'blogging under pressure

how am i to work under these conditions? when i refer to "work," i don't mean ordering cabs for teenage asthmatics, shipping pee to kansas or air to tucson, or answering the phone when it rings. no, i mean real work: updating my 'blog. i've finally succumb to the pressure of those dependent on my 'blog; those who need it like they need smack, H, horse, dope. this 'blog's for you.

i was talking to ben about taking so many pills a day (19 to be exact, 21 if i'm tylenol pm-ing it). for those of you who are strangers to the mystery wrapped in an enigma that is robert , i've got a chronic condition that i inherited from my dad called chron's disease. it's not really that big a deal, but to control it i take a fantastic number of pills. so, while telling him about my pill habit, i told him something that i always think when i'm in a public place--a restaurant, an airport--and have to take my medication. i get out this huge bottle, from which i pour four blue and green pills, and down them all at once. without fail, i think to myself, "the people sitting with me in this terminal are going to think that this is the Cocktail." more appropriately, since most straight old people out there aren't exactly versed in the latest AIDS terminology, "martha, i do believe that boy has gay cancer!"

why is it that this is the first stop my brain takes on its way to no, robert, these people aren't staring at you? i told ben, "i'm sure that all these people just assume i have HIV, since i'm clearly homosexual [i'm the classic case of others knowing before i figured it out myself] and i'm sitting here taking a handful of pills." as soon as the words were out of my mouth (or, actually, typed by my fingers) i realized: wow, that sounds homophobic. i'm projecting some deeply-buried, fucked-up, done-growed-up-homosex'ul-in-oklahoma assumption that gay=aids, therefore gay=aids=death, therefore gay=death. when i came out to my mother and she told me she was crying because "she wanted me to have a healthy life," i blamed her for her ignorance. six, nearly seven years later, i find myself thinking the same thing.

can i totally blame myself for this projection, though? whenever terry and i venture into the suburbs, i consciously dress down: no tight jeans, no tight t-shirts, no rainbows, no hand-holding. after years of screaming in the face of conformity, i began to feel like it was just easier to go to the mall without blue hair or painted fingernails. if you don't want to elicit stares, don't wear something that demands that people notice you.

here i was, in my mall drag (depauw sweatshirt, jeans), when terry and i walked past a group of early college students. "...and speaking of gay people..." i heard one say when we walked past. terry didn't hear him; i didn't say anything for 20 minutes because i refused to admit to terry that it bothered me. terry holds hands with his boyfriend at the mall. it's because of me that we don't. i finally told him, "some kid back there called us out for being gay, and it made me feel singled out; violated. i haven't shaved today, i'm wearing a sweatshirt. i look more terrible than any self-respecting fag would ever let himself look. what is it that lets these kids know i'm queer?"

without a moment's hesitation, terry said, "it's your glasses. and your shoes." he's got a point; even when i'm dressing down in suburbia, my glasses are still cat-eyed and my shoes are still fabulous. i mean, i'd have to buy a pair of bad straight-guy shoes if i wanted to really complete the look--and i'd rather spend my $14 on the new andrew bird CD.