Photography by Michael

I would have no idea what the normals would see in this photograph.

I only know what I see.

I would call it an infatuation, but if I use that word, they yell at me that what they feel is love.

True love.

Whatever the fuck that is.

Now, Michael wants a bigger house.

One with room.

I don’t know what he is complaining about. The barn is roomy, roomy, roomy.

He could go live out there with the skateboards.

The wind only comes through the slates in the walls.

Now, Simon is complaining.

He thinks Michael might like James.

And only yesterday I was advocating that gay boys could have their own psychiatric university paid for by the government. Daisy U. Now, he loves me, now he don’t.

Bernie Sanders thought it was a great idea, too. If Bernie wants to get really excited, he needs to bone up on the economic income gap between the non-profits and the non-profits.

Why would anyone in their right mind ask me for advice about relationships. They drive me Miss Sugar Nut.

I have two words for them. No comment.

I know this: If anyone thinks I would so much as DARE to become involved in the fluidity of their “in love” relationships, please have bing silver rings pierced through my tits to I might sound like a cowbell wherever I go. BIG tit rings.

I can’t afford tit rings.

I would sooner polish Donald Trump’s cowboy boots before I would have anything more to comment on than — that’s nice, now, go play.

The official policy is do not become involved in their love lives.

To them. It’s life and death. Who likes who. Who kind of likes who. Who is not speaking to whom. Who’s in. Who’s out. And why does Callen play with dolls.

I have always known that Michael likes James.

But when James moved on to Simon in his divorce from Booker, Michael waited too long to make his move.

Because Michael plays it safe.

Michael would simply have Diego and Martin hauled away by the FBI because Diego and Martin are and always have been annoying in the middle of the night.

So instead of saying — James, I would like to be your friend — he ends up taking 387,009,220,344 photographs of James per hour.

I think James got the point.

Simon did.

He’s steaming.

Oh, please.

Will someone wake me up when Betty Davis dies.

Oh, voyager, I’m off in a canoe.

As for all the requests that you want to take the canoes out alone, I have one question.

When have you EVER taken a canoe out without a buddy.

Oh. Never. You forgot.

Some very committed, deep relationships have been formed in canoes.

Wear a life vest, and while you’re at it, throw me one.

That’s nice, now, go play.