Drop (Dead) Day

queer hommies, andy p delivers —

the fire at thinking cup has changed things. not only has barista #1 been reduced to ash (basically) but i have soured on the other new boy barista who doesn’t deserve a #, at least not yet.

i will have to find yet another coffee shop, i’m thinking maybe something in ball square. there are a lot of shops in jp but i hate all the people over there.

these various tattees (is the point that that name is adjacent to “tattoo” in the signifying chain? i can’t see the cliental of tattee’s getting tattoos, but people do aspire to the strangest things: for example: how can i (could i) settle for barista #1 if rich (or patrick) is available? i aspire to them, even if they also aspire to me: match.

but the tattee (rather than the tattoo) seems fine, though they are so crowded — even the kendall one by me — that i can’t get into my work there. plus all of the boy baristas are virginal (obscured, blocked) to my gaze. perhaps i should entertain these cancerous neros, but they are — flip-side — too silent, and they are decorated in this weird disney version of a library. if i wanted a library i’d jack off at boston copley (which is an impressive work of art in its own way).

i did meet a black guy who was masturbating with clothes on in the periodical reading room while playing videos of fashion runways of gorgeous women whisking by the cameras — at the copley pretty iteration of handsome library.

got a say: this is a good one, and i celebrate this black dude who imaginatively worked around the ban on homeless sexuality (i should write about this but won’t) which is probably blocked in these violent, messy shelters (too) whose only permanent residents are the social workers (et al.) who work and receive their own check for their “labor.” Who works harder: a bureaucrat or a homeless guy? one makes the check, the other receives the clipped “benefits.” i’m so happy that i’ve discovered social security and medicare and snap in my bronze years. my social worker recently died of aids.

barista #1 is dead (and dead) to me, and so the book drop of “perverse” for rich at 1369 will seem more important. i think it will go well, as he may have left the store, or he may not be there this morning. no matter, i will walk with dignity and confidence into a store that I have not been to in 8 months. certainly rich hasn’t forgotten me — as i haven’t forgotten him. i do think i’ve waited long enough for (one) date to possibly be executed (the initial plot). i have given enough time, i have diverted by various projects and entertainments elsewhere, and perhaps he will be confident and secure enough to finally return a solid “yes” if not an ecstatic “yes, yes.”

wish me luck — i’ll try not to slip — love andy pink

molly and i at the friendly’s restaurant in washington square. this has since been turned into a daycare center. more dickbag babies. when are they going to bring back the brookline bathhouse?