It was mid-afternoon, and before going through a backlog of e-mails I decided to go to my real mail box and check my real mail. This is usually a somber experience. What fun is it to look through bills, advertisements and junk? This time, though, something got my attention. A blue envelope was in the stack of mail, and my address was handwritten on it.
My head’s killing me this morning. I have a headache because I’m thinking too much about same-sex marriages and all the judgmental crap that goes with it. I have Gary and William, my gay friends — indirectly — to thank for the Tylenol I’m taking. I met them in the fall of 1994.