortable in.
The new work - which at this writing remains without a title - is concerning the mishap friendship of two individuals who I once knew when I was living in the streets of downtown San Diego. One was a twenty-something blond hustler named Kyle who - between selling dope and his dick - was taking care of a shriveled and ancient black man named Billy. Billy was born with no arms. He was a mean, foul-mouthed old fuck, but funny as shit. I am going to attempt to make it a quirky comedy of errors laced with life morals and opinions of the state of today's American culture. I have written several pages and am quite pleased with the results.
So, here I am in Tucson. For one month more. I have decided to relocate to Tijuana and live a little. I realized I had droned on about this before, but there is nothing here for me now. This town is not very simpatico with my lifestyle. Lifestyle. Ha! That's funny. Me and the like minded seem to have become extinct, even among today's gay culture. Gone are the risk takers, the strivers, the sexually ambivalent, the independent man.
Anyway, the brutal romance in which I harbored for one of the locals came to an abrupt and sinister end. No surprise there. And, staying true to form, I simply no longer wish to reside here. I was going to leave yesterday, but thought another month of wrapping up loose ends wound be prudent.
The good thing is, I'll arrive in TJ with a good chunk of change. I really need a good beer and a willing rentboy right now....
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