It's like going to the doctor's office and describing your symptoms, but only after having spent serious time checking them out online. It's like I'm going in to see a professional, but all I want is a second opinion. I know what's wrong with me and I know what I have and I'm just hoping, you know, that maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there's some clinical drug trial I can get into, maybe there's some radical new therapy an experimental treatment which someone could administer to me. Maybe at a university somewhere. I'm coming into this whole thing with a sinking feeling. "You don't have to tell me doctor. I already know." In a way I want to be contradicted. Tell me it's not a heart attack but acute angina. Tell me it's not a terminal illness but a food allergy. I want a misdiagnosis, I will pay you to give me one. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I kind of think that you and I are meant to be together and that us, being together, is a way for us to ruin our lives. Let me back up, and explain. I sort of feel like we're meant to be uptight together. We're meant to be scared. Do you want to raise a gluten-free child? I don't but I would, with you. Pretty much everything about you I find attractive and I am guessing that there's some kind of deep childhood trauma, or some really old and unprocessed fear whirring away inside of you, which you are constantly struggling to overcome. And you totally did! You have totally done that. I don't know a nicer way of saying that you've beat your inner demons. The nicest way I can think to say it is that I am totally, deeply attracted to this success (or delusion) and want to spend as much as time as possible around it. Do you think we could be happy together? Put another way, are you positive that we would be unhappy together?

You are picky. You're fussy. You have pretty strong preferences about what you like and don't like. I bet it would take some serious convincing to get you to even try a new food, but hey: I wanna do that. I feel like you, and I, could have this whole secret world where we push beyond our comfort zones in the smallest possible ways. Like: let's get Tibetan food. You know? What would Tibetan food even be? Totally not that brave. Maybe we'd have a shitty meal. Even then, that would be perfect because we'd have a funny story. I bet you wouldn't even go out for Tibetan food, to try something new, with me. Maybe you would if you really liked me. I would probably take up eating meat again if we were in love. I could do that. I could promise to try to do that. I might fail. But wouldn't you sort of, deep down, like to have a boyfriend (me) who is so hopelessly vegetarian? Think about it: you could feel like I was the one who is too uptight, and that by comparison you would be so open-minded. Wouldn't it feel good to feel more open-minded than your boyfriend? Just a little bit? I want to be that, for you. Because I feel the same way about you. You're too perfect and I am chipped. You have a perfect face, perfect teeth, perfect hair, attitude, body, friends, job, interests, past, everything. And they all go to waste, right? Like, behind glass. You're like a sculpture or jewelry or something like a television. I want to put you in the corner of my living room and just watch.

You make me want to be boring. Compared to you I feel like a junkie, a hooker, a thief, a killer, a leper, a pederast. I like it: a kind of debasement. I bet it would take real effort, I'd have to try really hard, I'd have to push you very far to get you to lash out and try to hurt me. All this humiliation, this shame, it's all in my head; i know that. But I wanna bring it to you and with you I want to move to the suburbs.

We could run. You know. We could quit. We could leave New York. We could watch basic cable. We could stop going to see bands play, stop hearing about movies. Stop reading cool magazines and trying out new restaurants. Stop drinking. We could stop smoking. We could give up on participating in the culture here, at the end of the world, where we come from. The Underground we thrived in in the suburbs, where our roots are: we could forget it. We could sell out. We could live a bourgeois dream. We could sleep. Finally, I mean. I could finally sleep. We could settle. We could give up. We'd be denying a part of ourselves, yeah. We could be double gay white male amputees. This is the fantasy, the dark secret I've been sitting on for weeks, months. We might be able to be happy as quitters, as runners, as losers. Together. That might be a way out.

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